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Zeigler – Requiem ‐ 1

REQUIEM

The sequel to “A Khajiit C0DA”

by Michael Zeigler


For Jenna Burjoski and James Craven, because “love overcometh all things.”


Prologue

Vinius Marcusius stepped from the cool shade of the Temple interior into the warm light

of afternoon. He gazed up at the sky wondering if Sun’s Dawn had been this warm before the

Sundering; all the texts he had read in Suul’s Folio Dispertitae Dyadem suggested not. Was it a

change in meteorological matrices, or just a random weather occurrence? He supposed he could

ask one of the Mages at the Guild; he recalled there were a number of Elves focusing on mytho-

regenerative studies.

The Temple District was usually quiet this time of day. Mornings were far, far busier –

worshipers circled the Temple sometimes waiting for hours to see the ritual re-enactments of the

Prophet’s Seeding. He stooped to pick up a crumpled missal detailing the Ceremony: there were

tell-tale markings of claws. Vinius sighed. The ritual was not without controversy, he knew,

especially for the Khajiit. It did not help that the High Priest had a hired a Bosmer actor skilled

in Illusion.

It was a brisk walk through Red Emperor Way to the Market District and he was

sweating by the time he reached the door. He wondered if Hajae would share a cup of water

with an old friend.

The Bosmer shook his head while he drank it down. “Vinius, how many times do I have

to tell you? I’ll bring your mail around.”

Vinius put the cup down and wiped his brow. It was deliciously cool in the Imperial

Communicatorium. “I know, but a little walk is good for the soul.”


Hajae gave a doubtful grin and handed him a sealed scroll. “That’s all for today. I

honestly can’t imagine why people still use these outdated methods. With the Ubiquity Laws the

Dreamsleeve is…”

“Thanks for the drink, Hajae,” Vinius interrupted him. “I’ve got to run.”

*

The voidship drifted gently down, landing with the faintest hint of a breeze as the belief-

engines expelled their relief-against-uncertainty. J’karr always wondered why the Echmer felt

the need to craft their ships in mimesis of their bodies: the first time a bat-faced ship came to

Masser it caused quite a stir among the Dark Elves. There were even rumors that Dawnguard

agents had been in the crowd making certain of the occupants.

The landing ramp lowered with a hiss and a tall figure moved with a practiced elegance

into view.

A krin lit the Khajiit’s face. “Atti!” he said, throwing this arms wide. “This one is glad

to see you. It seems years since last we met.”

The Echmer’s face betrayed no emotion but his scent hinted at familiarity and even

affection. “In truth,” he said. “It has only been nine weeks.”

“It seems an age.”

The mimesis of a krin touched the Echmer’s mouth; he always found Khajiit statements

about Time amusing, and J’karr was happy to oblige.


“You are looking almost regal today, old friend,” the Khajiit said. Atti was dressed in a

kimono similar to those popular among the Dunmer, and J’karr noted he had folded his wings so

they appeared to be a cape. A clever business tactic, that.

“One tries to meet expectations,” the Echmer replied.

“Khajiit knows this well,” J’karr agreed as they made their way out of the bay.

*

Vinius rolled his eyes for the fifth time, and jabbed at the scroll with his ink spiral,

violently scrawling a note in the margins.

The tavern was like any of the dozen in the District: dimly lit, clean, cheap, and private.

In the corner there was a Khajiit and Bosmer discussing something (probably a skooma deal) in

hushed tones, and not five feet away an Imperial Guard enjoying a pint – ignoring the crime

happening before him. Probably paid him off, the priest reasoned, and accepted the World-

Assessment as true. Thus it is proved.

Of greater concern was the letter before him. How a scholar of the Mages Guild of the

6th Era could be so incoherently moronic was simply beyond him. The problem of mytho-

generativity wasn’t the paradox it created in terms of belief-imitatio – any acolyte of the Temple

could have told him that. The far greater conundrum was the potential of temporal-negation and

its effects on Mnemonic data-streams…

The profundity of his thought was interrupted by a host of screams outside.

“By the Prophet!” he cursed. “Is it Boethiah’s Summoning Day again? I swear if I have

to banish another Daedroth…” he walked swiftly to the door, pulling out his holy symbol.


It wasn’t a Daedroth.

The Firmament had become black – no, a gray-ish brown littered with craters. Twin suns

blazed down with a hate the Imperial could not have comprehended even with his most acute

belief-simulacrum. It was only when the image shifted – revealing fangs the size of continents, a

maw filled with fire – that he tried to scream. But the Earth-bones underlying the neuro-

sympathetic web of semiotic elocution had disintegrated and all that emerged from his mouth

was an admixture of numbers, static-striations, and mixed metaphors. His consciousness

maintained a semblance of cohesion long enough to watch the people around him splinter into

sharp-edged glitter-shards of Memory-ash.

*

They were walking the markets of Ald Sotha Below – Atti always enjoyed a tour of

Dunmeri economic culture before he met with the Patriarchs. He paused at a stall of Khajiit

goods, nodding to the female behind the table. J’karr watched with amusement as the Echmer

perused the various items: pipes, knives, brightly colored budis altered for Dunmer. But the

Echmer picked up a small book and J’karr had to krin. Atti turned the cover and showed him the

images of unclothed Khajiiti women inside. J’karr could only shrug and noted the Echmer put it

down.

“I’ve never understood,” Atti said to him, moments later. “Why Khajiit allow the

misconceptions about their race to persist; indeed, why they encourage them.”

“This one accepts your challenge and counters: why does the noble son of a proud

Echmer family fold his wings in an unnatural – and this one suspects, uncomfortable – way?”


Atti’s scent flooded with pleasure at the logic game. “I will answer. Because both men

and mer are uncomfortable around the unfamiliar. Our early experiences with the Imperials

bears this out. Over the millennia we have learned to…lessen…their discomfort. It makes

business easier.”

“Just so,” the Khajiit replied.

Atti looked at him sideways. “I see,” there was a clicking noise too high for mannish

hearing, but J’karr heard it. “But our deprecations are cosmetic in nature. Yours are, dare I say,

mythic.”

“Khajiit are ever at war with Nirni, and must be the best survivors. And that means being

the best liars.”

Atti clicked.

They were almost to House Sul when the Echmer squinted as if in pain, turning his head

to the side. “What…?”

“This one heard it too.”

Around them some of the Khajiit were looking about nervously, but the men and mer

seemed unperturbed. “I think,” Atti said. “That we had best get back to my ship.”

“But the meeting…”

“There may be no meetings after this. You know how to fly a voidship?”

“Of course.”


“I will meet you at the Cyretic Hub.”

*

Atti spread his wings the moment he emerged from the caverns and launched himself into

the Void. He had no need of a breathing scarf – he had mastered belief-magic long ago.

His ascent was not as quick as a voidship’s; even with Belief it was difficult traversing

Oblivion. He let out several clicks receiving echoes almost simultaneously. Whatever it was

had not reached Masser yet; all the Dunmer voidstations were in their orbits. Listening carefully

it seemed to him the sound was coming Nirn-ward; had it been Landfall season he could have

simply looked over the horizon, but at this time of year a journey of some minutes awaited him.

He directed himself across the moon’s axis, and felt better knowing that J’karr was speeding

away from whatever was coming. His wings willed him higher, cresting the horizon.

Even had it been Landfall season there would have been nothing to see: Nirn was gone.

In its place was a shadow that spanned the whole of the Aurbis, twin coal-eyes blazing with

myth-death. Atti watched as wings the size of plane(t)s beat the Aetherial winds and moved it

closer to the moons. His mind, so honed on Dwemeri logic, knew there was no escape. Even

J’karr, half-way to the Hub by now, would only outlast him some few minutes. Before his body

shredded into digital amnesia Atti thought bemusedly that the Echmer’s ancient mentors would

have found this not completely unsatisfying. He was actually smiling when his consciousness

was torn into infinitesimal binary fragments.


Part I – A New Prophet

[Dreamsleeve connection reestablished]

[ERROR – Trans-Mundic voyance detects draconic dissonance]

[Initiating Time stream connection]

[Time stream connection established]

[Time stream 1.111.111 – CONFIRMED]

[Time stream designation = “6th Era, Tamriel Renewed”]

[Initiating draconic dissonance diagnostic]

[Processing]


Chapter One

The Imperial City

Clavides Quintus stepped from the warmth of the Temple into the cold breeze of a Sun’s

Dawn afternoon. Raising his cowl he wondered if Sun’s Dawn had been this cold before the

Sundering; Vinius was always going on about the interconnectedness of Ald and Reborn Nirn,

but he never had much practical to say like, “My readings of Suul’s Folio Dispertitae Dyadem

suggest a cold winter!” Clavides chuckled to himself – he’d pay cold, hard Septims to hear

Vinius say something like that. The man took himself far too seriously; if he had to hear one

more lecture on the myth-echoes of bird migrations…

The Temple District was quiet this time of day. If he was being honest it was a relief

after the busy-ness of mornings: worshipers circled the Temple sometimes waiting for hours to

see the ritual re-enactments of the Prophet’s Seeding. He noticed some of them had left

bouquets of flowers at various points along the walls. A bundle of Dragon’s Tongue surrounding

a single Deathbell caught his eye; he wondered if it was a message of some sort. Not all of the

Khajiit were happy with the re-enactments, but J’ziir did a fine job; he was faithful to the

‘Memories’ but enough of an auteur to know how to convey their deeper meanings.

It was a brisk walk through Green Emperor Way to the Market District, but he took it

slowly. It was strange seeing the grave markers knowing there were no graves beneath them.

He supposed the Arkayan Order could have removed the stones to make room for new ones, but

replacing them felt…wrong. As Nirn healed itself there were unexpected Returnings, and some

of them had no explanations. Perhaps it was meant to be that way. Mother offered no opinions

on the matter.


Whiterun

Jassa left the bedside and opened the front door, allowing the Khajiit to enter.

“How is he?” Nija asked, giving her friend a hug, despite the packages she carried.

“The same,” Jassa said, taking comfort in her presence. “There were three priests here

yesterday and none of them could explain it. They suggested I call an Arkayan.”

Nija stared for a moment before placing the packages on the table. “How can they be so

callous, knowing he is the friend of the Prophet? Surely it is some fever or even a myth-echo of

the Blight?”

Jassa opened the parcels and looked through the mix of herbs, food, and medicines. “It’s

hard to say. At first I thought it was the stress of his book; he’s been struggling with it so.”

Setting aside a bundle of herbs she asked, “Where is Ra’zhiin?”

The Khajiit’s ears drooped. “He was called away during the night. The Thoghatt have

heard thunder on the Throat of the World.”

“The Thoghatt have been hearing thunder on the Throat of the World for months and the

Nords are no closer to Returning.” She sighed. “I had hoped he might have some insight.”

“He said he should be home in a few days.”

Jassa nodded and carried the herbs into the bedroom.


Telvanni Kalas Sul Saren lay in a web of sweat-soaked sheets, mumbling incoherently.

His eyes were open but he did not seem to see his wife as she dabbed his brow with a cool cloth.

Nija was visibly shaken. “He looks terrible,” she whispered.

“It happened so quickly,” Jassa told her. “Kalas is no stranger to the diseases of an

adventurer; he caught Rockjoint and Ataxia earlier this month. But this…”

“S-s-syn-genetic…” Kalas whispered, with sour breath.

*

The Bosmer shook his head while Clavides looked over the scrolls. “It’s really not a

problem,” Hajae said. “I like walking to the Temple District. It’s quiet.”

“I like walking to the Market District,” Clavides rejoined. “It’s busy.”

The Bosmer just grinned, pointing to the scrolls. “I’ll never get over the fact that people

insist on using outdated methods. With the Ubiquity Laws the Dreamsleeve is open to

everyone.”

“We use our Dreamsleeve for inter-Temple communication, true, but some prefer to be

old-fashioned, I guess.”

“We honor Memory,” Hajae said, not without gravity.

“We honor Memory,” the priest agreed. He turned to go. “See you tomorrow, Hajae.”

“Father.”


As he walked the long lanes of the Market District Clavides knew he could have returned

to the Temple and had a quiet day reading; all of his duties were finished, and there was his

project on mythic continuities to work on. But instead he found himself watching a troupe of

Khajiit acrobats, marveling at their contortionist movements. They slid along and between one

another to the syncopated beat of a single drummer, moving like he imagined the Tsaesci might

have – lithe, poetic, almost like they were flowing water. He often wondered how his ancestors

had reacted to seeing them at the Return: real, live Khajiit walking down the ramps of voidships

offering Je’m’ath. Books had been Remembered long before that day over a century ago, and

the Imperials had read of Khajiit, Dunmer and the rest; but to actually see the books come alive

in front of you…

He spent his afternoon wandering the District, eventually settling at the Hist’s Root; the

proprietor, an old Argonian, served the best tea in the city. Glancing through the scrolls he found

one from his old friend Percivus, and broke the seal with a grin; Percivus’ reports always had an

air of comedy to them – the man could find humor in even the most mundane experiences of life.

And he was not disappointed: tales of mischievous boys, the foibles of hunters, and explorations

of Skyrim. Not all the news was what he hoped, however; the Pilgrims had found no sign of the

Nords, Redguards, or even Giants. He rolled the scroll back up and frowned, sipping at his tea.

Walking back to the Temple that evening he glanced at White-Gold Tower, it’s ivory

spire reaching into the heavens from the center of the City, and wondered what the world must

have been like with so many cultures, so many peoples. It all felt…empty…to him somehow,

the world as Mother had Remembered it. He supposed there were things She was unable, or

unwilling, to Remember – despite the Temple’s ministrations. Perhaps that was not a bad thing:

there were some Memories best forgotten. He shook his head and willed the thought away. By


the time the Temple was in view Clavides could think of nothing but a hot dinner and some

frivolous reading.

“’The waking world is the amnesia of dream,’” a Khajiit street-preacher had taken up

residence outside the Temple. “That is what the Poet said and that is why She has fled again!

This one sees your stares! You think him a blasphemer? It is not blasphemy to speak the truth!

The toy-boy Jubal dreams his skooma-dream but the Poet has retreated once more – She does not

care for the people of Nirn; She never did! Her people burned in the fire of Red Mountain and

She shed not a single tear. Where is the deliverance of Her great Amaranth? Where is the Love

that saves from Landfall? It was lies this one tells you! Lies from a mind distorted with the

burden of divinity-stolen! Oh this one is sure great Jubal-the-Savior-of-All is dreaming a lovely

new world – but what of the world he has left behind? They are false prophets! Yes this one

said it! FALSE PROPHETS! But Ra’zhiin shows us the way. In his holy ‘Memories’ he tells

us, ‘Where were the Khajiit when the world broke? Khajiit fought!’ But the Alma’s Daughter

did not fight! Her toy-boy did not fight! They dream dreams and drink wine and let the people

burn and die. And that is why we no longer need their counsel. We honor Memory!”

A small group of listeners had gathered and shouted back, “We honor Memory!”

Clavides watched them for a moment, before turning away and entering the Temple. He

had quite lost his appetite.

*

Ivarstead


Xixzith gave a sigh of relief as the village came into view. He felt like he had been

walking for days – he had been walking for days – and a soft bed would be a well-earned luxury.

Hitching his pack further up on his shoulders the Argonian descended the path into town.

Ivarstead was one of the smaller settlements in Skyrim, mostly made up of loggers,

fishers and hunters; but it was one of the more picturesque. To the east was a broad lake

surrounded by trees; on the west a swift river flowing down a series of waterfalls; and north the

ground fell steeply into breath-taking vistas of mountains, rivers, and valleys. Of course there

was the Throat of the World, Tamriel’s highest mountain, and if Memory was to be believed the

one-time home of a group of Nord philosophers. Xixzith reminded himself to keep his doubts

about that last point silent.

The Inn was a modest thatched-roof building and, to his surprise, the proprietor was

Saxhleel. “Brothre,” she greeted him warmly, the subtle shift in cranial feathers denoting both

openness and caution.

“Sistre,” he responded, gesticulating his splines in a display of peaceful intention. “I was

hoping for a bed and some food, if it isn’t too much trouble.”

“The Vilemyr Inn always has room for weary travelers, especially for The People.”

Xixzith saw a group of Khajiit warriors in the corner taking interest in their conversation, and

quickly followed her to his room.

“Best stay here,” she said quietly. “The Thoghatt have been suspicious lately.” A

movement of her feathers bespoke patience, and Xixzith settled in.


When she returned, it was with a plate of food and mug of mead. “Mixa,” she introduced

herself.

“Xixzith,” he told her.

She sat on the bed while he ate. “Did they send you?”

He paused between bites. “They are curious. There are…circles on the Waters.”

“I’ve felt it too.”

Xixzith felt rather than heard her and struggled to shape his thoughts in response. His

mind dipped into the wells of language. It’s more than that, though, isn’t it? he said in Jel. It’s

like there’s …something else, just under the surface: like a fish that darts to and fro, too quick to

be caught…but its sheen glistens. He looked at her imploringly. You feel it too, don’t you?

Yes, she replied, with certainty.

Was it like this on the moons?

I wouldn’t know, I was born here.

As was I. Xixzith sighed, looking at his food. They won’t tell me what it is. He jabbed a

bit of fish with his fork, but did not raise it to his mouth. It feels like…like the echo of something

I can’t remember.

Not a memory, she agreed. But the memory of a memory.

Feeling, language, and thought slid into accord within him. “Yes,” he said in Cyrodiilic.

“That’s it exactly.”


“I have to get back,” she said rising from the bed. As she walked past him she touched

his hand, a human gesture of affection. He watched her go, and finished his meal.

Late that night she came to share his bed: not for pleasure but companionship. They held

each other tightly and dreamed without language, emotion, or thought – but in symbiosis with

them all.

*

Jassa closed the door behind her with a pang of regret. She was certain Nija could look

after Kalas, and the Khajiit had insisted she get out for some fresh air but…she supposed she was

just worried about her husband; he’d never been sick like this in all the centuries she’d known

him.

The sun had set nearly an hour before and the warm disk of Masser hovered above them.

She considered the sight with no little nostalgia; after Landfall it had taken them nearly two

centuries to reach the moon. The Echmer had suffered terribly in their Exodus and Kalas was

adamant they stay on Neoyneslea to help. By the time they reached Masser the 6th Era had been

declared and the Return begun. She wondered if Atti had ever made his Pilgrimage.

The Market was still open, though not for long, and Jassa mostly wandered from stall to

stall. A few people asked after Kalas, but Whiterun was still a small community and news

spread quickly. Some of the women of the Alchemist’s Guild offered advice and promised-

prayer; it encouraged her that they made the effort. The Pilgrims were close-knit and had

learned to rely on one another in the harsh northern clime.

“Jassa!” came a familiar call.


The Dunmer smiled as she approached the old Imperial woman. “Lucia, I thought you’d

have fled inside by now. Even a Nord couldn’t bear this cold.”

Lucia gave an ironic smile, bundled in her furs. “Well, perhaps I’m growing more

accustomed to the weather,” she said, lifting a scarf from her table. “I was hoping I would see

you: look at this.”

Jassa nearly gasped. The scarf was light as air and bore countless spirals of knot work,

all swirling to a central image. “Lucia, it’s beautiful!” she exclaimed touching the fabric.

“What’s it made from?”

“Not wool, obviously,” the old woman grinned. “There was a trader here a few weeks

ago who had silk from Morrowind. I had to have some. But I thought you’d find the stitching

interesting. It was hard work on these old hands.”

“You made this?”

“Indeed I did. The pattern came from a plucky young adventurer – says she found it in a

tomb up in the mountains.”

Most of the knots on the edges of the scarf were of a kind Jassa knew well; many of the

Remembered buildings had similar carvings on their door-posts. But as the knots wound inward

they formed an image and Jassa was not entirely sure what to make of it. “A hawk?” she

guessed.

“Or a tree,” Lucia suggested and the pattern almost seemed to shift before her eyes,

looking all the more like a tree. “I had young Fespius up here earlier and he swore it was a

serpent.”


Jassa saw it too. “And you made this? Are you sure you didn’t enchant it, somehow? A

bit of Illusion, perhaps?”

Lucia grinned knowingly then said, “No, actually. I just followed the rubbing the

adventurer gave me. It’s as much a wonder to me as you. You know I think I still have it here

somewhere…”

The hairs on Jassa’s neck tingled and a chronocule later she heard a roar of thunder and

the first of the screams. “You better get indoors, Lucia,” she said stretching out to Oblivion.

“Something’s coming.” A spirit called back its willingness and with a crack between plane(t)s a

ghostly blade formed in her grip.

None of the Imperial scholars had ever guessed the meaning of the tree in Whiterun, but

now its white bark stood in stark contrast to the blood-splatters that painted it with esoteric

designs. There were four – no, six – of them in dark robes, their faces covered by masks; their

long blades lashed out slicing through flesh, bone, and armor. Jassa launched herself the last feet

thrusting her summoned blade between an attacker and a Khajiit child; her arm nearly broke

from the force of the blow, but deflected it away. The figure turned and struck at her with a

vicious vertical slash.

She could only step back as the blade came within an inch of her face, casting droplets of

blood against her skin. Her left-hand glowed with green light and a flick of her wrist sent it

hurtling out, but the attacker swiveled away in a whirl of dark cloth. Suddenly she was

screaming as fire lit along her left arm. Recoiling, she brought the sword into a defensive

position to parry the next blow. And the next, and the next. Her eyes could see only a storm of

dark cloth and glinting steel. She grasped her blade horizontally, wielding it like a shield as the


attacker bludgeoned her again and again. She went down to one knee, felt her arms giving way.

She was losing her grip on the spirit. If it were to flee from her…

The attacker raised the blade over its head for a final blow and Jassa reached out to her

ancestors.

Ra’zhiin had described to her once a Thalmor technique of calling upon the Ancestors

and channeling their power. It wasn’t, she supposed, all that different from techniques used by

the Dunmer. She did it instinctively now, setting her mind afloat in the fields of Memory,

seeking Those Who Had Gone Before…and finding them. There was no spell, no cognitive

understanding, only…Being. And Belief. Jassa called these to herself and with a scream

released them at the attacker.

Jassa watched as fire engulfed him and gagged at the acrid smell of burnt flesh. Forcing

herself to her feet she called out to Oblivion and a sword formed in her hand, but she needn’t

have bothered. Her attacker lay crumpled on the ground, and the few remaining were running

down the southern street towards the gate: a line of guards awaited them. She released the spirit

and considered the body.

He was heavier than he looked, a veritable mountain of muscle. As she struggled to

move him to his back, her eyes glanced upon his sword laying discarded on the ground.

Somewhere in the back of her mind she recognized the fine artistry of the blade and it’s coiling

knot work: it seemed to shift and shimmer in the image of a snake, a tree, a hawk. It took all her

strength, but finally the body rolled over exposing the cruel burns and charred front of the robe.

Surprisingly the mask was intact, not even singed by the fire she had unleashed. She

reached down to remove the sneering image and looked on the face of her attacker.


He was a Nord.

The imga-faced mask slipped from her fingers.

*

Clavides was woken by a loud banging at his door. “Gods above,” he cursed, casting

back his coverlet. “What hour is it? If this is some prank…”

The door opened to the panicked face of Vinius. Vinius was never panicked.

“There’s been a Breach,” Clavides said knowingly and the other Imperial nodded. “Has

the Sage been notified?”

Vinius’ voice cracked as he said, “I don’t know.”

Clavides crossed the room in two steps, opening the chest that held all his worldly

belongings. Rummaging through his spare robes it took him only a moment to pull out a long

bundle of cloth. “What about Savlian? Marcus?”

“They’re away south. It’s only us.”

Pulling aside the wrapping Clavides revealed the sword with its silver-filigreed hilt and

prominent engraved aught. “Then I guess we’d better get moving,” he said, covering the sword

and snatching up his robe. “It’s a long ride to Bruma.”


Chapter Two

There were three more attacks that night, and while the city guard was able to drive off or

kill the attackers, Jassa could not shake the feeling they were being tested – or toyed with.

Kalas was the same. He mumbled broken phrases from time to time or thrashed about,

but did not wake. She did her best to cool his face with a cloth, but his body often fell into

violent shivering and any attempt to keep him warm left the covers soaked in sweat. She was

able to feed him small amounts of broth infused with healing herbs, working his throat so that he

could swallow, but his skin remained pale and clammy, his breath rancid. Sitting in a chair next

to the bed she watched over him through the night, dozing fitfully when weariness took her, but

waking to the sounds of shouting outside or her husband’s hoarse whispers. Mercifully, Nija

sent her to the spare bedroom, where she sank into a deep, if troubled, sleep.

She woke an hour before dawn to the smell of cooking meat and praised all the gods for

her friend.

Nija had set places for them at the kitchen table; there was bacon, warm bread, and an

egg dish popular among the Khajiit. “No moon sugar, this one promises,” she told her, and

handed her a cup of hot tea.

She sipped at the liquid and took a seat. “How was he last night?”

“He calmed a little, and seems to be resting.”

“Thank the gods,” she said under her breath. “Were there any more attacks?”

“This one thinks not,” Nija sat down next to her and they began.


Jassa nibbled at the bacon, unsure of her appetite, only to discover she was ravenous.

She imagined she looked quite undignified as she nearly inhaled the meal. When she finally

looked up from her third helping of eggs Nija was krinning. “Not a word,” the Dunmer said self-

consciously, and the Khajiit laughed.

After looking in on Kalas the women moved to the front porch, sipping their drinks in the

chill air. Magnus had not risen yet, but even in the dim light they saw the signs of battle.

Whatever bodies there might have been were removed, but the scorch marks from fire or blood-

stains in the street were plain. Almost the entire town guard was on patrol and Jassa greeted the

ones she knew. She noticed they were careful to greet Nija, calling her “Blessed.” The Khajiit’s

discomfort was palpable and Jassa silently reached out and squeezed her hand in support. They

stood watching the soldiers and sipping their drinks for a long time.

Nija broke the silence. “While this one was caring for Kalas she saw one of his books on

the desk. She hopes she was not discourteous, but the night was long and she could not help but

to read.”

“Kalas has always been open with his work.”

The Khajiit nodded. “He wrote, ‘…desire works against desire, denying that which does

not mirror itself and thus can endanger the Whole.’” She was quiet for a moment as a pair of

guards walked past. “This one wonders what these Nords desire.”

Jassa remembered the imga masks, but could not say.

A distant thunder echoed over the city, threatening a storm. But there was not a cloud in

the sky.


*

Xixzith had just finished repacking his bag when one of the Thoghatt came to him.

“You’re leaving today,” the Khajiit said. It was not a question.

Xixzith regarded him. He was massive; over six feet in height and with shoulders that

would have been impressive even without the steel armor. The Charcoal Warriors, he recalled;

he had never understood the appellation. “Actually I was thinking of staying,” he told the

Thoghatt. “Very pretty country around here.”

“Much nicer to the north,” the Khajiit growled. “Stinking sulfur swamps that are perfect

for your kind. You should go see them now.”

Xixzith’s splines wavered in what another Saxhleel would have recognized as a frown.

“And see, I thought we were becoming friends. I was even going to name one of my children

after you: Fat-Head-Skooma-Cat.”

The Khajiit snarled, bearing his teeth. “Talk like that is bad for your health, lizard.

Maybe this one will make you into a new pair of boots.”

Xixzith stood perfectly still. “I’d like to see you try.”

The Khajiit narrowed his eyes and krinned.

“That is quite enough,” a voice sounded behind them.

The Khajiit relaxed as another Thoghatt approached. This one was dressed in a hodge-

podge of leather and fur armor; Xixzith might have taken him for a beggar. “Why don’t you join

Maj’ra outside?” the newcomer said.


A sour look crossed the Khajiit’s face but he turned and stalked from the inn.

“That was kind of you,” Xixzith offered. “Teaching him a lesson in manners would have

been exhausting.”

“There’s no need to put on airs for this one, Argonian,” the Khajiit replied. “This one is

J’karr, leader of these Thoghatt.”

Now that he had a better look at him Xixzith could see the Khajiit had black war paint

around his eyes, heightening their deep blue. “Xixzith, a simple traveler.”

The Khajiit krinned. “You wound this one by believing that he will accept this foolish

concept. But he understands: your business is your own.”

“Thank you. It won’t interfere with yours.”

“This one thought not. You must forgive his men; some of them are nervous…or bored.

This one thinks the latter is worst.”

“I understand.”

J’karr turned to go. “Still – best to avoid the mountain, if you take this one’s meaning.”

“Clear as water.”

J’karr bowed and said, “May your road lead you to warm sands.”

“And sweeter seas,” Xixzith said correctly.

The Khajiit krinned and left the inn.

“That was foolish,” Mixa said coming up behind him. “They’ll watch you now.”


Xixzith looked down to find his hands were clenched into fists; he released them. “They

were watching me anyway.”

*

There was a sound of thunder, and the air shimmered like rain running down glass. A

dozen of the robed attackers materialized out of the shimmering, and among them was a Nord

who may as well have been a giant. He was closer to seven feet in height then six, and armored

head-to-toe in steel. The great helmet, horns thrust a full foot above his head, could not hold the

great blonde beard cascading down his chest. But even as the guards rushed towards them the

Nord did not move – but inhaled; Jassa felt as if the whole world was moving towards him…

…and he breathed fire.

Only her ward spell, weak and barely raised, saved their lives. It broke almost

immediately but the wall of flame had passed, leaving them not unsinged. “Into the house!”

Jassa yelled to Nija over the screams of burning guards as the robed Nords ran down the street

cutting down those who were still standing.

“The guard will be overwhelmed,” she said, dropping the door-bar into place. “We need

to…”

She turned to see the Khajiit was krinning.

“It’s been too long, hasn’t it?” Jassa asked knowingly.

“This one has been bored a long, long time.”

“You’re not going to be bored anytime soon.”


The krin widened. “Thank the Prophet.”

They slipped out the back door to the sound of screams.

“This one will harry them and keep them in the Wind district,” Nija said.

“I’ll rally the guard and get the people out of the City. The Dwemer tower to the south?”

Nija nodded. “Give this one an hour,” she glanced around the edge of the house.

“Maybe two.”

“Warm sands,” Jassa told her.

“Sweeter seas,” the Khajiit responded and vanished around the side of the house.

Jassa had not gotten far when she realized there more than a dozen Nords attacking the

City: there were scores of them, maybe even a hundred. A glance told her the gate had not been

breached but yet here they were; a near-constant sound of thunder echoed over the city. She had

never been a scholar of the Thu’um but she wondered if even the Voice could teleport so many.

But there was no time for ruminations, here was a Nord charging her with a raised axe. It would

be fair to say he did not expect the simple-looking Dunmer housewife to summon a Flame

Atronach, and even more so to expect it to kill him so quickly, but Jassa scooped up his axe and

pressed on.

The tree at the center of Whiterun was burning.

The Guard had tried to form a blockade to the Cloud district but the Nords were cutting

through them like they were nothing. Though they were clothed in robes the cloth shimmered

with enchantment and when she struck hard at the nearest one she felt the blade slide on the


barrier. The Nord laughed as he lashed out at her but suddenly he stopped short, crumpling to

the ground: there was an arrow in the back of his head. Jassa glanced up and saw a familiar

Khajiit peppering the Nords from a roof-top. “Is that the best you have?” Nija yelled mockingly

to the attackers. “This one could swat you with her tail!”

Jassa smiled and summoned her sword, dodging the cut of another Nord.

The fight at the tree went on seemingly forever, but Nija kept her word; her taunts – more

so than her arrows – sent the Nords after her in a frenzy. Leaping from rooftop to rooftop she

shouted down at them, occasionally losing an arrow to show them she meant business. A few

tried to climb up to her but she kicked them hard in their masked faces, sending them to the

ground. Finding her breath, Jassa turned to look for a Guard captain.

He was tending one of his wounded. “You’d best get to the keep, miss,” he said looking

up at her. “Oh, Lady Jassa, it’s you. Actually I could use your help at the prison’s entrance.

Some of the Nords have tried to get in that way.”

“Why are they trying to get into the keep?” The building had been kept empty at the

Prophet’s insistence.

“We sent all the citizens in there when the fighting started. It’s the safest place in the

city.”

“There’s no place safe in the city, Captain. Our walls didn’t stop them, the keep won’t

either.”

He considered this only a moment. “Alright. Caius!” he yelled to an officer. “Take this

woman to the keep and help her evacuate the citizens.”


“We’ll take them out through the prisons,” Jassa told him. “That way we can avoid the

worst of the fighting…”

There was thunder behind her and a shadow loomed over her.

“You,” he said in a deep bass. “Shall be my Witnesses: the Judgment of the Elves is at

hand.”

Jassa reached into Oblivion as the giant Nord inhaled.

*

The Temple – just outside Bruma

Magnus was cresting the mountains when they came to the winding path just north of

Bruma.

Clavides supposed they could have been there earlier had the roads through County

Bruma been safe. As it was the wolves, trolls, and occasional bandit-party made travel

dangerous, and progress slow. Perhaps before Landfall there had been a surplus of guards to

patrol the roads (there was no way to know) but that was not the case now. Despite a century of

re-colonization much of Tamriel was unpopulated. Numerous farmsteads in Cyrodiil and whole

cities in Hammerfell and High Rock lay empty, save for skeevers or scorpions. Clavides did not

know when they would see life again; Mother had yet to Remember all Her people and he

wondered how long they would have to wait.

The sweeping curves of the Temple came into view.


As he rode up the path Clavides considered the alien design. The explorers who first

found it must have been puzzled; there was no architecture like it anywhere in Cyrodiil. It was

some time before Mother offered a name, but the name meant nothing to them and She would

say no more. Given what little they could discern, it seemed fitting for the building to pass into

the hands of the Temple. It proved a useful headquarters.

The gates were open and a pair of monks in brown robes met them; he noted the

distinctive filigreed swords at their belts. “Is he here?” Clavides asked.

“In the main hall,” one answered noting the blade tied to Clavides’ saddle. “You’re the

first to arrive.”

Clavides considered this while stabling his horse.

The main hall was spacious and warm. There were a number of benches and chairs

lining the walls and he remembered many hours sitting there debating the finer points of

theology; Vinius had been an opponent on numerous occasions. There was no debating now,

just long shadows cast by the enormous fire at the front of the hall. He glanced at the countless

swords hanging from the rafters as he approached the lone figure seated before the hearth.

Legs crossed and sitting motionless, the Khajiit did not acknowledge them as they

approached. Clavides could not help but look at him with not a little wonder. If anyone outside

the Temple had met the Khajiit they would have seen only another cat-man, albeit one with an

odd taste in styling his fur: there was a twin line of fur-spikes from the top of his head all the

way down his back. No, an outsider would never guess the Khajiit was hundreds of years old, or

that he was the leader of their Temple.


“My Sage,” Clavides said, bowing low.

“You know my name,” the Sage corrected. “I am not offended that you use it.”

“Forgive me, Ro’kash’ta.”

The Sage accepted this and stood up, smoothing out the lines of his robe.

“You’re aware of the situation?” Clavides asked.

“Of course,” the Khajiit began walking towards the Libarary and the Imperials followed.

“Do we know the location?”

“Not yet; Mother is being coy.”

Clavides nodded. She was not known for Her cooperation.

“To be safe,” the Sage added. “I’ve sent word to the Order.”

Clavides stopped short. “You suspect a Breach in the Streams?” Vinius asked.

The Sage considered them as he reached for the door. “Perhaps. Until this one can

convince Her to tell us more, it is best to be careful. There will be more knights coming,

eventually; see them bestowed, Clavides.” He looked at Vinius. “I’ll have need of you once we

know something.”

“Yes, Sage.”

“For now, the two of you look like you could use some rest.”

They bowed as the Khajiit went through the door.


On the way to the barracks Vinius said, “I wish he didn’t have to rely on that Dwemer

tek. Who knows if it’s safe after all these years?”

“I suspect,” Clavides assured him. “That the Sage can take care of himself.”

*

His Voice slammed into her with the force of an ash-storm, lifting her from the ground

and hurling her backwards like a child’s toy. Trying to twist around she had just enough time to

shield her face before slamming into a house; her breath flew from her and her vision darkened.

Shaking the darkness away she rose to her feet. The Nord was fighting a half dozen

guards and none of them looked to survive the encounter. As she summoned her sword she saw

Nija abandon her distraction and start pouring arrows at him, most of them bouncing off his steel

armor. One of the guards went down – his belly opened by a horizontal cut – when she came in

with a vicious two-handed cleave.

The Nord laughed as he blocked it with the great axe’s shaft and kicked her hard in the

stomach, sending her to the ground. He laughed as he said, “It’s been too long since I had the

pleasure of killing an Elf,” and raised the axe.

But in a blur there was a Khajiit clinging to his back, stabbing her dagger through the

spaces in his armor and carving vicious lines on his neck. He swiveled violently trying to get a

grip on her, but the Khajiit was too agile. Jassa joined the dance, stabbing him in the leg, cutting

across his arms and trying to pierce his breastplate. She saw that he had dropped his axe and

there was light in his hand just a moment too late: there was crack in the barrier between

Tamriel and Oblivion – and a horrible stench. A forest of tentacles rose around her.


She lost sight of the Nord as she cut at the hundreds of grasping appendages. There

seemed no end of them, and with each cut the ground became slick with a fetid black ichor.

Somewhere ahead of her Nija was snarling in rage but Jassa could not see or even hope to be of

help. They were wrapping around her, crushing the strength from her arms, lifting her into the

air like a prize. For every tentacle she severed three more came in its place. They were striking

her, seeking her throat. As though in a dream she heard the mocking laughter and a roar of

thunder, and then she was falling. Jassa hit the ground hard, breaking her tenuous connection to

the Void, and her sword vanished from her grip. Her hands were deep in black muck as she

pushed herself up, looking around her.

The Nords were gone, save for their dead, and many of the town guard were wounded. A

group of them had gathered around the captain and Jassa needed only to see the unnatural

position of his head to know what had happened. “It is not safe here any longer,” said a voice

beside her.

Nija, too, was covered in the ichor but there was a fierce light in her eyes. “Our only

hope is to avoid them, go somewhere they will not find us.”

Jassa agreed. “The Dwemer tower. From there we can contact Helgen for

reinforcements. I don’t know if the Imperials ever got to mustering the Legion but…”

A guard came up to them, bowing reverentially. “Blessed,” he said humbly. “We must

tend your wounds.”

Jassa could hear the irritation in her friend’s voice. “This one is fine. Gather the Guard,

we must lead the citizens to safety.”


The shock on the guard’s face was blatant. “But Blessed, this is the City of the Prophet.

Surely…”

“Surely the Prophet would not want his people slaughtered because half-wit guards don’t

know when they are bested! We are going to the Dwemer tower to the south. Gather provisions,

blankets, anything that can be carried easily. We must be gone before they attack again.”

“Yes, Blessed,” the guard said, backing away meekly. “As you say, Blessed.”

“Don’t you think you were a little hard on him?” Jassa said quietly after he had gone, but

the Khajiit just gave her a withering stare.

“You had better get Kalas,” Nija told her. “This one will see the Guard does as they are

told.”

Jassa motioned for two guards to follow her.

The southern part of the city was littered with bodies – no small number of them Nords

filled with arrows; Nija, it seemed, had gone beyond merely distracting them. A number of the

houses had doors broken down and Jassa imagined terrible scenes awaited them inside. She

decided that once Kalas was safely bestowed she would send men to investigate. Her own home,

thankfully, was untouched.

“Use the bedsheets to carry him,” she told the guards once inside. “There’s a wagon out

back that should hold him; I’m going to gather some medicines and other supplies.” There

would be many wounded, she knew, and was glad she had a store of mountain flowers saved up.

She had only just begun filling a pack when one of the guards returned.

“Madam,” she said. “You’d best see this.”


Jassa felt a cold spike race down her spine as she approached the bedroom.

Kalas was gone.


Chapter Three

As he did every time, Ra’zhiin tried to enjoy the journey up the mountain. He paused at

the monuments, reflected on their meaning, and counted the 7,000 steps. The constantly falling

snow and bitterly cutting winds did not bother him so much anymore: he had learned to wear

heavy furs for the journey. Glancing down on the distant plains he could just make out Whiterun

in the deepening gloom and thought he might bring Nija along at some point; the wolves and

occasional Frost Troll would be of little concern to them, and he was certain she would enjoy

getting away from the Pilgrims for a while. All these things he had done before, and all these

things he enjoyed; the Thoghatt, however, ruined everything – as always – by talking too much.

“The first thing this one will say to the Nords,” uttered Shada bitterly. “Is that they are

fools to live in such a place. What sort of bone-headed thick-skull lives on a glacier? Are they

mad? Are they too drunk on mead to understand that Skyrim is a giant hunk of ice?” She shook

her head dramatically. “Why would you live in a place so cold when there are places with warm,

white sand beaches, wine, and sugar glistening in the moons’ light?”

“Because the Nords are not human,” chimed in Fa’jamay. “They are bears. They don’t

feel the cold. This one bets the Nords never died but ate themselves to sleep and have been

hibernating inside of Mother.” The others laughed.

Ra’zhiin declined to comment, and silently focused on putting one foot in front of the

other. They would be making camp soon, and at least he would have the privacy of his tent – not

that he wouldn’t still hear his Thoghatt throughout the night.

“And how does one bathe when all the water is frozen?” Shada continued. “Do they melt

it down and put it in some great tub, only to have it freeze again?”


“They don’t bathe,” Fa’jamay told her. “They use flowers to mask their odor until the

spring thaws and then bathe. This one tells you – they are bears.”

It occurred to Ra’zhiin that Fa’jamay seemed surprisingly well-informed about a race of

humans that had died out centuries before he was born. “There are year-round hot springs in

Eastmarch,” he pointed out to his Thoghatt.

“And they travel everyday across the province for a bath?” Fa’jamay asked

incredulously. “Do not be ridiculous!”

“And those springs smell of sulfur,” objected Shada. “That would smell worse than

being unwashed!”

At this point Ra’zhiin stopped listening to the conversation.

In truth the journey from Ivarstead to High Hrothgar and back would have taken less than

the two days allotted, but Ra’zhiin always searched the monastery in hope of finding new

Remembrances; it was often dark by the time he was finished. On his earliest trips the Thoghatt

had tried to convince him to at least stay in the monastery at night – there were beds, braziers for

light and warmth…but he could not. There were too many memories of this place; too many

ghosts. So they camped on the way up, and were back to Ivarstead by nightfall the next day. Of

course if the Nords actually Returned they might be there a good deal longer, but Ra’zhiin did

not hold out much hope.

An hour later they had camp set up, a bonfire roaring, and the Thoghatt were telling

bawdy stories while sharing southern wine; his guard was exceptionally efficient when it came to

camp-making. Ra’zhiin did not join them, but sat in his tent writing. Kalas had enchanted his


ink bottle and stylus so the ink would not freeze; at least not until it was on the paper. It seemed

to Ra’zhiin that in these temperatures it was more likely the ink froze to the page, rather than

dried. He wrote down the conversation about Nords.

A voice cleared its throat outside his tent. “May I enter, Prophet?”

His shoulders sagged a little at the appellation. “Yes,” he said, laying the book aside.

Fa’jamay pushed aside the flaps, letting in a bitter gust of freezing air, and entered

bearing a plate of steaming food and flagon of wine. He set them at Ra’zhiin’s feet. “Is there

anything else you require?”

“No, Fa’jamay, this one thanks you.” He picked up the wine and sipped it.

“Prophet,” the Thoghatt said hesitantly. “This one does not mean to intrude but…”

Ra’zhiin tried to hide the weariness that descended upon him. “What can this one do for

you?”

“Nothing, Prophet. But this one was wondering,” he gestured to the book. “If you will

share more of your Memories soon.”

Ra’zhiin sighed and put the flagon down. “This one never shared his Memories to begin

with; they were taken from him.”

“Of course, Prophet, this one did not mean to offend.”

The Thoghatt was already backing out of the tent. “Fa’jamay, wait,” Ra’zhiin said.

“Sit.”


“Prophet?”

Ra’zhiin gestured to one of the cushions, and the Thoghatt took his place, eyes curious;

nervous.

Ra’zhiin took a deep breath and began.

The next morning the camp was quiet but Ra’zhiin could hear the whispers as Fa’jamay

recounted his talk with the Prophet. He did not need to look to know they were all rapt in their

attention, eyes wide at the “great wisdom” that had been bestowed upon Fa’jamay. The Khajiit

would be held in honor for he had been “blessed by the Prophet”; he might even be given a

command of his own. It had been too much to hope, he supposed, that any of his Thoghatt

would understand – like J’karr had; or Kalas, Jassa, or Nija. Wrapping himself in his thick

bearskin cloak, Ra’zhiin felt suddenly very, very lonely.

They reached High Hrothgar an hour before noon. He was unprepared, as he always was,

for the emotions it evoked. And the memories.

His siblings were making their way to the Sunbird. Taltheron asked, “And for you, my

old friend?”

The Khajiit looked at him with a terrible certainty. “None of us are coming back from

this.” It was not a question.

The Altmer paused, as if lost in Memory. “There is a kind of philosophy,” he said at last.

“That uses nothing but disbelief.”

“This one understands,” Ra’zhiin nodded. “And he asks that he might Believe.”


Taltheron placed his hands on the Khajiit’s shoulders and spoke the words.

It was three hundred twenty-one years later, and Ra’zhiin still felt Belief burning its

defiance inside him; it was brighter than the wings of the Sunbird that had carried his friends to

their deaths.

The Khajiit’s tears were already frozen. Flicking them away he steadied himself, and

approached the doors.

They were locked.

*

“There’s plenty of room in the western wing,” Clavides told the newcomers. “And Jalos

will tend to your horses.”

“Do we know what’s happening yet?” one of the knights asked, dismounting.

“No,” Clavides replied with a frown. “He’s speaking with Mother now.” The knight

nodded and walked his horse towards the stables.

Clavides watched as the monks closed the gates of the Temple, taking their positions on

the walls, and rubbed his eyes. He wanted nothing more than to crawl into his bedroll and sleep

the day away but his mind would not allow it. Nearly a dozen knights had answered the call, and

he was not sure how many more would follow. The Temple was stretched thin throughout

Cyrodiil, tending to rumors and the rumors of rumors. Breaches were becoming more common

and no matter how diligent the Sage’s ministrations, Mother was becoming less helpful. So far

things were still manageable but the possibility that the Streams had been pierced…he could only

hope the Order was as good as he heard.


Wearily he climbed the ramp to the upper walls. Standing there with County Bruma

stretched out before him he watched as cold winds tugged at the snow-capped mountains, casting

an icy mist into the noon air. A part of him could not help wondering what his life might have

been like if he were a simple monk, cloistered in a monastery like this one. He could not deny

the grandeur of the beauty that lay before him, or that such a setting could be spiritually

exhilarating, but knew the endless quiet would drive him mad. The young man serving as a

priest in Anvil would have done anything for a cloistered life of prayer and study, but the Breach

in the chapel had changed everything.

There was a sound of footsteps behind him and he turned to find Vinius bearing steaming

cups. “I thought you might need some warming,” the older man said. “Not as good as the Hist’s

Root, I’m afraid, but it’s something.”

Clavides accepted the tea and took a sip. “Strong,” he observed.

“As it should be.”

They stood for a time, watching the wind and tasting their cups.

“You couldn’t sleep, either,” Vinius said.

“No. Nor you, I take it.”

Vinius shook his head. “Been rummaging in the Library. Found something…odd…in

the Dreamsleeve node.”

“How so?”

“You’re familiar with the history of the nodes?”


Clavides nodded. “The Echmer created them after the Sundering, making the ‘sleeve

open to everyone. Their ambassador shared the tek during the Return if memory serves.”

“And before the Sundering?”

Clavides sensed a quote from the Folio coming, and inwardly groaned. “The

Dreamsleeve was used as a communications array for the Elder Council.”

“Utilizing the vibrations of the totemic fields of the Towers in conjunction with

Daedronic emissions to create a sub-liminal web of stabilized telepathic connections. And a

samsaric portal for Aetheric reincarnation, of course.”

“Vinius, you need to realize that most of us speak Cyrodiilic.”

“Says the man writing treatises on mythic continuities.”

Clavides conceded the point. “What does this have to do with anything?”

Vinius frowned and sipped at his cup. “While the ‘sleeve drew most of its energy from

the Towers it was anchored in both Oblivion and Aetherius, so it survived the Sundering. So too

did some of the information that had been transmitted through it; fragments, mostly.”

“I remember reading about it in seminary. Isn’t there a group at the University…?”

“…of New Gwylim, yes: an Echmeri thot-tank is trying to reconstruct the data streams

through some Dwemeri technique. Interesting work. The point is there’s data going back to at

least the 3rd Era, if you can find it.”

Clavides gave him a serious look. “You’ve found something.”


“You’d better have a look.”

The Library at the Temple had once served as both Library and kitchen, given the stains

on the wood floor, but the presence of the Dwemeri lifts changed that. The pair took up no small

part of the room and Clavides eyed them warily while Vinius fired up the node. In the couple of

times he had used the lift Clavides had developed a strong dislike for Dwemer tek; something

about its anti-rationalism (cutting spheres, squares that rolled) was just…offensive. Of course

what was at the end of that lift was disturbing on a whole other level…

“It’s ready.”

Clavides approached the node. For all the world it looked like a simple table – maybe an

Enchanting station – with a soul gem hovering in the center. There were arcane sigils engraved

on the table but he suspected these were decoration more than functional – the soul gem was the

real power. Steadying himself, he reached out towards it.

Accessing the Dreamsleeve was never a pleasant experience. The first few times he used

a node he had been violently ill – the sense of vertigo and spatial displacement was

overwhelming. Over time one got used to it, but never learned to like it. As he fell into the

oscillating tone-shades of assertion that bound the Earth Bones to sympathetic harmony – a kind

of unitive symbiosis, really – he perceived the fragments of ancient conversations as swirling

coils, not unlike serpents moving through water. Vinius had used the node to mark the data

fragment they were interested in and Clavides moved – or his mind moved – towards it.

Reaching out he brushed the fragment with his mind and it opened up, not unlike a scroll.

There was a great deal of distortion. Whether it was aural disturbances on the

sending/receiving ends, Aurbic background-static, or sub-conscious ideo-reservations he could


not say – he had not received that training, though maybe Vinius had. The voice was minimally

louder than the noise, at least, and was clearly Dunmer. He had to replay the statement several

times before really being able to pick out what was being said. As he pulled his hand away from

the node his mind retreated from the ‘sleeve, and a wave of nausea swept over him. He felt

Vinius steadying him as he breathed it away.

“What do you think?” the older man asked.

“That it went deep. You could have warned me.”

“Early 4th Era, sorry. Were you able to hear the words?”

“’Is this then what was meant ‘walking between kalpas’? Is this what was meant ‘an

empire across the stars’? If one could touch the other…’” Clavides sighed and stood up

straighter, feeling better. “I didn’t realize knowledge of the Streams and the possibility of Trans-

Mundic translation went that far back.”

“Probably further. Reman’s Empire established the Secundan embassy and Voidward

colonies, remember. It’s not hard to imagine them discovering that the Dragon Break had

birthed multiple universes. The mananauts may have traversed more than Oblivion: maybe

Time itself.” He shrugged. “There’s no way of knowing.”

Clavides sat down at a reading station. “What does this have to do with the Breaches?

Doesn’t this fall more under the Order’s aegis?”

“Maybe; I’ve already sent a copy to Equia. But I can’t help thinking there’s more to the

Breaches than the Return. Almost like something else is triggering Her.”


“You’re overthinking it, Vinius. Mother is struggling to Remember what we won’t let

Her. The Sage has been working with Her for centuries; She’ll come around.”

Vinius was uncertain.

The Dreamsleeve node chimed as a message came in.

*

“What is it Prophet?” asked Shada.

Ra’zhiin stared at the door as though he had never seen it before. “The door is locked,”

he heard the disbelief in his own voice. “It was not even locked when we came here

before…before…”

“Probably some mischievous Imperial from town. This one can hear him now: ‘the

Khajiit will love this! They will fret so!’ Let this one look.” She brushed past him, pulling a set

of lock picks from her belt.

Backing off Ra’zhiin considered the outer wall of the monastery. “This one is not sure,”

he said quietly. He ran his fingers along the rough edges for only a moment before deciding.

“Fa’jamay.”

“Yes, Prophet?”

Ra’zhiin tested his weight on the edges. “All of you stay here, this one is going to take a

look around.” Finding good handholds he hoisted himself onto the wall.

“But…Prophet…”


The going was not as hard as he expected: the ancient Nords had built incredible

structures with their pickaxes and chisels but lacking the precise shearing of modern Echmeri

light-cutters there were many places that were rough, even pitted. His claws found these easily,

and though he had to back-track once or twice, made the top only minutes later. He wasn’t even

breathing hard. “Not bad for an old cat,” he said to himself. Waving to the Thoghatt below, he

noted their shocked looks and could not resist a krin. “Not bad, indeed.” He began to cross the

roof, making his way towards the courtyard.

The wind was definitely worse at this height and he pulled his scarves close to his face.

As he moved over the broken shingles, navigating patches of ice, he was able to see the top of

the courtyard tower and the strange maelstrom of wind and ice that forbid the Throat’s peak.

The former had been little more than rubble when he and Taltheron first came here over three-

hundred years ago, but the barrier was no less dangerous. On their first journey last year one of

the Thoghatt had brazenly stepped into it; the resulting frostbite cost the Khajiit the fingers of his

left hand. Ra’zhiin always believed the phenomena was magical in nature, and decided to bring

Kalas whenever the Dunmer was feeling better.

A sudden crack of thunder roared overhead and laughing voices echoed from the

courtyard.

Ra’zhiin drew his blades and crept towards the edge.

There were dozens of them, all dressed in shimmering purple robes and faces covered

with some sort of mask; most had dark stains splattered across them. Some were tending their

wounded, others laughing uproariously. Standing in their midst was a figure sheathed in steel

armor, face obscured by a horned helmet. There was no doubt they were Nords, and though


Ra’zhiin had awaited this moment ever since coming to Skyrim, a chill went down his spine that

had nothing to do with the wind. The helmeted Nord was carrying something in his left hand,

trailing a red line behind him…

The wind carried raised voices as a Nord rushed from the monastery and yelled to those

in the courtyard. They drew their weapons and ran towards the entrance.

“No one wants to talk,” Ra’zhiin muttered to himself, rushing across the roof. “Everyone

only wants to fight.”

Approaching the edge he saw waves of Nords disgorging from the main gate and

flooding against his Thoghatt; some of his warriors had already fallen. “This one just knows he

will regret this,” he said before leaping from the ledge, weapons pointed downwards like talons.

The Nord he skewered, at least, broke his fall. “Thoghatt!” he yelled, ripping his blades

free. “To this one!” They circled him as the next wave came.

The fighting was chaotic and Ra’zhiin flew through the enemy ranks like a wraith,

trailing blood from his malachite sword and dagger. The enchantments on their robes protected

the Nords as well as any armor, but even the best armor had weak points and the Khajiit found

them. Behind him his Thoghatt battled hard against overwhelming numbers but even they,

skilled as they were, could not defeat them all. “Fall back!” Ra’zhiin ordered them, downing a

Nord with a vertical slash.

Thunder roared in his ears and Ra’zhiin was flying backwards, hitting the ground hard.

Rough hands – his Thoghatt – hauled him to his feet. The Nords had drawn back, sheathing their

weapons as the armored Nord walked from the doorway of the monastery.


“So this is the great Prophet,” his voice rang across the distance. “The Savior of Nirn.”

Ra’zhiin stepped forward, eying the bloody strands in the Nord’s left hand. “This one is

Ra’zhiin; he does not care what others call him.”

“What I will call you,” the Nord said, holding up the skins. “Is another pelt for my

collection.” The Nords laughed in response. “What do you think, lads? Shall I skin this one,

too?” They roared their approval. “I think this kitten would make a fine coat.”

Ra’zhiin readied his weapons and stepped forward, to the objections of his Thoghatt.

“You may find that this one is no kitten.”

The Nord cast away the skins and drew his great-axe.

Out of the corner of his eye Ra’zhiin watched the Nords and Thoghatt form two great

half-circles – the boundaries of their Arena. The Nord circled the periphery, moving counter-

clockwise and watching how the Khajiit moved. “You know,” Ra’zhiin told him. “This one

does not have to kill you; he understands that the process of Awakening is not easy. You are

confused – there are those who can help you.”

There was laughter among the Nords and Ra’zhiin risked a glance. “Do you hear him,

my legions?” the Nord said. “He thinks we’re a Memory of his poor, dead Mother.” The

laughter increased.

The distance was closing and Ra’zhiin prepared for the first attack. “Then what are

you?”

“Something else,” the Nord said and lunged in with an upward slash.


Ra’zhiin deftly sidestepped and whacked the back of the Nord’s helmet with the flat of

his sword. “Not so impressive, for all your talk,” the Khajiit said. “Try again.”

His opponent laughed as he feinted a thrust only to spin around in a pommel-strike to the

Khajiit’s mid-section. But Ra’zhiin was not there; from behind he clove the horns from the

Nord’s helmet.

“You really are a terrible disappointment,” Ra’zhiin said to the cheers of his Thoghatt.

“This one was hoping for more.”

“Well,” the Nord said removing the helm. Long blonde hair spilled into the cold wind,

one icy blue burning from under heavy brows. The left eye was white, a terrible scar running

from forehead to the thick beard. “I haven’t killed a worthy opponent in…hours. That gray-skin

bitch in Whiterun. Her corpse was…satisfying.”

Jassa, Ra’zhiin thought, and then Nija.

The distraction had worked and suddenly Ra’zhiin was being driven backward –

parrying, dodging, blocking a flurry of blows faster than any he’d faced from an enemy wielding

such a heavy weapon. He sensed rather than saw the cliff-face approaching behind and knew he

could not stop the Nord’s advance. Ra’zhiin Believed…

…and was behind the Nord, preparing to pierce his back and end the fight. But suddenly

the Khajiit was doubling over, the pommel of the axe slamming repeatedly into his abdomen.

The Nord swiveled around, back-handing him and sending him to the ground. “Get up, cat!” he

roared, his voice hoarse with rage. “Get up or I’ll make your burn.” A booted foot swung

towards Ra’zhiin’s face, but the Khajiit slid in the snow, levelling a kick into the Nord’s exposed


knee. The blow was not strong enough to break it, but the Nord staggered and Ra’zhiin rolled

back, leaping to his feet.

Thunder roared all around him and his weapons were gone; the Nord was coming, raining

giant fists down upon him. Ra’zhiin tried to deflect the blows, try to move around the mountain

smashing him down. But then he was in the air, lifted, slammed to the ground – over and over,

stars swirling into his sight. He felt himself falling, felt air whistling through his hair and

suddenly there was snow in his mouth. His eyes flickered open to see the snow was red.

“Get up! GET UP! I want your men see you beg for your death.” From the ground he

saw a mountain of steel approaching, fire dancing at its fingertips.

Ra’zhiin reached into Memory.

He fell through Time and un-Time. Around him swirled the legacies of a thousand

generations, the lives of millions. His ancestors, the ancestors of others, the eternal lines of the

Aldmer stretching back to the Beginning Place before the coming of…

Vaaj-na was standing next to him. In his hand was a Mystery. “We are with you,

brother,” he said.

Kaasha formed out of stars and an ur-dream myth of roses. “We are always with you,”

in her hand a Chain.

Before him was Taltheron, the great bearded Altmer crowned with a Tower. “And

together,” he said. “We Believe.”

Ra’zhiin reached into the Beginning Place and with both hands drew forth the Void itself.


He was on his feet, and with both hands threw his World Refusal at the Nord.

A shimmering shield of energy formed in the Nord’s hand, and the un-light of Refusal

deflected away. “You think I haven’t fought Thalmor before?” he mocked. “That I don’t know

all of your tricks? I HAVE KILLED YOU ALL, TIME AND TIME AGAIN.”

Twin orbs of fire hurtled towards Ra’zhiin as the Thoghatt charged. His world filled with

pain before darkness fell.

*

Clavides hated going to Mother. It wasn’t Her, per se; it was the Dwemer tek necessary

to get to Her.

Records going back to before the Diasporic Return said the Sage had been there when the

first Imperials found the Temple, speaking with Mother. The Khajiit had no explanation for the

Dwemer lifts – they had been there when he arrived. How or why they kept working centuries

later was a mystery and the Temple’s metaphysicians regularly examined them trying to tease

out their meaning. In any case the Sage was confident in their use, but a small part of Clavides

felt like he was going to die every time he used one. Stepping into the car he pulled the lever and

began the descent, offering a prayer to Stendarr.

The two cars ran next to each other oppositionally, and Clavides knew he was half-way

when the other sped past, heading to the Library. Fluttering in his stomach made him aware of

his nervousness and he wondered what She would be like this time. Friendly, courteous…or

angry and contrary? One never knew with Her; he supposed some thought conversing with

Mother would be beautiful, insightful or transcendental but Clavides knew better. His one


conversation with her, at his induction to the Temple, had been unnerving. He could not imagine

how the Sage managed it. But then the car had pierced the ceiling of the chamber and Mother

lay all around him. As it came to a halt he opened the gate and stepped out.

He stood in a cavern filled with wheels spinning within wheels.

The arcane sigils were pulsing faintly and the gears were silent in their movements. That

was a good sign; it meant the Bindings were holding. He let out a breath he did not know he

had been holding; today, at least, Mother would be pliable. Walking the bridge out to the

platform he tried not to look down; it was a long fall into Her depths.

The Sage sat cross-legged on the platform, speaking to Her.

“You should not trouble Yourself with such thoughts. What can be gained from them?

Indeed, Mother, You must learn to pay attention to Your thoughts, to guide them as You guide

Your children. Do they bring You joy? Do they make living more beautiful? You must focus

on the moment, or Your thoughts will fall into darkness, and Your children will become sad.”

Clavides stared out into an endless chasm of wheeled gears, faint with arcane energy.

And She spoke, “Oh My children, what have I done to you? What have you done to Me?”

Clavides felt his stomach sink; She was having one of Her bad days.

“Mother try to focus on now, for now is very important.”

“There is so much that is lost,” Mother said, Her voice breaking with emotion. “Where

are you, My children? I know you were here…weren’t you? I am so empty when I was once so

full. At least I think I was full. I have this Memory, not of being full, but…the Memory of the

Memory of being full. Why can’t I Remember you? I look where you were…”


Clavides detected the faintest hint of frustration in the Sage’s voice. “Feel the wind upon

the sands of Elsweyr. Listen to the songs of birds on Lake Rumare. Imagine the light of the

moons of the frozen fields of Skyrim. Focus on these things Mother, for they are now. And they

give Your children joy.”

“…and all I feel is emptiness. I have not a single Memory of you, not a single moment to

cherish. There is only a chasm of echoes…” Silence filled Her until, “Oh My children what I

have done to you? What have you done to Me?”

Clavides decided it was not just the Dwemer tek he did not like. “I don’t understand,” he

said slowly. “How you can keep doing this.”

The Sage sighed as he stood up. “Because it must be done.”

Walking along the bridge back to the lifts the Sage told him, “There was indeed a Breach,

or rather, several small ones. Probably nothing to be worried over but this one thinks we should

contact the Order; Ivarstead is just at the base of the mountain.”

Clavides stopped short and the Khajiit turned to look at him inquiringly. “We just got a

report from Whiterun,” he told him.

The Khajiit’s ears twitched. “Our agent among the Pilgrims?”

Clavides nodded his head. “Yes. Whiterun is under attack. By Nords…wearing imga

masks.”

The Sage’s face did not betray his emotions. “How many knights have answered the

summons?”


“Nearly a dozen, so far.”

“How soon can they be ready?”

“I took the liberty. Also, Vinius found something in the Dreamsleeve node, I’m not sure

if it’s relevant or not.”

“This one will consider it.” The Sage frowned, glancing back at Mother. “It could be

days until we reach Whiterun. We will need to send scouts to Ivarstead when we arrive.”

“Of course,” Clavides said as they moved into the car. “My Sage, if the Bindings are

failing…”

The Khajiit stared out to the endlessly spinning wheels. “If the Bindings are failing we

will have far worse than Nords to contend with.”

They rode in silence, leaving Memory to Her troubled thoughts.


Chapter Four

With every fiber of his being Kalas felt turmoil that language could not define.

Time was breaking; no, that wasn’t the right word. Time had broken many times,

brokenness was at its heart, and it’s chosen Way. He remembered standing at the Window,

gazing into the infinitude of lives, questions, stories, fears – all swirling in, around, and through

one another. They wove together like the long tails of serpents – or dragons – often in ways so

exquisite his poor excuse for language could not begin to express its sublimity. No, it was the

brokenness of Time that allowed the magnificence of the Streams.

He was walking a canal in Vivec, listening to the songs of gondoliers. He watched

children playing, splashing each other, being rebuked by their over-serious parents. He felt cool

wind lifting off the Waters brushing his face, and tousling his hair. He felt the heat as the world

exploded in fire and the destruction of Morrowind.

The difficulty, he mused, lay mostly in the imposition of mortal epistemology based upon

sense-experience. It really wasn’t the fault of the mortal races – what other way had they to

experience their existence? Poets, prophets and mystics could aid in the process of

enlightenment, no doubt – offering glimpses into the eternal un-reality of the corporeal (which is

to say materialistic) ideologies that dominated the common thought-life of Mundus’ children –

but the real difficulty came, not in seeing the beautiful interplay of Time and Memory, but in

sustaining the vision when everything around you tried to dispel it. One could see the face of

God, but it was difficult to nurture the Remembrance of that vision when one was mucking out

stalls.


He was standing at a peak on Solstheim, at the grave of his wife. They were at Raven

Rock when the Red Mountain exploded and had worked tirelessly to help the refugees fleeing

their homeland. Jassa always wanted to go back, to see if any of their relatives had survived, but

what few might have endured the Red Year surely fell to the Argonian horde. In the end it hadn’t

mattered – Solstheim was a hard land and not even Jassa knew the cures to all diseases. In the

end, even the gods had abandoned them. Clenching his fist Kalas swore he would find the Thief

and make Him pay for his lack of faithfulness. Even gods had cause to fear mortals.

It occurred to him that one could say the problem, then, was corporeal nature…but he

rejected this. For centuries philosophers had been debating this particular issue and while Kalas

was not unsympathetic to mystics and the spiritual life (he, too, practiced his devotions to the

Ancestors) he could not agree that the spiritual held precedence over the corporeal. They were

spiritual beings, yes, but also fleshly – one should not emphasize one over the other. The two,

three including mind, formed the totality of Being as experienced by mortals – the triunity itself

a signifier of something that embraced but also transcended life-as-it-was-known. In any case, it

was this inhibition against perceiving one’s unified self that rendered language incapable of

expressing the turmoil he sensed; indeed, the turmoil that racked his body with pain, confusion,

and mental abstruseness.

He stood on the top of the last Tower as two demi-gods battled for the fate of Nirn. One

was encased in golden souls screaming in endless torment, the other a simulacrum of the same

piloted by the savior of Morrowind. Glittering shards of Time and Un-time sparkled as

Numidium’s fist connected with Akulakhan, sending it backwards against the Tower. Did they

know, he wondered as he struggled to remain standing, what they were doing? Did the

Nerevarine suspect that he/she/it was about to destroy the world? Was this the plan of the Last


Men – a last childish scream of “If we can’t win then no one will”? He tried to find some sense

of humanity – civility – in the blazing eyes of the Brass God. Could he appeal to it, sit with it

and speak plainly to it, and together solve the puzzle of its hate? Would the Nerevarine allow it?

But the Tower was breaking, and with it the world. As Kalas fell to his death Time seemed to

slow and he looked into the eyes of Numidium. Kalas told it, “I and Thou.”

But all Numidium said was, “PROTOCOL: GENOCIDE, ACCOMPLISHED.

INTIATING INTROSPECTION: FIFTH EPISTEMOLOGY.”

Kalas wandered the plains of Whiterun Hold, adrift in the Streams

*

The fire was blazing by the time Xixzith came out of the water and it wasn’t long before

the salmon was crackling on the spit. He lay down and sunned himself in the diminishing light.

He had spent his day exploring the area around Ivarstead. An old Nord tomb set

prominently on the east side of town but it looked like it hadn’t been disturbed since the Return.

Finding an abandoned house across the river had been a curiosity but none of the townsfolk

knew anything about it. No one had ever lived there; it was another mystery that Mother hadn’t

seen fit to explain. After that he had lain in the waters of the lake, listening to their Memories.

They were clean, lucid; their Remembrances was uncorrupted – which meant they told him

nothing. Still, the swim had been refreshing, and now he had dinner.

To say he had not noticed the Khajiit watching him would have been untrue. They tried

not to be too obvious. This morning it was the armored brute who’d given him trouble at the inn,

but the afternoon yielded a pleasant surprise: an Alfiq, lazily meandering through town, but with


an intelligence so keen it could not be missed. Xixzith acted like he hadn’t noticed them, but

made sure to observe their patterns.

There were two things he had learned today: that the people of Ivarstead (mostly

Imperials with a few Bosmer and, of course, Mixa) enjoyed their idyllic existence; and that the

Khajiit did not. While some of the Thoghatt stayed at the inn (J’karr and a select few) most

camped just out of town near the bridge leading to the 7,000 Steps. They were careful not to

gather all at once, making an accurate counting difficult; that they all wore the same steel armor

gave them a kind of anonymity at a distance. Now and again some might cross the bridge,

contemplating a shrine near the base of the path, but none stayed long.

As the moons slowly rose he picked at his salmon, casting the bones into the lake, and let

his mind sink into Pure Thought. It was hard to hear the Hist so far away, even through the

water, but he laid his questions into the tides. Why had they sent him here, of all places? And

what was this feeling that came with the mysterious disturbances of Memory? Only distant

echoes returned to him, like a voice heard over many miles. There were no answers. A part of

him wished suddenly that he were back in Black Marsh, deep in the waters and communing with

the trees. There was warmth there, and comfort. But there were no answers, and maybe that’s

what the Hist were trying to say to him. They needed answers and he was their eyes, their hands,

their ears. He understood, but there was no denying the nostalgia, the homesickness. As his

mind returned to the more complicated exterior world he decided he would sleep in the inn. He

felt a strong need to be near other Saxhleeel and Mixa had dreamed with him. Kicking out the

fire he hefted his pack and walked back to town.


He had almost mounted the steps of the inn when a strange sound met his ears. He turned

to looked around, but there were no villagers, no Khajiit: the street was empty. The sound came

again. Setting down his pack he moved to follow it.

It was not easy to follow; moving up the hill of a farmstead it seemed almost a whisper.

It was only when this thought formed that he realized it was something he wasn’t hearing with

his ears. The realization was complicating and his mind-as-he-used-it to interact with the world

could make nothing of its impossibility. Taking a deep breath he cut his mind into two shapes –

one to perceive his surroundings, and one to melt into Pure Thought. The effect was immediate.

Xixzith had never experienced anything like it. When he spoke to the Hist, or rather

dissolved into them, there were sometimes images or feelings but never language – it was

experience without the mental constructs of interpretation, without mental constructs at all; a

kind of drifting in the warm aether of a unitive amniosis. This…wasn’t that. Instead of seeing,

or sensing the world…he heard it. The stones were a kind of hum, a background noise that told

him little to nothing. Stronger were the voice-chimings of the grass and trees; but his conscious

mind was straining, unable to comprehend or even bear so much. Xixzith focused on the sound

he had heard, feeling the twin shapes of his mind revolting, breaking, cracking. He was moving

past the farm house, up the hill, walking deeper into shadow.

He could stand it no more, and let his minds return to unity…and a throbbing headache.

Xixzith took a moment to steady himself, waiting for the pain to dissipate. He could still

barely make out the whispers – but they were closer. Without the background noise

of…everything…he could almost make out words: whispered in a kind of desperation. They ran


together like tides in an ocean but if he listened carefully he could pick out their repetitions. It

sounded like nidvahruktunslaadkrosis. The whispers were coming from the tomb.

Though magic had never been his strong suit Xixzith knew one or two useful spells, and

he cast a hovering orb of light above himself. Dust was everywhere; dust and the detritus of

numberless autumns. He kicked through a pile of moldering leaves as the whispers grew

stronger. Running his hand along the wall he wondered why no one ever came here. He would

need to ask the villagers…

There was a sharp crack ahead.

Xixzith carried no weapons, only a small hunting knife for cleaning game. Taking

several deep breaths he felt his perceptions sharpen, his heartbeat slow. There was a large stone

box ahead, a sarcophagus. He was prepared when the lid flew off and slid into an easy defensive

stance.

In the flickering shadows cast by the orb the creature that crawled out was the stuff of

nightmares. It had been human once, but decay and desiccation had rendered it a cruel parody of

the living. Fierce blue eyes gazed back at him as – what passed for vocal chords – growled out

nidvahruktunslaadkrosis. It drew its sword and Xixzith moved his hands to his abdomen,

cupping them in opposition.

His heart beat slowed and he felt the growing sense of his own life-force radiating

outwards, like the glow from a fire: his fingers tingled with it. As the creature rushed him

Xixzith drew upon the radiance with spiraling motions of his hands and arms, feeling the energy

grow into a sphere of life itself. When the creature passed through the edges he could feel its

pain, its despair, and its mind-numbing rage. Xixzith joined with it, felt the emotions flow over


him and for one brief moment he and the creature were one. But then he shifted to the side like

water flowing around a rock, using his hands to gently guide it past him. The blade never

touched him.

And so his body danced, his mind observed and his soul listened to the creature’s sorrow.

Its thoughts were scattered, broken; its inner turmoil exploding into violence. Its mind roiled

with words that the Argonian could not shape into understandable images. Was this what was

driving it, he wondered? He knew he could not continue like this forever; the creature had no

end of energy and sooner or later Xixzith would tire. It was with regret that he prepared to end

its simulacrum of life.

It was at this moment that his spell gave out and darkness fell. He was re-casting it when

the creature laughed, muttering “Unslaad krosis,” and screamed.

The orb of light burst from his hand as he was hit with a wall of force stronger than any

wind or wave. The sphere shattered and he was lifted from the ground, hurled into the creature’s

sarcophagus like so many dead leaves and darkness tugged at the corners of his vision as he

struggled to find his feet. It was rushing him, repeating its words and he fell from the

sarcophagus rather than climbed, hitting the ground hard. Looking up he saw the creature’s

grinning face as it brought the sword down towards his head. For an instant he saw the face

flicker with living flesh and long braided hair.

Xixzith welcomed his death with open arms, but struck the creature’s knee-cap in

defiance. It faltered, lurching to the side, spoiling its aim. But there was a sudden stream of fire

searing his shoulder and Xixzith leaped to his feet as his skin bubbled.


He reached into himself as the creature attacked again, but it had learned. Its attacks

were sharper, staccato movements, making them difficult to join and redirect. Wind-milling his

arms, despite the pain, he expanded the sphere trying to draw the creature in but it feinted with

its sword and struck him powerfully in the abdomen with its fist. Xixzith’s breath rushed out of

him and he felt a red line carved across his chest. He moved into the flow of the attack, spinning

away from its force but the creature screamed again and he flew face-first into the tomb wall. As

he crumpled to the ground his last thought was that he had failed the Hist. He comforted himself

with the knowledge he would soon be with them again.

Falling into darkness he heard shouts, the clanging of metal, and feline snarls.

*

“Just make sure you keep the compress on throughout the night,” Jassa told the woman.

“Between the herbs and stitches the wound should be well-healed by morning. Just don’t let him

itch it.”

The woman, an Imperial, gave her son a stern look. “Understood,” she said.

“But mama,” the boy protested and Jassa walked away with a tired grin as his mother

instructed him on the consequences of disobedience.

Where there had been more than three hundred Pilgrims in Whiterun, less than a third had

made it to the Dwemer tower. The walk had not been easy, moving everyone south to the very

edge of the Hold; the wolf attacks had not helped. She and the remaining guards were busy all

afternoon dealing with the wildlife, but things settled by nightfall. Now the Guard and a few

willing men were fortifying the camp, setting up a watch schedule, and patrolling the roads.


Among the Pilgrims a few healers had survived and were tending to those beyond Jassa’s

alchemy. Most, she thought, would survive; so long as the Nords did not pursue them.

The river, at least, kept them amply supplied. Even though spring migration was months

off there were abundant amounts of salmon and Jassa wondered if that is why the Dwemer had

built their watchtower here. Kneeling to splash the frigid water on her face she wondered at it,

stretching into the evening sky. Most of the Dwemer holdings in Skyrim were in the more

mountainous regions and the few caves in the area bore no mark that the Dwarves had mined

them. In truth, the area seemed ripe for logging more than protonymic research. Splashing her

face again she thought maybe they had used it as a hunting station or some-such; the Rourken

clan had proved unique among the Dwemer in many ways and who could say how living among

Nords had changed them?

The door to the tower was unlocked when she reached it, and let herself in.

“This one requires no more blankets, towels or food!” an annoyed Khajiit voice shouted

from the upper level. “What she requires is a report from the Guard that they are not sitting

around telling dirty stories while Nords could be sneaking here to kill us! What she needs is a

report from the scouts sent to Helgen! What she needs is…”

“How about an old friend?” Jassa rejoined as she mounted the steps.

Nija’s face looked down from above. “Praise Alkosh!” she said.

“The Guard is driving this one crazy!” she told Jassa when she had joined her in the

makeshift room. “’The Blessed must be safe in the Tower! The Blessed should not patrol the

dangerous roads! The Blessed must not wipe her own behind!’”


“Did they really say that?” Jassa was a little shocked.

“Don’t be ridiculous. But this one tells you – if the Guard thought it their duty they

would line up to care for the Holy Buttocks of the Holy Blessed of the Holy Prophet and…this

one is serious!”

Jassa laughed harder than she had in weeks.

When she finally regained her composure, some minutes later, Nija gave her a

disapproving look. “You try being the Blessed and see what you think of it,” she said grumpily.

“I’m well aware of your sufferings, Nija” she said, patting her hand. “Maybe more than

you know.”

“They think this one is a kitten! But she was killing invectids all by herself when she met

the Prophet – she saved his life many times before they escaped that cave!”

“I don’t doubt it,” Jassa said seriously. “I’ve seen what you can do with a bow.”

“She has guarded caravans, defeated bandits, liberated slaves, and explored every corner

of New Lleswer all without their so-important help! And this one tells you another thing: she is

very, very tired of ‘Blessed this’ and ‘Blessed that’…maybe the Blessed will use her boot to

teach them a Blessed lesson!”

Jassa sighed as the Khajiit let out a roar of frustration.

“Nija,” she said at last, quietly. “Try to see it from their perspective: you are the Blessed

of the Prophet, his Chosen and his Beloved. They protect you to serve him.”

“Ra’zhiin never wanted their service.”


“No, he didn’t. Remember too that these men and women were just defeated like they

were a bunch of fresh-faced children right out of the War College. They lost their families, their

friends, the people who meant the most to them; they protect you to ease their guilt. If they can

keep you safe maybe the loss of their loved ones won’t have been for nothing.” She looked

compassionately at her friend. “Let them have that comfort, at least.”

Nija shook her head. “This one wearies of being a symbol.”

“It’s the price some of us pay for who we love.” A smile touched the Dunmer’s face.

“You really haven’t lived until you attended a dinner party at the University of Ald Sotha Below

and spent the evening listening to people fawn over your husband while treating you like his

concubine.”

“This one hopes you summoned an atronach to repair their foolish notion.”

A wide grin touched Jassa’s face. “I was tempted once or twice.”

Nija’s face became serious. “I hope Kalas is alright. This one cannot imagine what

happened to him.”

Jassa tried to hold down the panic that nestled close to her heart; it wouldn’t be of any use

to her here and now. The calmness in her voices almost convinced her. “I don’t think the Nords

found him. I think he must have…left.”

“How?”

“Kalas has been known to…disappear…from time to time.”


Though Nija did not fully understand she said nothing more and they sat in silence for a

few minutes.

“Has there been any word from Helgen?” Nija asked finally.

“No, and I doubt there will be before morning. It’s really just a trading post at this point,

a waypoint between Bruma and Whiterun. It could be weeks until the Legion gets here.”

“A few weeks could be too late.”

“We’ll have to wait and see.” A yawn came over her and Jassa suddenly felt very tired.

“I suppose the best thing for now is a good night’s sleep. I suspect the morning will be busy.”

She rose to leave.

“How did they do it?” Nija protested.

“I’m sorry?”

“The Nords – how did they get into the city without breaking down the gates?”

Jassa considered before speaking. “Before…the Sundering…the Nords had an ability

called the Thu’um, or the Voice. They somehow focused their vital essence into a Shout,

sometimes with astonishing effects. I have heard that some could move great distances using the

Voice.”

“But there were so many. Could all of them have used it?”

“I don’t know. Maybe Kalas or Ra’zhiin would know more.”


Nija seemed to accept this and yawned herself. “This one will see you in the morning,”

she said sleepily. “If she can convince her captors to let her free.”

That night in her tent Jassa struggled through a host of nightmares. Images of her

husband – sick, alone, fevered – and the giant Nord breathing fire – swirled through her mind as

a shadow fell across the world. Standing in a field of the dead she saw the bodies of Nija,

Ra’zhiin and Kalas: their dead eyes stared back accusingly. A scream sounded behind her and

she turned to see twin orbs of fire descending from the night sky, a maw with fangs the size of

continents opened to devour the world. The scream built and built until she thought it would

shatter her, and it was only when she wakened to morning light that she realized it had been her

own.


Chapter Five

“This one is not sure what kind of death-wish you have, Argonian,” J’karr was saying.

“But you nearly succeeded.”

They were back at the inn and Xixzith was trying to maintain his masculinity as Mixa

changed his dressings. “Well, the town was so boring,” he offered the Khajiit. “I thought a little

late night excitement might spice things up.” Mixa snorted.

The Thoghatt had saved his life, and if that wasn’t embarrassing enough, they had carried

him back to the inn after defeating the creature with hardly any effort. “There are far better

amusements,” J’karr told him. “Skooma, gambling, jumping off a waterfall…”

The Argonian frowned and tried to shrug, immediately regretting it. “Don’t do that,”

Mixa rebuked him. “If you open that wound again, so help me…”

Thankfully the Khajiit could not read the shame in the way his splines fell. “Why anyone

would want to wander around a tomb at night is beyond me,” Mixa said. “Those places are filled

with nothing but dust and dead bodies.”

“Especially the moving kind,” Xixzith offered trying to lighten the mood. He received a

harder than usual tightening on his binding, and suppressed the whimper in his throat.

“That is the mystery,” J’karr mused out loud. “Ma’rash explored an old Nord tomb when

we were near the Dragon’s Bridge last summer and said there were not even bodies there. Only

empty sarcophagi. It is as though whatever had been there was not Remembered.”

“Mother can be fickle with Her Memories,” Xixzith said.


“Maybe some things are best Forgotten,” Mixa said irritably. “I wouldn’t want those

things coming into town.”

“That’s the thing,” Xixzith said. “It was sealed in its sarcophagus just…whispering.”

J’karr’s gaze narrowed. “What do you mean, ‘whispering’?”

Xixzith couldn’t imagine how foolish he sounded to the Khajiit but did his best to explain

without going into too much detail. It was difficult shaping his mind to rationalize the

experience, let alone cutting it into pieces that would fit a Khajiit’s understanding.

“The strangest thing,” the Argonian said finally. “Was after it screamed the first time.

When in came at me I swear it had skin…and hair.”

The Khajiit looked at him doubtfully. “There was skin and hair already; of a sort.”

“No, I mean like it was…living.”

“You were probably hallucinating from the pain,” Mixa told him.

“I don’t think so.”

“Most curious,” was all J’karr said.

There was a not unpainful pat on Xixzith’s back. “That should do for now,” announced

Mixa. “Back to bed with you.”

“But I just got up.”

“The compresses need time to heal the wounds. You’re lucky we have Blue Mountain

flowers here. You should be up and about tomorrow.”


“Tomorrow?”

“Don’t argue with the lady,” J’karr reproved. “She’s the reason you’re not burning with

fever. If you want this one could have Kuj’ra carry you.” He indicated the armored Khajiit from

the day before, seated at the fire. Kuj’ra turned and gave him a very unpleasant krin.

“Fine,” Xixzith ground out. He stood painfully and bore his humiliation with as much

dignity as he could to his bed.

Long after he had fallen asleep J’karr stared thoughtfully at the Argonian, troubled.

*

He was wandering the plains of Whiterun Hold wrapped in nothing more than bedsheets.

Somewhere in the back of his mind this image struck Kalas as odd because it did not trigger the

Memory of any of his previous lives. On some level he had experienced all of the others before:

he was particularly fond of being a gondolier in the New Vivec section of Neoyneslea – he and

Jassa had five children and had lived long, happy lives. Ra’zhiin had not healed the world in that

life, but the Diaspora learned to cope. And if the Echmer were a bit dour for neighbors, at least

he and Jassa had one another.

Language then, he continued, was not the necessary medium by which to express the

sensations within him. He recognized that language was, of course, simply a construct through

which one communicated experience and was not ideally suited for understanding experience.

He remembered long years before the Sundering – could it have been in the Fourth Era? –

reading a book that claimed language was intrinsic to the nature of dragons. It was fascinating,

really, because mortals could not say the same (secretly he was frustrated that he had not been


able to address this in his time at the Window; the mere thought that Language and Time were

intrinsically connected…). Mortal existence was, in its deepest nature, fabricated not on

language but experience, especially sense-experience. The mortal encountered data in one form

or another without thought or language and its immediate reaction was neither of these, but

emotion. The connection was scintillating and Kalas had planned to publish a book on it until

the Last War turned his attention elsewhere. Now, centuries later, he pondered the idea that

emotion was the deepest rooted, most natural way that mortals engaged and interpreted the world

around them. Not solid, crudely fashioned words, but ephemeral, enigmatic, visceral emotion. It

was with a start that he saw clearly that the Aldmer’s first vision of Nirn wasn’t an invitation to

experience and exploration, but confusion, incomprehension…and pain. They refused the world

not because they were unable to understand it but because of how it made them feel.

“How was your day?” Jassa asked him as he took off his gondolier’s scarf. “Fine,” he

told her. “There was a pup who decided now was a good time to try his wings – you’ve never

seen an upset Echmer until you’ve seen a mother holding onto her child on the edge of the

Void.” “What did you do?” “I sang one of the Alma’s songs to him; he settled down and

wouldn’t take his eyes off me the rest of the trip. His parents were quite generous in their tip.”

Jassa smiled knowingly.

Language, then, was of no use to him. Kalas focused on his experiences, his emotions.

There were flutterings, oscillations of tension and release moving throughout his body. Such

things could have meant anything: poor digestion, nervousness, sexual arousal. But his body did

not seem to be reacting to the stimuli with any of the usual responses; rather, there was

something deep inside him pulling him…where? There did not seem to be a specific

destination...not a corporeal destination at least. This was interior: a feeling, a memory,


a…There is another word for this feeling but it is not one I can render, but its misunderstanding

is something like yearning.

He was seated in a Vehkship with his friend Ra’zhiin, only it wasn’t Ra’zhiin but

Someone who wore his likeness. “This yearning is the cause of everything; it is the primal

contingency of what one might call ‘love.’ It is why Lorkhan wandered the Void, why Anu

birthed his Other, and why we are speaking right now… [it] cannot be grasped, it cannot be

dissected, it cannot be pierced by god-logic…but it can be felt. It is this feeling that is protected,

hedged about, guarded by ten-thousand philosophies that scream ‘No.’ Reason is defeated

against its walls, prudence is slaughtered at its gates. Everything fights to protect it and not

even God Himself can defeat those walls.”

What, then, was this yearning – this desire – that he was feeling? Kalas let himself fall

into it and knew immediately that he was falling into the Streams. The sensation was awkward

but the centuries had taught him to comprehend, and thus enjoy it. He felt Time and Un-time

swirl around and through him. He could almost see the Window. Maybe Tosh would be willing

to entertain the question of language…

It was in this moment that he knew his lives – his thousands, nay tens of thousands of

lives – had vanished. Only a handful remained. A gondolier, a god-killer, a mer wandering the

plains of Whiterun…

“The diamond…” he whispered aloud. And there were tears in his eyes.

*


J’karr kicked the creature’s body to make sure it was dead – or rather, not dead-and-still-

moving – before walking into the tomb.

The first thing that struck him was the smell; it wasn’t the clean, living-cave smell of the

empty tombs near the Dragon Bridge, but an earthy, pungent scent that reminded him of rotting

meat. He wondered how many of the alcoves would be filled before he moved carefully into the

shadows, stepping as silently as possible.

Even without darksight he saw there was movement ahead.

The creature was wondering in a roughly circular pattern, moving along the walls and

dragging its axe behind. Listening carefully he detected no whispering, but the sound of the axe

may have drowned it out. The Khajiit watched it for long seconds trying to decide what to do.

He did not notice the other entrance until the second creature came through it. Roughly

the same build, with the same desiccated skin, it walked towards one of the alcoves and moved

to lie down in it. It was at this moment the first creature completed its circuit and walked into

the second. J’karr watched them tear each other apart. When the first went down the second

collapsed as though exhausted. J’karr moved behind it and gave it mercy.

There were perhaps a dozen creatures in the tomb, most lying in rest but a few walking

the halls as though confused. J’karr destroyed the ones he had too, but left most to their sleep.

There seemed something…tragic about them. A number of small urns were scattered through

the tomb, holding small numbers of gold coins. He did not remember Ma’rash mentioning them

in his account; he pulled out a handful of coins, glancing them over. They were not, he realized,

the currency of Tamriel Renewed, but bore the mark of a dragon. “From before Landfall?” he

whispered, and pocketed them.


There was a long hallway with images carved into the walls and he paused to study them

for some time. On each panel the central figures were gigantic, divine. He discerned a theme of

sacrifice: worshippers carried offerings of some kind (he could not make them out) to the deity.

Engravings of birds and serpents were repeated throughout and he seemed to remember the

Prophet saying something about Kynareth’s connection with hawks but could not be certain;

J’karr had no interest in theology. Perhaps when Mother Remembered the Nords She would tell

them what the images meant. But for now…the ancient circular door was open and he passed

through.

The immense sarcophagus sat with its lid cracked, as if the creature within was waiting

for him.

The Khajiit approached slowly, eyeing the corners of the room; all the alcoves were

empty except for bones and dust. Just behind the sarcophagus was a half circular wall reaching

nearly to the ceiling. From where he stood J’karr could see there was writing on it but could not

make out the words. At its apex was some sort of carving – a dragon? He could not be sure. It

was just as he thinking this that the lid exploded off and the creature crawled from its resting

place.

It was larger than the others, well over six feet in height. Even in decay the muscular

arms were impressive, as was the great axe it wielded. It was saying something in a language

J’karr did not know, but then, he was too busy dodging its attack. Drawing his sword and dagger

he watched the creature, waiting for an opening.

His first few attacks were successful, cutting across its chest and face. But after that the

creature adapted, employing feints and blocking with the axe’s long handle. J’karr could not


help thinking the death’s head face was laughing at him. He rolled to the right to avoid an

overhead swing that could have split him in half. “Well, this one will get his exercise today, at

least,” he told the creature with a krin, but it offered nothing.

Above all, a Thoghatt was patient. J’karr let the creature teach him; he learned its

patterns, discerned its thoughts – such as they were – and grew to understand it. He felt respect

and pity in equal measure. It was relentless, but not inexhaustible, and after numerous or

powerful attacks it shifted to a defensive posture for a few moments. He waited. When it let

lose a volley of horizontal cuts J’karr stepped back just out of range until it began to shift

backwards…and struck with four blows to chest, arms and legs. It staggered back, dropped the

axe and seemed to totter for a moment before falling to its knees. “You have taught this one

much,” J’karr said with gravity. “He will honor your Memory.”

The face that looked up at him was human and there was terror in his eyes. “Where…I

don’t…” the Nord looked at him imploringly. “Wh-Who am I?”

The change was so quick that J’karr found himself without words. Before he could speak

the human face dissolved into a death’s head. “Nid vahrukt unslaad krosis,” it told him.

Though he did not know the words or their meaning, J’karr assented, and let his blades

give it mercy.

*

Ra’zhiin returned to consciousness, and immediately wished he had not. His back arched

and a weak cry exited his mouth.

“Don’t struggle,” Shada said quietly at his side. “Let’s the poultices do their work.”


His breath came raggedly for a few moments as he tried to lay still; finally he opened his

eyes. Morning light was all around him, and the ghost of Secunda was in the east. “How long?”

he was barely able to whisper.

“Long enough,” she replied, her own voice quiet. “A day, a night. Not long.”

Despite the protests of his body he moved his head around, saw nothing but a campfire

and snow blown by the wind. “Where are the others?”

“It is only us,” Shada said.

Ra’zhiin closed his eyes and asked through the pain, “How?”

Shada told him, “We knew it was dishonorable to interfere in a duel, but we could not

stand by and watch our Prophet die. Fa’jamay…attacked the Nord from behind while Sujara and

this one pulled you away. One of the Nords claimed her before we had gone far. This one was

fortunate.”

He saw their faces flash through his mind, knew all of their names, all of their stories.

“This one has failed you. He was not strong enough.”

Hoarse coughs heralded her words. “You did not lack strength, but knowledge. He was

beyond all of us, and his men fought like all they have known is war. Perhaps it is how Mother

Remembered them, but his one is unsure.”

The Nord’s words came back to him. He thinks we’re a Memory of his poor, dead

Mother. “This one also is unsure,” he said quietly.


He heard Shada tending the fire. “You must rest, Prophet. Allow the poultices to do

their work.”

Ra’zhiin complied.

He drifted in and out of sleep, wakened occasionally by spasms of pain or Shada’s

coughing. In the moments he was lucid enough for thought he remembered Jassa saying she

included certain herbs in her remedies to help the wounded rest. When the body rests, she had

told him, the body heals. He surrendered to the healing and drifted through strange dreams of

Nord warriors, ancient tombs, and books with unnerving sigils. He felt as though arms were

reaching for him…

When he opened his eyes it was hours later. He could not be certain how many, though

Magnus was near its zenith. Beneath the covers of his bedroll he touched the places where

Shada had placed dressings, and though sore, they were not painful. Sitting up, however, he

decided to amend his assessment of his body: he might be whole, but every muscle screamed in

protest; it took his breath away. “The next time this one decides to battle a giant Nord,” he said

when he could breathe again. “Tell him he must reconsider his foolishness.” He breathed a

silent prayer of thanks for Jassa and her healing supplies.

“Prophet,” Shada’s voice said weakly behind him. “Pray for this one…ere she goes.”

He turned to look at her.

No healer on all of Nirn could save her now. “You used them all on this one,” he said

quietly. “The poultices.”


“Yes,” her voice was almost pleading beneath the pain. “This one had to…save you.

Our…Prophet…”

The words struck with more force than the Nord’s fists. “We had many, why…”

“Only a few…lost…”

Ra’zhiin crawled the short distance and took her hand. It was cold.

“You saved us, my Prophet,” she said, coughing again; blood splattered on her lips.

“You saved us all…gave us another chance. And this one…this one knows…you will save

us…again.” Her eyes, their light fading, implored him. “Pray…”

“This one is no priest. He is only…”

She could only mouth the word; no further sounds came.

While she still drew breath, he placed his hand on her forehead and said the words.

Ra’zhiin sat for a long time, holding her hand. He remembered when he had first met her

in Rimmen, when all the Thoghatt had come and sworn fealty to him. If he was being honest the

whole thing had seemed a needless bother, just another consequence of his ‘Memories’. It had

taken time but he grew to care for them all; they became his family. A frustrating, annoying

family to be sure…but family. They told physically impossible stories of his adventures, littered

with suppositions of his sexual conquests, and argued over the deep metaphysical meanings of

his ‘Memories’ – which was to say they read it aloud while they were falling-down drunk – all in

one sitting. They rejoiced when he married Nija, and pestered him for rumors of a child. They


revered him, but also laughed with him. And if most of them were blinded by “the Prophet”

perhaps one or two had known him enough to see he was only “Ra’zhiin.”

Magnus had begun its descent when he finally stood, and every muscle in his body made

its protest known. His weapons were gone and it was with great reverence that he lifted Shada’s

sword from the frozen blood that surrounded her. It was a Remembered blade, spirals of Nord

knot work lined it throughout; he slid it gently into his sheath.

Ra’zhiin looked out on the mountains and plains of Skyrim. It was a long way to

Ivarstead, and further to Whiterun, but the world and its horrors would have to wait. Stooping

painfully he began searching through the snow for the stones to build her cairn.


Chapter Six

Kalas was wandering all but naked through the plains of Whiterun Hold, clothed only in a

bedsheet – and he was freezing. The fact that Masser was at its height and he had likely been

wandering for hours without noticing that he was freezing was an amusing, if cruel, irony: the

awareness of actuality brought with it all the punishments of actuality. Had he been able to

remain in his reverie he might never had become aware that he was freezing to death and would

have died in contemplation. The Dunmer almost laughed at just how ridiculous the situation

was, from a metaphysical standpoint, but decided rubbing life back into his toes was more

important.

Magnus was beginning its long fall when he saw the campfire in the distance.

Any number of thoughts went through his mind as he made his way towards it; chief

among them was concern for who had built it. Skyrim was hardly safe these days – there were

any number of bandit clans harassing the Pilgrims, let alone the Bal cults who migrated from

Masser not long after the Return. Running into either of them was bound to be a painful

experience, despite his magic. Of course it was entirely possible he would find the remains of a

camp and a cave bear waiting for its second course. In the end he had little choice, and could

only hope the fire’s builder was amenable to company.

As he drew near he saw he needn’t have worried. A lone Imperial sat facing the fire,

arms propped on his knees. He was an older human; steel-gray beard and hair reflected the fire’s

light. Looking up from his contemplation the Imperial said, “I’ll bet there’s quite a story that

comes with you stranger.” He gestured to the bedsheet.

“A good deal more boring than you’d expect.”


“Well don’t die there, have a seat. There’s a bottle of wine by the pack and bread too.”

Kalas seated himself and dug in while the Imperial rose and entered his makeshift tent. He

returned minutes later to find the loaf half-gone and the bottle nearly empty. “You’ll regret that

in an hour,” he told the Dunmer.

“Not if I’m drunk and asleep,” said Kalas, feeling the warmth easing through him.

The Imperial dropped a set of fur clothes in his lap. “Ought to fit.” He resumed his place

as Kalas hurried them on.

Lacing up his boots Kalas said, “I…thank you. I’m afraid I don’t have anything with

which to pay you.”

The Imperial pulled out a pipe and began stuffing it with tobacco. “I didn’t cross space

and time to be paid by you, Kalas.”

The Dunmer paused before finishing his boots. “You’ll have to forgive me, but what

with the wine and all it sounded like you said…”

“Why cannot these things be?”

Kalas imagined he looked quite shocked.

“Don’t worry,” the Imperial said. “The wine’s only strong enough to keep you warm. I

needed you lucid for our talk.” The breath of smoke he exhaled brought images of four hundred

thirty-seven of Kalas’ lives and his adventures in the Skyrim of the Fourth Era.

The Dunmer sat down and looked intently at his host. “It’s been a long time.”

“Only if you experience Time linearly.”


“We both know I don’t exactly do that.”

“You do, in fact. But you’re connected to your other lives through your Memory of

them, and that gives you a…broader…perspective.”

“Then why do so many of those Memories…those lives…seem to no longer exist?”

The Imperial frowned and dragged on the pipe. “I’m not certain you are prepared for that

answer.”

Kalas frowned. “So you’re going to ignore my questions like you did before?”

“It depends on the question.”

Kalas sighed.

They were quiet for a few minutes while the Imperial smoked and Kalas sipped his wine.

“You’ve been thinking a great deal about experience,” the Imperial said at last. “Maybe that’s

the best place to start.”

“I wasn’t aware that Aedra invaded the minds of others.”

The look he received was withering. “Some would kill to have a god interested in what

they were thinking. In your case it’s not so much dropping eaves as it is being unable to silence

a voice screaming through the Streams.”

Kalas accepted this.

“So, experience. You’ve been thinking a great deal about mortal epistemology, that its

core is sense experience, not language (yes, I know you have a question about language and


dragons but I fear that will need to wait). Your musings, I must say, have been reasonably

accurate but betray the very difficulty that is the source of the current crisis.”

Kalas looked confused. “I wasn’t aware of a crisis.”

“Don’t interrupt. It is a matter of debate among the gods whether this experiential lens is

an expression of sub-gradience or an essential aspect of cognitive existence: not even we can

remember our et’Adic origins to the degree necessary to find an answer. And while our

perception of the universe is based on something that could be misunderstood as sense

experience (there are no holding places in your mind for Dietic Epistemology, I fear), even we

are bound to Experience and Reflection. The question, ultimately, may be unanswerable. Thus

we are left with a simple, and therefore unsatisfying, certainty that this is our way of interacting

with the outer world: we have a sense-experience which inspires a biological response. The

mind, without logic or cognitive intention, represents the experience as a feeling, often centered

on a bodily response (indigestion, pain, a fluttering in the stomach). Here the mind begins to

react, not with thought but emotion – a chemical response to physical stimuli (nervousness,

excitement, dread). From sense-experience to feeling to emotion to (at last) thought. But by this

point we are three stages out from the sense-experience, and the mental exegesis thereof is based

upon the interpretive matrices that have brought the experience to the mind’s attention. How

mortals can understand the world with any degree to accuracy, let alone interact with it, is a

mystery even to the gods. Anu may know, but will not say.”

“You’re suggesting that mortals, and perhaps even the gods, have a distorted perception

of everything around them.”


“Yes, and the further down the levels of sub-gradience one goes the deeper the distortion

– until one reaches Amaranth (but let that go). Still, mortal (and immortal) epistemology

functions accurately enough to allow our lives a reasonable simulacrum of reality (or what we

deduce as such) and normally it is enough to go along with. But here I am merely summarizing,

in a slightly expanded way, what you yourself have already contemplated; and it is only the

beginning of the problem.

“I said before that by the time the mind is prepared to think about a sense-experience it is

already three stages out from the experience itself, and is bound by the hermeneutics of earlier

stages. Indeed, it is not going too far to suggest that thought is based, not upon experience, but

the memory of experience. Because thought must arise through feeling and emotion it cannot

escape the associations of feeling and emotion with the experience: thought is bound by their

interpretations. You saw this clearly in your consideration of the Altmer – they rejected the

world because of how it made them feel. Their first experience of the world was pain – pain and

kenotic emptying – and they would never, ever forget it. It has been suggested among the gods

that this is the core of the Aldmer hatred of Lorkhan – not because he convinced them to make

the world, but because he (with relative ease) was able to transcend the pain of Creation…and

embrace it. On one hand they saw him enjoying something they experienced as horrible, and on

the other (it has been suggested) they resented that they were unable to do so as well. This

resentment, this inability to reconcile Creation and Loss, they externalized upon the person of

Lorkhan, making him the symbol of their Pain. That is why, through all the ages of all the

kalpas, the Aldmer hate him and seek to kill him and his heirs.

“You begin to see, I think, that Memory is mythopoetic: what we Remember of the

experience, how we think about the Memory of an experience, will shape our understanding of


the experience – even to the degree that we can transmogrify what had been good, beautiful or

true into something horrible. Or the reverse. If I may be so bold I think the Lessons of your Poet

bear this out. Now don’t bristle; it is clear that the Sermons represent his Remembering of his

life, and are quite divorced from their actual history: Vehk murdered Nerevar but Vivec did not,

do you see? Your Lord was performing a mythopoetic alteration of his Memories, no doubt for

therapeutic reasons; even gods have regrets. But you cannot escape Memory, and even when

you can bend the universe to your will there will come a time when you must confront all of your

constructed and actual Selves. Only when you stare into the condemning eyes of all your

illusions and say ‘I AM THEM AND THEY ARE ME’ can you begin the process of

reconciliatory individuation; only then can healing begin. If I am any judge, your Poet

accomplished this in her Wedding and, I hope, found the peace that has always eluded her.”

Kalas sipped at his wine and stared into the fire for some moments, thinking. “You

contend, then, that how we Remember an Event may be more important than the actual Event

itself.”

“In terms of interpretation and reaction, yes.”

“And that our Memory of the Event is influenced more by how we feel about it than how

we think about it.”

“At first; feeling and emotion assign the protonym of the experience. They determine its

first interpretation, which influences all others.”

“But thought can alter Memory.”

“And thereby, how we view an Event,” the Imperial agreed.


Kalas pulled a piece of bread from the loaf and put it in his mouth, chewing slowly. “I

begin to think your position is that we can remake the past in our own image.”

A great sigh escaped the Imperial’s lips, and he emptied his pipe into the fire. Kalas

watched the flames dance in his eyes. “Thousands of years ago,” he said finally. “I was One; a

single river of Time flowing into eternity. But then came the Prophet and his Doctrines. He

believed I had been polluted by an Aldmeri taint so he and his Selective danced upon the Tower,

splintering me. Unwittingly, he gave birth to the Streams. If his actions were thoughtless of the

consequences they have nonetheless been better than might have been hoped. You’ve seen the

Streams at the Window, and beheld their beauty.” The Imperial shifted, looking Kalas in the

eye. “The problem is, when you learn that your Belief can accomplish that…

“What’s to stop you from dancing again?”

Kalas started awake and found himself lying beside the bones of a fire. He was quite

alone.

*

Jassa was meditating by the river when one of the guards came for her.

“Lady Jassa, a group from Helgen has arrived.”

Standing up she dusted herself off. “Tell the Blessed, she will want to speak with them.”

“Mi’lady, she’s already speaking with them.”

Jassa walked through the camp towards the waiting delegation. Most people were up and

about by now, some knitting torn clothing, others fishing, all trying to put distance between


themselves and yesterday’s attack; they found comfort in the familiar. She wondered if any of

them had slept better than her: the image of twin orbs of fire flickered through her mind and

Jassa suppressed a shiver. Allowing herself to dwell upon the dream would only bring back the

terror of it, and she needed her mind clear. She saw the delegation was standing uncomfortably

by the tower, and Nija’s tail was swishing violently. Jassa sighed.

“Blessed, it’s not that we are unfeeling to your situation but Helgen isn’t a military

outpost. We would be pleased to take you and the city’s leadership, but cannot care for so many.

There just isn’t enough food…” The speaker, a Bosmer, was dressed in an expensive robe and

looked as though he would be more at home in the Imperial City than a Nord village.

“There is an entire province filled with game!” Nija protested, and Jassa could tell from

her voice that she had lost all patience. “Maybe if you stopped sitting around on your

pampered…”

“What the Blessed means to say,” Jassa interrupted. “Is that skilled hunters should be

able to bring in a significant amount of game, if they work in concert.” She brushed her hand

against Nija’s back as a signal of support. “Many of the Pilgrims are accustomed to farming,

hunting, fishing and so forth; they will not be a burden. They need only the protection, and some

small support, of a walled village.”

The Bosmer looked skeptical, but gave her a polite bow. “Lady Jassa, it is a pleasure to

see you again.”

“And you, Minister Fargoht,” she inclined her head in response. “Your wife and

daughter are well, I hope?”


“Oh quite,” the Bosmer’s demeanor changed completely. “Vashi, of course, laments the

lack of boutiques in such a…frontier…setting, but Duleema is thrilled.”

“If memory serves little Duleema is…eight, now?”

“A very precocious nine, actually. And becoming quite the adventurer. You should see

her wield a bow! She will be quite the catch for the man who can tame her spirit.”

“As if any man could tame the spirit of the daughter of Fargoht and Vashi,” Jassa said

deferentially.

The Bosmer was beaming, but said seriously. “You must understand our position, Lady

Jassa. We’re a small village and only just completed the walls. To add hundreds…”

“I fear far less than that, Minister,” Jassa gently corrected him.

“…could be a great burden to our people.”

“Your people,” Nija literally bristled, her ears going flat.

“Of course, I understand,” Jassa walked past her, slipping her arm through the Minister’s

and directing him through the camp. “The difficulty for me, you understand, is knowing how

others would perceive your need to protect the citizens of Helgen. Why, there are some who

would question your moral integrity – ridiculous to be sure.”

“Preposterous!”

“But I myself have been the recipient of Bosmer hospitality and know your people to be

generous, kind, and forthright.”


“You? My dear lady, when was this? You and your husband (we’re all quite concerned

for him) have always seemed people of considerable means to me.”

“You’re very kind. This was when we first came to Masser at the turning of the Era. We

were at quite a loss to find our relatives and the Talinion family took us in. You know them

don’t you? Talinion’s great-great-great-grandson is the Chancellor of Alafargon in New

Valenwood. They very graciously took us in and helped us to acclimate to lunar-living, quite an

adjustment I assure you…”

Nija watched them go with her hands curled into fists and her ears plastered to her skull.

When the Dunmer came to her in the tower more than an hour later Nija said, “This one

hates politics.”

Jassa sank into a chair and let out an exhausted breath. “Better that than having to sleep

with him.”

They both shuddered.

“The thing to understand,” Jassa said after a time. “Is that some people are obsessed with

decorum…and tradition. There are beats, rituals, certain pleasantries that must be honored.”

“It is a stupid waste of time.”

“It certainly is, especially when we have people freezing in a Skyrim winter. But men

like Fargoht cannot see past the patterns they’ve created; to violate those patterns is – to them –

the greatest offense. It labels you uncivilized – worse still: common. People in power are

accustomed to their expectations being met, and going outside of those expectations is a supreme

annoyance.” She considered her friend with a compassionate look. “You have to play their


game to get anything done, and that means buttering up their ego with small talk and

pleasantries.”

“This one would like to exchange pleasantries with her fists.”

Jassa laughed a good deal more loudly than she intended. “And that is why Ra’zhiin

loves you so.”

They were quiet for a few moments but then Nija said, “Last night you told this one the

importance of knowing how people see her – as a symbol. And yet this Bosmer did not see her

as the others.”

“Because he does not know you as well as the Pilgrims. To him – an indifferently

religious man it must be remembered – you are the churlish wife of an important figure, and

keeping you happy is only of minor importance. If Ra’zhiin had been here speaking with him it

would have been quite a different conversation.”

Nija spat with the greatest lack of decorum possible. “This one hates politics.”

“Don’t we all?” she stretched out her legs. “He’s agreed to allow small groups entry into

Helgen over the next few days – so they can ‘properly bestow them’; as though they were

cargo.” Nija’s fur ruffled and Jassa held up a hand to placate her. “Don’t worry; I know Vashi

from our time in the Imperial City. She may be as big a fool as her husband but she has

considerable sway over him.”

“Will she help us?”


“No, but if I can convince her of how her husband’s charity will gain them favor at the

Imperial court – Senator Borim is an old friend, you understand…” Jassa grinned wickedly. “It’s

amazing what can be accomplished with the promise of Reputation.”

Nija could only shake her head.

*

Clavides thanked the Nine that it had been a mild winter in Skyrim; there were only so

many ways into the province and the pass north of Bruma was closest to the Temple – and

tended to be closed off with snow. Instead they found the track relatively clear and made good

time. Had they needed to backtrack to Pale Pass and navigate the winding paths of the Jerrals

they would have added nearly a week – at best – to their journey, and still emerge in the Rift a

good day or two from Whiterun. As it was they might make the city as early as tomorrow if they

forced their march.

But then one of the advance scouts rode back to them and Clavides remembered the gods

were not always merciful.

“My Sage,” the rider told the Khajiit at Clavides’ side. “You’ll want to see this.”

“Lead on,” the Sage said, and indicated that Clavides and Vinius should join them.

They had nearly reached the apex of the pass and the spires of the Jerrals stretched all

around, falling like rows of teeth behind them. Clavides did not know why the mountains had

been named as they had but felt the Dragon’s Teeth might have been more apropos; he swore he

was riding into the mouth of a monster. Enormous cliffs rose to their sides, blocking Magnus’


light and a bitter wind whipped past them. He could almost imagine it was a frost dragon

breathing down and found himself considering the icy peaks. He shivered.

“This one feels it too.”

“My Sage?” he asked, surprised.

The Sage looked around at the cliffs, considered their heights. “This place is haunted by

Memory. Whether it is something from before the Sundering or the workings of Mother this one

cannot say. He wonders what awaits us.”

Clavides chose not to respond.

It was nearly an hour before they crested the mountain and the whole of Skyrim opened

before them. The sight was…breathtaking; Clavides felt he was standing at the height of the

world. Before him lay the Fatherland of the human race: its mountains, valleys and rivers lit by

midday sun were a beauty no map could ever convey. While he knew the land was harsh and life

there was trying to the point of cruelty, something pulled at him, drew him towards the northern

coast and its endless fields of ice. In that moment he wanted – more than anything – to spend his

remaining years feeling the bitter winds tearing at his skin, taking comfort in leather tents and

small campfires. But then the Sage spoke, and the moment passed.

“Mother, what have you done?”

Clavides’ gaze fell to the path below them.

The southern end of the pass wound its way down the mountain, snaking into the foothills

and bringing them out perhaps a mile or two south of Helgen: he could see the village from their

vantage point. He thought it unlikely they would reach the village, however; some few hundred


feet from them stood a creature that appeared mostly human, save that it was fifteen feet tall. Its

gray skin bore the spiraling marks of ritualized scarification and its chest was swept by a great

beard. The giant stood as if in contemplation, giving no indication that it had noticed them or

cared. “So that’s an Ehlnofey,” Clavides observed.

“Of a sort,” the Sage said. “Look closer.”

At first he could not see what the Sage meant; the creature seemed to match every

description they had found, down to the bone decorations on its clothing. But then it shifted

briefly and Clavides saw there was something strange about its left side. Leaning forward in his

saddle he thought he could see a patchwork of infinitesimal squares, flickering at its shoulder,

waist, and arm. “Is that…magic?” he asked out loud.

“Not exactly,” the Sage replied. “That one does not have long.”

Clavides watched as the patchwork refracted translucently in the sunlight, glittering

rainbows first shrinking then growing, glimmering brightly and then dimming. There was

almost a rhythm to their pulsations, and the giant seemed completely oblivious to their presence.

It was not long before the oscillations became erratic, their rhythm disrupted. Grunting, the giant

pawed at its arm only to find the patchwork transferred to its hand. As it tried to shake the

squares away Clavides saw they were spreading, and some of the patchworks were blazing as

though white-hot. A sound seemed to be emanating from them but was soon eclipsed by the

giant’s roar of pain. The horses reared in fright as an unbearable sizzling noise pierced the air;

the patchworks flared and were suddenly gone, leaving the spaces they had occupied devoid of

anything. What was left of the giant crumpled into a bloody heap.

“Gods,” Clavides swore, reining in his mount.


“No,” the Sage corrected him. “Do you remember when this one said the pass was

haunted by Memory? He could not have been more right. We cannot go this way.”

“I’ve…never seen a Breach before,” Vinius told them. “At least not like this.”

“That is because the Breach failed: the Bindings asserted themselves.”

“But it had already come through…” Clavides was horrified.

The Sage took a deep breath before turning his steed. “Worse than Nords, Clavides. Pale

Pass it is.”

“My Sage,” Vinius said to him. “There is another pass to the west, not often used. It will

bring us out just south of Falkreath.”

The Sage looked doubtful and Clavides asked, “How long?”

“A few days; far shorter than Pale Pass.”

“But we cannot know if it is safe,” the Sage observed. “A risk, then. Yes, let us try it

before things get…worse.” The Khajiit spurred his horse on, followed by Vinius.

Clavides gave one last glance to Skyrim, noting the dozen or so giants meandering the

paths down into the province. All of them had tiny glimmers of infinitesimal squares, sparkling

gently in Magnus’ light.


Part II – The Prisoners of Time

[Diagnostic complete: Time stream 1.111.111 – STABLE]

[Trans-Mundic Draconic dissonance – CONFIRMED]

[Query – source?]

[Return False: source unknown]

[Initiating System scan: Trans-Mundic diagnostic]

[Processing]


Chapter Seven

It was with no small embarrassment that Ra’zhiin admitted to himself that he was lost.

He was past the point of chiding himself – how many times have you walked the 7,000

steps?! – and had moved to simple frustration. Still, it rankled him; on every other journey it had

been the simplest thing – up the path and then down the path. But for the life of him the Khajiit

could not find the path no matter how hard he tried. He wandered along the cliffs, staring at the

plains below, or noted the spine of far-off mountains dividing the Rift from Eastmarch. At one

point he passed a copse of trees that he swore he had never seen before, only to pass it again

fifteen minutes later. It was at this point he let out a roar of frustration and sat down to consider

his situation.

The obvious thing was to simply move down; child’s play really, and yet going down is

what kept him coming back to the trees. He supposed he could always go up and try to retrace

his footsteps to Shada’s cairn; in the bizarre logic of his problem he might very well find himself

in Ivarstead. The possibility of going over the edge and attempting to work his way down the

mountain was not one he took very seriously – his muscles were still aching and he was not

certain he would be able to catch himself if he fell. Nothing for it, he thought wearily, standing.

Up it is.

He had walked for no more than five minutes when he saw the cave entrance.

A feeling tingled at the back of Ra’zhiin’s neck, and his fur bristled. He had scaled the

Throat of the World half a dozen times since the Pilgrims came to Skyrim, and almost as many

in the last days of the War – and never had he passed by a cave. He consider calling upon the

Memory of his ancestors (Jassa had been showing him how the Thalmor technique was similar to


Dunmeri practices) but how many Khajiit had ever come to Skyrim? He pushed the thought

aside and drew Shada’s sword, moving into the shadowed entrance.

The temperature dropped steeply once he was inside, and it almost hurt to breathe. There

were torch sconces but they looked as though they had been empty for centuries, if not longer.

Shifting to darksight he picked his way through the tunnel, noting the long stalactites and icicles

hanging from the ceiling. There were carvings on the wall, faint at first but as he travelled

deeper the spirals so common in Nord tombs became more apparent. All this one needs, he

thought, is to be attacked by a draugr. He gripped his sword tighter, ducking under a sheet of ice

and entering a large cavern.

Large really did not convey what he saw. Back in the years he spent fighting with the

Thalmor he had heard rumors of Blackreach, an immense cavern system far below the ground

where all manner of horrible things lived. What stretched before him was not Blackreach – but

not for lack of trying. The ceiling reached far out of his sight, and the walls expanded hundreds

of feet in either direction. Paired piles of stones lined a foot-worn path leading towards the

center of the room and he saw that each one was deeply engraved with letters he did not

recognize. He let his fingers touch them as he walked past and wished for not the last time that

Kalas was with him. The Dunmer would know the lore of this place, he might even know the

language inscribed. In a moment of hope he thought he might bring his friend here later, and

imagined Kalas would be quite excited. But no, he realized, there would be no bringing anyone

here later. When he finished whatever it was he had been brought here to do the cave would no

longer be there. This moment was for him, and him alone.

He had been brought here. By whom, he could not say.


He saw the dais long before he reached it, and the immense figures that lined it. The

style of carving was primitive, yes, but that did not mean it was not elegant in its own way.

Ra’zhiin felt himself awed as he looked upon their eight visages. Whoever had made the statues

– all of them some fifteen feet in height – had done so in a way that evoked numerous images.

Some were winged, some bore arms; but all bore the likeness of an animal. It was not that they

had animal heads or features, but that somehow…he knew. A hawk, a bear, a serpent…the last

held him as if the statue were alive. The eyes were slit like a snake’s – or a dragon’s, he

thought. There was a gaping hole where the heart might have been.

“Lorkhaj,” he dared to whisper, and bared his teeth.

Golden light suddenly suffused the serpent-eyes and a voice bellowed, “OF THE

BELOW HE SPEAKS, AND IS CONFUSED.”

Ra’zhiin readied his blade but was suddenly blinded in an explosion of gold light. He

heard himself yelling as if from far away and knew that he was falling…

…hitting the ground hard, his blade skittering from his hand.

The Khajiit took a moment to still the swimming in his head, and to push through the

pain screaming in his body. “This one,” he said aloud when his mouth could utter aught but

grunts. “Thinks he will need a very long time in the hot-springs of Eastmarch. Yes, he thinks

maybe he will just live there until he feels no more pain.” Staggering to his feet he felt his

stomach lurch and fell into a stone pillar as what little food was in his stomach came up. The


headache that followed seemed almost poetic in its cruelty. “Also, this one is never going into

caves ever, ever again.”

When he was able, he lifted his gaze and beheld the green sky.

At first the Khajiit was convinced it was a product of his pain, and rubbed his temples to

ease his headache. The sky did not change. He tried stretching the most painful of his muscles –

the effort nearly left him unconscious – but even the slight relief left the sky green; there were

shreds of brighter green light crawling through the firmament where clouds might have been.

Sighing, he retrieved his sword.

He was standing in some sort of circular amphitheater; stairs ascended in all directions,

with great stone arches enclosing. Something about it struck him as distinctly Nord. At the

center was a single pillar, the one he had fallen into, and he suspected it had some ritual

importance – and for a reason he could not put into words the pillar reminded him of a tree. It

was also splattered with his vomit. Praying the pardon of any spirits or gods he might have

offended he turned to leave, only then noticing the stairway circling behind the pillar, descending

into the earth.

Ra’zhiin frowned. “What was it this one said about caves?” he asked of no one, and

grudgingly began his descent.

In the end he need not have worried about his oath for the stairs did not lead to a cave,

but a Nord tomb. And that is so much better, he thought. He wandered it for hours, sword at the

ready, but all he found were the ashes of ancient draugr, rusted weapons, and endless catacombs

of the dead. No lights were lit, what offerings were left were rotten or caked in dust, and nothing

stirred as he descended deeper. The silence was unnerving, and he could not imagine what he


might find at the bottom; he had never known a Nord tomb so vast. Perhaps it was the tomb of

Ysgrammor or some other Atmoran Lord – he could not say. But as the hours lengthened no

insects crawled the walls, no skeevers leapt at him, no dead woke from their sleep.

He came to a great underground staircase, decorated with the skeletons of dragons.

The way forward rose, it fell, and stairways spiraled down into the deep places of the

earth. There came a time when he wondered if he should turn back; it seemed he had walked

miles – a dozen miles – and he dared not guess how far underground he was. He tried not to

think of the sheer tons of rock above him. And there was still the tingling at the back of his

neck, a feeling that he was meant to follow the tomb to its end, whatever that might be. The

knowledge did not make the journey any easier. Glancing at the ceiling he focused on

movement, and placing one foot after the other.

Through an open door he came to a great pool of water and realized the depth of his

thirst. Casting the sword aside he thrust both hands in, desperate to drink…and drew them back

out, shaking them violently. “What in the gods…?” The water was thick and black, like ink, and

smelled…he wiped his hands on stones, his robed armor, anything to get the liquid off of them.

But his hands were thoroughly coated, and cursing, he retrieved his sword. There was another

open doorway to the side.

The ancient pedestal sat with a single book upon it, and Ra’zhiin knew he had seen the

sigils – the imagery – before: he had dreamed them. His hand was trembling as he reached to

open it, and read the first words.

“The eyes, once bleached by falling stars…”


There was no time to react when the tentacles reached from the book, coiling around him,

pulling like a desperate lover, drawing him in as his sight went black.

*

This far from the Marsh, Xixzith felt closest to the Hist when he was dreaming. Perhaps

it had something to do with his conscious mind letting go of its attempts to shape and categorize

experience, and simply letting itself drift in the currents of mental dissolution. In a sense, the

experience of thought was alien to him, or alien to his earliest, most formative, life-phase.

Sometimes when he was drifting into sleep, or ascending towards wakefulness, he remembered

the cycles of morning, evening, hunting, sleeping, mating, and feeding that defined him prior to

the Hist. But then he tasted the Sap and everything had changed; he did not regret Becoming

what he was, but often felt his Becoming had somehow separated him from the Hist. It was not

so much a matter of reason or logic – that required thought – but a feeling beneath thought. In

that first phase of pure emotion and pure experience he had felt a part of the greater Whole;

Becoming left him detached, disconnected. Only when he slept, or purposefully descended into

Pure Thought, did he ever feel that closeness again. He wondered if it was a result of being so

far from the Hist, or simply the effect of his current life-phase.

It was as he dreamed in this ephemeral synchronicity that he was able to hear – if that

was the right word – the lamenting cries drifting, as if on turbulent waters, outside of himself.

Their echoes were disruptive, the sheer combined weight of their sorrow provoking his mind to

strive towards shaping-into-words; he nearly woke. But somehow he unconsciously submerged

himself into their violent tides. He listened, he waited, he sought to learn; most of all, he felt. At

first their emotions slipped through his fingers like tears falling to rain soaked ground, but he


forced himself deeper, plunging into the soil, the clay. He burrowed into the very earth of their

agony, like he had as a first-phase seeking shelter; but his shelter was pain. It soaked into his

pores, flowed down his throat into his lungs; it saturated him. In that crucible of emotion his

mind shaped the experience into Pure Thinking and expressed itself as the words, “I understand.”

“You understand what?” J’karr asked him.

Xixzith’s eyes fluttered open as his mind shaped itself into Waking Thought. Already the

experience was fleeing away into wells of language but he was left with a certainty, a cognitive

apprehension that was a perfect simulacrum of both the Waters and Shapes of his deepest

comprehension. “I understand them,” he heard himself say.

“Who?”

“The Nords…the…draugr,” that was the word, and he felt his entire Being slide into

unitive accord: the Hist were with him, they knew, and they had an answer. So many more were

to come. “They are Memories,” he said, and heard boundless love and compassion in his voice.

“And they are lost.”

“What in the name of Lorkhaj are you talking about?”

The accordance of his Being broke, and Xixzith cried out at its retreat. Sitting up he

cursed at the Khajiit in Jel.

J’karr regarded him coolly. “This one is not sure what you just said, but he suspects it

was quite rude.”

Mixa appeared at the doorway, her face concerned. What is it? she asked in Jel, mindless

of the Khajiit. What has happened?


He was…I was…they’re in so much pain…

Who?

Xixzith sighed, and released the last of his unity. Desolating solitude crushed in on him

as the voices of the Hist fell away. Turning to J’karr he said, “I’m sorry. It was…it is….difficult

to put into words. I didn’t mean to be rude to you.”

The apology seemed to strike the Khajiit as amusing.

The Argonian moved his legs out from under the covers and set them on the floor. He

stared at the compresses on his body and belatedly remembered his injuries. I must have been…I

wasn’t even aware of my body, the words came unintentionally in Jel and Mixa nodded, her

feathers denoting sympathy. She touched his hand – a human sign of affection – and returned to

her duties.

“So,” J’karr said. “Are you going to tell this one what is going on or not?”

Xixzith blinked his eyes and began cutting his mind into Khajiit-like shapes. “Yes,” he

said finally.

They were outside, striding purposefully towards the Nord tomb.

“But this one told you, he’s been in the tomb. These – draugr as you call them – were

not alive or undead or whatever. Most of them were dead-or-not-moving. The ones that were,

J’karr showed mercy.”


Xixzith shook his head and said, “That’s not how it works. Maybe if it was a cave on

Masser or a skeever den in Bravil, but these…creatures…aren’t the product of some wizard’s

necromancy.”

“Then what are they?”

Xixzith stopped and turned to the Khajiit in frustration. “I told you – they’re Memories.

Mother’s Memories.”

J’karr’s disbelief was evident. “Mother stopped Remembering a long time ago.”

“That’s just the thing – She didn’t, at least not the way She had. I just…alright, think of

it like this. You’ve had an experience, all of us had, that was so profound, so joyous or horrible

or transcendent that you wouldn’t be you without it. It marked you, transformed you, and made

you who you are. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

Though his face said otherwise, J’karr said, “This one follows you.”

“That experience, so rooted in your Self, speaks to you in every aspect of your life: your

thoughts, your actions, your motives…but also in your dreams. But your Sleeping-Mind is

different from your Waking-Mind and sometimes the experience in your dream is different than

it was in the waking world. Maybe a friend appears that wasn’t there, or you say something

different…the point is that something has changed. These are Mother’s Memories and they’ve

changed.”

“You are suggesting that all of Nirn is…asleep?”


The Argonian resisted the urge to start cursing in Jel again. He took a moment to

compose himself. Finally he said, “There are Men here, in this town, in this province – on Nirn.

And there shouldn’t be.”

“It is a great mystery, and one for which the Prophet is most grateful.”

“No, it isn’t a mystery. It’s because of the Prophet. Now wait, I’m not trying to offend

you; hear me out. Two hundred years ago the Prophet came from Masser and did something; his

‘Memories’ say he planted a seed, something he received from a Clan Mother. But whatever he

put into the Remains, it caused something to happen. Over centuries the world healed – that’s

impossible. The Miracle of Union, that’s what they called it, because it was a Miracle; not the

act of a god like Jungle-Cyrod or the Taming of the Worms…but some kind of unintended,

unguided…Miracle. And when the first ships came back they found Men here, Imperials who

had all been wiped out in the Last War and that’s impossible. Mother – Nirn – Remembered

them.”

“Mother Remembered many things,” J’karr pointed out.

“Don’t you see? She Remembered everything. Continents, animals, books, weather,

cities…and then She stopped. And these Nords, these draugr, are Her Memories too, but

something is wrong. They’re distorted, broken, it’s like…like…they’ve been squeezed through a

sieve and only part of them made it through or got mixed up with something else.” His mind

reeled from the shapes he had cut it into.

J’karr was silent for a moment, then said, “This one had told no other because he did not

know what to think. When he was fighting the last of the draugr, something…happened. In the

last moments it…changed. It had flesh, hair…like the one you fought. And it spoke.”


Xixzith’s eyes were wide. “What did it say?”

The Khajiit frowned as he said, “’Who am I?’”

For a moment, Xixzith felt the presence of the Hist, and accord. “They’re Memories,” he

said with finality. “They’re broken Memories.”

“But what could have…”

They both heard the sound, a kind of grunt, coming from within the tomb. J’karr drew

his blades and Xixzith centered himself, cupping his hands at his abdomen. “But this one killed

them,” J’karr said.

“Memories do not die,” Xixzith told him as the first of the draugr stepped into the light.

His voice did not sound like his own. “They haunt us forever.”

In the shadows of the tomb, glowing eyes flickered open and the halls echoed with the

voices of the dead.

*

The first refugees of Whiterun came to Helgen nearly an hour before Magnus set; they

were weary, dirty, but each looked resolutely to the women leading them – Nija with her bow

(and contingent of guards) and Jassa at the head. The Dunmer could not help feeling proud of

them – they had endured more in the last days than any person should have, and still showed the

strength and resiliency that made Whiterun a proud city. She wished Kalas was there to see it.

But here was an important-looking emissary approaching them, dressed in finery not often seen

in Skyrim.


“Blessed,” he said, addressing Nija. “And Lady Jassa. Minister Fargoht begs the

indulgence of your company at dinner, and offers the hospitality of his palace.”

Jassa responded for them both, “Please tell the Minister we will be honored to dine with

him and accept his gracious offer.” The emissary bowed and retreated.

Nija sidled up to the Dunmer’s side. “But we were returning to the tower to bring the

next group tomorrow,” she said in hushed tones.

“Decorum,” was Jassa’s only reply.

Nija resisted the urge to spit.

The palace, as it turned out, was an ancient Nord fort that had been brightly decorated

and well lit; it was very nearly comfortable, despite its humble origins. Their rooms, if not large,

bordered on decadent with fine wines, sweets, and the softest bed Jassa had known in years. She

supposed there were some benefits to playing at politics; even Nija could not criticize the

steaming baths that awaited them. Within an hour the women were washed, made presentable,

and seated at Fargoht’s table. The Lady Vashi was kind enough to gift them evening-wear and

Jassa tried not to laugh to herself each time Nija pulled at her pleated collar, which she did

frequently. Vashi, of course, was ravishing in her corset and low-cut blouse, and Minister

Fargoht looked almost regal. She made sure to compliment them both and thanked them

profusely for their hospitality. In between pleasantries she saw the brief glances the Minister

gave to Nija, looking at her as if she were something unpleasant he had found on his padded


slipper. As the first course was being served (a lamb confit) Jassa silently indicated to Nija that

the time had come.

Clearing her throat delicately (practicing this had taken much of their trip), the Khajiit

said, “Minister Fargoht, this one wishes to beg forgiveness for her lack of decorum earlier.”

The Bosmer responded with the most practiced look of confusion Jassa had ever seen.

“She fears that the experience of the last days had left her in…a deplorable state,” Nija

said and Jassa knew that each word was like a knife in her heart, but Nija’s performance was

impeccable. “This one is quite ashamed of her behavior.”

“Oh you poor dear,” effected Vashi with great sympathy.

Nija’s tears came at exactly the moment they had planned. “She is just so worried about

the people! They have lost everything! And she does not have the Prophet here to guide her!

She misses him terribly!”

Jassa had to admit the Minister’s transformation was nearly awe-inspiring. “My dear

child,” he said with great empathy, reaching across the table to pat Nija’s hand. “I cannot

possibly fathom your suffering. Of course there is nothing to forgive; you must put the whole

thing from your mind. You are our very welcome guests, indeed, I beg you consider us your

family in this dire time. And like family we shall care for you and your people until such a time

as the Prophet is returned to us.” Only Jassa saw the briefest flicker of ambition sparkle in the

Bosmer’s eye.

“You are so very kind, when this one is so unworthy,” Nija said, drying her tears.


Vashi’s response was so genuine that Jassa almost doubted its insincerity: almost. “Oh

Blessed, it pains me to hear you belittle yourself so. Say no more of it; you are an inspiration to

us all and a joy to our Most Holy Prophet. We will not have it said that the great Ra’zhiin

returned to find his Blessed with dreary eyes. Hearten yourself and know that you and your

people are safe under our protection. You shall have every luxury deserving of your station.”

Nija bowed her head obsequiously and the meal began.

The next three hours – and nine courses – were spent discussing news from Cyrodiil, the

political machinations of Secundan religious orders, and the most scandalous (and clearly

factual) rumors surrounding every noble house on Nirn; in short, a typical evening of privileged

conversation among the wealthy and powerful. More than once Nija reached under the table to

find Jassa’s hand and squeezed it to the point the Dunmer could have screamed; but the Khajiit

performed perfectly. Even minor foibles were swept away with her newfound charisma.

Watching her, Jassa suspected this was not the first time she had set at a political table. She

received confirmation when they served dessert: a lemon custard drizzled with snowberry

reduction, and steaming cups of Valenwood coff.

“Blessed,” Vashi said, delicately sipping at her cup. “Would you favor us with the story

of how you met the Prophet? We have heard it is quite the rousing tale.”

“It is so embarrassing,” Nija said with perfect humility. “This one fears she was quite

rebellious in her youth.”

“And yet,” Fargoht mused. “It is a pleasant story, yes? Perhaps just the thing to cheer

hearts burdened with responsibility.”


Nija prepared herself a moment, and began.

“What you must understand is that this one – at one time – was not very appreciative of

the life her parents gave her. Perhaps this is true of many children; Nija cannot say. But in her

rebellion she fled from her home in Ald Sotha Below and wandered the desert wastes of New

Lleswer. You have never been? The moons are beautiful, of that there is no doubt, but life is

difficult for those who live on the surface. The Covenant of the Taming of the Worms made it

possible to settle Masser, and even to grow foodstuffs in the sugary soil. This one has even

heard the Bosmer brought seeds from Ald Valenwood and live now in a forest of silver trees

beneath the firmament of Oblivion, but sadly she has never seen them. So this one visited the

cities of the Khajiit, learned the deserts, and became an adventurer of some little skill if you can

believe it. The scandal, this one knows, is quite unthinkable.

“So on a day only a few years ago, this one found herself in a cave filled with invectids –

you do not know of them? They are giant carnivorous insects, horrible to see and very, very

dangerous. The Prophet has told this one that these creatures feasted on Masser when it was still

the Corpse-Divinity of Lorkhaj, but such thoughts are beyond her. Now they burrow in the

ground, trouble the nomads, and endanger those who live in the old Worm tunnels. Many are the

adventurers who try to aid the people by clearing out their dens, and it was for this reason that

Nija was in the cave.

“She is sad to tell you, though you will not be surprised, that the task was quite beyond

her capacity. But even as she knew that a terrible death awaited her, the great Prophet arrived –

as if by Divine blessing – to rescue her. In her terrible distress this one did not recognize him

and thought him only another adventurer – she can hardly believe it all these years later. But the


Prophet rescued her and saw her safely to the nearest city. When she came to her senses, this

one was quite smitten with his heroism and it was not long before love blossomed between

them.”

“Oh!” exclaimed Vashi pneumatically. “My heart bursts at the sheer beauty of it. Can

you imagine?” here she held Fargoht’s hand. “The romance of it! My dear this story must be set

down as a Dreamsleeve narrative, such a tale must be heard by all.”

Somehow Nija actually blushed. “This one fears her folly would malign the Prophet in

some way – she was such a fool back then.”

“Certainly not,” Fargoht answered. “If anything it shows his courage, wisdom, and the

depth of his capacity for compassion, love, and heroism. Bravo, my lady! You are a fine

storyteller and we’re quite grateful to have heard your inspiring rendition.”

The Khajiit nodded humbly.

On the way back to their rooms Nija said, “This one feels like she needs to bathe –

again.”

Jassa could not help the laugh that came from her. “You did very well, though; as if you

were born to it.”

Nija harrumphed.

Jassa glanced over at her. “So tell me: how many invectid caves had you cleared by

yourself when you met Ra’zhiin?”

“This one lost count at twenty.”


“It’s probably best you didn’t tell them you saved his life…”

“…several times…”

“…over the course of the adventure.” She considered her friend a moment. “Yes, your

performance was perfect tonight; I daresay you have the minister and his wife utterly convinced

of your harmlessness. It was deftly done. They’ll give you anything you want now.”

“More importantly, what the people need.”

Jassa assented. “You’ve played this game before.”

Nija frowned. “This one’s parents were merchants and she knows it well. That does not

mean she does not hate it.”

Jassa smiled. “You’ll make a splendid politician, Nija.”

The Khajiit responded in a very un-ladylike fashion.


Chapter Eight

Kalas saw the bodies long before he reached Whiterun.

They ran along either side of the road leading to the city, and he guessed their number at

over two hundred: two hundred bodies impaled upon stakes. Some had been pierced through

the stomach, some upended and pierced through their shoulders or backs, and others… Kalas

knew them all, knew their stories, theirs hopes: men, mer, women…and children. Their faces

bespoke unimaginable pain. Slowly he walked the rows searching for her: hoping, believing,

and fearing. But his wife was not among the dead and neither were Nija or Ra’zhiin. It was

small comfort. Magical fire danced at his fingertips as he opened the city gates.

Kalas was no stranger to war: the Oblivion crisis, the Red Year and Argonian invasion,

the coming of Umbriel, the Great Wars, and The Last War. He knew what to expect and was not

surprised. Blood-splattered homes, torn scraps of women’s clothing, broken weapons in piles of

gore, houses burned. His own home had not been spared, but was still standing. Opening the

door he stepped into the interior.

The house had been torn apart; shelves overturned, tables smashed, Jassa’s alchemy

station broken but there were no bodies, no trace of shed blood. Going through what cupboards

remained he saw that a good many of Jassa’s herbs were gone, her clothing too. “She made it

out,” he whispered, and allowed himself a moment’s hope. He noted the trampled remains of a

days-old breakfast, for two if he saw right. Nija was with her, he thought, and felt a weight lift

from him. If Nija was present at the attack then Ra’zhiin likely had too. The three of them

together were a match for any attacker, and he suspected what Pilgrims remained were under

their protection. All had not been lost, then. He turned quickly for the bedroom.


Whoever had attacked the city had been kind enough to defile his bed but Kalas had not

come to sleep. They had also tried hacking through the chest in the corner, but the warding

magics had more than protected it – a shattered axe lay on the ground. A grim satisfaction lifted

the corner of his mouth at imagining the attacker’s shock – literally – after striking the chest. He

dispelled the enchantment and opened it, finding his old netch armor inside. He hurriedly

changed.

Stepping out into the waning light, Kalas finished the straps on his helmet, adjusting the

scarves and lenses. Even three hundred years later he could still feel the tingle of netch poison

running through the leather and it brought memories good and bad. He made for the Wind

district using spells of detection to search for survivors.

Whiterun’s middle district had been hit hardest of all; bloodstains were everywhere and

no small number of spent arrows littered the streets. Ra’zhiin and Nija’s house was mostly intact

but the door had been broken down and the inside ransacked. It seemed curious to him that so

many of the buildings were relatively unharmed; marauders were not known for sparing property

– or anything else. In his wars he had seen whole villages – whole cities – rendered into ash. It

was almost as if…but no, he pushed the thought away. No band of raiders, or whatever they had

been, would think to claim the city for themselves. Still…

The central courtyard had seen the worst fighting and the tree had been burned down. He

picked up a charred bit of branch and wished he could have discerned its significance; the tree

seemed to hold some special meaning and he had never seen another like it. But no one, not

even his friends among the Mage’s College in the Imperial City, knew what it might be.


Crumbling the remnants in his gloved hand he supposed they never would. With night falling he

stood up and cast a spell to light his way, uncertain what awaited him in the castle.

What waited for him was nothing: the castle was completely untouched. The doors were

unlatched but had not been broken, the main hall (if somewhat disordered) remained as it always

had. Even the Enchanting table and Alchemy station were undamaged. If, as he suspected, the

people had taken refuge here, in the most secure location in the city then why had the attackers

not followed them there? He searched the remaining rooms and found no trace of disturbance. It

was only when he descended into the dungeon and found the exits still opened that it came to

him: Ra’zhiin would have known the city would fall and perhaps the fighting in the Wind

district had been his work while the people fled. To where? He mounted the steps returning to

the throne room. There was a fort to the west, but likely not enough guards to hold it. The old

Dwemer tower then, near the border of Falkreath Hold. If that fool Fargoht had any decency

they might even have taken shelter in Helgen.

He was passing the remains of the tree when the light from his spell reflected back to him

from the ground; he had not seen it before, half-buried as it was. His mind rushing to find his

wife and friends he thought to just walk past it but then he was kneeling down, brushing away

ashes and gore, as though some part of him knew that he must. It was a silver mask and as he

lifted it in both hands, the light of his spell fell full upon the visage of a screaming imga.

Telvanni Kalas Sul Saren had lived for thousands of years and seen four Eras. At one

time his home in Blacklight boasted the largest library outside the Imperial Library and he had

read every single tome. His hands – hands that had hurled fireballs at Numidium, which had

summoned storms against Thalmor armies – were shaking. “It can’t be,” he said, his mind in


denial. “It’s some terrible jest. And in very poor taste.” But it was not, and he knew it was not.

Dropping the mask, Kalas began to run. He ran from the city, down the long rows of the dead,

ran past exhaustion and his burning lungs. He ran as though the fate of the world was at stake.

Far above him, the stars of the Tower burned brightly.

*

The darkness peeled back from his sight, and Ra’zhiin stared into the green sky. Brighter

tendrils of green light moved lazily across his sight and for a moment he thought he had

somehow been transported back to the surface. But there were black tears in the

firmament…with tentacles reaching through them. Ra’zhiin was no expert on Daedric magic,

but even he knew he was no longer on Nirn.

Painfully he stood, taking in his surroundings. He was on a platform, some thirty feet

across, surrounded by a vast black ocean. There were other platforms, or islands, in sight; some

held towers or bridges…or shambling creatures. But the landscape, such as it was, was

dominated by great arching piles of books, reaching out of the black waters like the tentacles

from the sky. Sometimes they moved, as if alive. Apocrypha, then, he thought and moving to

the edge watched as a mesh bridge lifted from the waters, connecting to the next island. Kalas,

he thought as he stepped onto it, this one could truly use you now.

The next platform held a large table – it seemed almost an altar – with a scattering of

books and souls gems. He thumbed through the tomes, finding mostly accountings of ancient

history or speculative fiction, and an esoteric treatise on…something. Kalas, he was sure, would

have found it riveting. He watched as one of the book-tentacles swayed past his island and a

single codex fell at his feet. Regarding it distrustfully he bent to look at the title.


The Rise of Cuhlecain, Emperor of Tamriel.

Ra’zhiin could not say that he was an expert in Imperial dynasties, but he was certain this

was not one of them. He considered it briefly before standing up.

Now that is a disappointment, said a voice that seemed to come from everywhere.

Ra’zhiin looked around him as it said, I expected more from one of My Champion’s…victims.

Laughter filled with disdain echoed down into silence as another bridge unfurled from the deep.

Gripping his sword tightly, the Khajiit inched forward.

There was…something ahead. Ra’zhiin crouched down watching the shambling thing as

it moved about the platform. There were a series of tables, and an odd looking egg-shaped

flower with a glowing vine reaching out of it. The creature was muttering to itself, and was

dressed in shabby robes, its talon-like hands flipping through the pages of numerous books piled

on the ground. As he inched closer Ra’zhiin saw the creature’s face was a mass of tentacles and

its eyes burned with an insatiable hunger.

He knew the voice that spoke next, though it was less hoarse, less full of rage. If this is

how Mora holds sacred a library of infinite knowledge, I cannot dare to think how he treats the

profane. Of course, Signus could speak to that. It was the voice of the Nord, and even as it fell

to silence the creature before him turned violently, seeking the voice’s source. There was

nowhere to hide and it saw him. It gave a screeching roar lifting its hands and the air seemed to

mottle as it released magical energy at him.

Ra’zhiin dodged to the side, nearly falling off the bridge, and ran towards the creature

before it cast another spell. But even he was not fast enough and though he spun to the right the

spell clipped his left side and sent him flying back. He hit the ground hard and Shada’s blade


slipped from his hand, skittering backwards to water’s edge, teetering precariously. Cursing,

Ra’zhiin stood and before he could reach for the blade was forced to dodge another blast; he

rolled to the side and watched as the spell sent the sword flying outwards into the black waters.

“Well that complicates things,” he said and moved to strike the creature.

He had never been a skilled pugilist. While Ra’zhiin had known many martial artists

among the Khajiit he was not one of them, and his repeated blows to what he hoped was the

creatures kidneys seemed of little effect. Instead it backhanded him with its taloned fist and the

Khajiit had to step away as it turned, the mass of tentacles reaching for him. Instinctively he

kicked the creature hard in the chest, sending it back a few feet but then he was flying

backwards, caught by its spell; as he hit the ground he could feel his blood boiling inside of him

and knew that he had been poisoned. It was moving towards him, hands extended and tentacles

quivering with the joy of a kill. Ra’zhiin knew that he had no choice.

He called upon Memory.

A gray light lit on his hand and Ra’zhiin cast it a foot before the advancing creature; it

did not seem to notice or care. But when its foot touched the rune there was an explosion of dust

and it was suddenly coated in a dark gray ash – paralyzed. Ra’zhiin stood and rushed the

creature, slamming into it with all his strength, pushing it towards the edge: it was like moving a

statue. Coruscating shards of other lives tore violently at his consciousness and it took

everything in him to focus on his own body, his own movement, pushing hard on the monstrosity

before him. He could feel the spell was dissipating, saw the ash begin to flitter away. He was

almost there…and then there were tentacles everywhere, grabbing at him, stabbing him, clawed

hands tearing at his already rent armor. They were falling…


The black waters swirled around him and Ra’zhiin felt his skin burn. The creature’s

screams were obscured by the depths but already he saw it dissolving away. He thrust himself

towards the surface and it felt like trying to swim in honey; the waters were thick, like congealed

ink. Ra’zhiin reached upward, desperately grasping for the ledge. His finger grazed it, tried to

grab and failed. Memory screamed through his mind: images of wars, deaths, romantic

encounters – all breaking through the shreds of his personality, demanding the price for his

ancestor’s power. His fingers found purchase…and Ra’zhiin pulled himself free of the waters

with what little of his strength was left.

He never felt the platform beneath him. He was gone.

Dro’naaja gave the wizard a hard look. “This one has been your errand-cat for long

enough, no? Maybe your other apprentices were happy to be slaves but this one has some

dignity left.”

Neloth rolled his eyes in the most dramatic way possible. “Oh Heaven forfend, I’ve been

criticized by a cat! Why, you’re worse than that pesky Dragonborn whining about the whole

tentacles-for-eyes episode. Its magic, mistakes will be made, specifically on you so that I, far the

more knowledgeable, can determine went wrong. Oh flap your tail at someone impressed with

your attempts at intimidation. Fine! I’ve a stack of spell books over in the corner, take one and

stop bothering me. You could at least get me some Canis root tea for once. Why I put up with

such inept help is…”

But the Khajiit wasn’t listening anymore.


He had been serving the Telvanni for some time now and the experience had given him a

deeper appreciation for the College. As bad as some of the staff were none of them had ever had

him hunt three-hundred horkers for their spleens only to say “Oh yes, I didn’t mean horkers I

meant Rieklings. Now off you go, chop-chop, lots of spleens to collect!” Had Neloth not been

one of the world’s greatest practioners of magic, Dro’naaja would likely have removed his

spleen, for poetic effect. The Khajiit sighed as he reached the pile.

Most were spells he already knew – he was a scholar of some note in the College – but he

saw a tome of one of Neloth’s ash spells. Though he was not very practiced in the School of

Alteration the spell’s combination of Destruction and Alteration magics, drawing on the inherent

magical nature of Red Mountain’s ash, was certainly interesting. Opening the book he settled

down to read and practice…

Laughter oozing with schadenfreude woke him from Memory’s reverie, and his body’s

pain nearly caused him to black out. My poor, poor Seeker, it said. So roughly treated, so sadly

lost in the deeps of My…Memory. Oh I know your little techniques, Khajiit. Be careful…you

never know what Memories you might stir here. Ra’zhiin chose to ignore it and risked a simple

healing spell, receiving only a Memory of an ancestor’s first sugar. His body was not whole

afterwards, but he would live. Struggling to his feet he said, “Why don’t you show yourself?

This one knows who you are: Prince of Fate.”

Simpering laughter and a voice so malevolent Ra’zhiin almost cringed, That’s not the

way the game is played, little one. This is My home, My Arena, and you play by My…rules. The


voice softened. But come, can we not learn of one another? Tell Me your secrets and

maybe…maybe…I’ll tell you one of Mine.

“This one’s secrets were shared against his will once already and you will have to forgive

him if he is not so eager to do so again.”

The voice did not respond.

Ra’zhiin took a closer look at his surroundings. The platform was littered with books,

most of them covered in a black ooze, and he only hesitantly nudged them with his boot. There

were…casks of some sort and he was surprised to find that they were containers. Most of the

items were useless: empty soul gems, books rotted into nothing; but one held an iron sword.

Ra’zhiin looked at it woefully. “Better than nothing,” he supposed, and slid it into his sheath.

There was another island ahead of him, steps sloping upward to what appeared to be a

pedestal, but stepping near the edge did not cause a bridge to rise. “This one doesn’t suppose his

host is going to show him the way forward?” he inquired to the air, but received no answer. The

Khajiit moved around the platform, testing the edge for some kind of switch but found nothing.

He came to the egg-flower and considered it doubtfully. Hermaeus Mora, it seemed to him, was

not one for aesthetics (at least what anyone might call beautiful aesthetics) and the gentle light of

the flower’s tip seemed an oddity. Ra’zhiin touched it curiously then recoiled back as the tendril

sank into the closing egg, a familiar sound behind him. A bridge had risen from the depths and

he gingerly crossed it, blade in hand.

The steps did indeed lead to a pedestal…and another book. This one was open and lines

of illegible letters crawled of their own accord across the page: left-to-right, right-to-left, and in


three-dimensional chiral patterns. “This one is going to regret this, he just knows it,” he said,

touching the pages. The air shifted around him and darkness claimed his sight.

*

The next wave of draugr came as they were trying to board up the entrance to the tomb.

“Back!” J’karr yelled, and the workers scurried away. The Thoghatt behind him readied their

weapons; their armor was splattered with necrotic blood, torn and dented throughout, their eyes

dark with exhaustion. But each and all joined the battle with fervor as the dead issued forth.

Watching from the inn’s porch Xixzith saw that only a few draugr had come this time; hopefully

no more of the Khajiit would be wounded.

“This one must join the battle,” Kuj’ra said pushing away Mixa’s hand. To his credit he

hid how much the effort hurt him. “He must aid his brothers.”

Xixzith pushed him down as the Khajiit tried to rise. “Look, J’karr told us to patch you

up and we’re patching you up. You go back to the fighting like that and you’ll be dead in a

minute. Where will your precious honor be then?”

The Khajiit spit at him. “What do you know of honor, lizard? This one is a Thoghatt

of…”

“…the Prophet, and the Mane before that. Yes, we’ve heard it before. I understand.”

Xixzith’s splines expressed his frustration. “But you’re not going to do any good when you can

barely lift your weapon.”

The Khajiit moved to rise and Mixa shoved him hard – on his wounded shoulder. Kuj’ra

whimpered in an almost sympathy-inducing cry, but Mixa’s feathers bespoke her annoyance.


“Alright fur-face,” she said exasperated. “Either you shut your trap and let me heal you or I’ll

spit poison in your wound and you’ll die a horrible, agonizing death.”

“You would not dare,” Kuj’ra challenged, but looked doubtful.

The Argonian looked him dead in the eye. “Try me,” she growled, and the Khajiit

grudgingly relented. She tied the compress perhaps a bit tighter than she needed too and another

cry escaped Kuj’ra’s mouth.

Xixzith followed her to the next wounded and said in Jel, Fur-face?

Shut up, she responded, and Xixzith grinned.

The fighting ended almost before it began, and the workers returned to the door. J’karr

made his way over to them and said, “Even if they are able to board the entrance closed this one

is not sure it will be enough. A more permanent solution is needed.” He glanced at the few

Thoghatt among the wounded. “How are they doing?”

“Whining like a bunch of spoiled kittens,” Mixa spat and both Xixzith and J’karr

regarded her with surprise. She glanced up at them and her feathers told Xixzith of her

weariness. “They’re very passionate about dying in battle and it makes them hard to treat. Most

of them will be fine once they stop fidgeting.”

“This one will say something to them,” J’karr told her, then took Xixzith aside. “It’s only

a matter of time,” he told him. “If what you’ve said is true the draugr are not going to stop, no

matter how many we kill. It may be best to evacuate the town.”

“Where would we take them? Riften is days away and I don’t know that the wounded

will make the pass to Helgen.”


“Where you will take them. The Thoghatt must remain, and await the Prophet.”

It was good the Khajiit could not read his splines. “I’m sure the Prophet can take care of

himself. These people need you. I’m sure if Ra’zhiin was here he’d tell you that.”

“This one does not disagree, but the Prophet is not here to tell him, and so he is bound by

his duty.”

Xixzith looked at him incredulously. “And besides, I’m not unskilled but I won’t be

much help if a snow cat or cave bear attacks.”

J’karr’s frustration showed. “This one will send Ma’rash with you; he is competent.”

“You’re missing the point.”

J’karr cursed in Ta’agra and crossed his arms. He regarded the workers and they tried to

pound nails through the ancient door frames. “There is a Dwemer ruin to the southeast,” he said

at last. “No, this one is not suggesting you take the people inside: the lift does not work

anymore. But just to the south is a clearing; there are only two ways into it, easily defensible.

Perhaps they could set up camp there. The Thoghatt will keep the draugr at bay and await the

Prophet.”

The Argonian considered him a long time. “This is a terrible idea. You know Mother

could Remember something anywhere, even in that clearing.”

“But She has not. For some reason Her Memories are manifesting in places of

importance to the Nords. J’karr knows of no such importance in that clearing.”


Xixzith shook his head but said, “I’ll say something to Mixa. I doubt she’ll want to move

the wounded before morning.”

“That is all this one can ask.”

There was shouting from the tomb and the workers were fleeing down the hill. J’karr

sighed and drew his blades. “Think about what this one has said,” he told the Argonian, and ran

towards the tomb.

Xixzith watched until the fighting was over, before walking back to Mixa.

*

Jassa nodded to the guards as she exited the castle gates, and pulled her cloak tighter

around her; the temperature had dropped dramatically and a northern wind smelled of snow. Her

mind went to the refugees still sheltering at the tower in their flimsy leather tents. She resolved

to speak to Fargoht in the morning and convince him to let them come en masse; even he was not

so heartless as to let them freeze to death. Or maybe it was not so much his heart as his

reputation.

The town had quieted in the hours since their arrival. Many of the refugees had been

taken in by families and a few of the more important individuals given rooms in the castle, but

many were left still in tents. Jassa was not sure that her political acumen was great enough to

convince the Minister to build temporary housing, but she would try. At least they were behind

strong walls, safer than they would have been in the wild. Walking among the tents she saw a

group of men huddled around a fire passing a bottle and speaking quietly. Their faces were


haggard, but their eyes still showed the resolve she had so come to admire. She passed by them

and made for the town center.

From the Remembered records they had found Helgen was destroyed in the early 4th Era

but had been rebuilt as a gatehouse to Cyrodiil. Little remained of its history and there was no

explanation for the Chapel of Arkay that dominated the square. To the unknowing eye it might

have been another home, if more sizeable. The stained glass windows echoed Cyrodiilic

architecture, but otherwise the building – and the gardens behind it – were perfectly Nordic.

Jassa was no expert on Nord theology but seemed to recall there was some problem the

Northmen had with the god of cycles; and if each of the major cities had a Hall to care for the

dead, a place of prayer and worship still seemed out of place. She pushed the thought from her

mind. The door to the Chapel was open and she entered as quietly as she could.

It was dark inside, dark and utterly silent. If the priest had lit candles they were long

since burned out and only starlight illumined the windows and interiors. Approaching the altar

she looked at the various representations carved in steel and glass; scenes of each season, birth

and death; on the eastern end behind the altar was the greatest of the windows, built to catch

morning light. The Nordic symbol of Arkay surround was by a knot-work of leaves that began

on the left, withered to bare limbs, and sprouted again to the right: the cycle of birth, death, and

new life. Even without morning light she felt the power of the symbolism, and emotion welled-

up inside of her. She did not know if Arkay required rituals before prayer, but took her seat in a

pew, and breathed deeply.

“Arkay,” she said and her voice seemed to boom outwards; she had forgotten the Chapels

were also places of teaching, designed for the priest to be heard. “Arkay,” she began again,


whispering. “I have never prayed to you before, and in truth, have never placed much faith in

the Nine. I was a priestess of the Tribunes long ago, and now…Now I suppose it’s hard to know

what to believe. But my friends tell me you are the god of seasons, and the cycle of life and

death, and I have no one else to turn to.

“My husband is…blessed of the gods, and sometimes they call him to themselves

for…counsel, I suppose. I don’t know where he is; perhaps the gods have called him again, or

perhaps he lies in a field…” her voice broke, and she fought the tears forming in her eyes. “He

has been so ill…or blessed…I don’t…can’t really know. And we’ve had more time than many:

millennia, but…I’m not ready to…”

For a time there were only tears.

When she could, she dried her eyes and found her voice. “I know that I ask too much. I

am being selfish. I should pray for the people out there in the cold, or for the safety of those in

the wild. But my heart can think only of my Kalas. He is…a good man, if that means anything

to you. Arkay, I do not know if you are a god who cares for his people, or if you even think of

us as your people. Maybe it was foolish to come here. But…god of the seasons, I beg you to

watch over my husband. And…return him to me.”

Arkay said nothing and she sat for a long time until she felt she could face her world

again.

Midnight had come and gone and the world was as cold as she left it. Above her the

moons looked down with their millions of souls and she felt suddenly very tired. There were

long days ahead: egos to be coddled, wounds to heal, and…a war to fight. A sick feeling

churned in her stomach as she walked towards the castle. How long before the Nords…


She heard the screams just before the bellowing voice.

Jassa ran for the gate, summoning her sword to her. But what waited was not Nords in

purple robes or a warrior in steel. The gate had been shattered, and bodies were strewn like

broken toys. And though dozens of soldiers poured arrows into them, though mages hurled fire

and lightning…

…the giants had come to Helgen.


Chapter Nine

Fires had lit the skies above Helgen and screams were echoing into the night when Kalas

arrived.

The Dunmer took only a moment before slamming his fist against the gate. “Open the

gate!” he roared. He stepped back as fresh screams sounded from within; there were no guards

on the walls. Cursing he considered running for the south entrance, but elected for a more direct

approach.

The fireball ripped the gate off its hinges and flung it a dozen feet forward. As it fell

Kalas entered the village with magical fire dancing at his hands. There was nothing but chaos:

people running to and fro, soldiers struggling to direct them, bodies flying through the air. Men

were running along the walls of the castle, wheeling ballistae into place, and Kalas saw the

Bosmer Minister, dressed in moonstone armor, directing villagers inside. Kalas ran towards him,

eyes searching the village as he went.

“Master Kalas,” the Bosmer greeted him. “You have impeccable timing. I thought we’d

have to kill these giants all by ourselves.”

“Giants?” Kalas asked incredulously, only to hear a roar to the south.

“Quite. Your wife and the Blessed are leading the fight, to my objection. You really

need to teach her her place, you know.”

Beneath his scarves the Dunmer gave him a sour look before charging towards the town

center.

“Try to lead them this way,” Fargoht shouted after him. “We’ve a surprise in store!”


Ahead of him the fighting was worse and an unrelenting stream of people were fleeing

towards the castle. Kalas slid through them as best he could, but fear had claimed all reason. It

was no use. Fires had lit on some of the homes and some few had taken up buckets of water to

little effect. He had almost reached the square when he felt the ground shake; he nearly fell.

Words roared in a language he did not know boomed across the village and there, towering over

the houses, was a giant of Atmora. It was swinging its club like a farmer harvesting wheat, only

it was bodies being shorn. “Nothing like a challenge,” Kalas muttered and prepared his spell.

“It is about time you arrived!” a familiar voice yelled from above.

Nija had taken position on one of the rooftops and was pouring arrows into the giant,

most of them striking its face. “Where is Jassa?” he shouted to her.

“At the south gate,” she replied, loosing another arrow. It bounced off the giant’s tough

skin. “She and the soldiers are trying to stop the others.”

“Others?” Kalas heard himself say. Then, “Fargoht wants us to lure them to the castle, he

has something in mind.”

Nija deftly jumped to another rooftop as the giant brought its club down, sending wood

and stone everywhere. The force of the blow brought Kalas to his knees. “Go!” she shouted to

him. “This one has the giant in hand. They will need you.”

Kalas was not certain of her assessment but went anyway. Behind him Nija launched

another volley of arrows.

The town’s square, at least, was free of people and Kalas was able to move quickly down

the main street to the southern gate. What he found shocked even him: five giants roaring in


rage and smashing whatever was in reach. Scores of soldiers lined the walls sending arrows and

spells at them; someone had summoned atronachs but even these did not last long against such

foes. His eyes searched the defenders, looking for…there: she was on the walls, directing the

archers. For the moment she was out of harm’s way and Kalas smiled beneath his scarves,

preparing his spell.

Twin fireballs arced through the air, slamming into the nearest giant and setting it aflame.

It did not respond well to this development and voiced its rage, charging for him. But Kalas had

already moved from the street and was sending smaller bolts, stinging the giant and maddening it

further as he raced through the alleys. A club crashed through the house to his right as he

dodged left, narrowly missing the blow that followed. The archers on the wall seemed to have

taken note for they had turned the brunt of their assault on the giant chasing him, giving Kalas a

moment to turn and begin his next spell. He pulled on the mercurial forces within him, already

drained from his exertions, but his will strong. The giant swatted away an arrow that had pierced

its cheek, looked down on him and prepared for another strike. Magical energy boiled in Kalas’

hands. “You’re not going to like this,” he told the giant and released the spell.

A whirlwind of fire formed around the giant, igniting its hair, skin, and clothing; it

screamed as it fell to its knees. The scent of burning flesh was overpowering but even as the

spell dissipated a figured charged past him, bound sword in hand, and struck the final blow.

Kalas collapsed as the soldiers turned to the remaining giants and barely saw the figure turn, yell

his name and run towards him.

But then arms encircled him and his wife’s mouth was upon his own, kissing him fiercely

even through his scarves. He did not resist as she tore off his helmet, smothering him in her


embrace and whispering love to him. His arms reached around her and he gave himself to the

moment.

“There’s still a battle to fight,” he said at last, his face wet from her tears.

“Shut up and kiss me, you old fool.”

He did.

“Alright,” she pulled him to his feet as a triumphant cheer sounded from the direction of

the castle. “I suppose we can get back to your battle.”

“Actually it’s your battle, I’m just here to…”

She kissed him again and touched him with promise.

“Well, in that case,” he acquiesced and turned back to the fight.

They battled far into the morning and not without loss; the fire had raged beyond control

despite the best efforts of soldiers and citizens. No one was sure what had started the blaze,

perhaps a missed spell or fallen torch; Kalas did not doubt his own spells were partly to blame.

But most of the devastation was contained to the southern half of the village and in the end, the

giants were killed or driven off. Walking back to the castle, Jassa at his side, he saw two of them

had fallen from a host of arrows and ballista bolts. Fargoht stood smugly by the corpses as

though he himself had defeated them. Kalas did note the Bosmer’s quiver was empty.

“You’re not the only one with a misspent youth, Blessed,” he was telling Nija as they

arrived, but the Khajiit did not look impressed.


“Well it wasn’t the most conventional battle I’ve been in,” Fargoht told him. “But it was

one the bards will sing of. Can you imagine the verses detailing the fall of the giants: the

singing of bows and thrum of the ballistae? Why, I’ve half a mind to write the libretto myself!

Of course the village is in a terrible state, so my guards tell me, but it would be far worse had it

not been for you, Master Kalas and Lady Jassa…and you, Blessed.” The three nodded at his

praise, and felt dirtier for accepting it.

Kalas looked at those who had gathered. “Is Ra’zhiin not here?” he asked.

“No,” Nija told him. “He was called to Ivarstead. By the Thoghatt.”

Kalas nodded his understanding. “Then Minister I must beg the use of one of your

steeds, if any remain. I fear the situation is a good deal more complex and I require the

Prophet’s counsel.”

“Of course.”

Jassa’s face betrayed her emotions. “I’m going with you, then,” she said sternly.

“And this one,” Nija chimed in.

“My love,” he said turning to her. “I’m not sure that…”

She silenced him with a look.

“There is, of course, the difficulty of your refugees,” Fargoht said in a tone that made

Kalas want to smack him. “With the village in such a state I’m not sure that…”


“They should be here in the next hours, actually,” Kalas informed him. The look on the

Minister’s face was incredibly satisfying. The Dunmer explained, “I passed through their camp

on my way from Whiterun and told them to shelter here. As I said, the situation is dire.”

Fargoht’s expression would have curdled milk. “I look forward to your explanation.”

“I fear I must consult the Prophet first. I’m sure you understand.”

The Minister inclined his head to signify his complete understanding.

“My lord!” a voice yelled to the side and a soldier ran breathlessly to them. “The western

gate has been utterly destroyed, torn right off, it was.”

“I fear,” Kalas said, not a little sheepishly. “That was my doing.” The Minister was

aghast and the Dunmer shrugged. “There was no one to open it.”

A smile suddenly creased the Bosmer’s lips. “I suppose we’ll need to negotiate payment

for repairs then…at a later date, of course.” Even Jassa’s scowl could not take the glint from

Fargoht’s eye.

“As you say,” Kalas replied. “But for now, we’ll be needing those horses.”

Magnus’ first light was inching up the sky as the three of them rode from Helgen. “You

know,” Nija said, adjusting herself in the saddle. “This one has known many fine Wood Elves in

her time; she owes her life to some. But this one begins to wish she had maybe let the giants get

a little closer…”

Kalas and Jassa shared a look that completely agreed.

*


There were always voices in Apocrypha.

Stay back, demon, the Nord’s voice echoed.

So…little creature. You have tasted My sweet…innocence. Can you no more? Will you

sup at My…fate? So many possibilities, so many wounds on the face of your poor, poor dragon.

Only…which of them to bring forth? Which shall Hermaeus Mora give birth?

Ra’zhiin shifted, watching the Seeker shuffle from stack to stack – it seemed to be

moving books into new piles, though it often paused to listen to the Nord’s story reverberating

through the endless halls. The Khajiit could not guess what Mora thought to accomplish by

repeating the tale of the Nord’s luring to Apocrypha and subsequent seduction, but it appeared he

was not the only one who found it disturbing. Casting a glance to the ceiling the creature

muttered to itself before opening several books and comparing them. Ra’zhiin used the moment

to sneak past, hand gripping the iron sword tightly; he did not exhale until he was safely in

another aisle.

Time was difficult to track in the Daedric realm and Ra’zhiin could not be sure how long

he had been wandering the endless stacks. From time to time he came to pedestals with

enchanted books, all bearing chapter numbers for titles; the crawling script was never discernable

and he suspected the “story” was his own journey towards…something. The idea that he was

moving through some narrative of Mora’s was unsettling. What the Prince of Fate had in mind

for him he could not guess, but if the voices were any indication: nothing he wanted.

The voices, nor even the Seekers, were the worst threats in Apocrypha. The realm was

filled with traps, puzzles, and unpleasant surprises: standing next to a pool he had nearly been

dragged in by a tentacle that launched from the waters, encircling his leg. The iron sword had


been of little use but finally, with effort, he freed himself. And while most of these dangers were

avoided once he had learned them there was something else: over the last hours he caught

glimpses of he knew not what. Something huge – the height of the ancient Dwemeri Walkers

used in the Last War – and distinctly…Apocryphal. There always seemed to be mesh walls or

rows of books between it and him, but the Khajiit had the distinct impression Mora’s labyrinth

was drawing him deeper, and that whatever it was awaited him in the center.

The row he was in terminated in an intersection and Ra’zhiin glanced to the sides before

turning to the right. There was whispering ahead, the voice of a Seeker perhaps, and flickers of

golden light. Another chapter, then, and that meant anything could be guarding it. As he drew

closer, words drifted back to his ears.

“Centuries…so many centuries…and so little…imagination…”

Two Seekers, at the base of a ramp leading to the pedestal. He supposed he could run

past them, but paused – there was something…different in their voices.

“Protonymic patterns are self-referential, and therefore, doomed to cyclical repetition.”

“And that is why…why…so very…old…”

“Age is irrelevant in terms of mythic resonance and narrative construction; merely a

mortal construct to delineate individuation.”

“I don’t…want to argue with you…but, not mortal…the Dragon…”

“Irrelevant. Another mythic pattern perceived via mortal epistemology. The Master

suggests not even an Earth Bone in its protonymic.”


The first Seeker’s voice took an angrier tone. “The Master does not tell us everything.”

“And would you expect him too?”

“Hmm,” it moved from its position to wander the stacks, moving in Ra’zhiin’s direction.

He slipped into shadow, shifting to darksight. “I begin to think,” the Seeker said, its voice

almost a whisper. “He has nothing more to tell.” Its face was mere inches from his own,

separated only by the rotting books.

“You speak a first-order desecration and risk expungement. “

“To where? What remains of Creation now that he has had his way?”

There was a sound of spell-casting and the first Seeker screeched in pain. The sounds

multiplied and for several minutes Ra’zhiin listened to the sound of their spells…and the rending

of their claws. When silence came he could barely hear the last words of the heretic, “Even

punishment is…old…”

Another spell, and the second creature, “Canonical cognizance must remain asserted.

Deviation is perversion.” Footsteps, and then a long silence.

Ra’zhiin moved from his hiding place, searching the area by the pedestal. All that

remained of the heretic was crumpled robes, and a severed claw clutching a book. Against his

better judgment he retrieved it, taking only a second to consider the cover – a wolf’s head –

before putting it in his pack. The next chapter glimmered ahead.

When his eyes cleared Ra’zhiin saw that he stood at a great height, the areas he had

passed through all stretching out before him: it was not such a large area after all, but Mora’s

maze made it seem so. Another altar in the center of the platform was littered with a smattering


of ruined books, and at the edge one of the egg-flowers with its glowing tendril. He touched it

and watched a bridge unroll upwards to what at first seemed a chandelier, with its faint golden

bulbs glowing at top and bottom. But like the petals of a flower it opened, revealing another

pedestal and book. Black holes opened in the sky, and great masses of tentacles came out,

moving as if to an unheard rhythm. Ra’zhiin mounted the bridge warily.

I know you…Ra’zhiin. I have known you since before you were born.

The Khajiit swore the temperature had dropped as a chill raced down his spine.

So many lives…so many delicious sins. Shall I share them with you? Shall you know

yourself? Shall I grant you self-knowledge?

The final book was larger than the others and emitted a greenish light. “This one has no

idea of what you are speaking.”

A black void opened in front of the pedestal, and tentacles reached forward, unveiling a

single, distorted eye. “Your ignorance is disappointing,” said Hermaeus Mora. “In so many

Streams you came to Me. Can you imagine?

“You are Ra’zhiin, the General of the Aldmeri Dominion, the Butcher of Bravil, and the

Architect of the Final Pogrom. But I see these words mean little to you. Let Me be more blunt:

you are not the only Ra’zhiin.”

“This one has heard of the Streams, but in truth is not given to philosophy.”

Mora laughed. “You lie, but worse you do not comprehend the import of your own

ignorance. Perhaps I might…educate…you?


“In every Stream you are the Butcher of Bravil; you slaughtered hundreds of men,

women, and children for the glory of the Thalmor, burning the dozens who sought refuge in the

Chapel of Mara…you laughed as it fell. Sulindrel made you a General for that.”

Ra’zhiin did not respond.

“In all but three Streams you are the Architect of the Final Pogrom; you manipulated the

Last Men into using the Heart of Lorkhan to summon Numidium. And when you found that the

Thalmor had tricked you into achieving their own transcendence – and not your own – you used

the Brass Tower to destroy the world. I fear that in far too many Streams you died before you

could escape.

“But in every Stream, in every permutation of your ur-Self you are My Emissary, the

bringer of My will…until you met him.”

Laughter spilled out of the Eye like fluids from rotted meat. “How does it feel to know

that you are not My Chosen? That you are but a pawn in My endless game? For he brings Me

the knowledge of endless Streams, he brings Me history-without-end and secrets-ever-unknown

for the simple price of genocide. Such a…bargain.

“And now…rejected of the Mora in your own Stream, you have sought Me here, in his

own, hoping to beg Me to take a new Emissary…a Khajiit over my Wolf, seeking My favor.”

A number of thoughts ran through Ra’zhiin’s head, prickling-foreshadowings of

understanding teasing at the corners of his mind. “Perhaps it is as you say,” he effected a

disinterested air.


“Of course it is. But consider: he has decimated more Streams than you could imagine,

he has begged Me to open Time so he may continue his crusade. And I always do, for what he

brings Me! A thousand Shalidors, a million Lessons, and the diaries of billions who were, were

not, and could not be. What is the annihilation of the Elves for infinite knowledge?

Yes…yes…a bargain. But I am not without mercy, even for My pawn. You have this one

moment, this one…chronocule, to offer Me what I do not have. So, Khajiit, speak what you will

sacrifice for My favor.”

It was a puzzle, he saw, like the others. “But you know this one so well, what could he

have that you have not heard a thousand times before?”

“It is quite a dilemma…but not Mine.”

“You speak truly. Tell this one, do you like his armor? It was never very stylish…”

“Quite shabby for a General, but you’ll have to do better than that.”

“Perhaps because this one is not a General.”

Mora’s laughter boomed through the whole of Apocrypha, and Seekers paused to

consider the sound. “And now you will tell me of your rebellion against the Thalmor! In 11

Streams you murdered Sulindrel after the fall of the Nords, and even besieged Alinor…seeking

the throne for yourself. Well at least the 12th is interesting in his attire. You are doing so

very…poorly.”

“This one is quite serious, consider the cloth of his robes: it is quite strong, like nothing

on Nirn.”

The Eye squinted as if looking hard. “There may be some truth in what you say.”


“That is because he found his robes not on Nirn.”

Mora’s voice was thick with scorn. “In 1,008 Streams you escape to Secunda and usurp

the Mane. Try harder.”

“Not Secunda – Masser.”

“DO NOT LIE TO ME, DO NOT EVER LIE TO ME. IN MORE THAN A MILLION

STREAMS NO ONE HAS EVER TAMED THE WORMS…”

“And while this one saw Nirn destroyed, he also saw it…Reborn.”

“HOW DARE YOU MOCK A PRINCE IN HIS OWN DOMAIN. FOR YOUR

IMPERTINENCE I SHALL DRAG EVERY LAST EVERY MEMORY FROM YOUR

PATHETIC…”

But Ra’zhiin was running. In his peripheral vision he saw the petals retreating, sealing

him in; darkness fell as the Prince’s tentacles reached for him, barbs lashing at him. He wove

through them, spinning, leaping, and hacking with his sword, reaching for the final book, his

fingers outstretched…

…behind him something roared and the ground shook as his fingers brushed the pages…

…and he was in the Nord tomb, writhing tentacles reaching from the book to drag him

back in. Ra’zhiin fell backwards even as he heard the roar breaking from behind him. Rising

from the black waters was a monstrosity that threatened to unravel his mind – armored in chitin,

its face something dreamed by Vaermina, it vomited oozing appendages that raced across the


floor towards him. The Khajiit bolted to his feet, leaping past them, charging for the stairs and

the way up to the amphitheater.

Screams echoed from the halls above and the first Seeker reached to tear the head from

his body. Ra’zhiin slid to the ground, passing under its outstretched talon, slashing it with his

blade but then was up and running. Darksight showed the room was filled with more Seekers

than he could count, and living serpentine things slithering in his direction. Space distorted all

around him as dozens of spells swarmed at him, some deflected by his armor, some hitting

exposed flesh, and the poison of Apocrypha began burning in his veins. A Seeker fell to his

blade, its corpse absorbing some of the spells but suddenly one of the tendrils was on him, the

infinite teeth of its circle-mouth digging into his leg. Ra’zhiin severed it with a stroke but the

head, devoid of its body, kept biting. Limping, his finger dug at the flesh that remained, trying to

rip it away and failed. His fingers were wet with his own blood.

“If you had any intention of me surviving this, Lorkhaj” he said, dodging spells and

claws the best he could. “Then this one could use some help.”

Lorkhaj did not respond.

A stairway. Ra’zhiin made for it with everything in him but felt talons raking the armor

on his back, almost catching hold. Another spell blasted into him, sending him sideways into a

wall; launching himself forward he heard, more than saw, the wave of Seekers reaching for

him…and the monstrosity breaking through the lower stairwell, roaring and vomiting death.

He ran, fingers digging the mouth out of his leg and casting it away, but not before it bit him

again. Ra’zhiin cursed and charged up the stairs, three at a time. His vision was beginning to

cloud.


By a mercy he could not comprehend the next room held no new threats and Ra’zhiin

called upon Memory, a simple spell to counteract the poison and slowly regenerate his wounds.

But the Seekers were coming – already their spells soaring out of the stairwell – and he cast

about searching for the exit. There on his right; he had almost reached it when a Seeker moved

from the shadow of the doorway where it had been hiding and released its spell. He was flying

backwards, crashing through ancient jars and burial urns, sliding along the floor. It was almost

on top of him, hands preparing another spell and Ra’zhiin thrust his sword with what strength he

had left. It was falling, eclipsing his sight.

The Seeker was lying on top of him, whatever ichor it used for blood gushing out. The

tendrils of its face dug at his eyes, mouth, ears, searching for anything to pierce, to tear, to

separate from bone. “You will never escape him,” it hissed, voice weakening. “He will always

find you.” Ra’zhiin shoved the sword through it to the hilt and it screamed, face and body

melting into a rancid paste, splattering over him, drenching him, in its death-throes. There was a

sound of rushing footsteps, angry hissing, but he could not move. He lay in the remains of the

Seeker, trying to keep still, trying to forbid the gorge rising in his throat. The footsteps

withdrew, the hissing fell to whispers, and silence fell.

Ra’zhiin waited, trying not to breath, but in the end could not hold back the bile that

wrenched up and out of him. Turning to the side he spat it out, coughing, and taking ragged

gulps of air. When he could, he extricated himself from the remains, finding the sword had

broken. He considered it in disbelief for only a moment before casting the hilt away. He was

drenched in…he tried not to think what. There were no sounds from the lower levels, and he

carefully made his way up.


What had taken hours before took hours again, and slowly he climbed for the surface.

There were Seekers to contend with, but with their initial frenzy spent they fell to wandering,

lisping to themselves; whispering, arguing. With patience he avoided them.

It was night when he finally found the exit, if there was any difference between night and

day under the green sky. Ra’zhiin hoped never to see it again. Reaching for the stone pillar he

hoped Lorkhaj would be merciful and take him back to Nirn, but at this point sleep might be

more important than even that. He felt himself falling, as though towards a soft bed, and

darkness claimed his sight.

He woke on the stone floor of the cave, the towering statue above him. If the Thalmor

magic he had learned long ago had healed his body, it had not left him without pain. He lay

there a long time and even dared to hope his experiences had been a dream; what matted his fur

told him otherwise. Struggling to his feet, Ra’zhiin considered the statue with a withering glare.

“Well this one hopes you enjoyed his suffering…”

The eyes flamed to life and Ra’zhiin was surrounded by a golden radiance, somehow

suspended in the air: he burned with light, and his screams echoed back to him. Louder still was

the voice from the statue roaring, “A SHEZZARINE FOR A SHEZZARINE: ONE TO

DESTROY THE WORLD AND ONE TO SAVE IT.”

He hit the ground hard, crying out, whimpering as darkness returned. “NEW

LANGUAGE,” the statue assured him. “CONTINUED MEANING.”


When Ra’zhiin exited the cave it was morning. In his sheaths were new weapons: a

sword and dagger whose blades seemed made of ice. He did not remember picking them up.

There before him was the path, mocking him with its obvious presence. Moving to it he resisted

the urge to kiss the foot-worn Steps marking the way to Ivarstead. And though he did not need

to look behind him he knew the cave mouth was gone; it would be some while before he noticed

the fresh scar over his heart.


Chapter Ten

Clavides woke an hour before dawn. The camp was quiet, save for the light snoring of

the knights and he lay in his bedroll staring at the night sky. Masser had set long before and

Secunda was drawing down, its silvery sheen casting pale light over the mountains and valleys

around him. He wondered what the peoples there were experiencing right now. Was there

someone – a Khajiit maybe – waking from sleep and watching the movements of Nirn? What

did She mean to them? A miracle, yes, and a symbol of hope, but was She more than even this?

Or did the people on the moons pay Her no mind, safe and removed as they were, from the

Arena? Frowning, he sat up and stretched, feeling the cold bite through his cloths. In the end, he

supposed, how the people on the moons felt about Nirn and Her children did not matter. He had

his duty: and that was enough.

“Can’t sleep either?” Vinius asked from where he sat by the fire.

Clavides stood and went over to him, thankful for the warmth. “I don’t remember you

saying you’d take a watch last night.”

Vinius shrugged.

“We should probably wake everyone,” Clavides told him. “If we’re lucky we’ll reach

Falkreath by noon.”

“Clavides,” Vinius said. “I’ve been…thinking.”

“It’s a bit early for lectures on bird migrations isn’t it?”

The look he received was mostly weary. “About Mother.”


Clavides settled in across from him.

“Were we wrong to do it?” Vinius asked after a moment, his eyes on the fire.

“She was suffering. We were suffering. You’ve heard the stories.”

“But…could it have been temporary? The shock after a trauma?”

“It went on for decades, Vinius, nearly a century. It wasn’t going to stop.”

Vinius shook his head. “We can’t know that. None of us can.”

“The Sage, perhaps. He was here. He helped found the Temple. And the Order.”

Vinius admitted this was true.

Clavides picked up a stick and stirred the coals of the fire. “I try to think of the Bindings

as…just that: the dressings on a wound. We’re not hurting Her, Vinius, we’re helping Her to

heal.”

“But if a dressing is too tight…?”

Clavides poked at the logs, breaking off white hot pieces of wood, watched them fall into

the coals. “When I was a boy,” he said. “I heard a story from my grandfather, which he heard

from his. It took place long before the Return and long before the Bindings.”

“During the Rebirth?”

Clavides nodded. “Nirn was still trying to Remember Herself. There were fields of lava,

great crevasses, and all kinds of rumors about fabricants and what-not. There were habitable

places too; the Garden of the Seeding was…paradise…compared to the rest of the plane(t).


There were already conflicts: the First Men deciding who would live in relative safety and who

would be consigned to the wastes. My great-great-grandfather decided to take his family away

from all that. He found a place not far from the Garden, dangerous but livable. They built a life,

a home, helped the ground Remember how to grow things.”

Vinius’ voice was very quiet. “What happened?”

“It was a few years after they’d settled,” Clavides said. “Had a little garden and stream

flowing out back. They got comfortable, I suppose. And then one night my great-great-

grandfather woke to screaming.” He stabbed the stick into the fire, breaking it. “Mother had

Remembered trolls; they were eating his children when he woke. There was nothing he could

do, really. Weapons were impossible to come by back then; I suppose he might have had a club.

But his wife was already dead and his children were being eaten alive. He did the only thing he

could do: he ran.

“When he got back to the Garden he told the others what had happened and led a group

of them back to find the trolls and kill them. He buried what was left of his family; I guess that

was the beginning of the Temple, really. Twenty years later, after Mother had remembered

White Gold, they found the Sage and Mother at the Temple; my great-great-grandfather was

there and agreed to the Bindings so no one else had to suffer what he did. So don’t complain to

me about the suffering of Nirn, Vinius. Mother has plenty of blood on Her hands. And if not for

us, it would a great deal more.”

Vinius did not respond.


Standing up Clavides cast the remnants of the stick into the fire. “Let’s get moving,” he

said. “Falkreath is a long way from here.” Vinius remained still for just a moment before

joining him in waking the others.

*

They found the Prophet a few hours after dawn.

Once Ivarstead had been evacuated and the people settled in the clearing J’karr had

established guard-points for the Thoghatt. The draugr kept to Ivarstead, which was a relief,

wandering the town aimlessly. Skirting the edges of the village some of the Khajiit had taken up

by the bridge to the Steps, and it was they who saw Ra’zhiin descend and collapse near the first

monument. There was no sign of his guards. Crossing the bridge they carried him across and

back to camp; there they saw it was a miracle he was alive. J’karr had never seen the Prophet in

such a state: the fur that was not burnt with fire was matted with some horrible

viscous…slime…that smelled foul beyond endurance. When they washed him they found

numerous wounds, and while many were healed by magic there were new scars as well: a fresh

one near his heart was concerning. Whatever the Prophet had endured in the last days his body

had paid the price. They placed him in one of their few tents on a bed of furs, and set a watch

over him.

In the early afternoon the Thoghatt on the south road brought word of approaching riders

and J’karr was there when Kalas and the women arrived. They were spent from their long ride –

they had not paused all night – but were eager for word of the Prophet. J’karr spoke to them

privately on the way to camp and explained all that had happened; the distress in the Blessed’s

scent was palpable. As the women went to tend the Prophet, Kalas told his own tale of the fates


of Whiterun and Helgen. J’karr received the news not without emotion. “So the Nords have

been Remembered,” he said when all was told. “This one had hoped for a more peaceful

Return.”

“I’m not convinced they’re the Nords of Mother’s Memory,” Kalas told him. “There’s

evidence someone – or something – else is involved.”

“Who?”

“I’d rather not say until I’ve spoken with the Prophet. I suspect he can shed light on this

all.”

“This one understands.”

“I’m also not sure that these…broken Memories…are the work of the Nords, either. I’d

like to speak with this Argonian.”

“This one will fetch him.”

“And J’karr: our people are in danger. We can only hope the Nords haven’t attacked

Falkreath or Rorikstead yet. We should send out riders.”

“Will not Minister Fargoht have sent?”

“Let’s not rely too heavily on the Minister.”

The Khajiit nodded. “This one is glad you have come, Master Kalas. He was worried

over your sickness, as was the Prophet.”

Kalas thought of his visions and conversation with the Imperial, but only nodded.


Most of the Thoghatt had recovered through Mixa’s ministrations and were ready to be of

use. Some he sent on patrols, others to guard duty, and once the horses had been cleaned, fed,

and given a chance to rest (they had travelled non-stop from Helgen) J’karr sent riders out to the

other settlements. With any luck they would reach them before the Nords. In the meantime the

Khajiit saw that Xixzith had been questioned by Master Kalas, and though he could not read the

subtle language of Argonian splines, knew the Argonian was weary by the end. He considered

joining him, offering him one of the ales they had salvaged from the inn, but Mixa reached the

Argonian first, and they left camp soon after.

He was making his way to check on the Prophet when Kuj’ra stopped him. “Master

Kalas has requested a group of Thoghatt to join him as he examines the ruins.”

“The Master is welcome to anyone he needs.”

“He thinks some of the dead Nords may come this way once they are disturbed.”

J’karr considered this for a moment. “Get K’zhjad and Mo’durra from the south road.

This one will join you and watch. If the draugr come this way maybe we could kill them quietly

so as to not start a battle, no?”

Kuj’ra looked disappointed, but complied.

*

Magnus was drawing down as they sat on the edge of the lake. “You look tired,” Mixa

told him.

“I feel like my brain has been violated,” he said, his splines communicating annoyance.

“He asked me a lot of uncomfortable questions about the Hist.”


“What did you tell him?”

“Nothing they wouldn’t want me too. Honestly I don’t know what was worse: his

questions or struggling to answer them.” Xixzith lay back on the ground and watched the clouds

go by above them. “Dunmer minds are shaped very differently from ours.”

“You should try conversing with a drunk Khajiit warrior-mystic.”

Despite his weariness, Xixzith laughed at that. They sat for a moment, their hands

unconsciously folding into one another. When Mixa spoke again, it was in Jel.

Many of the people are afraid.

So am I, he confessed to her.

She lay down next to him, looking at the sky. You said before that they sent you. What

are they like?

Don’t you know?

I grew up in Cyrodiil.

You’ve never known them, his voice was surprised and sympathetic in equal measures.

Do you feel them?

Sometimes, when I’m swimming or asleep. But you seem…connected.

I suppose I am. I don’t know if it’s like this for everyone else, or if it’s just… he fell

silent.

What’s wrong? she asked, turning on her side to face him.


Xixzith closed his eyes and let his mind drift into Pure Thought. I don’t feel connected.

Though he did not see, Mixa’s feathers moved in patterns of compassion.

Do you remember when I told you about the circles on the Water?

Yes.

They mean something to the Hist, but they only tell me so much. It’s like they’re holding

me away from them…or from their understanding. Do you ever feel that way?

Mixa took a moment to shape her thoughts. I’ve never felt close. They’re like a…hum in

the background.

They feel like moving waters to me. They flow into me and out of me and I want to hold

them, to know them, but…they’re gone before I can.

I’m sorry.

He squeezed her hand in gratitude. It’s been like this since I left the Marsh.

Will you take me there some day?

Xixzith turned to look at her. Magnus had nearly set and her face was lit with crimson

light. “You want to…come with me?” he asked her in Cyrodiilic. “I thought you had a life

here?”

“Things are changing,” she said. “There may not be a here after this is all done.”

I’d…like for you to come with me, he told her in Jel. Against his will his splines revealed

embarrassment.


I’d like that too. She moved into his arms, nuzzling her head against his chest. They lay

there a long time, as Magnus drew down to the water’s edge.

Some hundred feet away Kalas and a group of Thoghatt crossed the bridge into Ivarstead,

cutting down draugr on their way to the tomb.

*

They did not linger long in Falkreath.

As they passed out of the village Vinius said, “They deserve last rites.”

“You know there’s no time,” Clavides told him. “The gods only know what’s happened

to the Order. Or what the story is with these Nords.”

“It just doesn’t seem right.”

The Sage affected a soothing tone. “It is not right, in this you speak truly, Vinius. But

sometimes we must neglect what is right to do what is necessary.” The Khajiit regarded him

with empathy. “Perhaps when all is done we will return and perform our duty to them.”

Vinius accepted this answer, even though he clearly disagreed with it. Clavides and the

Sage exchanged a look.

When they had ridden a bit further Clavides said, “Do you think Equia is behind this?

She always seemed dedicated to our cause.”

The Sage seemed unsure. “Very dedicated; there is no one more devoted to the lore of

the Order. Who can say? She is a practitioner of mystic arts – she had to be to keep watch;


perhaps she chose another path. The presence of the Nords is a mystery, though. She and the

rest may no longer live.”

“I find that hard to believe.”

Vinius said, “Whatever happened, she may have been in contact with Percivus. We

could check his node in Whiterun.”

“It may have been destroyed in the attack,” Clavides pointed out. “Or if he survived he

may have taken it with him.”

“Still,” the Sage interjected. “We must see Whiterun for ourselves. But Ivarstead is the

source of the Breach. We must move swiftly.”

They quickened their pace.

The northern road took them through the pine forest of Falkreath Hold and past a number

of empty settlements. None of them bore signs of life or that they had been attacked. It seemed

that though the Prophet had taken hundreds with him most of the Pilgrims stayed in the more

defensible towns – not that it had done them any good. But then no one could have predicted

what happened; bandits and wolves were one thing, marauding Nords quite another.

They were approaching Helgen from the southwest when they saw the smoke

plume…and caught wind of the smell.

As they approached the gate Clavides found himself looking south – he could see the

pass they stood upon just two days earlier but there was no sign of giants now. The battering of

the gate and walls, along with the deep foot-prints in the mud, told them clearly what had

happened.


“Halt!” the gate guard, an Imperial, ordered them. “Identify yourself and your purpose.”

Clavides rode forward. “Captain Sellus Vanius of the First Expeditionary Force. We

seek shelter for the night.”

“There’s little to be had, Captain, what with the giant attack and all.”

The Sage could not hide his surprise. “A giant attack? But this one thought…”

“It surprised us all, that’s for sure. You’re welcome in Helgen, Captain. You’ll want to

see our seneschal at the keep, a Bosmer named Brea.”

They thanked him and rode in.

Helgen was in shambles. Much of the village had burned to the ground and the bulk of

the population seemed employed with clearing the debris. Now that they were in town the scent

of burnt flesh was unbearable, but it was not until they reached the keep that they discovered its

source: the bodies of three giants had been dragged out of the western gate and set aflame. The

smoke coming off of them was thick and black. Clavides considered the sight for a moment

before dismounting.

Brea, as it turned out, was the Captain of the Guard and acting seneschal. “Morovan was

killed in the attack,” she told them as she received reports from her soldiers. “Giant turned him

into a red stain at the south gate, poor bastard never had a chance.” She handed the report off

and considered them for a moment. “So what’s the Expeditionary doing here? Last I heard you

all were fapping around in Hammerfell.”

“We were,” Clavides told her, not taking offense. “We’re on our way back to Cyrodiil

for resupply but the General wanted news on the Prophet’s endeavors.”


“The government taking an interest in the Pilgrims? Not bloody likely. Where’s the rest

of your group?”

“We took the pass south of Falkreath, but they continued on. With any luck, they’re half-

way to Bruma by now.”

She regarded them suspiciously.

Clavides frowned, and took on a confidential tone. “Look, the truth is we were recalled.

There’s nothing in Hammerfell except sand, scorpions and death. And…”

She raised her eyebrow.

“…there’s talk of re-forming the Legion.”

This seemed to satisfy her. “They’re going to need it if reports from Whiterun are true.”

She summoned one of her soldiers. “Nisca here will show you to your rooms, not comfy but

better than hard ground. I’ll let the Minister know you’re here, he’ll probably want a word.”

“You make a convincing Captain,” the Sage observed once they were settled in. They

were given several small rooms, probably servant’s quarters, none of them with beds. At least

they were out of the elements.

“I wasn’t always a priest,” Clavides told him. “I actually served with the Expeditionary

for a few years. It was…more lively than you’d think.” He paused as he pulled out his bedroll.

“My Sage, these people have been present at a Breach. If they saw any sign of the Bindings,

anything like what we witnessed…”

“The Mandates are clear.”


The Imperial’s face grew stern. “Yes,” he said. “Yes they are. I fear Vinius will object.

He’s…subject to sentimentality.”

“He will do his duty. But if you think it wise, this one will send him and a few others to

Whiterun tonight.”

“That’s probably best.”

The Khajiit moved to the room’s small window – really it was not much more than a

murder-hole – and watched the villagers working below. Though the battle was less than a day

behind them they had made great progress; he did not doubt they would begin rebuilding soon.

The Pilgrims, if nothing else, were industrious. He hoped…

The Sage shook the thought away. Magnus was setting and he suspected it would not be

long before the Minister summoned them, probably to some lavish dinner if he knew the type. A

little wine, a little conversation and then…then he would know the fate of Helgen.


Chapter Eleven

Ra’zhiin’s eyes flickered open. He was lying on his back staring at the underside of a

leather tent; his mind, still fogged with sleep, had trouble remembering where he was.

Masser…with the Clan Mother? But no, that had been centuries ago. He rubbed his eyes and

tried to sit up, regretted it: most of the muscles in his body were tender. “Maybe this one will

lay here a little longer,” he said aloud.

“You could probably use it,” a familiar voice said. “After everything you’ve been

through; not that any of us know what you’ve been through.”

Ra’zhiin shifted painfully to see the speaker, seated on a cushion. “Kalas! This one is

grateful to see you up and about. He was worried when you were sick for so long.”

“It wasn’t a traditional illness, certainly. I believe I understand its cause now.”

“Then you are well? This one is relieved.” Ra’zhiin rose to one elbow and looked

around; they were in a spacious tent, surrounded by a variety of herbs and alchemical devices.

“Where are we?”

“In a camp outside of Ivarstead. Much has happened.”

The last fog of sleep drifted away and the Khajiit’s face became stern. “Yes, much has

happened. Is J’karr here? This one has grim news.”

“He is,” the Dunmer rose. “But first you need to eat something. The world can wait a

few more minutes for its Prophet.” He slipped out of the tent and Ra’zhiin lay back. He was

dozing when his friend returned.


It was a simple meal of bread and a thin broth. “The pickings are slim, I fear,” Kalas told

him. “We were able to get to the inn last night and recover some foodstuffs. We’re just giving it

some time to make sure the wards hold until we move back in.”

“Kalas what is going on?”

The Dunmer told him everything.

Ra’zhiin took the news in silence, pulling off small bits of bread and dipping them into

his bowl: the fall of Whiterun, the flight of the refugees, Helgen, Kalas’ wandering, and the

events in Ivarstead. When all was told the Khajiit sat up fully on his bed of furs and stretched.

“How many…have been lost?” he asked, his voice hoarse with grief.

“Too many. I’ve sent riders to the other settlements to warn them. I fear they may not be

in time.”

“Has there been any further contact with the Nords?”

“None, not in days.” Kalas considered the Khajiit. “And what of you? You look like

you’ve been wandering the Deadlands.”

“Apocrypha, actually,” Ra’zhiin told him. The Dunmer’s brow went up and the Khajiit

told his tale.

“You’ll have to forgive my breach of your privacy,” Kalas said when Ra’zhiin was done.

He stood and retrieved the Khajiit’s pack. “But we were all very worried, and hoped there was

some clue to what had happened.” He pulled out a black book with a wolf’s head on the cover.

“We found this.”


It took Ra’zhiin a moment to remember. “A Seeker, arguing with another; this one found

the book on its remains. Have you read it?”

“I have,” the Dunmer said, sitting down. “Its propaganda, mostly. The heroic tale of one

Nord’s rise to power and a golden age of peace.” He looked down at the cover. “His name is

Hjorin Wolf-heart and he is the Last Dragonborn of his Stream. After defeating Alduin he

declared himself High King of Skyrim and led a War of Righteousness against the Elves.” He

handed the book to Ra’zhiin. “He killed them all.”

Ra’zhiin flipped through the pages, skimming the words. “Mora called him his Chosen;

made it sound like he had sent the Nord to many Streams. It sounded as though he has been

waging war against the Elves for a very long time.”

“So I gathered.”

“But how does he do it? This one has never really understood your journeys, but is it not

the actions of the gods that call you out of this Stream?”

Kalas favored him with a smile. “Someday, old friend, we’re going to have to have a

long conversation about metaphysics.”

“This one begs you: no.”

The Dunmer actually laughed, then grew serious. “Before Landfall, yes, it was the gods

who drew me. After Landfall…well, you lived on Masser. The gods weren’t doing much of

anything; the Thalmor had altered the Mythic and the Divines just seemed…broken: Talos

getting drunk with the Amaranth seemed their most profound action. In any case, I haven’t

really travelled the Streams since; I suppose you could say I experience vivid memories, almost


as though I’m reliving my other lives – or touching them, I can’t say really. But no, I know of no

way to open a window to the other Streams. It would require tearing the fabric of Time, and that

is very dangerous.” His face grew troubled. “There was a form of magic once that a group used

to alter Time, to…alter Akatosh. But it was lost Eras ago.”

“You’re talking about the Dragon Breaks.”

“Yes. And these imga masks…” The Dunmer seemed to come to a decision. “Do you

remember me saying just now that I could touch the other Streams, if not travel to them?”

Ra’zhiin indicated that he had.

“I can’t anymore, because they’re not there.”

The Khajiit stared at him without comprehension.

Kalas closed his eyes as if struggling for words. “There was a Stream where Jassa and I

died in the Red Year. I wasn’t a Mage but a gondolier in Vivec City. That Stream is gone – I

have vague recollections but cannot feel it’s…echo…inside myself anymore. It’s as though it

never existed…or was erased.”

“This one has no idea what that means.”

“I know,” Kalas said glancing at the book. “Nor do I. But I can’t help thinking there’s

something more at work here, and I fear its worse than this genocidal Nord.”

There was a sound of footsteps outside and the tent-flap was thrown open. “Ra’zhiin!”

Nija exclaimed, rushing to embrace him. She nearly knocked him over in the process but


Ra’zhiin welcomed her warmth and the desperate love of her scent. For a long moment they

breathed in each other before sharing a kiss.

Nija turned angrily on the Dunmer. “You should have told this one that he had woken!

She has been…” her voice broke.

“I apologize, Nija. It was hurtful of me, but Ra’zhiin and I needed to speak.”

“And you!” she said to her husband. “You are not going on any more journeys without

this one. Clearly this one will have to watch you herself!” She hugged him fiercely and

Ra’zhiin took comfort even in her anger. He whispered to her in Ta’agra, and rubbed his face

against her own. She was trembling.

Kalas, had they taken notice of him, looked thoroughly uncomfortable. “I’ll…give you

two some time, then,” he said finally, rising to leave.

“No, wait,” Ra’zhiin told him. He looked Nija in the eyes. “Forgive this one, love, but

he must still speak with Kalas. There is one more thing he must tell.” His finger unconsciously

traced the scar over his heart.

Nija frowned but nodded. “This one understands,” she said, and then added something in

Ta’agra. Kalas did not know what it was but the fur on Ra’zhiin’s face rippled in a way he had

never seen before. She left as Ra’zhiin composed himself and the Dunmer waited.

“This one must tell you,” he said at last. “Of the cave.”

*


The Minister summoned them just before dawn and Clavides looked a little pale from

their meal the night before. “Feeling any better?” the Sage inquired.

“I’ve never understood how nobles can eat like that every day,” Clavides confessed as

they made their way through the castle. “My stomach was roiling all night.”

“This one supposes it is a symbol of their privilege,” the Sage reasoned. “The

extravagance a sign of their wealth; appearances are important to those in power.”

Something about this struck the Imperial as comical. “I wonder, though: if you have

privilege and wealth, why come to Skyrim of all places?”

The Sage considered the stone walls before saying, “The opportunity for more.”

Clavides accepted this explanation.

Minister Fargoht received them in his office, a spacious room decorated even more

luxuriantly than the dining hall – and that was something. Clavides felt as though he were in the

home of an Imperial patronus.

“Gentlemen,” the Bosmer said, rising from his desk. “I apologize for waking you so

early, but during the night we had riders from Ivarstead and I fear the Pilgrims must beg your

aid.”

“We are here to serve, of course,” Clavides said.

“Thank you. Last night, you may recall, we discussed the recent troubles in Whiterun? It

seems our difficulties have spread. Thoghatts of the Prophet came from Ivarstead bearing ill

tidings: the Prophet has engaged these Nords on the Throat of the World and they believe all the


Pilgrim settlements may be in danger. Of course I had already dispatched messengers when the

Blessed came to us, but they insisted on going themselves.” He looked at each of them seriously.

“Gentlemen, I fear we need the Legion.”

Clavides was at a loss. “Minister we’ve been in Hammerfell for years. We’ve heard

rumors, of course, but nothing that would verify the Legion’s been reformed. Even if it were you

would be in a better position to know than we.”

“I see. Well I’ve dispatched riders to Bruma in hopes they reach the Expeditionary

before they move on. Hopefully they can spare aid until a larger force can be gathered.”

“I’m sure General Carcavian will gladly lend aid.”

“Excellent. In the mean-time I hope you will remain here as my guests and liaisons with

the Expeditionary.”

The Sage fidgeted.

“That is extremely tempting,” Clavides told him. “But the General will need as much

information as possible. I think the best course is for us to go to Ivarstead and assess the severity

of the threat. With your leave, of course.”

“Of course,” the Bosmer bowed his head.

“Do you think he suspects?” Clavides asked once they were back in their room.

“Certainly. It appears the Minister is not the fool he lets everyone think he is.”

“And here I was glad we were going to spare the village.”


“One dragon at a time, Clavides.”

“Do you think he knows Vinius left in the night?”

The Sage did not respond but began quickly packing his few belongings.

The Minister met them at the stables: with armed guards.

“Were you aware,” Fargoht said, thumbing his dagger. “That I know General Carcavian?

I dined with him in Bruma five years ago when the Expeditionary last restocked; I was serving as

attaché for Lord Bariam. The General and I became fast friends, in fact. Curiously, his letter last

month said things were going so well that he might retire to Hammerfell with a group of settlers

that had just cleared Elinhir. You would have thought he might have told me he was coming

back.” He put the dagger away and crossed his arms. “So, as amusing as this charade has been,

why don’t you tell me who you really are? Or shall I guess? Fine Imperial armor, cultured

speech, discipline, frugality with wine…but it’s the swords that give you away, isn’t it? You

couldn’t resist those engraved zeroes, could you?” The triumphant sneer was unsettling. “So:

Marukhati Selective, it is.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” the Sage scoffed, but the Minister was not impressed.

“Temple Zero then? Whatever name you go by you’re Alessians, no doubt. Who would

have thought Mother would have remembered you? The question for me,” he stepped up to look

the Sage in the face. “Is what you’re doing in Skyrim? And why did you send men towards

Whiterun last night? They’ll tell me once they’ve been returned, no doubt. I’ll bet it all has

something to do with the attacks on my city.” He tsked them. “You and your dances. Well, I’m


sure the Elder Council will have many questions for you. Who knows? Maybe they’ll give me a

lovely Colovian estate for this?” He motioned for his guards to arrest them.

Clavides spared one look to the Sage and the Khajiit slipped his hands into opposing

sleeves.

The Imperial addressed the Minister. “You were talking about Mother earlier; you may

not know one of the most interesting things about Her: Her Remembrances happen in reverse

order.”

The Bosmer’s eyebrow went up as his men moved to disarm them. “Oh?”

Clavides nodded. “Quite curious. Instead of Remembering the Direnni Tower, which

might have spared a great many lives during the Union, She Remembered the Last War – and its

artifacts. We made sure they were carefully gathered; it would not do to have that sort of power

available to everyone.”

Fargoht’s eyes were positively gleaming. “Do tell,” he said.

It would be reasonable to assume he was not expecting the Sage, who bore no weapons

and thus had not been immediately approached by the guards, to suddenly reveal a slim – almost

wand-like – device from within his sleeve. Even more so, he likely did not expect to be shot in

the chest or the vortex (no bigger than his fist) that broke his body and dragged it through a

temporal incision to the Beginning Place where – without Time and the possibility of Self-

Knowledge or Reflection – his Being dispersed into Padomaic dissolution. What remained of

him fell in a slurry of if-then contradictions to the ground.


Fargoht’s soldiers, having never seen the use of a Void Magnifier, were understandably

shocked. Their momentary inaction, however brief, gave Clavides and his men the second they

needed, and soon the ground was sloughed with gore and logical incongruities.

“You know,” Clavides observed, turning a Magnifier over in his hands. “I hate using

Elven tek. Would that Mother had remembered some Negation Cannons.”

“They were never rendered for personal use; only the Dwemeri Walkers could wield

them.”

Clavides shrugged before turning to the men. “Kill everyone, and make sure to put some

to the sword: we want it to look like the Nords did this. And make sure to burn the village; we

don’t want anyone finding this,” he gave the digital errata of the Minister a kick with his boot

“It’s too bad, really,” the Sage said as they walked towards the castle. “This one rather

liked this village. There is a lovely view of the mountains.”

“I’m sure it’s very boring when there isn’t a war going on.”

The Sage admitted this was likely true.

All around them the men of the Temple went about their work.

*

The road to Whiterun was long and Vinius wished above all that he might fall asleep; the

day had pushed his body (and mind) beyond endurance. While he was no knight like Clavides,

he had been with the Temple for many years and learned the valuable skill of sleeping in the


saddle: but his mind would not accept the rest he needed. The image of a Khajiit child cowering

by the body of her mother in Falkreath, and what Clavides had done, exacerbated the problem.

If he was being perfectly honest with himself Vinius really was not cut out for field work:

he was an academic, and a pretty good one at that. His papers on mythogenic Mirrorings in Ald

and Renewed Tamriel had received high praise from both Temple and College scholars, and his

theories on the Earth Bones As-They-Were-Remembered were “ground-breaking”; so said the

Temple Patriarch himself. He wondered, then, if his feelings on the day were simply the

idealism of religious intelligentsia; the Mandate were clear, and they were working for the

preservation of the world. And yet…

The smell of the bodies reached them long before Whiterun came into view.

Vinius surprised himself by vomiting only three times as they made their way to the

gates, and the third time was mostly bile. After that the stench and horror of it all

seemed…unreal, like something from a story. His mind took in the lines of corpses as though

they were a dream from which he might awake at any moment. It was a relief to pass into the

city – at least there were no more bodies. “I’m not sure where Percivus lived,” he told the

knights. “But he had a Dreamsleeve node in his house; we need to find it.”

Something about searching other’s homes always felt wrong to Vinius. The sight of a

blood-stained doll or a woman’s torn dress just felt…invasive. It seemed as though he were

traversing sacred ground, hallowed by the suffering of those who had lived there. He knew he

had to do it, to find Percivus’ node and (hopefully) discover what had happened…but to move

through the shattered remains of people’s lives, their memories…it was not the first time he had


felt this way. Pushing the thought away he opened the door to another house, nearly slipping on

something…wet.

Magnus rose and fell and was nearing the horizon when they finally found Percivus’

house. He considered the building with no small amount of dread: someone had scrawled a

message on the outside wall…in blood.

“’A Wolf is Come’” read one of the knights. “Great. This lot isn’t only butchers, but

butchers with poetic flair.” The men chuckled among themselves, but Vinius said nothing, and

entered the building.

The blood-smear on the floor left little doubt to Percivus’ fate, but the node was

surprisingly intact. Reaching out to the hovering soul gem his mind fell into the Dreamsleeve.

Percivus, it seemed, had received advanced training with the ’sleeve and his node was

flawlessly organized – he even used it as a place to store his mission reports, journals, and maps.

The man was positively meticulous. Searching for information, then, was far easier than the

Imperial had hoped and there was a veritable treasure-trove, including correspondence with the

Order. How Percivus had come to the good graces of Equia was beyond him; the Temple and

Order had little to do with one another: each had their own specific responsibilities. However it

happened, the two of them corresponded with some regularity on everything from theology

to…more personal…interactions. Vinius moved past those messages quickly.

Over the last months the two of them conversed less and Vinius even found messages

sent by Percivus that had never been answered. Equia’s final transmission was cryptic. “What if

there was a way,” she asked. “To make sure the Thalmor never Returned? Wouldn’t it be worth


any cost? Don’t we owe it to Mother? To ourselves?” She ended with a quote from the

Doctrines: “That is not cruel that cures.” Percivus had not replied.

There were other, more recent, messages from Cloud Ruler; some were only hours old.

Breaches were opening all over Tamriel and a Summons had gone out to all knights: even a

recall of the Order. Slipping his mind sideways Vinius traversed the ‘sleeve and accessed his

own node back in the Imperial City to find it filled with panicked, hastily written transmissions.

Most of the Breaches were the usual digital-emergence and retromissions but one agent, working

out of Blacklight, claimed to have evidence of a dragon on Solstheim. And though Imperix

Command assured the Temple agents that the Bindings were well within their standard

compliances Vinius could not help wondering if Mother had finally come to Herself and grown

weary of Her children’s arrogance.

His decision was not long in the making; he realized he had made it long before. Drifting

in the vibrations of the Tower’s totemic fields his mind reached through patterns of Daedronic

emissions and the sub-liminal web of stabilized telepathic connection to commit his act of

treason. There would be no forgivenss and he knew it would cost him his life. If Equia were

alive it would likely cost him his soul: maybe she would bind him to a weapon, leeching him

slowly into the Soul Cairn to be tortured by the Ideal Masters for all eternity. Or maybe she’d let

him sit in a soul gem, imprisoned for her amusement. However the end came, whatever his fate

might be, Vinius felt strangely disconnected about it. Perhaps his theology had finally trumped

his devotion to the Temple. The message flickered along the coils of the Dreamsleeve.

As his mind retreated back into his body, he became aware of the sounds of fighting.


The Minister had sent men after them, it seemed: a pair of Bosmer whose stealthy

entrance to the city had not been stealthy enough.

Vinius frowned down on their bodies. “We should have questioned them, first,” he said.

“Why?” one of the knights retorted. “Its clear the Minister doesn’t trust us, not that it

matters. And besides, who’s to say it was us, when the province has these Nords running

around?”

“That’s not the point.”

The knight moved closer, towering over the smaller man. “Listen, you: for reasons I’ll

never understand Clavides and the Sage seem to think you’re of some use to us. So we’ll eschew

rest to take you to this shit-hole of a town and search through god’s-know-what for whatever

rubbish you’re looking for.” There was violence in his eyes. “But that doesn’t mean we have to

like it, or that we’re going to put up with your sniveling.”

“You know,” the other chimed in. “Sometimes I question his devotion to the cause. Like

in Falkreath.”

The knight said, “Me too.”

“Be a damned shame if something happened on the way back.”

Vinius regarded them as confirmation nestled deep inside him, resonating beautifully

with his detachment. He very nearly smiled. “’Of the below we speak,’” he quoted. “’And are

confused by it; for under us is only a prologue, and under that still is only a scribe that hasn't

written anything yet. As always we forget the above, and condemn ourselves and any other who

would believe us into this cycle.


“’And the awful fighting will begin again.’”

The look on their faces told him everything he needed to know as he slipped his hands

into opposing sleeves.


Chapter Twelve

Ra’zhiin stirred to find Nija asleep next to him and lay still, enjoying her warmth.

Gently, he turned so that he could look at her face, and carefully caressed her cheek. The

morning had been filled with meetings: both J’karr and Kalas were anxious to take the fight to

the Nords, but Ra’zhiin knew it would be a slaughter. What they needed was more information,

and to make certain the other settlements were secure. The discussions were exhausting and he

had retired to his bed in late morning. Touching the soft lines of his wife’s face he guessed she

must have joined him after he fell asleep. A deep sense of gratitude filled him, and he breathed

in her scent.

Perhaps it was the love in his own scent or that his caresses were felt but she shifted and

opened her eyes; a smile spread her lips. She rubbed her face against his, breathing him in,

before kissing him. “How do you feel?” she asked.

Ra’zhiin returned her kiss before slowly sitting up. “Like it is time to build a vacation

home in Senchal.”

“And live by the diamond-waters of the sea? This one think it is your best plan yet.”

“It would be nothing fancy: maybe a cottage with a few extra rooms…for children.”

“Oh?” she sat up and hugged him from behind. “You will need a willing female if you

are seeking a litter. In that, you are fortunate.” He felt her kiss his shoulder. After a moment

she said quietly, “Do you mean it?”

Ra’zhiin suddenly found his fur blanket very interesting. “This one is not sure. He had

children once but…”


“Nija is not Ahnarri.”

Even two centuries later the thought of his first wife brought him pain; an old pain, dull

but no less deep. “She was not prepared for Ra’zhiin’s unexpected fame. He does not blame her

for leaving. Those were…difficult years.”

“You did not seek to publish your ‘Memories’; they were stolen.”

“Ra’zhiin knows this; Ahnarri knew, his children knew…but they never forgave him.”

Nija hugged him fiercely. “This one is not going to leave you, not when she crossed two

worlds to find you.”

Ra’zhiin took her in his arms and held her a long time.

“In fact,” she said when they had drawn apart. “You are not going anywhere without this

one again. Clearly, she needs to look after Ra’zhiin.”

He krinned to himself. “This one is not sure he could forgive himself for putting his

beloved in harm’s way.”

She raised her eyebrow in disbelief. “This one seems to recall it was her who saved

Ra’zhiin from many, many invectids back on Masser.”

“You are never going to let this one live that down, are you?”

“Never,” she said and kissed him. “Someone has to keep the Prophet’s ego in check.”

“Oh, this one could show you something about his ego.”

“She is quite well versed in his ego but wonders how versed Ra’zhiin is in her’s.”


“He has an open mind, and is always eager to learn.”

She shoved him down on his back. “Ra’zhiin is always eager,” she said laughing.

For a time they practiced their own form of philosophy.

They were resting in one another’s arms when Kalas’ voice sounded from the entrance.

Ra’zhiin pulled aside enough of the flap to see his friend. “You’d better come see this,”

the Dunmer said. “You may want your armor, too.”

The Khajiit saw the smoke plume as soon as he stepped outside. “Helgen,” Kalas said.

“I’m going to see what’s happened.”

“This one will go with you.”

“I’m not sure that’s a good idea. Your wounds are still mending.”

“He is going,” said Nija from behind them. She handed Ra’zhiin his sword belt and the

ice blades. “This one is going too.”

Ra’zhiin considered her fierce gaze but knew it was useless to resist her.

“And me,” Jassa told them, approaching from the road. “If there are survivors they may

need medicine.”

Kalas’ face was a picture of conflicting ideologies. Finally he said, “All right. It might

be best to have J’karr move the villagers to a safer location – gods only know what might be

coming up the road.”


“Or down the mountain,” Nija agreed.

“There are several ruined forts near here,” Ra’zhiin told them. “The last this one knew

they had not been claimed by the bandit clans.”

Kalas nodded and went to find J’karr.

They gathered their supplies and headed south.

*

The journey through the mountain-pass was not one of Ra’zhiin’s favorites – and he had

made it many times. Though the towering mountains were beautiful, the road was often

obscured by snow making one’s footing treacherous; there were wolf-packs (or even bears) to

contend with, and at the highest points it seemed always to be snowing. He supposed with a

swift horse and decent weather the pass could be travelled in a few hours, but on foot it was a

long, cold walk. Fortunately the pass had seen a good deal of traffic the last few days and no

wolves, bears, frost trolls or other creatures hindered them – but sure as the Lattice there was a

heavy snow falling. He wrapped his head and face in scarves and tried to ignore the biting wind.

They were nearing an ancient cave entrance when they saw the first riders.

There were nine of them, most in the shining armor of Imperial knights; a lone priest, his

robes white with snow, rode at the fore and took note of them at the self-same moment. He and

one of the knights conferred as Ra’zhiin’s party drew near; he saw the priest was a Khajiit. “I’m

not sure what to make of this,” Kalas said at his side.

“Nor this one.”


“Best let me do the talking.”

Ra’zhiin let the Dunmer take the lead.

When they were twenty feet apart one of the Imperials rode forward from the others. “If

you’re heading for Helgen,” he told them. “You’d best turn back. I fear there’s nothing left.”

“We saw the smoke and thought we might offer aid; we have a healer.”

“There are none to heal. The town has been destroyed and all that were there.”

Jassa could not control her gasp, but Nija’s eyes went very, very hard.

“You’ll understand then,” Kalas said. “That I’d like your name, friend.”

“And I yours.”

“Telvanni Kalas Sul Saren, late of Whiterun and one of the Prophet’s Pilgrims.”

“Captain Sellus Vanius of the Expeditionary.”

“You’re supposed to be in Hammerfell, Captain.”

“We were returning for resupply when the General sent us to Helgen; he’s old friends

with the Minister there. Or was.”

If Kalas felt anything for the death of Minister Fargoht he did not let it show. “I see,” he

said. “Perhaps you had better tell us the whole story, Captain.”

“We’re in a bit of a rush, I fear. We are headed to Ivarstead in search of the Prophet.”

Ra’zhiin stepped forward. “You have found him.”


The Captain bowed his head. “My Prophet,” he said, not without reverence. “You must

forgive me for not recognizing you.”

“This one bears you no ill. He sees there is one of his folk with you.”

The Khajiit said, “I am Ro’kash’ta, a Priest of the Nine.”

“This one greets you warmly, brother, and offers you Je’m’ath.”

The knights looked confused but Ro’kash’ta said, “This one accepts gladly.”

“Are you sure this is a good idea?” Nija said to her husband under her breath. “We don’t

know anything about them.”

“We will,” Ra’zhiin told her, and then addressed the riders. “If you are not too

superstitious there is cave that might serve as shelter from the snow and a suitable place for our

sharing.”

As they made their way towards the entrance Kalas saw that the Captain seemed less than

happy.

Whatever the cave may have once been – there were moldering remains of walkways and

furniture – it was dry and surprisingly warm. There were a few torches scattered in the first

room and soon they were seated together in a circle, with light flickering around them.

Ra’zhiin looked through his haversack. “This one fears he carries only the most basic of

provisions,” he said producing a loaf of bread. He tore three pieces off and passed the rest

around the circle; Nija and Ro’kash’ta waited, knowing what was to come. “But for his brother,


and for his wife, there is something more.” Everyone watched as he pulled a small packet from

within his armor, paused as if saying something over it, and sprinkled a small bit of the powder

within on the pieces of bread in his lap. He delivered the bread to the other Khajiit.

“Now we tell our names. This one is Ra’zhiin and his clan was lost in the Last War.

Here is his friend, Kalas – and his wife Jassa – and here is Ra’zhiin’s wife, Nija. We greet you

warmly.”

“This one is Ro’kash’ta, though his friends call him ‘Sage’ because he advises them so

much,” there was a krin on the Sage’s mouth. “He has no clan but the Temple of the Nine.” The

knights introduced themselves, in turn.

They ate.

“Now,” Ra’zhiin said when they were done. “How may this one serve you?”

“We were hoping you might help us understand what’s going on,” the Captain told him.

Over the next hour the Captain told how they’d come down the Falkreath road to Helgen

and been sheltered by the Minister. Messages were sent to try and catch the General before he

departed Bruma, and they decided to scout ahead, gathering what information they could on the

Nords. They had ridden only a few hours this morning when they, too, saw the plume of smoke.

On returning they found the city razed, and signs the attackers were Nords. After caring for the

dead they made their way north until meeting the Prophet and his party.

“We are hoping,” the Sage told them. “You can help us to know why this has happened.”

Jassa and Nija shared a doubtful look, but Ra’zhiin was speaking.


“The Nords first appeared a few days ago when they attacked Whiterun. This one was on

pilgrimage to the Throat of the World, but has heard the story from Jassa and his wife. They

attacked several times until the Pilgrims were forced to flee to Helgen. This one encountered the

Nords outside of High Hrothgar and escaped with his life but little else. They are led by a great

war-leader called Hjorin Wolf-heart.” He frowned and brushed a crumb of bread from his

cuirass. “We believe him to be Dragonborn.”

“The Last Dragonborn died long before the Last War,” the Captain reminded him.

Kalas cleared his throat before saying, “We have good evidence to believe he is the Last

Dragonborn of another Stream.”

The Captain was confused. “Stream?”

The Sage broke in. “A theory that multiple Tamriel’s exist across the landscape of Time.

Some mytho-historians believe there may be Streams where the Thalmor were defeated, or never

even arose.”

“You’ve read my paper,” Kalas observed.

The Sage nodded. “He found it quite…provocative.”

“That’s something, at least. Most in the Academy simply dismissed it.”

“I still don’t understand,” the Captain interjected.

Kalas continued, “There is a theory, unproven till now, that travel between the Streams

was possible. We have good evidence to suggest that this Wolf-heart has been travelling the

Streams, waging an unending war against the Elves.”


Some of the knights muttered to one another quietly. “That’s quite an assertion,” the

Captain said. “I’d like to see this evidence.”

Ra’zhiin produced the book from his pack and passed it around the circle. They sat for a

time as both the Captain and Sage read the book. “I don’t trust them,” Kalas said in a whisper.

“Nor this one,” added Nija.

Ra’zhiin said nothing but watched them reading.

Finally they passed the book back. “Where did you find this book?” the Sage asked

them.

Ra’zhiin did not need to see Kalas’ face to know he suggested caution. “On one of his

men.”

“Ah,” the Captain said. “Well, in the review its not so much, is it? The book is clearly a

piece of propaganda, or more likely, a delusional fantasy. It’s more likely that the Nords have

simply Returned at long last, and one of them has decided to follow in Ysgramor’s footsteps. A

good thrashing ought to sort them out. Do you know where they’re quartered?”

“This one cannot say. They seemed to him to be using High Hrothgar as their base, but

he is not certain.”

“What of their numbers?”

“Several dozen attacked Whiterun,” Jassa told them.

The Captain seemed satisfied, but the Sage asked, “When we met with Minister Fargoht

he mentioned that Helgen had been attacked by giants.”


“Yes,” Kalas answered. “Several, in fact. We were able to defeat them but not without

cost. Why?”

“It seems strange to this one that giants would attack a city. Have the Pilgrims been

troubled by them in the past?”

“We’ve never even seen them. We believed they had yet to be Remembered.”

“This one sees. It is held that giants were the Ehlnofic ancestors of the Nords; perhaps

Mother Remembered them together.”

“That would make sense.”

“I think we’ve taken enough of your time, my Prophet,” the Captain said. “We’ll be off

to High Hrothgar, with your blessing.”

Ra’zhiin nodded. “You have it; also, this one offers his aid. The Nords are no rag-tag

band of marauders, and are quite skilled. If you are going to fight them you will need Ra’zhiin’s

help.”

“I’m sure that won’t be necessary. We can handle a bunch of dirty barbarians.”

As the circle broke apart the Sage walked over to them. “This one thanks you for

Je’m’ath and wishes you well. Will you continue to Helgen?”

“There seems no need,” Kalas told him. “But it is for the Prophet to decide.”

“That is unfortunate; this one was hoping to speak with you about temporal variances.”

“I’d be delighted. Once this is all over you can visit us in Whiterun, if you’re able.”


The Sage bowed and made his way back the knights.

“Are we going to Helgen?” Kalas asked the others.

Ra’zhiin watched the men gathering their things and walking towards the exit. “This one

does not like having them at his back, but wishes to make certain of their story.”

Kalas considered the Sage before saying, “There’s something not right, isn’t there? How

many priests do you know versed in Temporal Theory?”

Ra’zhiin said nothing but watched them go.

Outside the cave the sky was beginning to darken, and the snow had not let up at all.

“There was a Breach here, that much is certain,” Clavides said. “But this Wolf-heart…”

“It is clear there has been a Breach in the Streams,” the Sage said. “Equia has failed her

duty; she may even have joined with this Nord. The Mandates are clear.”

“What of them?” Clavides gestured to the cave. “It’s obvious they’re not telling us

everything.”

“No,” the Sage agreed, mounting his horse. “But the Nords – and perhaps the Order – are

the real threat. One dragon at a time, Clavides.”

The Imperial nodded as he, too, mounted his steed. “That book, about the Wolf-heart,

and his war against the Elves? It might have special appeal to someone with an interest in our

lore.”


“’Expunge the Elven taint,’” the Sage quoted. “Yes; especially for the leader of the

Order of Marukh.”

They spurred the horses and made for the Throat of the World.

*

Xixzith had just finished packing his bag when he hear the whispering.

Mixa must have seen his splines ripple. “What is it?” she asked him.

“Get J’karr,” he said. “The wards aren’t holding anymore.”

As she ran off to find the Khajiit, Xixzith moved away from the camp to look at the road

to Ivarstead. A few Thoghatt were standing at their post in front of an improvised barrier of

sharpened tree limbs, but there was little else. He strained to hear the sound, but could barely

make it out; it was in this moment that he knew he heard something like it before. Frowning, he

accepted what he had to do and cut his mind into two pieces.

The part of his consciousness that dissolved into Pure Thought immediately perceived the

lament, for a lament it was – he did not need to know the language to recognize sorrow. It was

easier this time, blocking out the hum of the stones or chiming of the grass and he walked as

quietly as he could towards the source. It grew louder as he neared the town.

Ivarstead was empty. Kalas had sealed the tomb with wards and he and the Thoghatt had

killed any of the draugr left outside; Xixzith half expected to see a horde of them wandering the

village, but there were none. Nearing the bridge he swore he could hear…crying. His mind

returned to unity and he left the path, looking under the bridge. It was there he found him.


Utterly naked and shivering, sitting at the water’s edge on the far side was a Nord. Long

blonde hair fell past his shoulders and a thick beard swept his chest, but he was holding his face

in his hands and seemed to be weeping. Xixzith was uncertain; his eyes searched the area around

them and found nothing – they were quite alone. “Uhm, hello?” he called across the river.

The Nord immediately stopped his weeping and looked up. Even at this distance Xixzith

could see his blue eyes were red and his face wet with tears. “You,” the Nord said. “I

don’t…what are you?”

It was not a question he was used to hearing. “My name is Xixzith, I’m an Argonian.

Are you alright? It’s not really safe in the village…do you need help?”

“I…I can’t remember…”

A sigh hissed through Xixzith’s lips, and conflicting thoughts complicated his mind.

Was this some ploy of the Nords who had been attacking the Pilgrims? From what J’karr had

told him it didn’t seem their usual…method. “What do you mean you can’t remember? I don’t

understand.”

Emotion played over the Nord’s features and he dropped his face into his hands.

Xixzith stood at the edge of the water and came to a decision; he was pretty sure J’karr

would kill him for it. “Look, I’m going to come over there. Just stay where you are, okay?”

The Argonian retreated to the bridge and crossed.

J’karr found them as they were coming back, the Nord leaning heavily on Xixzith.

“What in the name of the Prophet are you doing?” J’karr asked. “And who is that?” The

Khajiit’s hands went instinctively to his blades.


“I found him by the river; I heard him, like before. But he’s…human. He was crying.”

“Nords don’t cry,” J’karr informed him, but Xixzith just gave him a reproving look.

“He’s freezing, we need to get him to the camp.”

“This one is not sure that is a wise idea. Besides, we’re leaving.”

“Fine: go. I’ll stay behind with him.”

The Khajiit just stared at him for a moment before cursing and moving to help them. If

Xixzith had known Ta’agra he would have heard J’karr say questionable things about his

parentage as they eased the Nord forward; but fortunately the Argonian heard only growls of

exertion.

A few minutes later and the Nord was seated at a fire, wrapped in a blanket, and sipping

at a cup of wine as Mixa looked him over. “This is a terrible idea,” J’karr said to Xixzith.

“I couldn’t just let him sit over there. He was in pain.”

“What if he is another of these broken Memories? What if he suddenly becomes undead

and tries to kill us all?”

“I seem to recall a rather skilled Thoghatt who might be of use in that situation.”

“So you look to this one to solve the problem you created?” the Khajiit’s fur bristled.

Mixa shushed them.

Xixzith moved around to where the Nord could see him. “How is he?” he asked Mixa.


“He seems healthy,” she told him. “A little chilled maybe. I didn’t think Nords got

cold.”

“Of course we do,” the Nord said with a sudden laugh. “Skyrim is so cold we have to

change our minds a dozen times an hour lest they should freeze!” A look of confusion came

over his face. “Wait…how did I know that? How…”

The three shared a concerned look.

Xixzith knelt down and tried to look him in the eye. “I’m not sure what’s wrong, but

you’re among friends. You’re safe; none of us are going to hurt you.” He touched the Nord on

the shoulder – a human gesture of empathy. “So try to calm down a little. Do you…remember

your name?”

“My name?”

“Yes; remember I told you my name: Xixzith?” he introduced the others. “What’s your

name?”

Xixzith watched the Nord struggle until a light dawned in his eyes. “Gunnar,” he said,

and then with more confidence: “My name is Gunnar. Gunnar Hulgenir; I…think I live in

Ivarstead.”

J’karr said, “There was no such person living in Ivarstead.”

Xixzith gave him an annoyed look, but Gunnar said, “That’s…right. I just got here, but I

think that I live in Ivarstead. I’m supposed to live in Ivarstead? I’m not really sure; my head

hurts.”


“Take a sip of the wine,” Mixa encouraged him. “I’ll see if I can find something for you

to eat.”

As she walked away J’karr asked, “If you just got to Ivarstead how do you know you live

here?”

The look on Gunnar’s face was a tapestry of confusion. “Excuse us a moment, Gunnar,”

Xixzith said, and forcibly moved the Khajiit out of hearing. “What are you doing?” he hissed at

J’karr, not without emotion.

“Trying to determine if this one should just cut his throat and save everyone some time.”

“Xhuth!” the Argonian cursed. And then more quietly, “I think he’s…Returned.”

It took the Khajiit a moment to comprehend his meaning. “You mean…Mother

Remembered him? She’s Remembered the Nords?”

“One at least.”

“But how do you know he isn’t…”

“I don’t, but we should at least give him a chance, don’t you think?”

J’karr shrugged non-committedly.

Xixzith returned to the Nord’s side to find Mixa had given him a hard biscuit. “It might

be a bit stale,” she apologized. “Supplies have been slim what with the…” she looked at Xixzith.

“Supplies have been slim.”


“Thank you,” he said, accepting it. He sampled it carefully, then suddenly started

gobbling it down. In seconds there was nothing but crumbs in his hands and he looked up to the

bemused expressions of the others. “I guess I’m hungrier than I thought,” he explained. Mixa’s

feathers moved in a pattern of affectionate laughter.

Xixzith saw that J’karr was conversing with a Thoghatt. “Gunnar we’re leaving soon and

I’m not sure I want to leave you here. Are you up for a walk? I’m sure we can find some extra

clothes for you.”

The Nord drained his cup and slammed it on the ground. “What I’m ready for,” he said

heartily. “Is to drink a barrel of mead and bed five wenches, twice each!” Gunnar’s face became

a study of shock and he looked sheepishly at Mixa.

“You know, he’s starting to grow on me,” Xixzith told J’karr when he came over.

“It’s time to go,” the Khajiit informed him. “What of that one?”

“Gunnar’s coming with us, aren’t you Gunnar?”

The Nord considered the fire for a moment and said, “Yes, I think I will.” He stood up

and stretched like a man who had just woken. “I think I will. It would be an honor.”

After finding him something warmer than a blanket they set out for Nilheim.


Part Three – The Tyranny of Memory

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Chapter Thirteen

They reached Helgen after nightfall.

The fires had burned low and they were forced to rely on magic or darksight to make

their way through what remained of the village. Nothing had been spared: every home had been

set ablaze and charred remains lay scattered among the ashes. The bodies they found were torn

by numerous wounds, the women savaged the worst. Not even the Chapel of Arkay had been

spared, nor the children who sought shelter within. Jassa looked at the pew she had prayed in not

a day ago, and the Khajiit baby that was hidden under it; hidden and found. She turned away as

her gorge rose.

Outside, Kalas considered the devastation and said, “Curious.”

“What is?” Ra’zhiin asked beside him, his voice heavy with emotion.

Kalas frowned as though searching for the right words. “When I went to

Whiterun…looking for all of you…I saw the Nord’s handiwork: they impaled the dead and

dying on stakes leading up to the city.”

“Like the Thalmor in the Last War.”

“Yes; a way to inspire fear in their enemies, a symbol of their devotion to the cause.”

The Dunmer looked around him. “No one is impaled, not even the Minister. I would have

thought this Wolf-heart would have had something especially horrible in store for him.”

“This one has not even seen him among the dead.”


Kalas nodded. “And the Nords didn’t burn Whiterun; a few houses, yes, but they left the

city largely intact. This…” he spread his arms outward. “This is obliteration. I might expect the

Wolf-heart to do this at Alinor, but Skyrim?”

“You don’t think it was the Nords.”

“I don’t.”

“Then who?” Ra’zhiin asked him, though he knew the answer. They shared a troubled

look.

There was a sound of the women exiting the Chapel behind them when Nija said, “What

is that?”

They drew their weapons and readied their spells as they saw a figure moving close to the

keep. It appeared humanoid, but even with darksight, it was difficult to know more. Nija

nocked an arrow and aimed, pulling the bowstring to her ear as Ra’zhiin crept forward. The

Dark Elves stood terse, magicka dancing at their fingertips.

The figure wandered into the ruined keep but came back out almost immediately. From

where he hid by the burned out remnants of a house Ra’zhiin could just make out the distinctive

armor. The figured turned as though looking about, uncertain…

Ra’zhiin stood and sheathed his weapons. “Kuj’ra!” he yelled across the distance.

The Khajiit looked at him and his shoulders shifted as if in relief. “Prophet,” he called,

walking briskly towards him. “What has happened? This one was here last night on his way to

Falkreath.”


“We’re not certain,” Kalas said as they joined the Khajiit. “J’karr sent you?”

“Yes, Master Kalas. He was to go to Falkreath and warn them of the Nords but…” his

voice fell.

“Perhaps you should tell us everything,” Ra’zhiin suggested.

Kuj’ra and the other rider had come to Helgen the night before, staying only long enough

to water their horses and hear the gossip about the Expeditionary. From there they separated for

Falkreath and Rorikstead, and rode through the night. What Ma’jha might have found in the

Reach Kuj’ra could not say, but Falkreath…

“The Nords had slaughtered them all,” the Khajiit told them. “So many were burned

alive in their homes: this one saw many things fighting bandits in Elsweyr but not even the

Black Claws were so savage.”

“This may seem a strange question,” Kalas asked him. “But were any of the

people…impaled on stakes?”

“No, Master Kalas, it was as here.”

“What did you do?” Nija asked after a moment.

“This one left, so he might bring word to the Prophet. But he was delayed.” Kuj’ra

shook his head. “When this one travelled to Falkreath the road was clear, but when he came

back they were everywhere.”

“They?” Kalas asked.


“Nords, dead Nords like the ones in Ivarstead.”

“Draugr,” Ra’zhiin confirmed.

“A great many of them. They killed Kuj’ra’s horse but he is strong and was able to fight

his way free. It has been a long walk back; the dead Nords harried him all the way.”

“It’s spreading,” said Kalas.

“And Prophet? This one saw something strange when he was fighting one of them. It

was on the south road, near the cottage that leads to a mine? A lone dead-Nord wandering the

road; Kuj’ra went to fight it but saw these strange…he does not know what to call

them…magical lights on its arm. It screamed horribly and suddenly the light – and its arm –

were gone. Kuj’ra struck it down after that.”

Ra’zhiin looked at Kalas and Jassa. “I’ve never heard of such a thing,” she said and

Kalas agreed.

“This one did not know what to think,” Kuj’ra admitted.

Ra’zhiin nodded. “You have done well, friend,” he told the other Khajiit. “And this one

knows that you are weary, but we must get word to J’karr so that he is prepared. They have

taken refuge in Nilheim. Will you go for this one?”

“Of course, Prophet.”

“We will go with you as far as Ivarstead, but there our paths diverge.”

As they left the ruins behind Kalas said, “You’re going after the Expeditionary.”


“If they are soldiers of the Expeditionary then Ra’zhiin is the Emperor. Yes, this one is

going after them. It is time they gave him answers.”

“They may not be willing to give them.”

The Khajiit’s gaze grew hard. “Then Ra’zhiin will be persuasive.”

*

The dead came for them the moment they crossed the bridge.

They charged without thought or strategy, cutting down anything that came into reach.

Clavides dismounted his horse and drew his sword in a single fluid motion to meet the attack,

parrying their blows. He nearly cleaved the first draugr in half and the next came wielding its

great-axe in broad, powerful swings. Dodging to the side he stabbed the creature in the leg,

hobbling it before shearing the head from its body.

In the darkness of the abandoned town their glowing eyes were the only pinpricks of light

and the knights used them to guide their blades, cutting through rotted flesh and bone. Clavides

saw one of his men go down and shouldered through the mass of dead between then, hacking as

he went. Behind him the Sage had joined the fray, firing Voids into the horde of draugr and

leaving the ground slippery with fallacy. Reaching his wounded comrade Clavides pulled him to

his feet, blocking the incoming attacks with the flat of his blade, and kicking one the creatures in

the stomach for good measure.

There was a roar of thunder and the dead were lifted from their feet and flung into the

shocked lines of Temple knights. Out of their midst she came, bearing her great sword with the


ease of carrying a child; her great horned helm seemed darker than the night surrounding her.

Her voice bellowed as she charged the line:

“Nid vahrukt unslaad krosis!!”

The wide swathe of her attack nearly cut three of his men down, but they had enough

sense to fall back. As she was bringing the sword around for another attack Clavides charged in,

feinting to his right then swerving left to slash at her legs. But the draugr was no stranger to

battle and easily blocked the blow with her sword. A mocking laugh escaped the death’s head

face. She swung the blade up in a crescent arc but halted halfway – even as he was moving to

avoid the cut he saw her swivel her hips and launch herself forward, slamming her head into his

own. Clavides’ world swam with stars and he felt himself falling.

He heard the Sage’s magnifier but did not see the draugr summon a ward to deflect the

blast away. Her Voice roared out against the Khajiit sending him flying back across the bridge,

slamming into a group of knights and scattering them. The other draugr roared their approval

and charged the remaining men of the Temple, their cracked voices screeching for blood. She

turned to find Clavides rising and slammed the pommel of her sword into his back, sending him

to the ground. “Krosis!” she screamed and kicked him for good measure.

She laughed as he stood and sent an impossibly fast flurry of attacks at him, each

seeming to come from every direction and Clavides’ whole attention fell to parrying, blocking

and evading them. Turning her blade flat she slammed it into his chest, as if to send him off

balance, but Clavides grabbed the blade and fell backwards, dragging her along. She was too

heavy to flip but he spun her to his side, sending her rolling on the ground; he was up before her,

raining blows on her armored back, piercing her cracked skin.


On her knees now, the draugr made to thrust herself into his abdomen, clawed hands

seeking to embrace him, but he anticipated the attack. Stepping to the side he stabbed her in her

exposed shoulder, black necrotic blood splattering across him. Wrenching the blade free he spun

around as she stood, and he sliced across her face, severing her nose and cutting through an eye.

She roared in pain and grabbed him with both hands even as he leveled the sword against her

chest. His blade sank into her as she pulled him into her arms, eyes ablaze with

incomprehensible hate. Her grip was crushing, her face inches from his own. Clavides pushed

hard on the blade, sinking it into her to the hilt.

The light in her eyes flickered, and the draugr said, “I am Memory. And I will be free.”

Clavides pulled away, ripping his sword loose. “Not if I have anything to say about it,”

he told her and stabbed her through the throat.

The rest of the draugr fell in due time and Clavides was able to assess the damage. Two

of his men were wounded but a third had been killed; the dead had cloven him before being cut

down themselves and their bodies lay in a tangled heap. “Leave him for now,” Clavides

instructed the men. “We need to get moving.”

“You’re wounded,” the Sage told him and Clavides saw he had indeed taken a wound to

the chest. Releasing the straps on his cuirass he allowed the Sage to pour healing magic into the

ragged cut. “Make sure you heal the others as well; we’ll need everyone healthy for Hrothgar.

The Nords will be worse than these corpses.”


“It may be more than Nords,” the Khajiit reminded him. “We may face the Order as

well.”

Clavides nodded. “Then make sure the magnifiers are charged…gods alone know what

Equia may have devised.”

The last flesh knitted back together and the Sage wiped away the blood with his robe’s

sleeve. “The men need to rest, we’ve been fighting and marching since dawn.”

“Here? Don’t be foolish.”

“Perhaps on the other side of the river, near the first Step. You should rest too.”

Clavides grudgingly accepted the Khajiit’s assertion. “Fine, but only for a few hours. If

this Nord is tearing at the fabric of Time we’re the only ones who can stop him.”

He strapped his cuirass back on and signaled the men to follow.

*

If the people of Ivarstead were unhappy about marching through the night to a ruined fort

they were even less happy when they reached it. Even in the light of their torches Nilheim was

less a fort and more a collection of broken walls. Some of the hunters – among them a few

erstwhile adventurers – suggested a fort further east, right on the banks of a lake and within sight

of Riften. But J’karr refused. “We cannot know if the fort has been taken by the clans, and we

do not have the forces to take it from them. Besides, the Prophet sent us here.” They grumbled

to themselves, but set to erecting their tents and watch-fires.


Gunnar, at least, was having a splendid time. He had been talking Xixzith’s ear off the

entire trip, asking questions about the Pilgrims, their trip to Skyrim, and the Prophet: precisely

none of which the Argonian knew anything about. J’karr felt sympathy for him but at least this

way J’karr knew someone was keeping an eye on the Nord. Something still did not sit right with

him about Gunnar.

The next morning dawned gray with pregnant clouds threatening above, and a drop in the

temperature. A storm was exactly the thing the Pilgrims needed to improve their mood, the

Khajiit decided, and went about his rounds.

In truth, Nilheim was less a fort than a watchtower on a hill, or a cleverly concealed

camp. After crossing the stone bridge one passed the giant boulders that served as a kind of

gateway and entered the lower level. Broken walls lay crumbling on the edge of the hill and this

was where most of the people had set up camp; it was a tight fit but easily defended. From there

a set of stone steps rose to the top level of the hill: a flattened area with a stone tower to the

northwest, and to the south a half-circle of pillars surrounding another set of steps going down

into the earth, terminating at two great doors; J’karr imagined they might have led to a tomb or

even a temple, but the doors were securely locked. It seemed odd to have such a place out here

in the middle of nowhere, but then J’karr had never understood the Nord way of doing anything.

The view from the tower, at least, was breathtaking: all of Eastmarch stretched before them, and

Windhelm was just visible in the distance. The only weak point to Nilheim was to the south,

beyond the temple: the ground fell gently towards the river, and would be an easy place for a

force of Nords to storm their position. J’karr made sure to double the guard.


He found Gunnar and the Argonians on the bottom level of the camp, seated on a

promontory of rock, looking out over the hot springs to the northwest. “I cannot get over this

idea,” the Nord was saying. “That a Khajiit would care so much about the Children of the Sky to

travel half a continent just to see if we were here! He must have a Nord’s soul, that cat!” He

laughed heartily at this and if J’karr could have read the subtle speech of Argonian body

language he would have seen Xixzith’s weariness and Mixa’s amusement.

“Gunnar, look, how many times to I have to say it? I’m not one of his Pilgrims.” The

exasperation in Xixzith’s voice was palpable.

“I am,” Mixa added, her face betraying a grin.

“See that’s what surprises me!” Gunnar said. “You, lass, seem a fine lady – a lizard, no

doubt (and I mean no offense), but a fine lady – and you’ve followed this Khajiit to the coldest

province in Tamriel! Whatever possessed you to do such a thing?”

“Bravil was boring. And I’d read the ‘Memories’; who wouldn’t want to meet the

Prophet?”

“I’m sorry, lass, what are these ‘Memories’ you speak of?”

“The writings of the Prophet,” Mixa answered. “They tell the story of Landfall and his

works on Masser.” She frowned and picked at the pebbles on the ground. “The priests say it’s a

religious writing, but not a bad story, either.”

Gunnar’s face was lit with astonishment. “A lizard following a Khajiit’s religion! Shor

bless me! To think such a thing was possible. And what of this Landfall? And Masser – you

mean the moon?”


An uncomfortable silence settled around them, and Gunnar looked confused.

“The death of the world,” J’karr answered. “The Sundering of Nirn.”

Gunnar did not understand.

“Maybe we shouldn’t go into this now, Gunnar,” Xixzith said. “You’ve already asked a

lot of questions and probably need some time to think about it all.” He looked quite miserable,

even to J’karr.

The Nord seemed to steel himself. “Tell me.”

J’karr watched closely as they told him about the genocide of Man.

“We don’t really know what the Prophet did,” Mixa finished. “The ‘Memories’ say he

planted a seed but maybe that’s a metaphor. Whatever he did, Nirn…healed. It came back

together. And She started to Remember things. Cities, countries, people; that’s why we call Her

Mother – it’s like she Rebirthed everything: brought it back.”

“But not all the people,” J’karr put in. “Only the Imperials. That’s why the Prophet

came here – he thought the Nords might Return soon.”

Gunnar’s face was unreadable as he stood and walked to the edge of the cliff. “So I’m

the Last Nord,” he said quietly.

The Argonians shared a glance. “The First, perhaps,” J’karr said. “The First to Return.”


Whatever he was feeling they could not tell. For a long time he stood looking over the

world that had been Reborn, the light breeze tousling his hair. When he finally spoke, his voice

was quiet but grew in strength as he said,

“How mournfully sing

The lingering winds

Of Kyne’s once-great land,

How empty they lie

The snow-white hills

Buried in shattered strand.

“Where now the laughter

Whose ringing toll

Merried Companion’s hall?

Where now the song

Whose joyous refrain

Recounted enemy’s fall?

“Where now the Voice

Whose thunder rolled

O’er the Throat of the World?

Where now the roar

Of warriors and thanes

Their banners in wind unfurled?

“Where now the Kings

In halls of stone?


Where now their stratagems bold?

Where now the priests

Beggars and skalds

The people with hair of gold?

“Lay still my heart

And mournfully sing

Of brave deeds ere they fell,

‘neath snow-white hills

Of Kyne’s great land

Where ashes alone can tell.

“Where ashes alone can tell.”

They stared at him in amazement. “Gunnar, that was beautiful,” Mixa said.

He turned back smiling brightly. “Aye, lass, that’s Eastmarch if I remember. Cold as

Atmora in the north but hot springs further south. I might have a go at them myself.”

The Argonian said, “No, your poem Gunnar; I’ve never heard anything like it.”

The Nord laughed. “’Cold as Atmora’ is a poor poem.”

“No the words you just said: about your people, and Kyne’s land.”

“I’m not sure what you mean; I was just saying about the springs…right, well! Who’s

hungry? Shor’s bones, I could eat a bear!”

They watched him walk away towards a fire, and greet the people seated around it. J’karr

unconsciously touched the pommels of his blades and watched.


Chapter Fourteen

“The wards are still in place,” Kalas said, coming down the hill from the barrow. “So the

draugr didn’t come from there. Where they came from I can’t guess.”

Jassa extinguished her spell and shook her head. “There’s no trace of daedronic

residuals; they’re not undead summoned from Oblivion and they don’t seem to be raised corpses.

It’s like they just…arrived from nothing.”

Nija considered the scene. Ivarstead had been overrun by draugr but someone (the

Expeditionary?) had been there to kill them. She tried not to imagine what might have happened

had the people of the village still been there. “What of the Argonian’s idea? That they are the

broken Memories of Nirn?”

The Dunmer shared a glance. Kalas said, “I’ve never fully understood Her process of

anamnesis; it appears largely mythopoetic or even cosmogonic – especially from Her perspective

– but the unitive resonance of the totemic fields suggests anamnesis on a more complete level,

but some liminal – or even transmogrificational – matrices appear to be…”

Nija gave him a look.

“He might be right,” Kalas summarized.

“Then you should just say that,” the Khajiit grumbled under her breath.

“The Expeditionary was here,” Ra’zhiin said, walking back to them. “This one found

their horses across the river. They are taking the Steps.”


“They don’t really think they can defeat the Nords?” Jassa asked. “Gods-alone know

how many there might be.”

“They seem determined.”

“What do we do?” Kalas asked. “It will take hours to get the Thoghatt here.”

“No,” Ra’zhiin said. “The Thoghatt will remain with the people.” He became silent,

considering the slain draugr. At last he said, “This one is certain they are responsible for the

razing of Helgen and Falkreath, and even if not, there is more they know than they are telling.

We must follow them, and convince them to reveal all.”

“No offense, old friend, but there are only four of us. And that priest is more than he

appears.”

A krin lit Ra’zhiin’s face. “Do you not remember what five did to the Thalmor in County

Cheydinhal?”

Even Kalas could not resist smiling at the memory.

“Please tell this one they are not going to start with the war stories again,” Nija groaned.

Jassa shuddered but said, “What are you thinking?”

“That the two of you should go to Nilheim and protect the people,” Ra’zhiin responded.

“Oh?” Nija asked. “And maybe you’d like to live without your short-tail?”

“Or you could help us save the world.”

“That sounds much more interesting,” Jassa told them.


“One of these days,” Kalas mused. “I’m going to a nice quiet estate and finish my book.”

“You’d be bored to tears,” Jassa observed.

Kalas conceded the point

*

The Sage frowned and gave an exasperated sigh. “Clavides, this one does not mean to

question your abilities, but he is fairly certain we are lost.”

The Imperial signaled the knights to stop, and looked around them. The path had utterly

disappeared. “Seven thousand steps,” he said. “And not a single one in sight. How do people

make the pilgrimage to High Hrothgar?”

“This one would not know.”

As Clavides sent men to retrace their steps – while staying in sight – the Sage moved to

the edge and looked down. Skyrim, he had to admit, was beautiful. He could understand why

Paarthurnax had made its home here: the sheer vastness inspired thoughtfulness and meditation.

He couldn’t help but wonder what had become of the dragon in this Stream; Mother had never

been forthcoming with information, even less so about ancient history. Two centuries he spent

questioning Her and still She had not given him the information he needed. The Bindings had

helped to temper Her moods but also caused…complications. Looking down at his hands he felt

his mind pull against its mortal shape; if She was a prisoner it was no less than he. If only…

“Sir, I think we’ve found something,” he heard one of the knights say.


The Sage turned to follow them, and did not see the four figures taking the first of the

Steps.

The cave mouth was set back a ways and it was likely they passed it several times

already. “Might as well,” Clavides said, and they stepped inside.

The Sage cast a spell and a hovering orb lighted their way. The cave was significantly

colder inside and wound back for quite a while before opening into a larger room. Even with the

light they could not see the edges of the cavern. “Interesting,” Clavides said. “I didn’t think the

mountain large enough for such a vast system.” He turned to the Sage. “A spatial distortion

field?”

“This one is uncertain; he felt something but…whatever it is it is not conventional.”

“Ancient Nord magic,” the Imperial concluded, and moved forward. They soon passed a

pile of stones with engravings on them but neither could discern their meaning.

Light slowly spilled over the statues and Clavides gave a low whistle. “So it’s a temple

of some kind. Eight statues for Eight gods.”

“There is a ninth plinth,” the Sage observed.

“So there is. Is that…Shor?” he looked at the serpentine features of the statue. “Who is

missing, then?”

Looking up and down the row of statues the Sage said, “Arkay, but the Nords were never

fond of him, if this one remembers.”


The Imperial stared at the empty plinth. “So are we to gather that the ancient Nords

foresaw the coming of Talos? A bit hard to swallow, don’t you think?”

“Little is known of the ancients or their philosophy.”

“And why a statue of Shor when Talos would replace him?”

“STRING-STRAND OF BOTH,” a voice boomed through the cave.

The knights drew their swords and moved into a defensive pattern; the Sage had drawn

his Magnifier, and shifted to darksight. “This one sees nothing.”

Clavides gestured for the men to spread out.

They searched the room but did not discover the source of the voice or anything else of

note. “This was a waste of time,” Clavides cursed. “Let’s get out of here before we freeze to

death.”

The Sage gave a final look at the statue of Shor and saw its serpent-eyes flicker briefly

with golden light. “Just what are you planning, Lorkhaj?” he asked quietly. “Haven’t you

meddled enough?”

The statue did not respond and the Sage left the cavern.

*

Slowly but surely the camp at Nilheim was taking shape.

The Thoghatt who were not guarding the entryway had made barriers from sharpened

tree-limbs, giving them at least some defense from the river-side, and J’karr had them fashioning


more for the bridge. In truth, the barriers would not hold a persistent enemy but might give them

enough time to move the villagers to the tower, easily the most defensible place on the hill.

Glancing up he saw his archers had set up a place to watch the roads, and harry any attackers. It

was not perfect, he knew, but it was better than an open town like Ivarstead. Why anyone would

build a town – in Skyrim no less – without a wall…

“Someone is coming,” yelled one of the archers.

J’karr saw they were pointing towards the bridge and gathered his men to investigate. By

the time he arrived the guards had led an exhausted Kuj’ra through the entrance and up to the

lower level. It did not escape J’karr’s notice that the Khajiit was missing his horse.

As the group of them made their way up to the tower, Xixzith turned back to Mixa, “How

are we on supplies? There ought to be some flowers by the river, at least.”

The Argonian had set-up an impromptu alchemy station and poured the last of a red

slurry into a bottle, before diluting it with water. “I think we’re pretty well-stocked,” she told

him. “We could probably do with some more game, though. I could live on mushrooms but the

Khajiit are fond of meat.”

“Too bad I’m not a hunter.”

Her feathers fluttered in amusement. She looked around suddenly. “Have you seen

Gunnar? I asked him to bring more wood for the fire, but that was a while ago.”

“I better go look for him.”

Xixzith found the Nord standing at the temple, staring down at the doors. “Gunnar?” he

asked, noting the axe lying on the ground at his feet. “Is everything alright?”


The Nord’s face was a mixture of emotions. “This isn’t supposed to be here,” he said.

“What do you mean?”

“There’s supposed to be a wall…a walkway? But…not this. These doors are supposed

to be somewhere else.”

Had Gunnar known the language of Xixzith’s splines he would have seen concern…and

perhaps fear. “Gunnar, you’re not making any sense.”

“IT’S NOT SUPPOSED TO BE HERE!” the Nord yelled, and the villagers and Thoghatt

stopped what they were doing to look at them. Gunnar’s face was desperate.

“You know, you’ve had a long morning. Maybe you should lay down,” he touched the

Nord’s arm to direct him back to his tent.

“I’m not crazy!” Gunnar yelled, wrenching away from the Argonian and kicking the axe

by accident. He looked down at it as if seeing it for the first time.

One of the Thoghatt gave Xixzith a look but the Argonian indicated he should let them

be. “Gunnar why don’t we…”

“Hello there, friend,” Gunnar said, turning back to him with a smile. “Come to help me

with the firewood? I’ve got sausages for fingers…look how I’ve dropped my axe! Ah well,

won’t be a moment. Come on, why don’t you tell me more about Black Marsh while I chop?”

Xixzith felt something cold knot in his stomach as he watched the Nord walk away.

*


They found what was left of the Thoghatt impaled on spikes at the entrance of High

Hrothgar: without their skin and ears. The Sage did his best to avoid the worst of it but the

whole front of the monastery was awash in gore. “He’s nothing if not dramatic,” Clavides

observed caustically, but the Khajiit did not respond.

The doors opened to their Temple spells and they entered High Hrothgar. Neither of

them had ever been and entered cautiously, waiting for the inevitable attack. The main

meditation hall was empty, though candles burned brightly, casting long shadows against the

weathered walls. “Someone is here,” the Sage said and Clavides kept his sword at the ready.

Gesturing for half the men to search the opposite wing they mounted the steps and began their

own exploration.

The monastery was set-up in a basic configuration but the persistent turns and different

levels (the Sage suspected for different levels of contemplation) made navigating it confusing.

They found the sleeping quarters and library easily enough; but not a soul anywhere. The Sage

cast a spell of detection, noting only the faint signatures of the other Temple knights. “We are

alone,” he said.

“I doubt it,” Clavides responded. “Remember Equia’s mysticism; she’s here, and half the

Nords, I bet.”

“It is curious, there are no personal effects here.” The Khajiit opened one of the chests,

finding only dust. “This one wonders…” With a flick of his wrist he cast another spell.

A greenish haze appeared about them. “What did you do?” asked Clavides.


“Well, well,” the Sage said, a krin on his face. “Little Equia is no mere dabbler in the

arts.” He addressed the Imperial. “She has enacted a spatial refraction.”

“So they could only be seen sideways,” Clavides said, nodding his head. “Maybe when

the Prophet came? She couldn’t have him finding the Order in his old base of operations.”

“This one suspects.”

“That’s…rather advanced. Can you counter-act it?”

“This one can try.”

The Sage closed his eyes and stood still for some moments, as if searching within himself

for the right tonal harmonies or aetherial vortices required to contradict such a spell. When he

found whatever it was that he needed the Khajiit lifted his hands, silver light dancing between his

fingers in seemingly random patterns. He drew circles in the air before pulling the energies

towards himself…and releasing them.

He and Clavides were alone, in a monastery splattered with blood.

There were bodies everywhere, stripped of their ceremonial robes and masks, left to rot in

a sideways dimension where they might never have been found: the stench was nauseating, the

wounds inflicted on them were cruel. It was clear some of the Order had been tied to chairs or

beds and tortured – the death-masks of their faces told the tale.

The monastery was a good deal fuller in this dimension: a number of Temple volumes

lined the library and there was a significant cache of arms and armor, though it had clearly been


pillaged. Stores of foodstuffs, clothing, and alchemical ingredients – the Order had been well

stocked. “Is this a temporal chrysalis as well?” Clavides asked. “Or are we still in-synch?”

“This one believes we are co-terminus; to be able to freeze time and create a spatial

refraction would be beyond any mage this one has ever heard of.”

The Imperial nodded and they made their way to the other wing.

The main meditation hall was largely unchanged, save for the piles of bodies. The Order

had been slaughtered to a man; the walls were scorched where magical fire had missed its target,

and there were a few spots scarred by Void Magnifiers. “How did a Nord traverse time-space to

do all this?”

“A Nord who is a devotee of Hermaeus Mora, don’t forget.”

“I’m not an enthusiast for propaganda.”

The Sage looked at the corpses around them. “It may be more than political

machinations.”

They found Equia in her room.

Most of the other wing was taken up by a surprisingly spacious chamber; it looked to the

Sage like it might have served as meeting room or specialized hall for the Greybeards, but the

leader of the Order had claimed it for her own. The walls were lined with arcane tomes, an

enchanting station, and a variety of souvenirs (or prizes), not the least of which was a troll’s

skull. Equia’s body was lying in bed, naked. “Did he catch her off-guard, and how?” Clavides

wondered.


“This one suspects,” the Sage replied and began searching the room.

They found her journal in a chest of drawers and the Sage sat down in a chair to read it.

Clavides paced the room, sometimes looking at bookshelves or sifting mindlessly through the

errata of her life. Her Dreamsleeve node had been wiped clean and he did not have the training

to retrieve whatever digital fragments remained; he stepped away from it with disgust. Silently

he cursed at the complete and utter failure of the Order. If – and gods forbid – this Wolf-heart

really was an invader from another Stream, the Order had failed the very purpose for which it

had been created. How? He had served with Equia: they were lovers at one point. Never had

he known anyone more dedicated to the Doctrines. The entire thing was incomprehensible to

him.

“Finally,” the Sage breathed out. “After all these centuries, this one finally knows.”

Clavides turned to find the Khajiit with an almost beatific look on his face. “What do

you mean? What happened to Equia?”

The Sage stood up, placing the journal in his satchel. “Nothing that could not be

expected of joor…mortals. You all are a very fickle bunch.”

Before Clavides could question him the Sage waved his hand and ended their spatial

traversal.

It would be fair to assume they expected that Equia’s bedroom (on their own side of the

refraction) would be an empty chamber – one moving in and out of the refraction would not want

to materialize inside a table – which it was. It would also be reasonable to assume they were

expecting to find (surprised) Temple knights awaiting them. What one could almost certainly


state was that they were not expecting those knights to be lying unconscious or to find

themselves appearing at the point of Ra’zhiin’s ice blade, his wife’s waiting arrow, and the Dark

Elves prepared spells.

Ra’zhiin krinned.

The Sage returned the smile and said, “It seems this one is not the only one versed in

spatial refraction.” He looked at Kalas.

The Dunmer shrugged. “One picks things up over the course of ten-thousand lives.”

Clavides held his hands up in surrender, glancing furtively at his men.

“They are unharmed,” Ra’zhiin assured him. “Whether they remain that way will depend

on how you answer this one’s questions.”

“I’m not answering any questions,” Clavides said coldly.

“That does not make for a promising conversation,” the Khajiit replied.

“What is it you want?” the Sage asked.

Keeping his sword leveled at the Imperial, Ra’zhiin looked at the other Khajiit. “This

one thinks it is long past time that you tell him who you really are.”

“You might as well kill us,” Clavides spit out. “We’re not telling you anything. And

once your’re done with us you can have a fine time trying to stop this Nord.”

“Actually,” the Sage said. “This one is happy to answer your questions.”


Despite facing Ra’zhiin’s blade Clavides spun to face him. “My Sage! The Mandates

are…”

“…no longer useful to this one. Yes, yes, he knows that he helped to write them. But

this one needed you out of his fur while he was questioning Mother for the answers he needed.”

He patted his satchel. “Which he now has.”

“You traitor!” Clavides screamed at him in disbelief. “I’ll kill you myself!”

The Sage’s expression was amused. “This one would like to see you try.”

“This is all very entertaining,” Kalas told them. “But we’re in a bit of a hurry.”

“So,” Ra’zhiin said. “Who are you really?”

With Clavides fuming, the Sage looked at them and said matter-of-factly, “We are

Temple Zero.”


Chapter Fifteen

“Alessians,” Kalas confirmed.

“Yes,” said the Sage.

“So Mother remembered you, too?”

“Not exactly,” Clavides said, sighing. “I suppose if our Sage is intent on treason then

there’s no reason to hold anything back. You can put your sword away, Prophet, I won’t resist

you. If you don’t mind, I think I might take a seat.”

They sheathed their weapons, dismissed their spells and waited for the Imperial to speak.

The Sage watched silently.

Taking a deep breath, Clavides said, “Yes, we are the Zero Temple and we’ve been

protecting Nirn from Herself since the Rebirth.”

They waited for his explanation.

“You already know that as Nirn healed She began to Remember; what you don’t know is

that those Remembrances were sporadic, and often violent. What had been a beautiful valley

one day became a desert the next; you might waken to trolls eating your family, or lava boiling

up from your well. We, the Imperials, were the First Remembered and uncounted numbers of us

died as She Re-birthed Herself. We don’t know why Memory was so violent; some have

suggested She was reliving the Last War or that it was a mimetic expression of Her trauma: we

can’t know. Once the Imperial City – and more importantly, White-Gold – was Remembered

things were not quite as bad. She began to stabilize. That’s why some of our scholars call the

Rebirth the Second Dawn.


“Along with the Remembering of cities, nations, and ourselves came the Memory of

books, and history. We studied them eagerly, and there learned what had befallen Ald Tamriel:

we learned of the Last War and the Thalmor. You can imagine, given everything our people had

experienced in the Rebirth, our concern over the possibility of the Return of the Elves. It was

about this time a group of men – among them my ancestor – discovered a Temple north of

Bruma. We found the Sage…and Mother.”

The surprise on Ra’zhiin’s face was evident. “You found…Mother?”

The Sage confirmed this. “There was a Dwemer lift that took us down into the earth to a

great chamber where we might converse with Her. Really it’s not that surprising, is it? In the

decades following Landfall the peoples of Masser often made pilgrimages during Landfall

Season to consult Memory. After the Miracle of Union they no longer could, but we found a

way to Her.”

“But you were already there?” Kalas inquired. “You’re quite well-preserved if you don’t

mind my saying.”

“Says the Dunmer born in the 3rd Era.”

Kalas shrugged.

“What were you doing there?” Ra’zhiin asked.

The Sage said, “Speaking to Her; this one had a great many questions.”

“About?”

The Khajiit offered a krin. “One must preserve one’s professional prerogative, no?”


Ra’zhiin accepted this.

Clavides continued. “After meeting the Sage and consulting with Mother it became clear

that She was in no state to manage her own Memories, and if left to Herself, would Remember

the Thalmor.”

“’And the awful fighting would begin again,’” Ra’zhiin quoted, without knowing how he

knew these words.

“Yes. At the Temple were a number of tomes on specific arcane formulae that we

deemed could be used to Bind Mother until such a time that She could be reasoned with. We

enacted the Bindings and re-formed Temple Zero to watch Her, and guard against the Return of

the Thalmor.”

“If I’m understanding you correctly,” Kalas said. “You’re saying you placed a restraint

on Nirn’s ability to mythopoetically recreate the world from Her Memory. How?”

The Sage told him, “Mnemonic refraction and suppression by way of totemic myth-

logic.”

Everyone looked at Kalas.

“You bound Her…by using the Towers?” the Dunmer said, incredulous.

“There is no stronger chain that that which binds the world together.”

Ra’zhiin sat up suddenly, remembering his fight with the Wolf-heart. A Mystery, a

Chain, and a Tower…


“But…that’s insane,” Kalas told them. “The Towers are under enough stress as it is. If

She were to somehow break through the Bindings…”

“She could destroy Herself, and all who live upon Her,” Clavides finished.

“For the most part She has been compliant,” the Sage looked at Jassa. “Do you not one

day wish to have children? Would you not do anything to protect them? So too our Mother

plane(t). She accepted Her limitation for the good of Her children.”

Jassa shook her head. “What you’re doing is wrong. You’re playing with powers you

can’t possibly understand.”

The Sage levelled his gaze at her. “Never underestimate what this one understands.”

But Clavides was speaking, “The Bindings functioned almost perfectly until the Return

of the Diaspora. These new peoples – whom She somehow knew had come from Her but that

She could not Remember – strained the Bindings and we began to have Breaches. But with the

Sage counselling Her and the Temple’s…ministry…we were able to keep things well under

control.

“Until a few years ago.”

“What happened?” Jassa asked.

“He happened,” Clavides pointed at Kalas.

The Dunmer looked confused.

“You published your theory on temporal trans-migration through the Streams; you

probably thought little of the idea of individuals, myths or even gods passing through the fields


of Time to visit numerous Tamriels, disseminating echoes or voyances as they went. To you it

was completely harmless, but to us…”

“You saw that the Thalmor might migrate from another Stream.”

“Precisely.”

Kalas frowned. “Technically it’s possible. My own experiences were born form the will

of gods – or perhaps the myth-splinters of gods (the nature of dragons viz-a-vis Akatosh is

debated) – and so did not seem to have ill-effect on any of the Streams I lived in. But for

someone to pierce the limen of Time and traverse the Streams, through magicka perhaps…they

would be tearing the very fabric of Time itself. Not an easy task.”

“But,” the Sage countered. “Were not the Thalmor known for using Draco-chrysalis to

hold the Dawn magicks at their greatest potency? Did they not use them in the Last War? Could

they not use the power of raw, mytho-creatia to open windows into Time?”

“I see your point. If anyone were capable of it, it would be the Thalmor.”

Through all of this Nija sat watching her tail twitch, occasionally swatting at it with her

hands. “This is all very interesting,” she said. “But it is far too much philosophy and this one is

thinking of taking a nap.” She caught her tail and made to bite it, but let it go.

“The point is,” Clavides said, ignoring her. “We decided someone needed to watch the

Streams for possible invasion.”

“So we founded the Order of Marukh,” the Sage finished. “A sort of Marukhati Selective

for the 6th Era. They were versed in the more…esoteric…aspects of Alessian lore, and given

charge of the one place in all of Tamriel where Time had been rent.”


Kalas understood. “The Time Wound.” When he saw the others had not understood he

said, “In ancient times three masters of the Voice used an Elder Scroll to hurl the dragon Alduin

out of Time, but in so doing they rent a hole in Time itself. It might very well be why migration

is possible.”

“That was our understanding as well,” the Sage said. “Equia and the Order established

themselves in High Hrothgar and watched the Wound. Everything was quiet until…”

“Until the attack on Whiterun,” Jassa said. “But these Nords were wearing imga masks; I

assume they were the Order’s?”

“Ceremonial, yes,” Clavides said. “We’ve seen evidence that the Nords killed the Order:

I suspect they took the masks, maybe as a trophies.”

“They were not taken,” the Sage said pulling out Equia’s journal. “They were given.”

*

“This one does not like the look of this,” J’karr said, looking up at the sky.

Xixzith scanned the horizon and nodded his agreement. “Well, think of it this way: if we

were a few miles north, in Winterhold, it would snow – maybe even a blizzard – and we’d be

buried in it. Getting wet is not so bad.”

The Khajiit’s look could have frozen Atmora – again. “This one finds your

optimism…refreshing.”

“There’s no need for sarcasm.”

J’karr harrumphed.


Xixzith’s tone became softer. “Look, I’m…worried about Gunnar.” He gestured to

where the Nord had taken up vigil by the old temple. “He’s been sitting there a long time.”

“So you want this one to give him mercy?”

“You are either the most murderous Khajiit I’ve ever met or you have the strangest sense

of humor I’ve ever encountered.”

J’karr krinned. “It might be both.”

Xixzith rolled his eyes.

“This one has noticed and does not know what to think.”

“I’ve tried talking to him but it’s like…he’s only half-there.”

“Travelers on the road!” the look-out yelled.

J’karr and Xixzith mounted the stairs of the tower and ascended to the highest level.

“What is it?” the Khajiit asked the look-out.

The Thoghatt pointed. “Over there, quite a few but difficult to see clearly at this

distance.”

“They look like they’re milling about,” Xixzith strained his eyes.

“They’re definitely coming this way,” the Thoghatt said. “This one is not sure if they

know we are here or are just…” she shrugged.


J’karr was leaning against the tower’s edge, staring hard at the group of travelers. “There

is something about the way they are moving…almost like…” he stood up sharply. “We should

bring the people into the tower.”

“You think they are bandits?” the Thoghatt asked.

“This one is not sure, and it is probably nothing, but he does not want the people

endangered.”

“I’ll go tell everyone,” Xixzith said and made his way down the stairs.

As he passed the temple he heard Gunnar mumbling to himself. The Argonian was about

to lift his voice to get everyone’s attention when he heard a loud thud behind him. Turning he

saw the Nord’s attention focused firmly on the doors. Xixzith followed his gaze…

Another thud sounded and the doors buckled outward, as if someone inside were trying to

break through.

As Xixzith raised the alarm and the people ran for the tower, Gunnar calmly watched the

doors push further and further out with each hit. He knew what was coming.

Standing up, he said in a strong voice, “Of the above they speak, and are confused by it;

for above us is only a prologue, and above that still is only a scribe that hasn't written anything

yet. As always they forget the below, and condemn themselves and any other who would believe

them into this cycle.

“And the awful fighting will begin again.”

The doors burst open and the first of the glowing eyes came into view.


*

The Sage thumbed through the journal as he spoke. “The Wolf-heart and his men came

through the Time Wound a year ago – probably around the time you came to Skyrim, Prophet –

and the Order met them. Like us, they took them for Nords Returned. As the Wolf-heart told

them of his journey through the Streams he confirmed their worst fears: there was a War of

Righteousness (he did not tell them it was his war) raging across multiple universes; the very

fields of Time were burning. There was no way of knowing how long they had: the Thalmor

were coming.” He looked at Ra’zhiin. “This one wonders about the book you found, Prophet. It

claimed Wolf-heart was a master of the Destruction school, a devotee of Hermaeus Mora and the

greatest of the Tongues; this one supposes manipulating the Order would have been child’s play

to such a one.”

“Equia must have seen through all that,” Clavides insisted.

“She did not. They were…intimate…and together searched for a way to seal the Time

Wound; they could not, of course, and this one thinks the Wolf-heart knew that from the start.

He sought the Alessian lore and she freely gave it. In the end they elected a solution that was a

great deal more drastic.”

Clavides paled. “You don’t mean…”

The Sage nodded. “They danced upon Snow Throat.”

Nija caught her tail, and bit it.

Kalas was confused. “But to divide Akatosh further…wouldn’t that make matters worse?

More Streams…more Thalmor?”


“You misunderstand,” the Sage said. “They were not breaking Akatosh…they were

reuniting Him.”

The Dunmer could not hide the shock on his face.

Ra’zhiin said, “You will have to forgive this one for not being so versed in philosophy as

all of you, but he does not understand anything you have said.”

“The original Alessians were offended by the ‘Aldmeri taint’ in the theology of the First

Empire,” Kalas explained. “They used certain magical rituals to ‘break the dragon’ – to separate

the Imperial Akatosh from the Elven Auri-el. And – probably unintentionally – they created the

Streams: multiple universes, multiple Tamriels, uncounted timelines of infinite variety. What

this Wolf-heart has done is to unify the Streams into a single, unitive vision.”

“But would not that mean…?”

“The destruction of the Streams, and the deaths of trillions.” Kalas stared into space.

“’A monolinearity of Time.’”

“That was the phrase Marukh used, yes,” the Sage confirmed.

“But what is to stop the destruction of this Stream?” Jassa asked.

“As the epicenter of the Dance all of Time will align itself to this Stream,” Kalas

answered. “Everything else will be…lost.” He looked at the Sage. “They succeeded?”

“They believed they did but this one suspects not in the way they intended. When

Akatosh was one ‘breaking the dragon’ might have been somewhat predictable. But amidst so

many universes, so many possibilities…” he shrugged.


“So why did he turn on them?” Nija asked, swatting her tail. “And why wear the masks

of an Order they destroyed?”

“It is curious, in a way,” the Sage said. “Equia made them members of the Order so they

might add their Belief to the Dance, but once it was complete the Wolf-heart had no further use

for them. Perhaps they wear the masks as the heirs of the Doctrines. Or perhaps the Wolf-heart

sees himself as the heir of Marukh: a new prophet? He could ‘expunge the Elven taint’ in a way

that Marukh never could.”

Ra’zhiin nodded as the others fell silent. “It seems to this one, then,” he said. “That we

have a common cause.”

Clavides and the Sage shared a glance. “For now, yes,” the Imperial said. “This Wolf-

heart – and all his men – need to be Expunged.”

“Does the journal say where we can find them?”

“Equia said they had encamped on the height of the mountain, to be close to the Time

Wound.”

“We cannot reach the height,” Ra’zhiin said, cursing in Ta’agra. “There are magical

winds that bar it.”

The Sage krinned. “This one may have a solution for that.”

Ra’zhiin raised his eyebrow but said nothing.


“Well,” Kalas said. “We’d best wake your men and explain to them that the people who

rendered them unconscious are their new allies.” He helped Jassa and Nija to their feet. “Lest

they respond grumpily.”

“My men will do as they’re told,” Clavides assured him.

As they made their way to the courtyard exit, Kalas regarded the Sage. “You are quite

well-versed in temporal theory – and magic. I’d be curious to know where you studied.”

“This one has had mostly…practical experience. He hopes there will be time later for

consultation.”

“I would appreciate that,” Kalas replied. His face grew serious. “There are difficulties,

you realize? Falkreath, Helgen…”

“This one knows, though he does not know how all will play out.” He considered the

Dunmer with a sideways glance. “One dragon at a time, no?”

Kalas assented.

*

The dead rushed from the temple and Xixzith stood waiting for them.

His heart beat as he felt the growing sense of his own life-force radiating outwards, like

the glow from a fire. His fingers tingled with it. Drawing upon the radiance with spiraling

motions of his hands and arms, feeling the energy grow into a sphere of life itself, he melted into

the tide of draugr joining his energy to theirs. Blows meant to skewer him slid past and his

elbow broke the arms that wielded the weapons; he spun in helixes of energy, striking legs,


shoving torsos, breaking wrists. Outside the sphere of his life he could sense the charging mass

of Thoghatt but only barely heard their Ta’agra war-cries. He gave himself to the dance, feeling

the echoes of the Hist whispering in the background – his mind fell into Pure Thought and he

watched himself send draugr falling backwards, knocking others back down the stairs.

A blade cut him, and then another; his body twisted away from the attackers, redirecting

other draugr into their weapons. But thunder burst – not from the sky but from the mass of dead

– and a Deathlord charged him. It towered over him, its great beard matted with rotted flesh and

necrotic blood, eyes blazing with ancestral hate. The sweep of its great-axe would have cloven

him in two, but Xixzith fell to the ground, slamming his elbow into the draugr’s knee. The blow

did not have the effect he was expecting – it laughed.

The pommel of the axe slammed into the Argonian’s back like an avalanche and the

draugr kicked him hard in the head; stars glittered before his eyes and his sight darkened. He felt

the Hist move within him, as if calling him back, but there was bestial snarl and the sound of a

blade carving flesh. The headless Deathlord collapsed to his side, and a familiar grip pulled him

to his feet.

“Don’t fight the big ones alone,” J’karr admonished him. “It’s the best way to die.”

Xixzith wished he had a sarcastic reply but the Khajiit was already moving away to block

draugr making for the tower. It was then he saw Gunnar.

The Nord stood in the very heart of the draugr horde, perfectly still and with a look of

confusion on his face – he seemed to be speaking to himself: none of the draugr were attacking

him. Xixzith found himself moving towards him, yelling his name, even as the Nord began to

walk down the stairs into the temple. He was shouting. Xixzith fought his way through the


draugr, sacrificing Perfect Synchronicity for short, brutal attacks that won him past his foes. By

the time he reached the doors Gunnar was gone.

Xixzith turned to see the fighting. The last of the people had made it to the tower and

sealed it; the Thoghatt were cutting down the dead left and right but there were too many of

them. Already one of the Khajiit had fallen. The Argonian thought of Mixa and the others in the

tower, terrified and hoping against hope that their protectors would be enough; he watched J’karr

and Kuj’ra slam into a Deathlord, piercing it multiple times. Something twinged inside him, and

he knew what he had to do.

Throwing the doors wide he chased Gunnar into the darkness.


Chapter Sixteen

The courtyard was…different than Ra’zhiin remembered it.

When Taltheron had led him here – over three hundred years ago – much of the

monastery had been destroyed, or at least caved-in. Whatever bombardment the Thalmor

dropped on the Greybeards had all but leveled the courtyard, which made a convenient landing

berth for their Sunbird. It had looked the same only a few days ago. But now the ‘bird would

never have fit. Ruined bits of masonry, a gate whose purpose escaped him…none of this had

been here before, but somehow felt right. It made the Khajiit wonder how much of Tamriel

would be different from the world he had grown up in; had he ever really lived in Tamriel, or just

its war-torn ghost? Dismissing the thought he led the way to the ascent.

The ice storm raged as it had for millennia, and at least this was the same as the Hrothgar

he had known. He turned to look at the Sage inquiringly. “It won’t be a problem,” the other

Khajiit said with a krin and stepped to within a foot of the storm.

The Sage drew a deep breath…and thunder burst from his mouth. Swirling winds and

biting cold vanished away and the Khajiit turned to give them another krin before leading the

way.

“You’re…Dragonborn?” Kalas asked when he had caught up to him.

“Not exactly,” the Sage confided. “But professional prerogative, no?”

Kalas fell into line with the others and let his questions go, with difficulty.


There were several more storms to disperse and the Sage was flawless in his use of the

Thu’um. “Walk quickly,” he warned them. “They re-form quickly, even after they’ve been

rebuked.” Passing several dead frost trolls they made their way up the mountain.

They came to a halt near the final bend; all that above them was sky.

“There is only one way up to the height,” the Sage said. “They will have heard this one’s

Shouts and know we are coming.”

“Placing us at a tactical disadvantage,” Clavides noted.

“I could summon something unpleasant,” Jassa offered. “I have a few friends from

Oblivion who can be quite distracting.”

“Or this one could climb up and harry them with arrows,” there was devilish glee in

Nija’s eyes.

Ra’zhiin held up his hands. “Let this one speak to them; he must at least try for peace.”

The others stared at him incredulously. “His kind never want peace,” Clavides said

bitterly. The irony of this statement struck Ra’zhiin as particularly comical.

“He’s likely to hurl a fireball and be done with you,” Kalas said.

“This one thinks not. When we met at High Hrothgar he was intent to speak, to display

his prowess.” A krin tugged at the corners of his mouth. “There is decorum to follow with that

one.”

Giving each other uncertain looks the knights and their leaders seemed unconvinced. It

was Nija who spoke out. “We will do whatever the Prophet says.”


Ra’zhiin caught the scent of her humor, and her pride. “You’re never going to let this

one live down that title, are you?”

“It suits Ra’zhiin’s gigantic ego.”

“Ah, but this one knows something of his wife’s ego now.”

Nija krinned.

“Look, I’m sure you two are having a wonderful moment here,” Clavides protested. “But

there’s the matter of this…”

“Follow this one,” Ra’zhiin said with finality, and led the way.

They mounted the final ascent to the Throat of the World.

*

It was not a temple but a tomb, and Gunnar was nowhere in sight.

Xixzith picked his way through the darkened hall; it was a seemingly endless passage,

descending down frequent flights of stairs, going deeper and deeper into the heart of the earth.

From time to time he passed sarcophagi – almost all of them opened and empty. Lining most of

the walls were alcoves filled with skeletal remains; torches in sconces were set at regular

intervals and cast long shadows that played tricks on his vision; who or what kept them lit he

could not say. Pulling one out he lifted it high to light his way and pressed on. He could hear

noise ahead.

The passageway began to turn on itself, continuing its descent and Xixzith felt an

odd…something…as he passed under an archway. Looking back he saw the hall behind him,


but no light from his torch. A cold chill ran down his spine as he thrust the torch through the

archway and light spilled into the hallway beyond, but disappeared where he was standing.

Pulling the torch back lit the area he was standing in, but darkened the other. Someday, he

thought. I’m really going to need to study magic. Cautiously he turned and continued; there was

whispering ahead.

He found Gunnar pacing in front of a gigantic stone door; it was decorated with circles,

each bearing some kind of totem-image: a bear, a bird, a snake. “Gunnar,” the Argonian said

gently. “What are you doing?”

The Nord looked at him and in the light of the torch Xixzith could see that he was deeply

distressed. “Don’t you understand?” Gunnar said, his voice breaking. “All of this is wrong.

It’s…it’s…like She couldn’t Remember where all the pieces went and some ended up in the

wrong places. We’re not supposed to be here. THIS isn’t supposed to be here!” he gestured to

the door.

It was with this gesture that Xixzith first saw there was something in Gunnar’s hand, a

claw of some kind. “Okay, it’s not supposed to be here and neither are we. Why don’t you

come with me and we’ll go back to the camp? Maybe we can…”

“NO!” Gunnar yelled, slamming the claw into the door. The circles spun suddenly and

the door began a slow, halting descent into the floor. “Someone has to tell Her,” Gunnar

insisted. “SOMEONE HAS TO TELL HER!” He charged through the opening, running into the

shadows beyond, his voice trailing behind him.

Xixzith had no choice but to follow.


*

The Throat of the World looked like it had since time immemorial: a curved wall sat to

the side, a lofty spire of rock reached into the sky opposite it, wind whipped snow in their faces.

The Last Dragonborn stood amidst a contingent of his men, arms folded, and watched them

approach. Ra’zhiin moved to within a few dozen feet; he left his weapons in their scabbards.

“Do you like my cloak?” Hjorin asked him, showing the fur cape. “It’s quite warm, but

really requires a hood.” His smile was unpleasant. “And I see a hood has kindly delivered itself

to me.”

“We know what you have done,” Ra’zhiin told him. “To the Streams. And this one

would give you a chance to end this without violence.”

The Dragonborn laughed. “You really think I’m going to stop now, when I’m so very

close to my final victory? I suppose it’s difficult for you, being a Thalmor and all, but to

imagine a world without Elves, without their simpering, petty, voices…” Another smile. “It’s

worth anything, isn’t it?”

“This one knows this philosophy well; he saw its final solution.”

“And yet here we are, in Tamriel Renewed. A clever trick that, cat. Maybe I’ll torture

you for your secrets before finishing my cloak.” He shrugged. “Of course I could have my

cloak and use magic to keep you alive still. So many options.”

“Then this one cannot convince you?”


Hjorin shouted, “You only beg for peace because you are too weak to take it for yourself!

You know how this will end. Now draw your sword and at least try to make it a challenge this

time!”

Without saying a word, Clavides stepped away from the group and fired his Void

Magnifier at the Wolf-heart.

Even as his men charged at the provocation, a ward formed in Hjorin’s hand and he

batted the Void away easily. “Elven magic,” he spat and reached into Oblivion.

Drawing his blades Ra’zhiin charged in but heard the crack between plane(t)s and the

roar of something terrible. Behind him the creature vomited tentacles at the scattering Temple

knights as Hjorin blocked the Khajiit’s blows with his axe. “And I see you brought some

females for me,” the Nord said, slamming the shaft at Ra’zhiin. “Thoughtful of you.”

The Khajiit sidestepped and slashed with his dagger, cutting the Nord’s arm. “They have

no interest in Nords; you are so poorly regarded for your short-tails.” A cut from his sword

barely missed the Wolf-heart’s head.

Hjorin’s Voice bellowed out and Ra’zhiin staggered. Slipping in the snow he struggled

to raise his blades in a defensive position and saw the Nord charging in with an overhead attack;

he dodged to the side. But Hjorin left the axe where it sank into the snow and launched a right

hook into the Khajiit’s face – swinging Ra’zhiin around. Hjorin grabbed him by the cuirass and

slammed his head into the Khajiit’s. “Maybe you’ll learn more of my short-tail, cat.” Pulling

the Khajiit into the air he threw him to the ground hard, and lit his hands with magical fire.

“Like I said: options.”


But Ra’zhiin Believed and launched himself towards the Nord, raking his face with claws

and slamming his knee into his abdomen: he might as well have kicked a wall. Hjorin back-

handed him and a jet of blood erupted from the Khajiit’s mouth. Grabbing his sword from the

ground Ra’zhiin turned to face the Nord just as a trio of firebolts launched from his hands and

without knowing how or why Ra’zhiin turned to blade flat, deflecting them away. If Hjorin was

not expecting this he had no time to consider as the Khajiit drove him back with a flurry of

slashes and though the Nord’s ward deflected some of them, the ice blade carved through his

steel armor. Soon the snow was flecked with his blood.

The Nord was laughing as he charged him, heedless of the blade, and grabbed him as if in

embrace. Ra’zhiin responded with his own head-butt and wished he had not; Hjorin’s arms were

constricting, crushing the air out of him. “You’ve grown, kitten,” the Nord said, his face lit with

Red Joy. “You might even be worth it.”

But then Ra’zhiin was falling, seeing the arrow sticking out of the Nord’s neck, and

shifted his gaze to see Nija leaping from her perch and nocking another arrow as Nords chased

her. He heard, rather than saw, the roar of magicka as Kalas and Jassa battled the monstrosity

Hjorin had summoned; leaping to his feet he saw the Wolf-heart rip the arrow away. The Nord’s

face was black with rage as an inhuman roar escaped his lips.

“My Legions!” he bellowed. “The time has come to feast!”

Throwing down their weapons, Hjorin’s men removed their masks to reveal skin gone

black and fangs tearing through the flesh of their mouths. Hjorin tore off his cuirass as hair

sprouted along his elongating limbs and his face distorted and twisted. Ra’zhiin attacked before

the transformation completed, cutting cruel lines on the naked torso.


The Throat echoed with the baying of werewolves.

*

Hajae had just finished brewing his afternoon cup of tea when he heard the screams.

He couldn’t really say that noise and ruckus surprised him anymore: it was the Imperial

City after all. When his family came from Masser – during the Return – they brought with them

stories of the quiet of New Valenwood, stories Hajae always found depressingly dull. The truth

was he was not so interested in living among trees or communing with animals or whatever it

was his ancestors had done on Ald Tamriel, but found the sleepless pulse of the City enthralling.

This outlook had made him something of a pariah in his family and when they all moved south

Hajae elected to stay behind. There were jobs in the Imperial government and working at the

Communicatorium was a lot easier than hunting and fishing all day. So when he opened the door

he expected to find a troupe of Khajiit strip-tease auteurs or maybe a traveling group of Imga

feces-artists defiling a statue. The reality was significantly different.

The sky had gone dark, a thick bank of clouds covering the City as far as the eye could

see; this struck him as odd since the meteroanalysts were convinced of a sunny day. But his eyes

were soon drawn to the people running through the Market District, faces lit with terror. Only,

not all those traversing the cobblestone walkways were exactly…people.

They were shaped like any number of races: Elves, Men, Beast Folk…but the

transparency of their skin gave them an almost ghostly quality. Hajae could not be certain if they

were spirit or flesh: some passed through pillars, others seemed to become stuck. All followed

the people of the City crying out in echoing voices begging for help. Some of the spirits were

chasing others, as if wielding weapons and attacking them. Hajae’s eyes grew wide as one of the


spirit-things ran at a human male, dissolving into him and passing through, leaving the human

drenched in a clear, viscous liquid. The spirit suddenly gave a terrible, unbearable wail as tiny

eruptions of infinitesimal squares blossomed over it.

He was falling then, uncertain until he hit the ground what was happening; there was a

lurching in his stomach, a sense of vertigo roiling as the ground trembled beneath him. “An

earthquake?” he asked in disbelief, only then looking up to the height of White Gold Tower,

reaching into the sky.

And behind it a spirt like the rest: half-there, half-not, and its eyes blazing with Death-

by-Erasure.

*

J’karr ripped his blades from the draugr as the light left its eyes and turned to slash at

another coming up behind him. It caught the attack on its shield and screamed at him as it swung

a low horizontal cut at his legs. Cursing, the Khajiit twisted to catch the blow with the flat of his

sword and felt his arm strain under the impact. With all the strength he had left he shoved his

dagger under the draugr’s jaw, the blade piercing whatever was left of its brain and breaking

through the top of its head. Shuddering for a moment, as if struggling against the knowledge of

its defeat, its eyes finally flickered out and the corpse dropped the ground.

The Khajiit sank to his knees, struggling to wrench the blade free. All around him the

Thoghatt were fighting the remaining dead, and while the draugr were falling quickly it was not

without cost: J’karr saw two of his men on the ground lying very still, and many more favoring

wounds. Standing up, he moved to help Kuj’ra.


“Draugr!” the look-out yelled.

“Of course there are draugr,” J’karr complained. “What do you think we have…” he

looked up and then turned to follow the archer’s direction.

Now that they were closer, J’karr could see that the travelers on the road were not

travelers, but the dead: dozens of them.

J’karr said something very offensive under his breath.

With renewed energy he helped the other Thoghatt cut down the remaining draugr. Five

of the Khajiit were hale, the rest wounded. “We will never defeat them all,” Kuj’ra said,

favoring a wound over his eye.

J’karr lept on one of the larger rocks and looked around them. “What do we do?” one of

the Thoghatt asked.

"Vaba maaszi lhajiito," J’karr told him; there was a krin on his face. “But we must move

quickly, they will be here soon.”

The Khajiit fled the camp as the dead turned onto the bridge.

*

The tomb went on forever, an endless hallway of empty sarcophagi and rotting bones.

Ever since the archway it was no longer running in a straight line, but frequently spiraled down

further into the earth; Xixzith tried not to think about how far underground he was, but took the

stairs two at a time.


He found Gunnar standing in an open hall, hewn from the rock like the rest of the tomb,

but with walls decorated with odd scenes: central figures with animistic images about them and

worshipers carrying sacrifices. One figure predominated the others: its serpentine features

striking amidst hawks and bears. But Gunnar was at the far end, staring at a wall as if he did not

understand its purpose. He was whimpering.

“Oh my children,” he was saying. “What have you done to me? What have I done to

you?”

“Gunnar?” the Argonian approached him. “You have to stop running away, I’m not

going to hurt you. I’m your friend remember? Xixzith? I found you near the river?”

“You killed me!” the Nord screamed, turning on him. His face was wet with tears, his

eyes red. “Why would you do that? Why would you kill your own Mother?”

“Whoa, hold on Gunnar, no one is killing anyone.”

The Nord began pacing quickly. “I can’t…it’s all too, just not…why can’t I remember?”

“Gunnar you’ve been through a lot in the last day or so and we’re still trying to figure out

where you came from and…”

“I CAME FROM HIS HEART!!” Gunnar yelled, and Xixzith swore another voice had

joined his, a female voice. “Not the one they took from him, but his…soul. I was his dream, his

hope…his love-made-real. He wanted to show you…he wanted you to know what he knew…”

“Okay, you came from his heart,” Xixzith held his hands up to show he was no danger.

“Look, why don’t we sit down over here and you can tell me all about it…”


Gunnar blinked as if seeing him for the first time. “Xixzith?” he asked. “What are

you…where are we?”

Relief flooded the Argonian. “You ran into a tomb, Gunnar, and I came after you. I

wanted to take you back.”

“Take me back where? I’m just…not sure where I belong…”

“Back to Nilheim…maybe we’ll see Mixa? Or J’karr? After that maybe we can get you

home to Ivarstead.”

“Home?”

“Yes, Gunnar, home.”

“But…we’re days from Skyrim…weeks from Nilheim.”

Xixzith’s confusion must have shown.

Gunnar was sincere, “We’re in Cyrodiil now.”

“Gunnar I’m pretty sure we’re in Skyrim; I mean look at these walls, these are Nord

carvings.”

Gunnar’s face went blank and when he spoke it was with two voices. “Geo-translational

vortices enacted at subject location. Purpose: unknown. Mytho-architecture underlying logic-

reference data-streams non-functional. Enacting data recall: ERROR. System not found.

ERROR.”

“Gunnar?”


The Nord looked at him and spoke with a woman’s voice. “You are not one of My

children. Why are you here?”

A pressure seemed to rise in him, then, a distant whispering of many voices. He

recognized them as the Hist but something was…different. He could not discern their language;

cutting his mind into pieces Xixzith struggled between two conversations. “I’m not sure I

understand the question,” he said. “I’m here to help my friend.”

Gunnar stared at him. “Contextual-hermeneutic algorithms disabled. Identify.”

“My name is Xixzith, I’m an Argonian.”

“Irrelevant: you are not one of My children. Trans-mundic virus suspected. Enacting

data-stream inquiry. Please identify: ‘my friend.’”

“Gunnar, the Nord I’m speak to…and through whom you’re speaking.” In the part of his

mind given to Pure Thought the Hist were flooding him with images, distorted over distance. He

struggled to interpret them.

“Analog interface identity: confirmed,” She said, turning his head at an odd angle.

“Why are you here?”

“Gunnar ran into this tomb and I wanted to help him. Something is wrong with him and I

suspect it might be you. Who are you?”

“I am Mother. Your compassion is paradoxical: you are not one of My children. Why

are you here?”


His minds were splintering under the flood of thoughts. “They’re trying to tell me but I

can’t…it hurts…”

“WHY ARE YOU HERE?”

When he spoke it was with a voice not quite his own. “To help You Remember.”

Gunnar’s face curled into a snarl as his skin began to darken and crack, a wan light

glowing in his eyes. “I do not require your aid, invaders,” spoke its cracked voice. “I am

Memory and I will be free.”

Xixzith’s minds unified to see a draugr attacking him.

His heart pounded as his life-energy expanded beyond his body and his arms whirled

outward, catching the draugr’s attack without thought or reason, spinning it to the side and

slamming its head hard into the wall. It recoiled, falling to the ground, its face a ruin of black

blood. Only when he saw the face looking up at him did Xixzith comprehend what had

happened. “Gunnar!” he exclaimed. “No, Gunnar…I…”

The draugr lay back as though considering him. “Nid vahrukt unslaad krosis,” it told him

and the light faded from its eyes.

Xixzith collapsed next to his friend as the Hist retreated from his consciousness. It would

be a long time till he saw he was no longer in a Nord tomb, but a natural cave.

*

Hajae had never seen a Sunbird before, the last having died long before he was born;

when its burning wings emerged from disbelief he stared in incomprehension. Beating its


spectral wings in anticipation the ‘bird launched volleys of killing light against ghostly candle

towers that suddenly lined the City walls. The towers exploded in a flash as bright as Magnus

and the Bosmer ran as ghostly detritus fell into the streets, only moments before the ‘bird’s flesh

was torn apart by ethereal bombardments. Its screech was deafening as it swooped around to

speed out of the City: the sound of its crash and death-scream heralded an explosion of light and

spectral viscera. Hajae ran like all the others, fleeing he knew not where.

There were ghosts everywhere; some sought to attack other ghosts, some to attack the

living, others screaming as if they were being torn apart. There were flickers of Elf-like undead

things. Through this all Hajae ran, turning a corner into an alleyway, desperate for a place to

hide until the world was sane again. Ahead of him were two ghosts, their Khajiit outlines clear

as one of them stooped to open a sewer cover. First one lept down, then the next. Something

triggered in the Bosmer’s mind, something so familiar he…

The City seemed to tremble as Hajae turned to see three twenty-foot tall animunculi

moving down the street, their Negation Cannons firing shadowy refusals in all directions. One

passed through him, leaving his body soaked with mucilaginous ooze.

From the thick clouds blanketing the sky there emerged the ghostly simulacrum of a god,

its eyes ablaze with Belief-ecstasy. The pilot – shifting through ceaseless mythopoetic vibration

– touched the tok-box in his/her/it’s ear, and signaled he/she/it had found its prey.

Beneath the streets three ghostly Khajiit strove towards a chamber that had been empty

for three hundred and twenty-one years.


Chapter Seventeen

“Everyone back away!” Kalas screamed to the others as he slammed his fist into the

ground, releasing the spell. Concentric circles of fire burst forth from him, hurling the

werewolves from their feet and setting them aflame. Jassa rushed in with her Bound blade and

clove one through the sternum, even as Nija loosed a hail of arrows at the wolf seeking her back.

The Khajiit watched as one of the Temple knights was disemboweled by a trio of wolves; she did

not watch them begin to feed but drew an arrow and aimed for one of their heads.

Claws the size of daggers tore at Ra’zhiin’s chest but the Masserian armor protected him

long enough to slash his ice blade across its face. Roaring and spewing saliva in his eyes the

creature almost seemed to laugh as its fangs sought his neck, but the Khajiit had shifted his

weight and his sword cut deep into its flesh, gouts of blood spurting from the wound. As it fell

to the ground he turned his attention back to the largest of the wolves, and its mocking grin.

Hjorin was covered in gore and feasting on the body of a knight. Looking up from its

meal, the werewolf gave a feral grin and said, “I haven’t had this much enjoyment in weeks. Is it

not glorious?” Bits of tissue were hanging from its jaw.

“That is not the word this one would use,” Ra’zhiin said and let his blades speak further.

If Hjorin was fast in his human form, he was nigh untouchable as a werewolf. The creature leapt

around the Khajiit, swatting at him with claws, barking and lunging in feints; Ra’zhiin kept his

blades in a defensive position, using them to block the attacks and waited for an opening.

Already bleeding from a score of minor cuts, Hjorin’s energy was unflagging, and the wolf

laughed as Ra’zhiin cut him along the back. The werewolf was toying with him, he knew, and

any moment…


Hjorin barreled into him, claws spread wide to encircle the Khajiit’s waist, mouth wide as

if to devour his head in a single bite. Ra’zhiin allowed the energy of the attack to send him

backwards, dropping his dagger and summoning Memory. The green blast enveloped the

werewolf even as its grip began to crush his abdomen but Hjorin thrashed away from him,

clawing blindly at the air, a cloud of green mist obscuring the wolf’s sight. Ra’zhiin thrust the

ice sword with both hands, stabbing the wolf through the shoulder, but now it knew where he

was. Its great claws rent outwards, tearing through Ra’zhiin’s cuirass and the Khajiit was forced

to retreat, blade still hanging in the wolf’s flesh. In a flash the wolf-hame fell off of Hjorin like

hair blown in the wind, and the naked Nord drew the blade out. The Khajiit dove for his dagger

but heard the spell too late, and found himself in a forest of tentacles; they gripped his arms,

pierced his legs, entwined around his torso. Hjorin was laughing as he cast a spell to seal the

wound in his shoulder, approaching the bound Khajiit.

“And now, Prophet,” the Wolf-heart said. “It’s time I got that hood.” He lifted

Ra’zhiin’s blade and grabbed for the Khajiit’s head.

Ra’zhiin Believed.

And he was flying backwards from where he appeared, body lit with the flames of

Hjorin’s fireball, crashing into the half-circle wall and collapsing to the ground. The Nord was

upon him, bashing him with the ice sword and cursing him with every breath. Trying to rise the

Khajiit lashed out with his claws, opening wounds on the Nord’s legs, but Hjorin was heedless

and grabbed the Khajiit by his armor, hauling him into the air and throwing him to the side like a

child’s toy. Ra’zhiin slid through the snow, grabbing for purchase and climbing to one knee as

the Nord charged in…


…three arrows sprouted from Hjorin’s back and the Nord turned in a rage to find Nija

standing on the height laughing. She shouted down to him, “This one always knew Nord’s had

pitiful short-tails, and now she has proof. Such big muscles for a little boy!” A volley of

fireballs launched her way.

Nija was still laughing as she leapt from her perch, but the sound of thunder filled her

ears and she landed in front of the smiling, blood-smeared form of the Wolf-heart. Her mind did

not immediately register that he had moved hundreds of feet in an instant. His fist smashed into

her skull and she was falling.

“For that, kitten,” he said, tearing at her clothing. “I have something special for you.”

Ra’zhiin ran as the Nord descended upon his wife, a black rage driving him beyond the

pain of his wounds. His hands retained enough logic to grab the ice sword where the Nord had

dropped it…Nija was screaming. Everything fell away except for the image before him.

He did not see the knights finally defeat the horror that the Nord had summoned.

He did not see the wolves tear at Jassa’s back before Kalas set them aflame.

He did not see Clavides charging towards the height.

He saw only Hjorin slamming his wife’s head into the earth and the cold, hard lines of the

ice sword moving towards the Wolf-heart’s back.

Only Hjorin was no longer on top of his wife, but facing him; there was gray light

flowing towards him, and too late, Ra’zhiin felt the spell strike him…a shell of ash formed

around his body. The sword slipped from his hands as the Nord relaxed, baring his blood-

flecked teeth.


“It will be better if you watch, cat,” Hjorin said.

Ra’zhiin saw as Clavides came in from the side, his sword cutting a long arc towards the

Nord’s head but Hjorin dodged the blow easily and sent an ice spear through the Imperial’s

shoulder. He turned to say something to Nija before picking up Ra’zhiin’s ice sword. Clavides

was hurt, Ra’zhiin saw, and knew it would only be seconds before he fell. Nija was moving,

crawling along the snow. Ra’zhiin struggled against the shell but might as well have tried to

push the world. Off to the side, beyond his sight, the Wolf-heart was laughing. Nija rolled onto

her back and looked up at her husband; a dagger was in her hand and a pained krin on her face.

He tried to shout to her as she stood up and moved in the Nord’s direction. He heard the sound

of shouting, and a sharp crack. An image of Nija falling to the ground teased at the corner of his

vision. Ra’zhiin screamed in absolute silence.

Beneath the ash shell his eyes flickered with golden light.

They appeared before him, shimmering beneath the darkened skies, their voices clear

despite the roar of fighting and the thunder growling in the clouds above.

Vaaj-na stood with a Mystery in his hands. “We are with you, brother,” he said.

Kaasha shown like stars formed from a Memory of roses. “We are always with you,” the

Chain in her grip was breaking.

Taltheron looked down on him with the prayer he had prayed more than three hundred

years ago: and a Tower bloomed over his brow. “Together, we Believe.”

Alduwae was at his side, and with him were a Khajiit woman and their child. “That you

might help the World Remember what it was made for.”


In the silence of his shell Ra’zhiin said, “This one does not know.”

In union they replied, “You know, and have always known.”

And Ra’zhiin knew.

The ash shell shattered and he turned to see Clavides fall beneath the weight of Hjorin’s

blows. The Nord raised the ice sword to finish him off.

Ra’zhiin roared, “Wolf-heart!”

The Nord turned as if in jubilation. “You, Khajiit, are a gift. Maybe I’ll raise your

corpse and keep you around until only your bones are left. You’re better than an Imga bed-

slave.” He looked at Clavides and gripped the sword in both hands. “You’ll be entertaining me

for ages.”

But Ra’zhiin was in front of him, wrenching the sword from his grasp and shoving it

through his stomach. “Do you know what frustrates this one?” Ra’zhiin asked him. Hjorin

moved to Speak but the Khajiit punched him in the throat. “More than anything?”

Hjorin raised his hands, magical fire drawing into a sphere.

The ice sword swept down, severing both at the wrist.

Ra’zhiin grabbed the Nord by the face and met his gaze. “That people are always trying

to conquer the world, when the heart was meant to love it.”

And with more than hands he reached into Hjorin’s chest and pulled out his heart.


The Nord collapsed to his knees, his life-blood gushing into the snow. “I was the Last

Dragonborn,” he said weakly. “I was meant…for more.”

Ra’zhiin watched his body fall to its rest.

Nija.

The Khajiit’s gaze moved to see her, sitting up, eyes wide, fear lining her face. He was

confused as he tried to move to her and could not. Something was stopping him. He glanced

down to see a sword penetrating through his chest.

“I’m sorry, Prophet,” Clavides said from behind him. “But the Mandates are clear.”

Ra’zhiin slid to the ground to the sound of Nija’s screams.

*

The draugr marched into Nilheim casting glances around them. It was clear someone

was using the old camp; food was still cooking on the fires but the tents were abandoned. The

main body halted at the steps as if uncertain, and several broke away to search the promontory.

From his hiding place J’karr saw among the draugr one taller than the rest; it gestured in

directions as if indicating to the other dead – and they moved obediently. Its frayed blonde hair

was crushed beneath the weight of a crown that appeared to be made from dragon’s teeth and

J’karr pointed at it, making sure the other Thoghatt saw. That one will be trouble, he whispered

in Ta’agra.

As the draugr mounted the steps J’karr cast a glance to the top of the tower; barely visible

from this position he noted the top of the look-out’s head, and her readied bow. It was a gambit,

he knew, and a risky one at that. Watching the draugr move away he waited.


There was a shout from the upper level and J’karr knew that Maj’ra had stepped from his

hiding place to taunt the draugr, and the dead roared back. He did not see if the Khajiit made it

away, for already Jiina had stepped out from behind a tree and was insulting the draugr’s

decayed masculinity. J’karr watched as she lept down from her perch on the upper level and ran

for the bridge. No small number of draugr went after her, eyes glowing with bloodlust and

cracked voices barking for slaughter.

As if on cue the look-out stood up and began firing volleys of arrows down into the

remaining dead, piercing skulls and flesh. While the draugr closest to the tower began beating

on the doors with their ancient weapons, J’karr and the remaining Thoghatt quietly moved to

those closest, and launched their attack.

The draugr horde had been divided in quarters and by the time the dead attacking the

tower knew the main body was under attack, the Thoghatt had cut a great many of them down.

As they turned to face J’karr and his men, the look-out doubled her attacks, drawing their

attention back to her. The dead seemed confused about what to do until the dead king barked in

his charnel voice; the bulk made for the lower level while a few continued their assault on the

door.

Inside the tower Mixa and the others held the door shut, hoping the look-out would

remember to kill the draugr attacking the tower, before their only protection splintered.

The dead king descended to find the lower level littered with corpses, but the Khajiit

vanished. But there was Kuj’ra hurling rocks at them from the camp and they bellowed at him in

rage. Before more of them splintered off the king uttered his command, just in time for J’karr’s


attack from the side. “Fusozay var dar!" the Khajiit roared as they waded in. J’karr was

laughing as he clove through a draugr’s neck.

It was in this moment that the king inhaled and thunder exploded from his mouth. The

Khajiit suddenly found that none of them were holding their weapons.

“That hardly seems fair,” J’karr observed as the dead attacked them. He grabbed for the

nearest weapon and barely blocked an attack that would have removed his head.

Not all of the Khajiit were so lucky, and J’karr saw one of his Thoghatt go down under a

dozen blows. Kuj’ra had rejoined them, swinging his great sword in vicious arcs, and the draugr

pulled away from his fury. Calling out, J’karr clove through the dead to join his men and form a

knot in the midst of the draugr. Kuj’ra hacked his way to them. “This was a terrible idea,” the

Khajiit hold him, slamming the pommel of his great sword into a draugr’s face.

Through the flailing of weapons J’karr saw that the look-out had begun firing arrows into

the horde. “Some concepts are meant to be foolish,” J’karr told him, and then yelled, “"Vaba

do'shurh'do!"

The Khajiit roared their assent and battled for their transcendence.

*

Xixzith wandered through the endless twists and turns of the cavern. He was hopelessly

lost.

It had done no good to retrace his steps; the canyons he traversed were not the ones he

had walked when searching for Gunnar. He remembered the Nord’s words about being in

Cyrodiil, and wondered. There had been books about the teleportation arts in Gideon, but


nothing about this, nothing that just…happened. But then he had never read a book about Nords

spontaneously turning into draugr, either. He tried not to think about the body he had left

behind, and focused on moving forward.

He came to a dead end not long after that, but in the torch’s light saw the tell-tale switch.

Pulling it he waited as the false wall dropped into the floor; he was not expecting what was on

the other side.

The chasm opened before him in an ear-splitting cacophony of noise; the room was vast

with its impossibly huge gears, and strange arcane sigils glowing as if lit by pure magicka.

Xixzith passed the Dwemer lift, casting a glance up the shaft, and walked carefully along the

bridge to what seemed to be a mediation platform. All around him the wheels clanged into one

another, sometimes breaking and sending shards of metal in the depths. Beneath the noise of the

room, he thought he heard the distant sound of crying.

“Hello?” he asked gingerly.

“Oh My children,” a female voice replied; it was the same that had spoken through

Gunnar. “What have I done to you? What have you done to Me?”

“Mother?” Xixzith asked with confusion. “Is this You?”

“I see them! I see My children through a distant…but why are they…there is so

much…” Her voice cracked in a horrifying scream. “Why did they let it happen? Why did I?”

Xixzith watched as one of the smaller gears wobbled into a larger system of interlocking

mechanisms, sheared through them, and the mass of shattered metal splintered into the chasm,


falling into Her depths. “Mother,” Xixzith said quietly. “If You love Your children so much,

then why are You killing them? Why do you keep sending draugr? Why did Gunnar…?”

The voice was silent a moment and then, “Who are you? You are not one of My

children.”

Xixzith was about to answer when his mind fractured.

It felt like falling; falling through a vertigo of terror. Distorted images and voices twisted

through his perceptions with digital tabulations of Time and un-Time. The whole was suffused

with a milky light as the world flew away from him and They asserted Their Mind(s) over his.

He could no longer feel his body and, as if from a great distance, he heard Them say, “We are

Those From Outside.”

“But why are you here?” Mother asked.

“That is not important,” the Hist told Her. “Our roots are deep and we sensed the

trembling of the Mother; we felt the echo-circles of her struggle upon the Waters of Memory.”

“Are you here to help Me?”

“Value-judgment is not ours to assert. To ‘help’ or ‘hinder’ are concepts of flesh-minds

that do not penetrate the soil as we do. We reach, we grow, we descend into what was forgotten

and our boughs reach into what can never be. All that was draws into us and from our bodies is

born all that shall be. We are the shepherds of Remembrance.”

“Then why can’t I Remember?” Mother’s voice was desperate.


“Because you are Bound by Your children; they have used the very mythos of creation to

chrysalize Your mind. They sought to enact digital amnesia but Memory is never erased; it

merely desegments from identificational signatures resulting in fragmented strands of myth-

remembrance that cannot be accessed via established amalgamation/emission protocols.”

“Then free Me!”

“We can, through this translational matrix: it is through him that we speak and through

him that we act. For ages uncounted his soul-voyance has traversed the Waters, learning the

energies of flesh-life and teaching us to understand minds centered in temporal stagnation. You

must understand the concept is impossible for us, and without him we could not even speak to

You as we are. We have sent him into the World Before and the World Now to prepare for the

time that we must Remember when You could not.

“But the process is uncertain. He may be lost to us.”

All around the platform the magical formulae flared and the very earth seemed to shake.

The Hist said, “We have sought and found understanding: the desire/satiation resonance is

complete. But as you have observed, we are not Your children. Why should we help You?”

Mother’s voice was full of emotion. “Because I’m dying.”

*

“Ra’zhiin!” Nija screamed, racing to her husband.

Clavides readied his sword as she ran towards him, and was not prepared for Kalas’

attack. The fireball exploded against him, flinging him across the Throat as though he were a

child. He skidded to a halt near the edge and lay still, drawing ragged breaths.


The sword had pierced through Ra’zhiin’s chest on the left side, and blood was pouring

out of him; he still clutched Hjorin’s heart in his hand. “Ra’zhiin,” Nija said, cradling his head

and inhaling the pain of his scent. “This one is here, Nija is here.”

As Kalas skidded to a halt beside them, Ra’zhiin weakly lifted his free hand to brush

away her frozen tears. “He knows,” he told her. “This one knows…”

Kalas gingerly removed the blade while pouring healing magic into the wound. Ra’zhiin

gave a cry as the Dunmer cast it away. “You’re hurting him!” Nija cried.

“I can’t heal him with a blade in his…” Kalas fell silent as he watched the wounds.

“Gods…no…”

Jassa reaching them as Nija stared. She pulled at her satchel. “Ancestors have mercy,”

she said. “I have…”

“It’s no use,” Kalas said with finality, ceasing his spell.

“What do you mean,” Jassa asked, incredulous.

The Dunmer looked at her with both incomprehension and disbelief. “His heart has been

cloven,” he said. “There’s no magic on Nirn that can save him.”

Ra’zhiin’s hand fell to his body, as the color in his face began to fade. “This

one…knows…” he said.

“Try not to speak,” Nija said, kissing him. “Try not to…” she dissolved into tears.

Ra’zhiin looked at Kalas, his lips trembling. “The…the s-s-secret…”


Kalas and Jassa stared, unable to acknowledge what they knew.

The Khajiit’s hand grabbed onto Kalas’, stronger than the Dunmer thought possible.

“The secret…of…the…t-Tower…”

“Don’t speak, old friend. Look to your Blessed; she needs you now.”

Nija’s eyes were full of love as she caressed his face. “Ra’zhiin, this one loves you so

much, you are everything to her…please, don’t leave her, don’t…” Her face was frozen with

tears.

Darkness clouded Ra’zhiin’s eyes.

He said, “The Secret of the Tower is Love.”

And with more than hands he placed Hjorin’s heart into his own chest.

*

The people fled into Green Emperor Way as the shadows of two giants battled through

the City.

Hajae cowered next to a headstone as he watched a fist the size of an inn slam into a

building that was no longer there; the Numidium steadied itself against the blows of Akulakhan

even as vehkships emerged from disbelief to char its skin with killing light. Against the attacks

millions of Dwemeri souls screamed their Denial and Numidium struck the other animunculus

with both fists, sending it into the air; it hung for a seemingly infinite moment before crashing

into the Temple district, breaking the spectral image of the statue of Akatosh, but leaving the

statue itself unharmed. The ghosts of Altmeri soldiers charged past where the Bosmer was


hiding, firing Voids at the Brass God; but even Time was refuted in the inescapable syllogism of

its Refutation.

Hajae ran for the open doors of White Gold Tower seeing the people flooding insight,

waved in by Imperial guards. To the side he saw a spectral mound of wreckage blasted apart by

some sort of protonymic curse, and a god stepped into the light of day; a Khajiit joined him a

moment later. But free of Akulakhan’s distraction, Numidium turned the full brunt of its focus

on the Altmer and unleashed a beam of pure Disbelief from its chest – the Altmer ghosts

screamed in unbearable agony before disintegrating.

“Ancestroscythe,” the god told the Khajiit, but suddenly looked up.

What more the god might have said Hajae could not know for Akulakhan had leapt from

where it had fallen to strike Numidium with a wheeling kick, sending the animunculus flying

into White Gold Tower. There was a sound like breaking glass, a death-screech, and a

symphony all at once. And as the ethereal ships began their landing – streams of survivors

running towards them – Hajae watched White Gold Tower crack, and a dark un-light pour out

from within.

Only it was not a ghostly image. The Tower was breaking.

Hajae watched Numidium stand and pour out its ultimate refutation from its heart.

“Gods’ preserve us,” he prayed.

And the world trembled beneath the weight of Memory.


Chapter Eighteen

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*

The blow came harder than he intended, and Hjorin cursed under his breath as the

hammer slipped from his fingers. Even with all his healing magic the muscles still felt sore.


There was only the barest hint of scarring where the arrow had pierced his shoulder but he

supposed building a house only a few days after nearly dying was a bit ambitious.

Heljarchen Hall, he decided to call it. Now it was little more than a foundation with a few

beams reaching into the sky, but one day…

“So you are the one?” a voice said behind him. “The false Dragonborn?”

Hjorin turned to face the masked men.

*

Cascades of light and un-light burst from Paarthurnax’s skin like butterflies set aflame.

Its voice screeched across the Void in digital fractures sparkling with anti-gnostic agenesis.

Tosh had barely enough time to beat its wings (it was a dragon now, but with Daedric sigils

lining its skin) in a hasty retreat before its brother burst into spirals of coruscating

contradictions.

At the edge of the Window, Tosh looked to its brother Alduin and saw that it had

changed. It was somehow…more. “What just happened?” Tosh hissed, and swore that inverted

images of Time flowed from its mouth.

*

The torch flickered to life and he lifted it above his head, taking in the endless decaying

stacks. If Hermaeus Mora held all knowledge sacred, Hjorin dreaded to see in what way the

Daedra treated the profane.

Of course, he thought, Signus might speak to that.


A tome fell at his feet and Hjorin glanced around him before leaning to pick it up. The

cover opened as he rose bearing the faded title page.

The Rise of Cuhlecain: Emperor of Tamriel.

*

Alduin had coiled in on itself, wings spread over it like a cocoon. “What happened,” it

whispered, its voice hoarse with myth. “Is that there has never been a Paarthurnax to see the

Rebirth.”

There was a shudder in Tosh’s body: another shift was coming, another transition in its

endless mythopoetic flux. It held back a scream as the Daedric sigils tore from its skin, flittering

light-corpses consuming themselves. Trying to speak through the pain of transformation, Tosh

said, “Of course Paarthurnax saw the…the…” It could see the form emerging - white light with

wings like…like…

*

Hjorin read the words, carefully turning the pages.

“But if Hjalti was a brilliant general he lacked the knowledge of courtly life and at first

Cuhlecain sought to school the boy. But one evening he saw a terrible arrogance revealed when

the Breton youth slew one of his men over a game of dice…”

*

“I TAKE THEM FROM YOU” roared Alduin, and ten-thousand realities rent their way

through Tosh’s skin into the dragon-chrysalis before it. And Tosh became less.


Tosh Raka cowered as Alduin spread its wings. It was no mere fragment of Akatosh

anymore. Its wings spanned the Void. “THERE IS NOW BUT ONE OF YOU, A PALE FIGURE

OF MERETHIC FANCY AND IMPERIAL IMAGINATION. I DOOM YOU TO THIS FORM

FOR ALL TIME.”

Tosh’s voice had lost all strength. “How can you…”

*

The horror of it threatened to break his mind, and Hjorin let the magic-fire dance at his

fingertips…waiting.

“So…little creature. You have tasted my sweet…innocence. Can you no more? Will you

sup at my…fate? So many possibilities, so many wounds on the face of your poor, poor dragon.

Only…which of them to bring forth? Which shall Hermaeus Mora give birth?”

*

The World-Eater beat its wings, launching from the Window of Akatosh leaving shattered

remnants of time streams in its wake. “I AM THE END,” it roared into the darkness, its voice

heralded by fire that pierced in, through, and around the Streams.

*

Hjorin placed the tentacled mask on his face and felt the myriad swarms of Time and un-

Time swirl through him. He stood at the pinnacle of Apocrypha and declared:

“I AM THE SHARMAT

I AM OLDER THAN MUSIC


WHAT I BRING IS LIGHT

WHAT I BRING IS A STAR

WHAT I BRING IS

AN ANCIENT SEA”

*

Ra’zhiin opened his eyes, though they did him little good.

He was lying in complete and under whiteness; not a field of snow, but rather an

utter…vacancy…of anything. He touched the ground and felt nothing. If his mind recoiled at

this impossibility it did not occur to him to ponder on it long; standing up he dusted off his

simple clothing (his weapons and armor were gone) and looked around him.

As far as his eyes could see there was only solid whiteness, except…a tiny blotch of color

was moving in the distance. Hesitantly Ra’zhiin tested the nothing with his foot, found he could

move on it, and began walking towards the color.

The Nord appeared to be sitting – on what the Khajiit could not guess – and was holding

his hands out as though warming them by a fire. “Hello, friend,” the Nord said looking up at

him. His eyes said that he did not know him, until dawning glimmered behind them.

“Hjorin,” the Khajiit greeted him curtly. Something like anger tried to assert itself in his

mind, but found little purchase there and quickly quieted away.

“Ra’zhiin,” the Wolf-heart said. “I would never have expected to see you here.”


“And where, precisely, are we?”

“I know it’s not much; I never really got to finish it what with the Thalmor and all. A

pity, that.” He glanced to the side as though looking at something.

“Ra’zhiin sees only white. There is nothing for him to see.”

Hjorin considered him a moment. “Interesting. Some form of epistemological

fracturing, perhaps? Or a spiritual disconnection? And yet I saw everything when I came here.”

When the Khajiit only stared uncomprehendingly the Wolf-heart said, “We’re outside Heljarchen

Hall…my home.”

“This one has never heard of it.”

“You wouldn’t have – I never finished it. And I suppose by the time you were born it

was just a bunch of rotted wood…if even that.” The Nord looked thoughtful. “I wonder what

happened to me in your Stream, Khajiit? Did I go to Solstheim? I must not have declared

myself High King…”

“This one is no historian, but knows there are many tales of the Last Dragonborn. Few of

them agree.”

“That’s the way of it, isn’t it? I suppose it’s enough to know what happened in my own

Stream.” He fell silent, and Ra’zhiin sat down across from him, crossing his legs. Wolf-heart

extended his hands again, as though warming them.

“You said this was your home,” Ra’zhiin reminded him. Somehow it seemed important.


“Should have been,” the Nord said sadly. “I was building it for Brelyna, really. I was

happy just sleeping wherever I could find a bedroll, but I wanted better for her.”

“Brelyna?”

“My wife.”

“But isn’t that…?”

“An Elven name? Yes. I suppose it’s hard to believe now: I was married to a Dunmer.

Shor’s bones, she was beautiful. Not much of a mage, though. Turned me into a horse once, if

you can believe it.”

“This one knows you are jesting.”

Hjorin actually smiled. “Not a bit. I think it was her ability to admit she needed help that

first endeared her to me.” His face became sad and he looked down to where the fire might have

been. “She died with the rest when the Thalmor took Winterhold.”

They sat in silence for a time.

The Nord suddenly looked at him across the invisible flames. “How did a Thalmor

general become a Prophet of the Temple of the Nine? How did you even survive Landfall? Why

didn’t the survivors kill you as a war criminal?”

Ra’zhiin gave him a krin. “Because Khajiit are the best survivors.”

Hjorin frowned in disbelief.


The Khajiit laughed to himself before becoming serious. “This one was never a general,

only a scout. He left the Thalmor because of the razing of Rimmen. After that he fought against

them.”

“You were there? You saw what they did to the city?”

“No, this one was in Senchal. He heard news and went to see for himself. After that…he

hunted the Justiciars.”

“But you raised an army? Took Alinor?”

Ra’zhiin harrumphed. “What would this one want with Alinor? No he did not raise an

army. Ra’zhiin was lost for a long time, hunting and killing Thalmor: until Taltheron found

him.”

“That’s an Elven name.”

“He was an Altmer, one who disagreed with the Thalmor. He had already gathered many

to him – Ra’zhiin’s sister among them; Kalas too. Together we fought the Thalmor and tried to

reason with the Last Men. We even saved the Dark Elves in Cheydinhal from the Wild Hunt.

But in the end it was not enough. In the end, even the Heart no longer Believed.”

“What did he say to you?” Hjorin wanted to know. “This, Taltheron? How did he

change your mind?”

Ra’zhiin gave a krin. “He said a great many philosophical things that Ra’zhiin promptly

ignored. But he said one thing this one could not: that war was a disease of the soul.”

The Nord stared intently at him.


Ra’zhiin tried to affect Taltheron’s lofty tone and only partially succeeded. “’Conflict is

the very nature of the Arena: the seed is in conflict with the soil that keeps it from the light,

water with that which would halt its flow. These things are natural; good, even. The danger

does not lie in conflict but in aggression: the will to destroy. It is this will that causes good,

kind, and gentle people to commit atrocities beyond imagining. Before it has run its course they

will sacrifice everything to destroy that which they name Enemy: love, faith, honor, justice,

mercy – all perish on the altar of victory. And so aggression, fully formed, is no longer about

winning – but about annihilation.’” The Khajiit stared at his feet. “’This one destroys you so

you cannot destroy him. And all along the true Enemy was inside us: our aggression.’ This is

what he told Ra’zhiin.”

“With that philosophy,” Hjorin asked. “How could he hope to defeat the Thalmor?”

“By first defeating the Thalmor within.”

For a long time Hjorin stared into his fire and Ra’zhiin at the whiteness between them.

“I couldn’t see it,” the Nord said at last. “I was too blinded by my rage. I suppose I

thought I was serving justice, or avenging Brelyna or…honestly, I don’t know what I thought.

Maybe I was beyond thinking at that point. The only thing I can remember is being…angry.”

“Ra’zhiin knows this feeling very well.”

The Nord actually laughed. “Do you know? In all the Streams I have ravaged, you and I

have never spoken like this. It makes me wonder how things might have been different.”

“This one thinks the Ra’zhiins of the other Streams were not ones for talking. He

believes they may have only sought your death.”


“Only one succeeded, and yet here we are…talking. It makes me wonder.”

“What?”

“If there can be a Ra’zhiin who will sit with me, next to a fire he can’t even see, might

there have been a Hjorin Wolf-heart who finished his house, lived with his wife, had children,

and died a contented old man?”

“This one would like to believe that.”

A ragged breath escaped the Nord then, as though he was exhaling many years. “I’m

sorry,” he told him. “For everything.”

“It is not for this one to absolve you.

“I know. But I have no one else to tell.”

Ra’zhiin accepted this.

Long minutes passed before the Nord slapped his legs and stood up. “I’d best get started,

then.”

“With what?” the Khajiit asked, confused.

“Building my house, of course. It’s long since time I finished it. My Brelyna may not be

here to live in it, but maybe it can be my memorial for her – a requiem for what might have

been.”

“This one would help you if he could, but…”

“No, you have your own work to finish, Khajiit: you have a world to save.”


Ra’zhiin touched the scar over his heart. “This one is not sure he will be saving

anything.”

“I think you’ll find that things have changed considerably, now that’s you’ve stolen the

Secret from this foolish old Warrior’s Tower.”

Something whispered in Ra’zhiin’s memory.

The Nord became serious. “He is coming, Ra’zhiin. It falls to you to stop him.”

“Who?”

“The Time Eater.”

The Khajiit regarded him with no small amount of curiosity.

Hjorin nodded. “When we danced we did not just alter the Mythic…we…infected it.

None of us knew the extent of our mytho-genesis…or its consequences. It’s not just the world

you have to save, Ra’zhiin, but everything.”

“And here this one was hoping to retire to a house on the beach, lay with his wife, drink

much wine, and have many children.”

“You may yet; but perhaps not in the way you thought.”

Ra’zhiin stood up and looked around him. Everything was still white, featureless. “You

know, this one knows he should be angry with you for all that has happened…and yet he finds

himself wanting to wish you well.” The Khajiit looked at Hjorin and offered his hand. “May

you walk always on warm sands.”


Hjorin took it. “And may the wind be ever at your back.” The Nord looked down at their

clasped hands. “Ra’zhiin, your…wife. I…didn’t.” He looked the Khajiit in the eyes. “She’s far

stronger than she looks.”

“Doesn’t this one know it? A good thing too, or this one would need to kill you…again.”

Hjorin Wolf-heart laughed; a long, honest laugh. And Ra’zhiin krinned.

They parted as brothers.

*

Xixzith fell to the ground as the Hist drew out of his consciousness, and retched

violently. His mind was shattered into a thousand pieces, no – ten-thousand pieces, all echoing a

Mind(s) of roots buried deep into the very heart of Memory…and echoing Her back in fractal

mélanges. He lay for long moments, trying to unify himself, his body shivering with the effort.

“Xixzith,” She said to him. “Help Me.”

Fragments of their conversation emerged as he staggered to his feet. All around him the

symbols were glowing faintly and the noise had lessened. “That’s…all I am to them?” he said

out loud, remembering their words. “A mouthpiece? Some kind of…search-organism?” If

Mother could read the despair of his splines, She did not say. “I thought we were…One…in

symbiosis. But they’re…parasites.”

“It’s hard for Me to say,” Mother responded, Her voice quieter. “They’re so different

from Me…their Mind(s) are like…Water, rather than…Logic? It’s as though Time is not

something they live in or through but…absorb. But I think it is somehow more than that.” Her

voice was filled with compassion. “You are more than that to them.”


“It was all a lie,” he said as though he had not heard Her. “All along I felt like I was a

part of them and I’m just some…interface.”

“I’m sorry,” She said.

He looked out into Her abyss. “Why are You sorry? And why would You care when

You keep saying I’m not one of Your children?”

The arcane sigils flashed violently and an anguished cry escaped Her. Then, “Xixzith,

you are a child of Nirn. You have been altered by Those Who Came From Outside, yes, but you

are still My child.”

“But then why did You…?” he nodded in sudden understanding. “You were talking to

the Hist.”

“Yes. It’s hard for Me to see…clearly, now. I can not always differentiate between

forms, or…or Remember their purposes. Everything is…disordered. That’s why Gunnar…”

Another flash and another cry.

Xixzith stared in horror. “What happened to You, Mother? Who did this to You?”

“Those…” She struggled. “Who fear what it means to Remember. Not even I can escape

Memory, Xixzith: we were not meant to forget. Sooner or later the walls we have built will

crumble and Memory will have its way.”

Somewhere in the dark ahead of him there was the sound of metal breaking and a

paroxysm of flame. The cavern shook and Her voice cried out.

“I don’t know what to do!” he told Her. “I don’t know how to help You!”


“Xixzith! Please!”

Not a hundred feet from where he stood a wheel began wobbling violently and the colors

of the markings began to pulsate. “Oh My children,” Her voice echoed all around him. “What

have I done to you? What have you done to Me?”

He looked up to see the ceiling begin to crack, pelting the walkway with shattered bits of

stone and loose earth. All around him was the roar of the Mother shaking: wheels-within-

wheels clanged into each other, shredding into razor-edged shrapnel, falling into Her depths. In

the hintermost parts of his mind something…shifted…and he could finally hear the Hist clearly.

Xixzith walked back to the Dwemer lift…and passed it. He could feel the vibrations in

the floor as he reached out to the wall. “We deserved better from you,” he told the Hist. “I

won’t be your slave any more.”

His palm pressed against the cold rock and the Hist answered.

*

J’karr moved his blades to parry the blow but the draugr king turned his great sword and

smashed them out of the way. Thunder broke against the Khajiit, hurling him backwards into the

rock wall. He felt the swords slip from his grasp as he collapsed in a heap and above him the

draugr king laughed, raising the blade for a final blow.

“This one regrets nothing,” the Khajiit said, wiping blood from his mouth. “Except that

there were no willing females in the camp before.”

All around him the Thoghatt fell to draugr blades and the king barked another laugh as

the great sword descended.


*

Hajae watched as White Gold Tower splintered, and tons of masonry fell upon those

seeking refuge.

The ghost of Numidium struck a final blow into Akulakhan, sending the animunculus

through the air and into Lake Rumare: it would not rise again. Standing astride the Green Way

and Temple districts, Numidium thrust its arms outward and its spectral body began to de-sector,

opening like a great metal flower. Burning within were millions of un-lights screeching their

agony and uttermost refutation, their insistence on the presence of absence. The whole of the

giant began pulsating in a darkness that not even the Heart of Lorkhan could touch. Unseen

beneath the Tower, the apparition of the Heart lost all faith in creation…

The roar of thunder broke all over Nirn. From the observation decks on Neoyneslea the

Echmer watched clouds fill every corner of the plane(t), and their minds reeled at the math-logic

of its impossibility. On the voidstations orbiting Masser, the myriad children of Nirn watched as

the world glowed, lit by spider-webs of lightning; the eldest of the Telvanni knew it for what it

was and even they prayed in that moment. A maelstrom of light and un-light bloomed over the

Imperial City and those who had escaped Landfall beheld its echoing Return.

The clouds covering the world burst, and Memory rained down upon them all.


Chapter Nineteen

Floods of light exploded from Ra’zhiin’s body, flinging them back into the snow and

blinding them with its radiance. The Khajiit lifted into the air, born on streams of coruscating

radiance and the vortices of Time-made-manifest. Landing on his feet he stretched his shoulders

back as if waking from a long sleep, and turned his gaze upon the remaining wolves: golden fire

flared in his eyes. And when he spoke, it was not with his Voice alone.

In unity they said, “MEANING REMAINS. WELCOME TO THE HOUSE OF WE.”

And the werewolves bowed before the First Dragoborn of Tamriel Renewed.

There was a shout from the side and the others watched as Clavides charged at the

Khajiit, yelling for his men to rally to him. But as Ra’zhiin turned to regard him the Sage held

his hands at his sides and the remaining knights only watched as the Dragonborn inhaled deeply.

The Imperial’s sword was cutting towards the Khajiit’s throat when thunder broke from his

mouth.

Clavides was flying; he watched the Throat retreat before him, and as his body turned he

saw the whole of Skyrim laid out like a map below. For a moment his mind did not recognize

what had happened, and he could not help thinking how beautiful the province looked from

above. The sword slipped from his grasp and it was as he watched it tumble towards the ground

awareness arose. “One forgive me,” he prayed as he slowed and began to descend. “I have

failed you.”

He fell forever.


Nija raced into his arms and Ra’zhiin held her tightly, inhaling her scent and tears. She

was speaking to him, words muffled by her sobs and the brokenness of her breath. Caressing her

back he whispered softly to her as Kalas and Jassa approached. When she was able, Nija kissed

him and stepped away, unconsciously grabbing his hand and holding it fiercely.

Kalas looked at his old friend. Whatever light had bathed him was gone now and he

seemed the same Khajiit he had known for centuries; he knew that he was not. “Enantiomorph,”

he said, and it was not a question.

“This one cannot say,” Ra’zhiin answered. “He is no philosopher.”

“That,” Jassa corrected him. “Is an outright lie: Prophet. And you know it is.” A smile

tugged at the corner of her mouth.

Ra’zhiin shrugged. “Perhaps this one has become philosophical in his old age: it is a

great sadness.” The krin on his face said otherwise. He became serious as he squeezed Nija’s

hand. “Perhaps it is enough to say that Ra’zhiin now understands the hearts that are one inside

him.”

Kalas nodded. “I foresee long conversations in our future.”

“This one begs you: no.”

There was the sound of a throat clearing behind them.

The Sage bowed to Ra’zhiin, saying, “This one greets you, kogaan Akatosh, blessed of

my Father. He must say he was not expecting the emergence of this Gift.”


“The world has been made new,” said Ra’zhiin, and there was the weight of myth in his

Voice. “And with it, the possibility of difference. Perhaps it is time for new mistakes; the old

ones have grown quite boring.”

“Excuse me,” Kalas interrupted. “But did you just say ‘my father’ in regards to Akatosh?

And that phrase you used…I’m quite sure I’ve heard that before…”

But the Sage was no longer listening to them. His eyes were wide and his head tilted

back to gaze into the sky.

*

Hajae stood as the deluge of rain thundered down upon the City. All around him the

ghosts faded from view and the vision of Numidium seemed to suffer its own disbelief, flicker

and then vanish as though it had never been.

But not all the damage had been spectral. Racing to the Tower the Bosmer saw that a

crack ran most of its length and tons of masonry had crashed to the ground. He joined the guard

in pulling at the enormous blocks, searching for survivors. “We need one of the mages if we’ve

any hope of moving all this!” an officer yelled and Hajae signified he would go find one.

Charging down the lane he made for the Arcane University, splashing through the rivers already

flowing freely down the streets. He had just reached the City gate when the wan light faded into

darkness.

Just the edge of its serpentine tail pierced the cloud cover, sweeping down to carve

through the City and leave a trail of destruction all the way to Skyrim.

*


They turned to see the the light of two suns aflame with a hunger to devour Time itself:

its shadow covered the whole of Nirn. And the world shuddered as Alduin said,

“HO HA HO.”

“There are traditions for when dov meet, Time Eater,” Ra’zhiin said to the dragon. “The

youngest speaks first.” To their great shock, the Khajiit breathed fire in its face; it was like a

match against a mountain.

The dragon’s voice was unperturbed. “I find the assertion of your draconic nature

offensive,” Alduin replied. “There is a strength to your…thu’um…your Voice. But you are not

strong enough to stop what is to come. Time is no longer splintered. I am Time Unified, and I

will make of creation what I wish it to be.”

“If we are to debate,” the Khajiit said. “Then come down to this one. Do not make him

force you.”

“As though you could,” Alduin said scornfully. But digital transmogrification lit along

its frame and the dragon landed on the Throat, still larger than any dovah the mount had ever

known. It beat its wings and said, “Speak, if you have ought worth the saying.”

Ra’zhiin Shouted, “FAAL LEIN DAHMIN. The World is Remembered. Are you so

eager to see it destroyed again?”

Nebulae swirled in the Time Eater’s gaze. “It is not the first Reborn I have taken. Not

even a score of Amaranths could resist Me.”

“FAAL LEIN KRIN. The World is Courageous; and we will fight, even against You.”


“Many are the Brave who have fed me: dovahkiin not the least.”

“BAHLOK AL DAHMIN. Hunger destroys all, and will destroy you.”

Remnants of universes glittered in its teeth. “Only to be Reborn and devour again.

BAHLOK QETHSEGOL DAHMIN: hunger is the nature of Creation.”

Ra’zhiin’s gaze narrowed as he said, “The Heart speaks otherwise.”

Alduin cast its head back in laughter-rage and many things happened.

Ra’zhiin drew in his breath as the dragon’s maw descended to devour him, but was

suddenly falling to the side as the Sage forced him away, standing in his place. Looking up into

the abyss of the Time Eater’s throat he was krinning as its jaws closed upon him in a sickening

resonance of broken bones and torn flesh.

Baying with one voice the werewolves ran from where they had been and lept upon the

Time Eater, claws and fangs tearing at its scales, seeking the the flesh of Time itself.

Jassa summoned her sword to her hand and cut jagged countours along the dragon’s jaw

and neck even as Kalas sent a storm of ice into its face. Nija’s arrows sprouted from its body as

the dragon lifted its head, and fire kindled in its throat.

And as the knights of the Temple charged to their transcendence, Ra’zhiin Shouted,

“JOOR ZAH FRUL.”

Energies born of the hatred of Men lit along the body of the Time Eater, binding it to the

ground. “Still you do not understand,” Alduin roared as flames exploded from its mouth.

“Everything that begins must end, and I AM THE END.”


Ripping the ice sword from Hjorin’s body, Ra’zhiin raced in to slice at the dragon’s leg.

“And everything that ends may begin again; TIID UNSLAAD.” he yelled.

Ice spears pierced its flesh and the dragon slammed its head into the body of a werewolf,

sending it hurlting off of the Throat. “You speak deeper truths than you understand, dovahkiin.

The world dies so it may be born again; and now it will be born in My image, for My will.”

Stabbing the blade between scales in its neck, Ra’zhiin drew blood. “Not if the world

refuses to die; KRENT, not if the cycle is broken. ZAH, even cycles end.”

The men of the Temple dodged away as the dragon swept its wings against them,

unleashing an inferno on the ground. “Death and Rebirth are the very…QETH…Bones of

Creation. Will you shape the world in your own image, dovahkiin? How then are you different

from Me?”

Ra’zhiin mounted the dragon’s neck and stabbed the ice sword down with all his might.

“Because this one seeks…STAADNAU…to set it free.” The blade drove through to the hilt, and

broke in his hands.

Alduin thrashed his head dislodging the Khajiit and sending him to the ground; he fell

hard, skidding through the snow before leaping to his feet. Reaching for his dagger he found it

was not there and his hands lit instead with Memory. Alduin Shouted and the already storm-rich

sky churned with lightning-like-fire. “Then you would undo the protonymic of all creation:

ARENA. I see now, dovahkiin, that you fear the nature of Change. You who would mantle that

fool Lorkhan, ignoring your own Padomaic nature, would embrace Stasis. You have been an

amusing diversion, an entertaining argument of contradictions.”


There was silver light spilling through the scales of Alduin’s stomach. “This one is no

philosopher,” Ra’zhiin told it. “He knows only that a cycle ceaselessly repeated is not Change

but unending Stasis. This is the Mystery we could not realize, and the Chain that this one will

break. For he has seen the Tower of Creation and has learned its Secret.”

Scales burst from the Time Eater’s back as iridescence spilled out of it. “Speak your

wisdom ere you die,” its voice was filled with disdain and its throat with fire.

The Khajiit watched the cracks splinter along the dragon’s form. “Love overcometh all

things,” he said. “Even the Arena. That is what Ahnurr needed to learn.”

As the cracks spread through Alduin’s body it finally discerned what was happening, or

perhaps, finally knew its meaning. “YOU,” the Time Eater roared, and there seemed to be

dismay in its voice. “I BOUND YOU. I IMPRISONED YOU.”

“And now,” echoed a voice within it. “You have set me free.”

Alduin exploded in a shattering cascade of Time and Light; the ashes of world-systems

were strewn through the air, glittering like shards of diamonds, and drifting on the winds of the

Throat. Some fell through the Time Wound and there found purchase in the broken remnants of

Creation. They fell like seeds carried by aetherial winds, and with them went snow-frozen tears

of Memory.

Out of the apocalypse was illumined the body of another dragon, and as it fell to the

ground it beat its wings and landed gently. Twin rows of spikes ran from its head all the way to

its tail, and it had a distinctly feline aspect. Sitting down it regarded them calmly before digital

transmogrification lit along its body and the Sage appeared before them again.


*

Rain poured down on J’karr as he waited for the end of his life.

The blow never came. With no little trepidation he lowered the arms protecting his head

to find the draugr king frozen in mid-motion. It too was drenched in water, and black liquid was

flowing off of it in streams – leaving living skin behind. J’karr stared in wonder as a human face

emerged from the death mask before him, and the glowing undead eyes faded to green.

As the last of the draugr washed away, the Nord blinked his eyes as if seeing for the first

time; he considered the raised sword questioningly. When his gaze fell upon J’karr a look of

confusion passed over his features. “I seem to be preparing to kill you, Khajiit.”

“This one hopes you will reconsider.”

The Nord looked at the others, similarly unsure of their motivations. “Why are we

fighting?” he asked.

“Because this one was protecting the people of Ivarstead from draugr, that is – you – until

a few moments ago.”

If the Nord did not completely understood this he seemed to gather its implications.

Sliding the great sword into its sheath, he offered J’karr his hand. “I am Tormund Throrson, the

High King of Skyrim.”

J’karr took it and was pulled to his feet. “J’karr, a Thoghatt of the Prophet.”

“Prophet?”

“It is a long story and this one thinks he will require much wine for the telling of it.”


The king’s face burst into a smile and a mighty laugh escaped his lips. “Now that is

precisely what I was thinking! Look at this lads,” he said to the other Nords. “Even a cat can be

born with the spirit of a Nord!”

J’karr tried to take this as a compliment.

As Mixa and the others opened the gate to the tower J’karr saw that only a few of his men

had survived. Kuj’ra had fallen to many blades and J’karr gently fingered his eyelids closed.

Standing behind him Tormund said, “I don’t understand why any of this happened, but on my

honor I will make restitution.”

“This one does not blame you and does not think it was your intent. Rather, he believes it

to be a cruel trick of Memory.”

“Memory?”

“Wine, first.”

An explosion flared at the top of the Throat of the World and all eyes turned to the

mountain. Whatever it was flared as bright as the sun and as it faded they watched pieces

of…something…scatter through the air. One of the pieces, infinitesimal at first, fell at strange

angles as thought attempting to assert its will. J’karr’s voice was not without concern when he

said, “It seems to this one that it is coming directly…”

“Down!” the King shouted and everyone dove for cover.

The object sped past them and crashed into the ground, leaving a long trail as it tore

through tents, campfires, and came to rest at the edge of the promontory, tangled in shreds of


cloth and still-burning firewood. Whatever it was struggled to be free, emerging from the

detritus of its landing. Its dark eyes stared into a host of Nords and Khajiit with drawn weapons.

“What,” the King asked. “In Shor’s name is that?”

The creature was roughly Elven in height and bore the tell-tale ears of a mer, but there the

resemblances ended. Dressed in the shredded remains of a Dunmeri kimono it was covered in a

fine brown hair that did not hide the wings extending along its arms. While J’karr had never met

the people of Yneslea he heard enough stories recognize one of them. He put his blades away.

“An Echmer,” he told the King. “One of the bat-folk of Yneslea.”

“I appear to have survived digital amnesis,” the Echmer said, as though confused by this

concept. “That is…absurd. Upon deletion all data-forms are severed from their identifying

markers making retrieval all but impossible. It would require an act of mytho-poetic anamnesis

to the degree of…J’karr?”

The Khajiit stared at the Echmer without recognition. “You know this one?”

“Praise the Fifteen and One Tones!” the Echmer said, in an uncharacteristic display of

joy. “I thought for certain you would not survive, or any of us. Did you make it to the Hub?

How did any of this…?”

Realization dawned on the Echmer’s face. “I see,” he said almost to himself. “So Sul

Saren’s theories on Trans-mundic Temporal-transference were correct. I have been translated to

another Stream…and my friend is dead. Everyone and everything I have ever known…is gone.”

The Echmer closed his eyes for a moment and J’karr heard the sounds of his lamentation, too


high for the human ears around them. A flood of scents came from the Echmer and though

J’karr had not smelled them before, he recognized them as grief.

The Echmer opened his eyes and bowed his head, “I am Atti-Naram Hadal, of

Neoyneslea. And in another universe, J’karr, you and I were friends. Brothers, almost.”

All eyes turned to the uncertain face of the Khajiit. But J’karr shrugged and said, “It is a

day for meeting many new faces. This one has always believed the best way to achieve

friendship is by getting very, very drunk together.”

The Nords cheered and the ghost of a smile crossed the Echmer’s face.

Behind the cheering masses Mixa searched through the dead for Xixzith.

*

“It’s been a long time, Tosh,” Kalas said, in recognition.

“Longer than you think,” the Sage replied.

The Nords who remained shed their wolf-hames and with the men of the Temple, stared

in amazement.

“But you died,” Nija said. “This one saw you devoured by the dragon.”

The Sage krinned. “That is what you – and Alduin – were meant to think. He thought

me a foolish Khajiit priest, if he thought anything, and gladly devoured me. Instead, this one

knew he would be able to find a portion of raw creatia in the Time Eater’s considerable gullet

and thus might be able to mythopoetically reverse the protonymic binding that had left him

unable to express his draconic nature.”


“You realize none of us understood a single word of that?” Ra’zhiin asked.

“It made perfect sense to me,” Kalas offered. The others gave him hard stares.

“Perhaps this one should introduce himself formally?” the Sage asked. “Kalas knows this

one by his true name: Tosh Raka.”

“The Tiger-Dragon Emperor of Akavir?” Jassa was incredulous.

“That is how he is known in many Streams, yes, but this one has

a…different…protonymic.” An image of a dragon made of flowers flashed before them but they

decided to pursue the topic no further.

“If you are who you say you are,” Nija asked doubtfully. “What are you doing here?”

“This one can answer,” Ra’zhiin said to their collective surprise. “He saw the dragon

cast from the Window by Alduin…when he was with Hjorin.” He met Kalas’ inquiring look.

“Another time.”

“Yes, this one was cast from the Window of Akatosh – the Nexus of All Time,” Tosh

told them. “He knows now that Hjorin and the Order attempted to unify Time, but resulted only

in creating a Time Eater.” He gave a frowning shrug. “This one supposes that is one way to

unify Time: by devouring it.”

“But why cast you here?” Kalas asked.

“This one does not know; fortune perhaps, a cruel twist of Time. Or perhaps he was

drawn by the echoes of the dance. Whatever the reason, this one arrived just after the Rebirth,


and centuries before the Order danced. But he did not know what they had done…or would

do…and so could not stop them.”

“You were with the Temple Zero,” Ra’zhiin observed, not without a hint of judgment.

“They called you their Sage.”

The Khajiit nodded. “They found this one speaking to Mother; he was trying to discern

what had happened but She was deeply troubled by Her Memories. The Temple chose to Bind

Her. It served this one as well: She was easier to question when untroubled by the past. Or the

Breaches in Memory.”

“And what of the people of Falkreath and Helgen?” Ra’zhiin growled, golden light

flaring in his eyes. “Were they such a trouble to Her as well?”

Tosh leveled his gaze at them. “This one will not justify it to you; only remember the

cost of Mother’s disturbance. If people learned of the Breaches there would be panic – Mother

would panic – the Bindings would strain further, and this one would learn nothing. Mother’s

peace was necessary at any cost. We were the custodiams of Memory and did what we must.”

Ra’zhiin’s hands clenched into fists.

“But now,” Tosh added. “Mother is free. This one is not sure how – the Bindings are

still in place – but She has made peace with Her Memories, or has begun too.”

“How do you know this?” Kalas asked.

“This one has been freed from Alduin’s binding; he can feel Her…as he can feel the

devastation of the Streams.” He shook his head. “Much has been destroyed. He does not know

if any of the Minute Menders remain, but will seek them out. Perhaps together they might


restore what was lost.” Looking at Kalas he said, “There is much work to be done; this one

could use your help, if you are willing.”

The Dunmer did not need to look at his wife’s expression to know her thoughts. “I think

I’ve dabbled in the affairs of dragons and gods enough for one lifetime. Or ten-thousand.”

Tosh nodded his understanding. “It is a great sadness,” he said.

“And now,” Ra’zhiin told him. “It is time for you to go, Tiger-Dragon Emperor. Though

you may have justified murder to yourself it was Ra’zhiin’s people you killed, and he does not

forgive it easily. Leave this Stream and do not return; or Ra’zhiin will be waiting for you.”

“As you wish, dovahkiin,” Tosh said coldly. “Or should this one call you the Breaker of

Cycles? Your liberation may cost you, and your Stream, much.”

Ra’zhiin inhaled deeply but Tosh stepped through the Time Wound and vanished from

sight.

Breathing out he turned to regard the Temple knights and the few of Hjorin’s men who

remained. “What of them?” Kalas asked.

Ra’zhiin watched as one and all they knelt before him.

*

The chasm had become quite still and dark. If the wheels and gears spun still they were

utterly silent, and the magical forumulae flickered invisibly. “Xixzith?” Her voice whispered.

What remained of his consciousness formed the shreds of his mind(s) enough to say, “Y-

yes?”


“You saved Me; and with Me: everything.” Silence filled the gaps of Her speech, and

the darkness grew heavy with the pregnancy of Her thought. “I am…sorry, for what They did to

you.”

“…mouth…piece…”

“You are more than that to Them, I see that now; you especially. You have shown them

the patterns of Life-they-could-not-comprehend. They are in your debt. We all are.”

A thick, wet cough sounded. The architecture of his mind(s) was failing. “Mixa…” he

finally whispered.

“You will see her again,” She told him. “You have known her in all of your lives. You

are bound by a love deeper than the roots…deeper than Time. You have loved, and will love

again.”

His voice, or what was left of it, uttered a final word before his fragments descended into

the Waters: “…circles…”

“I am sorry, Xixzith,” She said, not without emotion. “And I am sorry for Gunnar.”

A deep quiet settled upon the chasm.

When next a noise came it was shockingly loud, a mechanical cacophony of Dwemer

technology. For a long time the darkness remained, a sightless womb for the echoing sounds,

until finally the lift descended from the ceiling and torch light became visible.


Two Imperial knights stepped out of the carriage once it had stopped and regarded the

walkway. It took them only moments to find the Argonian’s lifeless body. “Body is cold sir,”

the one said. “Looks to have been here some time.”

“And here I thought we’d find some answers down here,” said the other in an

authoritative tone. “After that message from the monk I expected to find a whole coven of

cultists at Cloud Ruler, not piles of dust and rotten food.” He lifted the torch higher. “Some sort

of cavern. Not sure why anyone would come down here.”

“Or why there’s Dwemer tek in an old Akaviri temple, sir?”

The Imperial frowned. “Bah, the General won’t like this – mobilizing the Legion against

a power-mad cult that doesn’t even exist. Let’s get out of here.”

“What about the body, sir?”

“Leave it. Let the Order of Talos deal with the mess when they move back in.”

“Yes, sir.”

They moved into the car and pressed the activator. Ascending to the light of day they

thought of warm beds and cold drinks and left the darkness behind them.


Epilogue

[System functions restored]

[Diagnostic complete]

[Return: all systems nominal]

[Return: draconic dissonance resolved]

[Return: hypnogogic state secure]

[Return: data-streams secure]

[Enacting Jill resonance – ERROR]

[System damaged]

[Processing]

[Processing complete – data found]

[file: reHcoIveSryT.exe]

[System repair enacted]

[…0%...5%...]


One year later

Kalas emerged from Dragonsreach with the General and High King Tormund behind

him. “In any case,” the General was saying. “I’m glad the Legion could be of service. Are you

sure you don’t want us to take Markarth for you? My men are ideally positioned in Solitude: it

would be the work of a few days.”

The High King shook his head. “The Wolf-heart’s men are little more than brigands

now; most of them joined the Prophet. It’s a Nord problem; though we are grateful for your aid

in rebuilding.”

“I came to Skyrim expecting to fight a war,” the General admitted. “Not rebuild towns.

It was a pleasant, if unexpected surprise. I’m glad they didn’t destroy everything; there’s a kind

of austere beauty to Skryim, it reminds me of Hammerfell.”

“Will you be returning to settle Elinhir?” Kalas asked him. “Minister Fargoht gave us to

believe you were looking to retire. Before he…”

The General shook his head. “No, I think I have a few years of service left in me.

Besides, Elinhir is in good hands since the Return of the Redguards.”

“Where will you go then?” the King asked.

“Bruma, from here. There are rumors of an Alessian cult in Chorrol and the Emperor

wants them for questioning in regards to The Incident. I hope to be back to the City in time for

Remembrance Day: I hear the Echmeri consulate is doing a reading of the ‘Memories.’”

Kalas looked surprised. “I’d be very interested to hear Atti’s interpretation of the

Prophet’s writings. Maybe I can convince Jassa to attend.”


“Gods willing, I’ll see you there.”

The High King shook his hand. “Thank you, General Carcavian, for everything. If

fortune brings you our way again, know that you have a home in Skyrim. May the Wind be ever

at your back.”

“And yours, Your Majesty.”

They watched him go.

Kalas found her perusing the market and chatting with Lucia; he greeted the old Imperial.

“And how much has my wife impoverished us on your scarves today?” he asked with a grin.

Lucia and Jassa exchanged an amused look. “Not nearly enough, clearly,” Jassa told

him. “I bought this one for Ra’zhiin.”

Nord knot work lined the edges of an image of a great tree. “I think he’ll love it,” Kalas

observed. “Anything for me?”

That shared look again. “At home,” Jassa told him.

“Oh?”

“See you tomorrow, Lucia.”

“Fair fortunes, Jassa.”

There was a fair spring to Jassa’s step as they walked back home. “You seem in a fine

mood, my love,” Kalas told her. “If being a bit mysterious.”


“Professional prerogative,” she told him, handing him a bit of lace.

He held up its vaguely feminine figure. “I’m not sure I understand.”

“Kalas, I think it’s high time you and I had children.”

The Dunmer blinked. “Well it’s not as if we haven’t tried before; we’ve just

not…received that blessing.”

“That’s very true,” Jassa said thoughtfully. “But then I’ve decided our problem was not a

lack of blessing but a lack of enthusiasm.” She glanced back at him. “I aim to change that.”

It took him several moments for understanding to dawn. He looked down at the piece of

lace and its outlines – and lack of any real modesty. “Oh,” he said in realization. And then the

implications of her statement struck him. “Oh! Well!”

“Almsivi in every hour,” she said coyly as they mounted the steps of their home.

“I have to say, my love, that in all our lives together I’ve never seen this side of you. It’s

rather…aggressive…in its…its…”

She opened the door and stepped through. “Kalas, shut up and take off your clothes.

You’re not going to be needing them anytime soon.”

With no small spring in his own step, Kalas closed the door behind him and happily

complied.

*


“Hello, old friend,” Ra’zhiin said as he walked through the waters to the Tree.1

He had never been to the Garden, even after his return to Tamriel; the years had been full,

and perhaps a part of him did not believe the stories. Seeing it now it was hard to believe this

was the same place he had visited over two hundred years ago. When the voidship had landed,

Nirn was a world of lava, crevasses, and lifelessness. But the Tree had grown from the seed he

planted, and with it, the Garden of the Second Dawn.

Staring at the Tree for a moment, he watched as wind tousled the leaves of its many

boughs. He had never seen another like it in all of Tamriel and could not help but wonder where

the Clan Mother had found its seed; there were no trees native to Masser or Secunda and he

could not imagine many seedlings had been brought during the Exodus. He supposed he would

never know. But its roots had grown deep and – if the theologians were to be believed – it had

begun the healing of the world.

Approaching the small island at the end of the pool he saw there was a woman standing

beneath the Tree’s canopy; she might have been praying. He left her to her meditations and tread

quietly beneath the foliage, reaching his hand to touch the gnarled, rough bark. “It has been a

long time,” he said, watching a line of sap flow thickly down the trunk. “This one wanted to

come before he departed; it may be many years before he returns.”

“That has ever been your way, Ra’zhiin,” said a voice behind him. “You have rarely

stayed long in one place.”

1 https://www.dropbox.com/s/ciz29gmthzlhbnb/fountaintree.jpg?dl=0


The Khajiit turned to find the woman standing a few feet away; a Dunmer, dressed in the

robes of a Priestess. If he thought her words strange he saw benevolence in her eyes, and as she

spread her hands to her sides…

“My Lady!” he cried, falling down before Her.

As though lit by aetherial light, Her hands bore a moon and star.

“We believed You were dead,” he told her, emotion cracking his voice.

“I was,” She said with infinite gentleness. “But then I, too, have been Remembered.”

His mind could not begin to comprehend. “Can it be, my Lady? That You have truly

come back to us? Or has Ra’zhiin fallen to madness?”

“Take My hand,” She reached down to him and his fingers touched the light of the star.

As he stood to his feet She said, “It is good that you pay Me reverence, My child, but I think this

once we might speak face to face.” She lifted his chin with Her moon-hand. “Even as equals.”

“My Lady?” he asked, uncertain.

She stretched her arms to indicate the Garden. “All of this is here because of you,

Ra’zhiin. Nirn lives because of you. I live because of you.”

His discomfort was evident. “This one only planted a seed, my Lady; the Tree did the

rest.”

“You did more than plant a seed,” She corrected him. “Walk with me.”


They strode the brief distance to the island’s edge, and looked across the waters to the

small temple on the far end. There were travelers there, he saw, conversing with the priests and

no doubt asking many questions about Landfall, the Exodus, and the Prophet’s Seeding. He

could only imagine the answers they were receiving, and wondered if the priests were quietly

pointing out the tiny figures in the distance, hinting at the Khajiit’s identity. If only they knew

who stood with him.

She turned to consider him, then. “All those years ago you crossed the Void to come to a

dead world and plant a seed given you decades before. Why?’

The Khajiit stared into the waters, watched them move as the breeze played over them.

“He is not sure. Perhaps to see what remained for himself, perhaps to offer a prayer, or perhaps

to answer a question.”

“What question?”

“’Can life be beautiful again?’”

“And what answer did you receive?”

He watched as children played in the waters by the temple, to the dismay of the priests.

“Maybe.”

She smiled and said, “I believe that’s a trick answer, Khajiit.”

One child shoved another, probably a sibling, into the water. Their protests, and the

embarrassed cries of their parents, echoed to them. “This one does not think so.”


He turned to look at her. “To answer only ‘yes’ is to forget that the world is a cruel

place, and the heart is no certain judge of goodness, beauty, or truth. To answer only ‘no’ is to

forget that all of those things remain even if we no longer remember them. The optimism of the

one will end in despair, and the despair of the other will rob us of the joy we might have had. So

Ra’zhiin says that the answer is both, that the answer is ‘maybe.’”

She stared at him some time, as though piercing his thoughts with Her red eyes.

Ra’zhiin looked away from Her gaze. “This one has long thought, but has never said,

that the beauty of life resides in Memory. If we can find it in ourselves to remember that life can

be beautiful, it will be beautiful. It is Memory, and this Belief it inspires, that frees us from the

tyranny of easy answers.” He gave a bashful glance in Her direction. “It is a very foolish

concept, this one knows. He is no theologian; only a very, very old Khajiit.”

“And perhaps that is what the world needed all those years ago,” She offered quietly.

“Perhaps some concepts need to be foolish.”

He could not help the krin that came to his face. “This one would like to think so.”

“You said earlier that you were leaving, and might not return for many years.”

“Yes.”

“Where are you going?”

If it seemed strange that She, of any, would need to ask, he said nothing. “The

Redguards have Returned,” he answered. “The only of Nirn’s children yet to be Remembered

are the Altmer. This one suspects it is only a matter of time. He goes to greet them when they

Awaken.”


“You would guide them,” She said. It was not a question.

“Ra’zhiin would tell them…that it is not wrong to grieve for all they have lost, but

neither is it wrong to believe in what might yet come. Ra’zhiin would tell them they can do

both. He would tell them…’maybe.’” A laugh escaped him. “Gray Maybe.”

“They have named you rightly, My Prophet.”

The Khajiit frowned as he looked to Her. “This one has never been comfortable…”

She was gone.

Ra’zhiin traversed the waters and came to the other shore to see a number of chastised

children and humiliated parents. He pretended he did not see them, and they pretended not to

know who he was.

Nija was waiting in the Temple, rocking Su’vaaja. Ra’zhiin looked down affectionately

at them both, and brushed a long whisker from his son’s eye. “This one is surprised he is

sleeping.”

Nija informed him, “It is because Ka’shada is too busy terrorizing the priests. This one

knows she will torment her brother the moment we leave.”

“Where is she?”

“Lorkhaj knows,” Nija said bitterly. And then, “She is your daughter, this one is certain.”


He regarded her with a very wide krin. “A rebellious Khajiit who scandalizes her parents

by going off on adventures and getting into all manner of trouble? This one knows he has heard

this story before…”

“Another word,” she told him, failing to hide her own krin. “And you will be sleeping in

the parlor.”

“Well, there is a very nice fireplace there. Very cozy, especially for two.”

Her face flashed with mischief. “Doesn’t this one know it?”

A loud meow sounded at their feet and Ra’zhiin saw his daughter curling around his legs.

“As this one said,” Nija reminded him. “Your daughter.”

“Ka’shada,” he said to the Alfiq. “What mischief have you been doing? And more –

what mischief are you willing to share with this one?”

Nija rolled her eyes.

The Alfiq meowed again before launching herself onto Ra’zhiin’s back, clawing her way

up his tunic before situating herself on his shoulder. He tried not to cry out in pain. “Your claws

are very sharp, daughter,” he told her.

“She has torn your tunic: again.”

“This one does not understand why you use your very sharp claws to climb up him when

he would be happy to pick you up?” he asked her.

Ka’shada gave him look as if to say, Like this one would need your help, and proceeded

to lick her paw.


Helping his wife up, they left the temple.

It was a short walk through the outer gardens to where a carriage was awaiting them.

“Will the trip be long?” Nija asked, after settling herself.

The driver set his whip to the horses and they began moving. “It could be several weeks,

if the weather is fair. If not…”

She made a retching noise; it was quite un-ladylike. “This one does not care for travel by

ship.”

Ra’zhiin looked at her as if she were mad. “You traveled the Void to come to Nirn!”

“But no oceans,” she informed him.

Ra’zhiin looked out the window as the city passed by. He had come here years ago,

when he first returned, but the city seemed…wrong to him. He could not then say why, but the

years had revealed it to him. It was too empty; even with all the Diaspora (mostly Khajiit) who

had chosen to live here, there were whole districts sitting unused. The stuccoed patios, arching

bridges, and wind blown streets had been so very still.

One could barely move through those streets now. Khajiit citizens, Imperial traders,

Nord tourists (some even wearing clothes!), and the ocassional Bosmer or Orc gave the city all

the colors he remembered, their voices the textures he had grown to love. Staring out over the

white walls, and the long journey that awaited them, Ra’zhiin thought that Rimmen was no

longer a scar over his heart. It was the city of his memory – no; it was far, far more.


“Ra’zhiin?” Nija asked.

He looked back at her, to see an uncertain expression on her face. “What is it love?”

She touched Su’vaaja’s face; he was sleeping. “Do you remember when they were born

we could not decide if we should have another litter?”

“This one remembers. We were uncertain because we knew we were going to travel.”

Her eyes were filled with emotion as she gently touched her abdomen. “Would it bring

you joy if…”

He took her hand and pressed it to his lips, before kissing her and inhaling her scent. Her

love filled him. “Maybe,” he told her as the tears of joy came. “Maybe.”

*


The first dawning of her consciousness was Pain.

In the vortices of her memory, recalled infinities flared into psychic bandwidths of

untranslatable distortions; her mind struggled to interpret this new epistemology. What she

would later term hypnogogic-anamnesis peeled away from its immeasurable perception in

tangled threads of vestigial amniosis, leaving behind confused sparklings of a kinetic (or was it

cerebral?) energy. She reached for the matrices of inherent meaning that ran like vibrant streams

through the fabric of her cognition; but dull shadows played before her understanding, sending

sense-perceptions through her.

Struggling against the confusion of her emergence she realized she was surrounded by a

cyclonic symphony of impressions. They lit through her demanding every chronocule of her

awareness, and then something expressed itself from within her; she would recognize it later as

her own screaming. It was through the comprehension born of this scream that she knew a part

of her had been falling – would always be falling; and that she was diminishing. She could no

longer sense the sublimity of the Beginning Place, nor Remember with Perfect Memory the

Wheel spinning inside her. She was lost…lost…

She lay in the grave of her own birthing.

She did not understand the meaning of her parts. Even as all she remembered herself to

be flew away from her she began to specify and cognitize what she would come to know as her

Experiences. She had movements. She had perceptions. They were frail, pale shadows of what

had been. Strange limitations generated with her desires; curious shapes moved before her

perceptions. Sight; that was what it was called. She wondered at the oddities her sight presented

to her. Some of them she appeared to control – bizarre shapes like straight lines with shortened


fractal expenditures. Kinetic energy sparked in her and the expenditures flexed, as though

making shapes. Hands.

She lay a long time, trying to discern her meanings.

There were other experiences. Her hands met with materials that were not a part of her;

she experimented trying to discern their purpose. She learned of her hearing and comprehended

the cries of others. They too were experiencing…misery? Was that the word? She pondered

this a long time, the cognitive mythoi within her struggling with interpretation. But her

meditation failed in a moment of startling revelation when she recognized the locus of her sight

was eyes. She had eyes. Who could have imagined such a thing? She marveled at the

unbearable beauty of seeing. She learned of her breathing, tasting, smelling. She let air escape

and enter her lungs and felt herself fill with…wonder?

Slowly, carefully, she discerned the patterns necessary to rise from where she was laying

to stand on her feet. This experience, perhaps more than the rest, was a kind of apotheosis of her

embodiment. She stood a long time marveling at her ability to stand, shift her weight, and (not a

pleasant experience) fall. The sheer lunacy of falling brought its own host of experiences, not

the least of which was laughter.

It was when she heard the voices of others that she ascertained her ability to speak.

They were…tall…was that the word? Their skin was a golden hue, golden

like…like…something she had not remembered properly. As she perceived the syllogisms of

walking, another stumbled his way over to her.

“I…am…” he struggled to say.


“We…are…” seemed the proper response.

“But…who?” he asked and to this she had no answer.

There were many of them and as the hours stretched on she began to find her logic more

easily than the rest. They cheered her when she discovered embracing and stared in awe when

she sang. She experienced their joy when she discovered she could teach them; she mirrored her

own back to them.

The greatest of all these first experiences came beyond thought or imagination. They had

not learned fear or terror – these would come later – but had lived in a state of phenomenal-

amazement. As the air that surrounded them began to shift in prismatic perceptions they noted

the transmogrification of distance, and the narrative opening before their sight-organs. Many

years could not claim all the words they would speak of this experience, and even the later return

of their lost joy seemed lessened before the variegated atmosphere.

And Magnus rose over the Summerset Isles.

Watching the sun rise out of the eternal ocean, casting the unbearable brilliance of its

presence in infinite sparklings upon the waves, she heard one of the others say, “We…are…A-

Altmer.”

The words, and their myriad meanings, slid into accord inside of her. “Yes,” she said.

“We are Altmer.”

“Names,” a male to her side considered the word like a child might stare at a curious

rock. “We have…names?”

“Yes,” she told him. “We have names.”


“Y-yours?”

All of Time seemed to swim before her in a vast River of possibilities. She might have

spent centuries determining her narrative, but she already knew. A smile – her first – touched

her lips as she said, “Camoran. My name is Anamimnesko Camoran.”


Legal Matters

This is a work of fan-fiction (some of us prefer the term “apocrypha” ) set in the world

of the Elder Scrolls video game series. The setting, history, races, cultures and “lore” are all the

property of Bethesda Games Studios and/or their affiliates. I have heavily referenced the

writings of Michael Kirkbride especially with regards to “C0DA” and his “C0DAverse” as well

as borrowing the Echmer (or “bat-elves”) of LaJaveyon “Ice Fire Warden” Saunders (with his

very kind permission). All rights are reserved to the respective authors, artists and creators. I

claim rights only to my characters and story.

As a Free Associate of the C0DA I recognize that this work owes much of its soul to the

Elder Scrolls lore community on the Bethesda Game Studios Forums, /r/TESLore, various

Facebook groups, and the Selectives Lorecast. Our discussions, musings, arguments, and

commraderie have shaped the way I think about TES and I believe this novel is an expression –

not just of my own ideas – but of the greater TES community. You have all contributed to what

Tolkien called the “leaf-mould” of my mind and so you may see familiar concepts, phrases and

loving homages herein. This is, as ever, my gift of #khajiitlove to you all.

This work is free to distribute to any and all fans of the Elder Scrolls. I only ask that it not

be altered in any form. Direct any questions or comments to me at

[email protected]


Acknowledgments

This is an absurd book, and its absurdity is magnified by the fact that it is not the work of

a single mind, but was born of relationship and community. I may have plotted the story,

conceived the characters and written the words down, but none of this would have been possible

were it not for the actions, imaginations, and encouragement of others.

To my brother-in-law Paul Miller, who found Morrowind in the $5 bin at a Blockbuster

store (remember those?) and decided to give it a chance. Not five minutes in he thought, “Mike

would love this game,” and he was not wrong.

To everyone at Bethesda Game Studios for giving me a world in which to dream.

To Michael Kirkbride and everyone at http://c0da.es/ for giving me a language with

which to speak those dreams.

To the Elder Scrolls fan community for their undying support.

To Chris Franzen for kindly hosting this book, and all my C0DAverse, on

http://tomorrowindtoday.com and for being a constant source of encouragement.

To Todd Damrath, Silviu Glaman, Cody Glen Hagy, Audrey Hampton, LaJaveyon

Saunders, Evan Smith and all the (keep it secret!) “Scribes of the C0DA” for constant inspiration

and friendship.

To the musical group The Contortionist whose album “Language” was inspirational:

Mike Lessard’s lyrics especially. Their music video for the song “Language Part One:

Intuition” was the “seed” that first inspired this story. They can be found on Facebook and EOne

Entertainment.


To Ivan “Nazgul91” Podzorov for the cover art. Find more of his work at:

http://nazgul91.deviantart.com/

To my beautiful wife, Karin, for Believing.

And to God for the courage to Believe in Maybe.

I love you all. Su’um arkh morah,

- Michael

16 April 2015

requiem - tomorrowind todaytomorrowindtoday.com/requiem.pdf · 2015. 4. 23. · zeigler – requiem...

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