Author's note: About a year ago, when I started writing this story, I planned to show at the end that the tale was written by Sul during his time in prison, and after his execution it became a famous book in Morrowind, even though the Tribunal Temple banned it and copies were hard to find. I wrote all the way up to the battle in Khuul and decided I couldn't just leave Amurah bleeding to death in the mud and let Sul be executed... I liked them too much to leave them to those fates! So, here's (the rest of) the happier ending. As always, thank you for all your wonderful reviews, and I welcome any closing observations or critiques!

Broken Vows

Epilogue

The outlander entered the bar like all the others did, in a great bluster of cold, wintry air, a flurry of snow stomped from boots, and a long string of grumbles about the weather. Silently, I watched him approach, noting the richness of the clothes he was wearing: fine enough to be easily ruined if they were soaked with snow. Conversation faltered briefly as the bar's other patrons looked up, then resumed as the newcomer was dismissed.

He sat down at the bar and shoved back his hood, revealing a rather plump Imperial face. "A glass of flin, please," he said. "And I was told I could inquire here about the Assassin's Guild?"

Without glancing toward my end of the bar, Alcedonia set his drink in front of him. "Need someone dead, do you?"

The Imperial grunted, downed the flin in one long swig, and gestured for another. "Aye. Prepared to pay handsomely, too. I hear the Guild's expensive."

Alcedonia turned toward me briefly as she got him a refill, the fall of her red hair hiding the secretive smirk she directed towards me. I fought down an answering smile, turning my attention back to my meal instead.

"You may find it difficult to persuade the Morag Tong to take the commission on the strength of your gold alone, outlander," she said, as he sipped more slowly at his second glass. "Their Grandmaster is a lot more particular about the Writs he issues, nowadays."

The Imperial frowned. "Particular how?"

Alcedonia lifted a shoulder, unconcerned. "From what I hear, he's just as likely to accept a commission from a beggar as a nobleman. It's not the money, but the reason that matters."

"Hmmph. And who decides whether a request is worthy? This Grandmaster fellow?"

The bartender shrugged again. "They say he prays about it, to Mephala. Only issues Writs when the Daedra approves it. But I'm sure you'll find out for yourself. If I see any of the Guild, I'll tell them about your interest, but it could be a few days before they contact you. We have rooms available to rent, while you're in town..."

I pushed myself away from the bar, dropping a few coins next to my empty plate. "Good day, sera," I murmured, leaving her to haggle with the outlander over the price of a night's stay.

Outside, the late afternoon glare of sunlight on snow was nearly blinding. The breeze was bitingly cold, but I didn't have far to go. Squinting, I buried my nose in the collar of my cloak and hurried through the loose cluster of buildings that made up the settlement of Raven Rock. Snow crunched underfoot, still a strange sensation, even months after we'd arrived in Solstheim.

Amurah was waiting in the main room of the modest cabin we called home, leaning against the table and cleaning one of her blades in the firelight. She smiled when I entered, and set the weapon aside, turning to face me as I hung up my cloak.

"We may have another one," I told her. "He's well off enough that I'll let Alcedonia earn some money off him for a few days before we contact him. How was the assignment at Frostmoth?"

Amurah smiled. "He died well. No fear in him. I missed you, Sul."

I crossed the room and pulled her into my arms. "Even two days is far too long," I agreed, and kissed her. Her eyes were sparkling when we parted. "Perhaps we can carry out the next Writ together."

She raised an eyebrow. "The Guild doesn't generally work in pairs, Grandmaster," she said, with a grin.

"The Guild is doing a lot of things it hasn't generally done before, assassin," I teased back gently. "And you and I have worked together on Writs before."

"True," she admitted, leaning against my chest. I held her tightly, inhaling her scent of soap and well-worn leather armor, content as always to simply relish the fact that she was alive in my arms. I gazed around at the home we'd made together: Amurah's collection of blades on the wall, the stores of food stacked neatly in the corner beside the fireplace. The books I'd amassed formed a small library under the staircase; my copy of The Anticipations lay out on the table, open where I'd left it. Upstairs was our bedroom, our sanctuary.

At one end of the main room was the door to the tiny shrine that Mephala's priest had helped us dedicate. I spent a lot of time there, in prayer. Mephala no longer spoke to me quite as clearly as she once had, but I asked the Spider for guidance whenever the Guild was approached with the opportunity for a Writ. Unless I felt the Daedra's touch beneath my skin, in the brief, feather-light nudge that I had learned to recognize as approval, I issued no Writs for my assassins. The colonization of the island was only just beginning, and few assassination requests were made; I refused more than I granted. Not many Guildmembers had elected to follow us to Solstheim, and they often grumbled about the infrequent work, but not very seriously. They knew that I had been chosen by both Mephala and Vivec; the return of the Morag Tong to its rightful place as an honorable Guild was hardly something over which they could complain.

Amurah leaned back to smile at me. "Hmmm... Two assassins, in love, spreading the shadows of the Morag Tong through Solstheim in tandem rather than apart?" She mused softly. "I think I'd like that."

I grinned and bent down to sweep her into my arms, and she let out a breathless laugh. I pressed a kiss to her forehead and headed for the staircase. "So would I."