A/N: I'm using (SKYRIM) to indicate a linebreak since this site eats any punctuation-based linebreaks.

At the Throat of the World – Chapter Three – Haar, part one

When the Philomel had left, Harkon pulled Serana into a tight embrace, pressing her face into his chest, which the woman tried not to pull away from. Though it felt to her as if she'd last seen him only a week ago, she knew he'd not seen her for… for a very long time. Maybe he'd changed in that time (he hadn't, she knew). Maybe he had really thought his delight to see her again need not be stated. She could always hope.

When he released her, she realized that in the embrace, he'd taken the Elder Scroll from her back. Anger and frustration flashed through her and she reached out and snatched the scroll out of Harkon's surprised hands. "I think that after sleeping with that for a few years, it's mine. Like a baby blanket."

Harkon laughed in that deep, arrogant, bellow of his. "If you are really so attached to it, you may hold it for now, my dearest daughter. I expect it back in my study soon, however."

Well aware that she was throwing a tantrum in the middle of the hall with the entire court watching, Serana crossed her arms and stood her ground. "Is it so hard to pretend you care about me?"

Before she could react – he moved fast – Harkon's hand was on her shoulder and he was forcefully guiding her out of the hall. "Of course I care about you." No more words were spoken until they'd reached his study and closed the heavy wood door. Harkon sat down behind a desk and motioned toward a chair for his daughter.

Looking around Serana recognized nearly everything. There were the shelves of books, here the fireplace, there the map of Skyrim on the wall. Of all the rooms Harkon could have chosen, she was glad he'd chosen this one, though she was still none too pleased at how he'd dragged her along. He could have, for example, take them to his room. As nothing else in the castle had changed, Serana had no doubt he still kept a thrall pen and a rack near his coffin. As a child he'd forbidden her entrance. Once she was an adult, as if there were some magic age after which it didn't matter, he no longer cared.

"Serana, sit," Harkon said. She hadn't even realized she was still standing. Automatically at her father's command, she dropped into the wooden chair across from his desk. Once she was seated, he wasted no time in launching into his speech. "Serana, I have missed you very much." His tone was almost as wooden as her chair. "Even before that bitch stole you, I missed you. You haven't been my dear daughter in so long. But now your traitor mother is gone and we can be a family again, you and I. If I seemed overeager for my Elder Scroll, it was only because I have always thought you knew that you are my daughter. We are family. Do not challenge me. Not everyone in the court is as loving as I. If it seems that you oppose me…"

Even in those last nights before she slept, Serana had never felt Harkon would hurt her on purpose. The one time had been an accident. But Harkon was a man too deep in his schemes not to know what he'd just said. Serana nodded mutely.

"Serana, your entire life I have worked to create the best possible world for you. I don't know what went wrong. I don't know why you try to keep such a distance from me. I have given you everything I could, and I will give you the world with that Elder Scroll. The way you treat me makes it very difficult for me to remember this." He finished his speech, stood, and left the room.

Serana sat in the uncomfortable chair, alone with Harkon's Elder Scroll. When she'd collected her thoughts, she too left the room. She followed the well-known path to her room and then hesitated outside the door. In her long absence, had someone else taken it? When she touched the door handle, her fingers came away with a thick layer of dust on them. No one had taken it, at least not recently. She opened the door, stepped in, and closed it behind her. There were no lights in the windowless room except for the thin beam that came in from around the edges of the door. That was more than enough.

No one had touched her things.

The castle was lonely.

Serana walked to the bed and lay down. Just as the last time she'd lain there, she cried herself to sleep.

(SKYRIM)

Serana woke to an empty castle. After traveling with Philomel, she'd become accustomed to rise with the sun instead of the moon. Walking through deserted hallways, the fortress felt less like a home and more like a prison.

Hungry, she went to the dining hall. The cattle who were scurrying about cleaning up the previous night's festivities froze when she entered. All of them avoided her eyes and did their best to blend in with the masonry.

Serana remembered that once, in that time before she slept, she'd had a favorite. He'd been a young Breton man, strong and handsome. Every now and then there'd been a flicker of fire in his eyes. He'd stayed alive because he was hers and the court knew not to touch what she'd bitten. She wondered who'd finally killed him after she vanished.

She cast her eyes over the various cattle cleaning the room. She finally settled on one across the room. Blond woman, Nord probably, with a passing resemblance to Philomel. Not nearly as pretty though. Serana drained the girl. She could pick a favorite later, if she picked one at all. She didn't think she would stay long and the cattle looked as if death would be a blessing.

And if she didn't stay long, where would she go? Probably out to explore the world. It had changed, of that there was no doubt, and she could probably fill centuries with exploring. But care gnawed at her. If Harkon really did want to be a family again, was this her only chance to set things right? And would he even let her leave with the Elder Scroll? Now that she had it, she knew that she didn't want him to have it. It made him obsess, and though his dreams of perpetual night were laughably apocalyptic there was no telling what trouble he might stir with the scroll.

Later that night, her worry only grew. It was a man named Orthjolf who approached her. She didn't remember him from before, though judging from the respect the court showed him, he was either powerful or old or, as was so often the case, both. "Lady Serana, it's a pleasure to meet you," he said. He was a huge man but otherwise nondescript except for how he leered. He leered so grossly it wasn't even flattering.

Serana's eyes narrowed as he sized her up. "My face is up here."

"That it is," he replied. "It's quite beautiful, but even so, the rest of you far outshines it."

Serana was frozen, trying to decide if she'd heard him correctly and, if so, whether she should slap him or shove an ice spike through his groin. While she stood speechless, he continued.

"It's good to see a new body around here, especially one not shaped like an Elf. Between you and me, there's too many of them. Can't trust the lot of them. Never could."

Giving up, temporarily, on her fantasies of violence, Serana asked, "Is there a reason you're talking to me… whoever you are?"

"Orthjolf, at your service," he said. "I came because Harkon asked to see you. He said he's in his room."

As impolitely as she could, Serana walked away. Orthjolf. One more reason to leave the castle as soon as she could.

Harkon wasn't in his book room so, much to her displeasure, Serana went to his actual room. Harkon was sitting there in a gaudy throne before his crackling hearth. In a corner, there was a dying woman chained to his rack. Swallowing down the bile in her throat, Serana ignored the quiet sobbing. "Some lecherous oaf told me you wanted to see me," she said.

Harkon chuckled. "You mean Orthjolf? He's a character. His bickering with Vingalmo is always amusing."

"He's a creep," Serana said. She remained by the door, not wanting to go too far into the room, too near to the poor woman. Had the cattle ever bothered her so much before?

"We all have our faults," Harkon said magnanimously. "But Orthjolf isn't why I summoned you." He paused dramatically and gazed into his fire.

Impatient, Serana pressed, "So why did you ask for me?"

"I was thinking about you and my scroll. The scroll is useless if it is unread and I thought you'd like to be included in my plans. There are rumors that a Moth Priest is traveling in Skryim. Find him, enthrall him, and bring him back to read the scroll."

"You have minions for this sort of thing," Serana pointed out. Harkon had never before asked her to do anything.

"I do have minions. Your friend Orthjolf is one of them," Harkon said. "But now I have a daughter again, whom I trust." He stood and walked over to Serana, enclosing one of her hands in both of his. "Will you do this for me? Anyone else in this court would fight over the right to do this for me, but you are family. I would much rather you do this than any of them. This does concern family, after all. With the Elder Scroll, we could find Valerica again."

Serana's mind quickened. It seemed Harkon would kill Valerica if given the chance, but what if she could persuade him first? Maybe she could bring them together, so they could be a family again. If she had the scroll and the priest, maybe she could find Valerica first. "Fine then." Serana crossed her arms. Her eyes flickered over to Harkon's victim. "But I have a condition. Kill that poor woman and get rid of that rack."

Harkon kissed her on the forehead. "Done. You need only have asked." He turned and walked to the woman. In a single swing, he ripped her throat out.

(SKYRIM)

Serana started her search in the inns of Skyrim, looking for some morsel of gossip that might set her on the right trail. The houses of wanderers had changed little over the centuries. The same sorts still inhabited them, adventurers, soldiers, bandits, townsfolk, and prostitutes. None of whom had heard anything about a Moth Priest, no matter how much gold they saw or how many threats she meted out.

After a week of walking from village to village asking passerby and couriers and all sorts she met, Serana gave up on finding the Moth Priest herself. Instead, she tried for someone much easier to track down.

On the road to Markarth, she stopped a passing guard. He looked thin beneath his armor, and short as well, probably no older than a child. The helmet he wore seemed to slide around whenever he moved his head too much and his green painted shield was as large as his arm.

"Can I help you, miss?" the boy asked.

"I hope," said Serana. "Do you know where I can find the Dragonborn?"

"Oh, that's easy," said the guard. "The Dragonborn lives in Whiterun, the city. Have you ever been to Whiterun, miss?"

Serana nodded. "Once or twice, a long time ago."

"That's fantastic," said the boy in armor. "I want to go there someday."

Serana tried to smile. "I'm sure you will, someday. Stay safe."

"Thanks miss," said the guard. "You stay safe too." He waved as she walked away.

Serana spent the rest of her journey to Whiterun wondering what would become of the boy.

The guards at the gate of Whiterun were not children. "Halt," one of them called out. "What business do you have here?"

"I've come to see the Dragonborn," Serana answered.

The guard scoffed. "That's what they all say. What do you want with her anyway?"

"She helped me out of a cave a little while ago," Serana said. "She said I could visit."

"Do you even know her name?" the guard asked.

"She said she was Philomel," Serana said.

The guard looked like he was going to continue his belligerence, but the other guard said something quietly to him and then called for the gate to be opened. "It's the house on the right just after the blacksmith's," he said. "You can't miss it."

Serana thanked that guard, but not his fellow, and entered the city. She followed the main road and found the house easily enough. A small wooden sign by the door announced the building was named "Breezehome." A child had drawn a crude picture of a dragon in red wax next to the letters. Serana knocked on the door.

There was a crash from inside the home and a scrambling of feet. The door practically few open, revealing a young boy in a rich blue tunic with gold trim. He was beaming with the innocent joy that only a child could muster, though upon seeing Serana whatever he'd been about to say died on his lips and his face fell. "You're not my mom."

Behind him, a woman with shoulder length brown hair and a small braid framing her face appeared. She looked tired and more than a little annoyed. She was wearing house clothes, but had a sword at her side.

"I'm sorry," Serana said quickly. "I must have the wrong house."

The woman put a protective hand on the boy's shoulder and gently pushed him back into the house. "If you're looking for the Dragonborn, she's gone out to take care of a giant problem a little ways west of here."

"Yes, I am," said Serana. "She helped me a few weeks ago and I was hoping she'd help me again."

"She'll be back soon, it wasn't that far. You can go wait by the blacksmith if you want. I won't invite you in." The woman gestured up to Serana's eyes.

"You do know that's just a myth," Serana said, confirming the woman's suspicions.

"I am sworn to defend this house. Better safe than sorry."

Serana nodded. The woman must be a housecarl, and she was a prickly housecarl, at that. "I understand."

The blacksmith was one of the first buildings inside the gates and Serana could see that, waiting there, she'd be able to see anyone coming into the city. Once she'd explained herself to the dark-skinned woman, Adrianne Avenicci, who served as the town's regular blacksmith (there was another one, apparently, who worked only for the Companions at the Skyforge), Serana had been allowed to sit down at a bench in the shade.

"Do you know the Dragonborn?" Serana asked.

"As much as anyone," said Avenicci. "I taught her how to smith, you know. She was good at it, but now she never lifts a hammer. She sings to her steel, like one of the old Nord heroes. Never buys anything either, just sells things she finds adventuring."

"But there's a civil war, you must get more than enough business," Serana said.

"Of course. I may not be as good as Eorlund Gray-Mane, but the Imperials won't buy from him."

"You support the Imperials then?"

"Have you met my father?" Adrianne asked. "He's the steward, up at Dragonsreach. Jarl Balgruuf supports the Imperials, and so do we. If the Stormcloaks win, they won't buy from me because I'm not a Nord."

"Who does the Dragonborn support?" Serana asked.

"The Dragonborn? Why don't you ask her yourself," Adrianne said, pointing to the gate, which was just then opening.

"Serana!" Philomel called in greeting. Every metal piece not nailed down rattled at the words.

One of the guards tapped Philomel on the shoulder. "Can you stop all that shouting? It makes people nervous."

Philomel grinned sheepishly in apology. She walked over to Serana and bowed. "To what do I owe this pleasure?"

"I need your help with something," Serana said.

"Then my help you shall have," said Philomel. "Why don't you come home with me. I can introduce you to my family while I…" She gestured at her leather armor, which was drenched in dried blood and covered in caked mud. "Freshen up."

Philomel drew up a bucket of water from the stream near the gate and then they walked together back to Breezehome. Upon opening the door, Philomel was tackled by the boy from earlier, who embraced her with no care for his nice clothes. "Mom!" The boy was slight enough that Philomel didn't spill her water.

The brown haired woman wasn't far behind the boy. "Alesan, you'll ruin your shirt!"

Standing just outside the doorway, Philomel ruffled his hair. "We can just buy a new one. Zenithar knows, we can afford it," she said in the whisper that Serana now recognized as Philomel's best inside voice. "Serana, my son, Alesan, my companion, Lydia."

Serana ignored Lydia giving her the evil eye. "I didn't realize you were married."

"We're not," said Lydia. There was an edge of something in her voice that Serana couldn't quite lay her finger on.

When Serana glanced questioningly at her, Philomel just shrugged and avoided eye contact. The Dragonborn looked down at Alesan and pulled out a few gold coins. "Go buy venison for dinner from the butcher. I need to clean up." She took the water she'd brought and left Lydia and Serana standing awkwardly in the main room of the house.

"So… you and Philomel," Serana tried.

"What about us?" Lydia asked defensively.

"Alesan is your son together?"

"Is that your business?" Lydia challenged.

From elsewhere in the house, Philomel's voice drifted, seeming to come from right next to them. "Be nice."

Lydia grimaced, then visibly relaxed. "Sorry," she grunted. "I don't like strangers."

"I understand," said Serana.

"Alesan is our son. Philomel found him working at the Dawnstar mine and we adopted him."

"He looks like he'll grow into a fine young man," Serana said politely. Small talk was difficult.

"If he grows up," replied Lydia. "Skyrim is dangerous these days."

"I'm sure he'll make it. His mother is the Dragonborn, surely there's no safer place for him."

Lydia stiffly gestured for Serana to sit at one of the chairs around the fire pit. "She's gone so often that I worry. And inside, one wrong word…"

"You're her housecarl, correct?" Serana said. Lydia nodded. "So it's only natural that you be concerned. If you didn't worry, you wouldn't be doing your job."

"It's just that she-

Philomel cleared her throat loudly to announce her presence. The Dragonborn was standing by the dinner table wearing a long green dress.

Lydia, who herself had never sat down, frowned. "You didn't take the time to wash your armor."

Philomel winced.

"I am sworn to carry your burdens," said Lydia. "And to do your laundry."

Philomel shook her head vigorously.

"Pardon us," said Lydia, smiling. "I need to get to her laundry before she can." As if at some invisible signal, both Lydia and her thane went sprinting off through a door in the back of the house, leaving Serana sitting by herself at their hearth.

Taking advantage of the opportunity, she got up and went to look around the room. By the door was a set of shelves that had some dinnerware and a row of books – histories mostly, and songs. Near to that was a weapons rack, which displayed several enchanted pieces that gave off a faint ethereal glow. A few herbs hung from the ceiling, drying. On the other side of the room was a dinner table, and hanging on the wall by the table -

Serana gasped when she recognized the Elder Scroll. Not quite in control of herself, she approached it. Surely it was real. Who would hang a fake Elder Scroll on their wall? Then again, who would hang an Elder Scroll on their wall. The Dragonborn, apparently.

"That's my mom's Elder Scroll!"

Entranced by the scroll, Serana hadn't even heard the boy come back with his bag of meat for dinner. "Do you know where she got it from?" Serana asked.

"She found it in a Dwemer ruin," said Alesan. "And then she used it to kill Alduin."

"Who was this Alduin?"

The little boy gasped and covered his open mouth with his hands in mock horror. "You don't know about Alduin?"

"No, I don't," Serana said. She smiled at the child. "Why don't you tell me?"

Alesan lit up at the chance to show off. "The bards wrote a song about it! I can sing it." He straightened up and cleared his throat.

"Alduin's wings, they did darken the sky
His roar fury's fire, and his scales sharpened scythes.
Men ran and they cowered, and they fought and they died.
They burned and they bled as they issued their cries.

We need saviors to free us from Alduin's rage.
Heroes on the field of this new war to wage.
And if Alduin wins, man is gone from this world.
Lost in the shadow of the black wings unfurled.

But then came the Tongues on that terrible day.
Steadfast as winter, they entered the fray.
And all heard the music of Alduin's doom.
The sweet song of Skyrim, sky-shattering Thu'um.

And so the Tongues freed us from Alduin's rage.
Gave the gift of the Voice, ushered in a new Age.
If Alduin is eternal, then eternity's done.
For his story is over and the dragons are gone."

Serana applauded. "That's very good."

Alesan blushed and gave her a toothy grin. "When we go camping, my mom can sing it and play at the same time. I can't do that yet."

"I'm sure you'll be able to someday."

"But not if he keeps skipping his lessons to play with the mudcrabs," Lydia cut in. Beside her, Philomel nodded in agreement.

"I didn't-

"I saw you," Lydia said. "Now come help me make dinner."

Alesan rolled his eyes and headed over to the small fire pit where Lydia was already setting up to begin cooking.

Philomel then sat down at the table and turned to Serana. She tilted her head to the side – a question.

"I've been looking for a Moth Priest to read my Elder Scroll," Serana said honestly. "I heard there was one in Skyrim, but I haven't been able to find any leads. I thought that an adventurer like you might be better at this."

Philomel nodded. And then she stared straight into Serana's eyes and raised an eyebrow.

Serana pursed her lips, contemplating the answer. "Harkon asked me to find the priest."

Philomel crossed her arms over her chest. Closed off, aggressive body language.

"We want to use it to find my mother," Serana said. Every time she used that word it seemed no less strange than the last time. "But I have a plan. If I can just find her, then talk to them both… I want my family again." She tilted her head toward where Lydia and Alesan were roasting the venison. "Surely you understand."

Philomel drummed her fingers on the tabletop.

If Serana hadn't traveled with Philomel for several days after waking from her cave, she doubted she would have been able to read the other woman's body language so well. "No, I'm not sure," Serana replied. "But I need to try."

Finally, Philomel spoke, her words nothing more than a whisper but still filled with enough power to raise the hairs on Serana's arms. "If I help, he reads your scroll here. You can't take him back to that castle," Philomel said. Serana hadn't noticed before, but the strain of speaking so quietly brought beads of sweat to the Dragonborn's forehead.

"Done," Serana said. "I think it's for the best. I can hear what he says before Harkon does."

"He'll be here tomorrow or the day after," Philomel said. When Serana looked surprised, Philomel pointed up to the Elder Scroll hanging on the wall.

Dinner was awkward for Serana, to say the least. She sat at the table and watched the humans eat their food. As the only guest and the only one not eating, it fell to her to keep a conversation running, though only Lydia and Alesan were able to freely speak indoors.

"Tell us about yourself," said Lydia. She took a particularly vicious bite of meat and Serana wondered if the housecarl was picturing the vampire's head on the plate in front of her.

"I'm not sure there's much to say," Serana replied. She was a guest in the house and she already knew so much about them that it didn't seem fair to withhold about herself. Nevertheless, she didn't feel comfortable telling all three of them her life story. She didn't feel comfortable telling anyone her life story.

"How did you get your eyes like that?" Alesan asked.

Serana self-consciously raised a hand toward her face. Long suppressed memories clawed at the back of her mind. "I… paid a very high price for them."

"Like, how high?" the boy pressed.

"So high you can't understand," said Serana, doing her best to avoid answering. "Perhaps when you're older."

"That's what everyone says about everything," the child huffed. "I think your eyes are cool. I want eyes like that."

Lydia and Serana spoke in unison, "No you don't." For her part, Philomel nodded agreement with the other adults.

"Your eyes are too pretty to change," Lydia said.

"Are you saying her eyes aren't pretty?" asked the boy, knowing full well that he was being stubborn.

Lydia's reply was smooth and quick, "Not as pretty as yours."

Alesan laughed, satisfied with his outcome. "My parents are great. Do you like my parents?"

"Yes, I do like your parents," said Serana, continuing to humor him.

"Do you have parents?" he asked.

"Everyone has parents, Alesan," Lydia said.

"Tell me about your parents," the boy demanded.

Philomel cleared her throat and the silverware on the table rattled.

"No, it's fine. I can talk about them," Serana said, as much to herself as to anyone at the table. "Vale-my mother, everyone says I look just like her. She wears her hair up though, and she looks older."

"Well duh," said Alesan. "She's your mom, of course she looks older." Lydia shushed him.

"She's a very stern woman," Serana continued. "She doesn't smile often. She's very intelligent and she likes experimenting in her alchemy lab." She's very sad, Serana thought. She's disappointed in her family. She's willing to lose them if they're in her way.

"What about your dad?"

"My father is strong. He likes to dream big. He's very concerned about our family. And he-

"So he's like my mom the Dragonborn," Alesan finished.

"A little bit," Serana admitted. "But my father doesn't always remember to be kind and I don't think your mom ever forgets." A strange thought twisted in her mind – Alesan had the family she wished she could have had.

Philomel chuckled.

"Alesan, come clean the dishes and get ready for bed," Lydia said. "Here, I'll help you." The two of them cleared the table and took the bowls over to a small basket of things to be washed the next day.

"Spare room," Philomel offered, pointing upstairs.

Serana shook her head. "No thank you. The inn isn't that far from here and I don't think Lydia would appreciate it if I stayed the night here."

Philomel shrugged and rolled her eyes. "Dinner at the inn?"

"Oh, no, I…" Serana caught herself stumbling over her words, caught herself almost apologizing for herself. What a strange and unwelcome feeling. "I mean, I do need to get dinner, but I didn't, or, well…" She finally just gave up trying to explain herself. Philomel was a fairly intuitive person, she'd understand.

Philomel nodded and gave her a small smile. She understood.

Thankful that the awkward conversations were behind her, Serana let herself out.

The inn of Whiterun was at the end of the main street that Breezehome was located on. It was much larger than any of the roadside inns that Serana had stayed in on her way to the city, though it was no cleaner. By the time she arrived, the patrons had settled into their cups for the night and were drunkenly singing and dancing all around the main room. A few warrior types were seated at the fringes, probably sell-swords hired to protect someone, or people too paranoid to let their guard down in revelry.

Serana picked her way through the sweaty mass of humanity to the woman behind the bar, whom she assumed was the innkeeper. Waving to get her attention, Serana said, "Excuse me, I'd like a room for the night."

The innkeeper shoved a tankard of ale at one of her patrons and turned to Serana. "I'm sorry, we're sold out for the night. It's not much, but for three gold I can give you a mat in the kitchen."

Serana pulled out her purse, which was starting to thin after her week of traveling. "Very well."

Before she could hand over the money, a man put his big hand over hers. "If it's a bed you want, I've already paid for one – if you're willing to share," he said. Another hand went around her shoulders.

Serana didn't really look at him, didn't notice his face or the color of his hair or his clothes, before she kneed him hard enough that his eyes – they were blue – rolled back into his head and he collapsed on the floor.

The innkeeper and Serana both looked down at the pile of man on the floor. "He did already pay," said the innkeeper. "And he did just offer you his room. And I don't think he's in any condition to get there tonight."

Serana thanked the innkeeper, bent down, and removed the man's key from his pocket. When she stood back up, the room broke out into applause.

A Nord man in heavy steel armor came over and pushed some gold across the bar. "Hulda, a drink for the lady," he said.

As he stood next to Serana, it occurred to her that he smelled overwhelmingly of dog. "You saw what happened to the last one," she said cautiously. The innkeeper, Hulda, handed her a cup of ale. She would need to discretely pour it out somewhere.

The man laughed. "I'm not trying anything," he said. "I'm Farkas."

"Serana," she replied. If he wasn't trying anything, then what was he doing?

"You know Serana, the Companions are taking new members. We-" He was cut off by the arrival of a very similar looking man, also clad in steel.

"Farkas, we need to go," the new man said.

"Think about it," said Farkas before the other man rushed him away.

Somewhat bewildered by the whole exchange, Serana took her ale and retreated to the room she'd taken from the letch at the bar. There wasn't much to say of the room. It had a bed and a small table and dresser. It was clearly intended for passing travelers, not long-term residents. Tired, Serana lay down and closed her eyes.

Although she normally would have slept during daylight hours, she'd taken to traveling during the day and sleeping at night because she felt safer letting her guard down when she was less likely to be seen and more able to defend herself if attacked. Her dreams since Philomel had found her in the crypt had been unmemorable, but that night the darkness in the back of her mind stirred again.

She was walking through dark woods, through the fjords of Haafinger, just south-east of Solitude. Far off in the distance, elevated above the horizon, flecks of light marked out the Blue Palace. The shadows that she normally could see through easily were dense and suffocating. Everywhere she looked there were only black shapes, hardly distinguishable from whatever lay behind them.

And then there were footsteps behind her, the sound of mud sticking to leather boots walking near. Serana knew she had to get away from them. If they caught her, it would all be over. She quickened her step, afraid to dash headlong through the dark, but the same mud that made the following footsteps so loud kept her from fleeing. She pulled at her feet and little by little they came free, but every step was a struggle and the footsteps were far faster than her.

Serana threw out a hand and grabbed onto a nearby sapling, trying to pull herself out of the mud, but to no avail. The rough back under her fingers shifted and flowed, reaching out to encircle her wrist and scrape at her skin. The tree yanked her arm, but her feet were still caught and she was stretched out, trapped in the wilderness.

The footsteps ceased but now she felt the hot breath of something on the place where her neck met her shoulders. Slowly she turned her head.

Serana woke to a dark, and mercifully empty, room. Unable and unwilling to sleep again, she rose from the bed and walked to the tiny window of the room. After examining it she found the latch and pushed the glass open, letting the cold night air come streaming in. It was a comfort on burning skin. Far above, the stars twinkled.

(Skyrim)

The wind howled and Serana looked up at the sky. She knew it was day, but the sun was hidden so completely it may as well have been night. A light sprinkling of snow was falling from the clouds. She drew her cloak closer to her body.

How much time remained?

Serana quickened her step.