This ficlet underwent considerable changes during writing. In particular, I had originally planned to lay out the B-plot entirely in snippets from the Nerevarine's diary, but turns out that covering two centuries of fascinating cultural exchange on a day-by-day basis is not all that doable. Who'da thunk.

Title is translated from the finale of Tannhäuser, oder der Sängerkrieg auf der Wartburg (Der Gnade Heil ward dem Büßer beschieden / Nun geht er ein in der Seligen Frieden! ~ Mercy's hail is granted to the penitant / now he enters into the peace of the Blessed).

With a glance over its shoulder, the shadow raised its hand and knocked on the door, once, twice, thrice. Upon the third knock, a small eye slot in the door was opened. "Sera?"

"Comfort is given."

There was a slight moment of hesitation. "And justice is taken. Come in." The chain was pulled back and the shadow let in, hastily, as if to prevent the light and warmth of the hearth fire from escaping.

"What news from the capital, sister?," asked one of the three mer seated on cushions by the fire, the eldest of them.

The shadow raised its hand, then slipped out of its large, dusty cloak, revealing a young female Dunmer with stern, sharp features and the scars of a life spent under the sword. A flagon of cheap, watered-down sujamma was handed to her, she drank thirstily before answering. "She's gone, Her Hands murdered. The king knows. Do you have the heretics?"

"We have the acolyte in the back room, ready for you. The abbot was killed when we tried to apprehend him."

The newly-arrived mer gave the speaker a long, hard look. He squirmed a little, tried to return her glare, then finally broke eye contact. "We did our best …"

"Your best may not have been enough, brother. Pray that the acolyte has the answers we seek."

One of the men handed her a blackened leather mask to hide her face, then they led her to the back room. One could no longer tell its former function – the room had been stripped bare of all furnishings. They had to light a candle at the hearth to see the Dunmer lying on the ground at all. She had been stripped naked, and scarcely an inch of her skin was not bruised. She was asleep, or perhaps unconscious, but a swift kick to the ribs awoke her. One of the men yanked her to her feet to face the new arrival.

For a brief moment, the two women coolly regarded each other. "Leave us," the inquisitor eventually said. Once the men had done so, she removed her mask. There was no need for it. "Mehra Milo, acolyte at the Hall of Wisdom?" She took Mehra's silent glare as a 'yes'. "I am Ordinator-Captain Dalave Hleran, Holy Order of the Inquisition. Start talking."

Mehra scoffed. "What about?," she asked. The only reason her voice wasn't dripping with venom was that her throat was parched after having been denied water for the better part of two days. "I could … tell you a few of my favourite recipes, if you …"

She barely saw the next kick coming. Gasping, the acolyte coughed up some blood, went to her knees. "Let's start again." Hleran yanked back the mer's head. "You know what we want. You know why. You were his confidant, his ally. He even invaded the Ministry to free you. Where is he? Where did he go?"

"I … don't know who you're … talking about …"

"The Nerevarine, as you well know. He was the last person seen with Our Lady. He was the last person seen to enter the palace of Our Lord. And the moment we find out …" Her voice quavered. "The moment we find out," she repeated, quieter, "he leaves the country, with three hundred warriors on six ships. Don't you tell me that's a coincidence. Where … did … he … go?"

The acolyte lowered her head. "St. Roris, St. Llothis, St. Nerevar, give me strength …"

Hleran scoffed. "Do not take the names of the saints in vain, s'wit. Answer the question, now!"

"There is nothing … I can tell you. Kill me now, if you must."

With some annoyance, Hleran shook her head. "We're going to find out eventually, you know. If you won't, then the Nerevarine will give us the answers we need." She drew her shortsword and cast a spell to muffle the acolyte's screams.

An hour later, she returned to the front room. "Clear that scum out," she commands. "And exorcise her ghost. There must be no trace we were here. Three willing, her disappearance will drive the rats from their holes."

This was his cabin: his armour to one side, his library to the other, enough leather-bound notebooks to write the history of Nirn on, Trueflame and Hopesfire mounted above the desk, navigational charts in a safe to which only he had the key. This was his ship: a proud galleon just launched from Sadrith Mora's dockyards, the Moon-and-Star, packed full of supplies, manned by the bravest of the brave and the best of the best. This was his fleet: five more ships Almalexia, Pride of Ebonheart, Diamond, Sevayna, Veloth's Arrow, all following the Moon-and-Star. Only he knew where the journey shall lead them.

This was the sea: vast, meaningless, and only the stars write truth in Aetherial light. This was his rule: a swift blow to the rebellious captain's neck, a head to the crows and a body to the sea that shall not rest with honoured ancestors. A glance aside, a new captain instated, loyalty regained through spillage of blood. This was hunger: when the last of the ship's biscuits have been eaten and there's scarcely and rice left, when it becomes almost too hard to man the riggings.

And this was land, at last, the jungles of Tang Mo.

The next time they met, the surroundings were considerably more pleasant. The situation, however, was not. "There can be no doubt now," Archcanon Saryoni concluded after hearing the ordinators' reports. "Somehow, the Nerevarine caused the … disappearance of our beloved Tribunes. Mother Morrowind was not seen after the Nerevarine's departure from Mournhold, Her Hands slaughtered … and now our own Lord Vivec, disappeared from the face of Nirn, and the Nerevarine the last to enter His palace. We must assume that Sotha Sil has disappeared as well, though I cannot imagine how the Nerevarine could have found his way into the Clockwork City."

High Constable Sala scowled at the patriarch. "You speak heresy, archcanon. To think that a mortal mer could slay not one, but three gods, glorious ALMSIVI …"

"He has already slain a god," the archcanon cut him off. "The Sharmat, a false god, true – but we must not forget that Dagoth Ur, fortified by his profane Dwemer magics, was powerful enough to put the Tribunes to flight. Almalexia forgive us, that was what we sent him to do: to slay a god."

The assembled ordinators and priests exchanged uneasy glances. A month ago, they would have struck down the archcanon on the spot for these treacherous words. Now, though … no one had actually seen Vivec's body, and no one had entered His palace until days after the Nerevarine had left it. But what else could the Tribunes' disappearance have meant? Had They ascended to a higher plane of existence, perhaps? But surely They would have send their blessing upon Their favoured people by now.

"Lord Vivec trusted the Nerevarine. He commanded us, in His own voice, to grant him all the support he would need. He told us His Hortator would win a great victory over Dagoth Ur and free us from the blight, and he did. Lord Vivec never prophesied that the Nerevarine would kill Him."

"Then how do you propose to explain his hasty departure? Not to speak of your inquisitors' failure to find out anything at all about his destination. Damn it, we barely even know who sailed with him. He's been preparing this for years, Berel! How could you ignore this?!"

"No matter what happened," Elam Andas tried to defuse the situation, "We've got more immediate concerns right now. The Ministry of Truth, for one."

A chill went around the table. It had surprised Hleran when she had first come to Vvardenfell as a young ordinator, but people here did not even seem to be concerned by the giant, hollowed-out rock floating above Vivec City, like a painting you were vaguely aware existed but never really noticed. Even many of the handful of high-ranking ordinators-inquisitors in the room, including Hleran herself, who had offices in the Ministry, had grown accustomed to using levitation spells or enchantments to reach their workplaces every day.

"Are you absolutely sure the wards are weakening?," Suryn Athones asked. "I mean, have we had someone from House Telvanni look over them?"

"Telvanni! May I remind you, brother, that we're trying to keep this a secret? I don't know of any Telvanni mage who wouldn't betray our secrets in an instant if he thought it would bring him power."

"The Mages' Guild, then," Andas suggested. "We've got some dirt on Archmage Trebonius that will help keep them discreet."

Hleran spat. "I would sooner have the Ministry crash into the city than have the n'wah from the Mages' Guild examine a sacred artefact of Our Lord."

"Captain Hleran is right," Archcanon Saryoni agreed. "We cannot trust the outlanders, in this matter or any other. The Nerevarine was an agent of the emperor, after all. The way I see it, we cannot discount the possibility that he is in league with Emperor Uriel and our own King Helseth (blessing of the Three upon him), who we know is just an imperial crony." He sighed. "One way or another, Captain Andas is correct. The Ministry is no longer held aloft by the might of Lord Vivec, and it will soon crash into the city. I have felt it, and so have several talented mages among the Temple. We must take measures to protect the city."

"If the people hear about this, there'll be riots in the streets," Athones pointed out. "And if the empire learns that our gods have abandoned us …" He broke off as a profound silence came over the room.

"They haven't," Hleran eventually said, trying to sound confident in it. "They wouldn't. They have always protected the Dunmer people."

There were murmured agreements. The High Constable cleared his throat. "Whatever the case, we need time to deal with this. For now, we're keeping the news among us. In case the king knows, Vvardenfell is under quarantine again. Hlaalu won't like it and Telvanni won't care, but we can deal with them for now. In due time, we'll have to inform the public … until then, it's business as usual. Dismissed."

13 Morning Star 3E 430 – made landfall at noon in a well-protected natural harbour. Pleasant, gentle beach, many strange and common animals, no sign of natives. Very warm. Jungle further inland, mountains on the horizon. Sent Bosmer out for scouting, who quickly returned having found a source of water. Crews are starving, but forbade them from eating any plants our alchemists don't recognise, sticking to hunting for food so far. Ships still at anchor in the bay, but had a Colovian-style camp erected and fortified near the spring. Finally able to take stock, results disheartening: left Resdayn with six ships, 302 volunteers, four ships & 198 remain. Still, will carry on - first part of Undertaking over.

15 Morning Star 3E 430 – have some time to write, been very busy. First things first: local root vegetable, grows plentifully in the jungle and is perfectly edible. Tastes a bit like ash yam. In conjunction with the fresh game and fish our hunters have brought back, our food problems are fixed for now; haven't eaten so well in a long time. Had the last of our sujamma distributed, much merriment. Scouts have begun to map immediate surroundings, still no sign of natives. Tomorrow, will have Diamond and Pride of Ebonheart explore along the coastline to the northwest and southeast, respectively. Formed scouting party from remaining volunteers, will take them inland tomorrow.

22 Morning Star 3E 430 – some hundred miles inland. Would say we've still no sign of natives, except lost eight people over last three days. Being shadowed by unknown attacker, evidently small in number, but well-acquainted with terrain and jungle warfare. Victims savaged by claws, leading some to suspect predatory animals, but armour had been carefully removed on all victims. Likely beast race – judging from records, Ka Po' Tun? Will return to coast while preserving unit cohesion, hopefully avoid further losses.

24 Morning Star 3E 430 – interrupted retreat due to fascinating find. Appears some sort of shrine, statue & altar made of carved blocks of stone, very artificial work. Altar has flowers, fruits, incense: not fresh, but clearly not abandoned for long. First sign of native civilisation seen, unfortunately useless for Undertaking: statue depicts many-armed deity, crushing infants under feet, drinking blood, all very gruesome. Depicted as large humanoid, striped fur, like wild Khajiit. Matches records of Ka Po' Tun, many arms likely feature of deity, not species!

31 Morning Star 3E 430 – reached our camp at the coast, losing six more men along the way. Garrison unharmed but observed. Pride yet to return, Diamond, Sevayna and Moon-and-Star anchored in bay. S. reports small settlement some sixty miles along the coast to the northwest. Fishing boats, but no signs of warships. Will wait for Pride, then sail towards said village; in meantime, strengthening camp's fortifications.

33 Morning Star 3E 430 – night attack by purported Ka Po' Tun. Scaled palisades, set fire to tents. Two dozen casualties, including eleven dead, but managed to beat them back using battlemages. Enemies retreated into jungle at dawn, leaving behind an estimated sixty dead. Not sure how they managed to conceal an army that size in the jungle, disconcerting thought. Mostly adorned in furs and bone, no real signs of civilisation. Records suggest rich Ka Po' Tun civilisation, possibly tribal offshoot, hence jungle habitat. Hopefully, village will offer more pleasant welcome. Pride arrived at midday, L. does not report any remarkable finds. Will set sail northwest shortly.

4 Sun's Dawn 3E 430 – arrived at fishing village, greeted in bay by several small boats, apparently built from reed. Population evidently not Ka Po' Tun, but match descriptions of the Tang Mo: short and well-built, flat noses and round ears, and long tails which they use in the most agile manner to balance themselves and reach for things. Their entire bodies are covered in short, dark brown or reddish fur, and some of the children regard us mer and men and our smooth skin with wonderment – everyone laughs at our Khajiiti slaves, it appears they consider them as deformed and ugly as we consider them monstrous and animalic. The Tang Mo are all adorned in silk garments in all the colours of the rainbow, even the poorest of the poor, and males and females alike wear gold bracelets and earrings. None of them wear arms or armour, and to avoid intimidating them I ordered my escort to leave their own weapons and armour aboard the ships. Though we had no gifts to give them, the Tang Mo welcomed us most kindly, offered us food and drink and smiles. Only when we asked them, by means of improvised signs and drawings, about the Ka Po' Tun who had attacked us to the south, did their expressions darken. It seems clear that we have a common enemy, and it seems that reports of an alliance between both races are out of date (alternatively, that the Ka Po' Tun in the jungle are not a part of that alliance). We returned to the ships at dusk, as I am still reluctant to trust our hosts, but I intend to return on the morrow.

5 Sun's Dawn 3E 430 – took another shore party to the village, bay swarming with the fishing boats of the Tang Mo around our ships. Making sure crews keep distance for now, accidents to be avoided! Have begun to learn the language, picking up words here and there. Much amusement at (what I presume must be) my pronunciation. Battlemage D. suggested summoning dremora to aid in translation, overruled him: no signs of Tang Mo mages so far, no need to intimidate hosts; also, do not want to put my trust in daedra. Some observations: village population about 100, counting children, subsisting on fishery. Signs of limited garden agriculture in the immediate vicinity, but not enough to sustain such a population. Yet food presented to us includes wide variety of ingredients, suggesting active trade. Tried to ask village elder about it, political authorities, temples; if understood correctly: larger settlement, possibly walled, not far from here. No signs of magic, but casual, thoughtless magic use by R. did not seem to disturb. Finding it difficult to move around village and surroundings due to constant chaperoning by village leaders, may have to take measures. Doubtful how long they will host us willingly. Children, thankfully, keeping their distance for now, not in mood to deal with them. Exception: young boy monkey, follows me around babbling in his language. Tried to tell him to go away, laughed at me. Would have followed me to Moon-and-Star, if possible.

6 Sun's Dawn 3E 430 – group of Tang Mo from outside the village arrived at noon, some armed with scimitars, escorting small delegation of (presumed) dignitaries. Villagers respectful, but clearly not much love lost. Dignitaries apparently invited us to join them in nearby city – a port, apparently, the invitation extending to the flotilla. Will join them in the morning, presumably. Boy still following me around, apparently name of Omai. Doesn't seem to have any adults supervising him, and appears to be shunned by other children.

7 Sun's Dawn 3E 430 – ships following us along the coast, we've travelled overland with the dignitaries to the nearest city. Larger than I had thought. Crowds of thousands of Tang Mo turned out to cheer us, do not seem to be at all fearful. Buildings mostly wood, strange style: some up in trees, others squat on the ground, many rooms not walled, but bright silk banners curtains everywhere. But city is walled, and temples, docks and central citadel and palaces built in a greenish-blue stone. Joined at city gates by a large honour guard, carrying scimitars and some sort of blade tied to their tails, then escorted to central palace (not quite as splendid as Mournhold's temple, but acceptable). Introduced to Queen Galata in great ceremony, felt it was appropriate to bow considering circumstances. Given large amount of guest gifts, viz. bales of silk, ceremonial gold jewellery, scimitars, a suit of glass armour (blue, not green like ours – suspect some sort of alchemical dye is involved) &c. Queen seemed surprised we had no gifts for her in turn, but not very disappointed. Someone (look said 'grand vizier' or 'high priest') gave brief speech, answered with a few words of my own despite not understanding a thing, then led to nearby palace set aside for us. Visited ships in harbour in afternoon, guards posted at docks, but no apparent hostility. Good, have left F. in command and ordered captains not to let anyone on land without my express permission. Some sort of banquet at royal palace in evening, hundreds assembled, seems to be most of Tang Mo (or kingdom's) elites. Food odd, like all banquets, but tolerable and plentiful. Upon return to palace around 2, found boy Omai from had snuck in one of the containers with the guest gifts from fishing village. Woke him up and gave him an earful, will deal with child later. Cursory inspection of palace reveals a dozen guards patrolling, very stealthy, hiding on rooftops and trees. Here for our protection or theirs? Have set up watch shifts among shore party, informed F. on Sevayna via mirror spell.

8 Sun's Dawn 3E 430 – managed to get a tour of the city's temples (cf. notebooks 3 through 10). Thrashing I gave boy Omai not very effective deterrent, having him come along for now. Hardly feels right to send him back to his village all alone …

10 First Seed 3E 430 – Hard to believe we've been here for more than a month now. At this rate, surveying the major creeds of Akavir will take centuries. Still, I am learning the language, thanks in large parts to Omai, who is beginning to express himself in passable Cyrodiilic in turn. The crew are, so far, well-behaved. It is surprising how far the Tang Mo are willing to accommodate us, even the common people seem to show no signs of being burdened by our presence. I suspect there are reasons for this: I have been working on translating a series of stone steles in the main temple of Pa Ratun, implications are far-reaching & highly amusing (cf. notebooks 56 through 59). Also, queen clearly worried, military matters. As of yet unable to hear details, but queen recently asked to watch our warriors train. Had 10 of our best put on show-fight, I. last mer standing through clever use of Alteration magics, but all fought well. Queen impressed, suspect plans on using us as mercenaries. Especially interested in our magics, Tang Mo magic not on comparable levels. Will have to hear further details. In other matters, cf. notebooks 23 through 55 for my observations regarding the Tang Mo and their pantheon, conclusion: interesting, but not in any way identifiable with Tamrielic beliefs, unsuited to Dunmer needs.

15 First Seed 3E 430 – foreign embassy arrived in Pa Ratun today, apparently sent by Ka Po' Tun. Suspected that historical alliance was defunct, evidently not the case. Tigermen much like Khajiit, but better-shaped, more beautiful and better-proportioned, and certainly much more intelligent. Cf. notebook 61 for a series of sketches. Will be formally introduced to Ka Po' Tun ambassadors at evening banquet. They seem a warlike sort – will wear full Indoril plate and Trueflame for occasion. Tang Mo very friendly, but unsuitable for Undertaking, will have to consider other options. Ka Po' Tun helpful for that.

16 First Seed 3E 430 – notes from meeting with Ka Po' Tun ambassador, name of Taram Khan. Almost three heads taller than me, all covered in orange fur. Mildly intimidating. Pleasantries were exchanged in broken Tang Mo, much admiration for Trueflame in particular. Then, business: Tsaesci at war with Ka Po' Tun, stalemated for years, tentative alliance between Ka Po' Tun and Tang Mo. Queen Galata: put on the spot by canny diplomats, made to pledge support to their effort. Not her fault, still young. Not my concern, either, except was asked by Khan to join fight according to ancient Tang Mo prophecy (knew my translation was correct! Cf. notebook 59). Deliberated with captains after banquet, L. and S. urge caution, F. argues military aid may prove crucial & help relations along. Inclined to agree with her. Mustered my men today, even counting losses, still formidable force: best and brightest of Great Houses, guilds, &c. Ships also military asset. In other events, Omai has started to spar with some of the Redoran and Fighters' Guild people. He's still young, but fast & agile and K. assures me he can make something of him. It would be interesting to see.

Carefully, she glanced out of the window. The view was hardly reassuring. "Dreloth," she said to one of the ordinators crowding the room, "Take ten men to the Foreign Quarter via the sewers. Contact the local Watch office and have them arrest the leaders of the Mages' and Fighters' guilds. Go!" Throwing a hasty salute, the ordinator sped out of the room.

Dalave Hleran turned to the other assembled subalterns and group leaders. "What about the High Constable?," she asked. "Do we have a location on him?"

"He's retreated to the Ministry with the Archcanon," one young ensign offered. "Protecting the Temple leadership. Whole place is locked down, they've got archers on the outer walkways."

She frowned. Considering that all attempts to reach the other watch houses had so far met with failure, that left her as the highest-ranked officer in the canton. "Has anyone tried getting up to them? We need orders."

There was a lot of uneasy shifting and shuffling of feet. Finally, Serjeant-major Ilidrea Alendri, who'd been with the Vivec inquisition for seventy-four years, said: "We sent someone up there, yes. Young Ordinator-Inquisitor Garth, from Blacklight."

"So, what did he say? Out with it!"

"He didn't come back, serjo. They shot him down."

Hleran' eyes widened. "You can't possibly mean …"

"They do have archers on the walkways."

For a moment, she was at a loss for words. High Constable Sala had been a mentor to her when she'd first come to the holy city, a teenaged ensign still upset about being assigned to backwater Vvardenfell, and a fair and competent commanding officer ever since. But most of all, he was loyal, he believed with the ardent flame of the true zealot burning in his heart. "Don't be ridiculous," Hleran snapped at the serjeant-major. "The High Constable wouldn't fire on his own men."

"Even if he felt the city was lost and he had to protect the archcanon?," one subaltern dared to suggest. "I'm not so sure."

"I don't like it either," another concurred, "But he's got the right of it. His duty is to protect Lord Vivec and the Temple, right? Well, Our Lord can take care of Himself, and the safest place for Their Reverences is inside the Ministry, stands to reason."

"Be that as it may," Hleran growled, "we've got a riot on our hands, and no orders to go around. How many people, do you reckon, are out there?"

"Thirty-thousand, maybe? That's more than half the city's resident population. We've had reports about irregularly high numbers of pilgrims these last few weeks now, but we didn't anticipate their intentions."

Hleran returned to the window, drawing the curtain aside. Under different circumstances, she might have taken pride in seeing thousands upon thousands of the faithful flock to Vvardenfell's holy city, the Dunmer people united in their love and adoration of their triune gods. But the security of a secret was inversely proportional to the number of people who knew it, and by now Lord Vivec's disappearance was fuelling the rumour mill. The creation of the Ingenium, that marvellous conception that would hold the Rock of Lies afloat even if Lord Vivec should turn from his loving people, had not helped matters. The works had been hard to conceal, and its workings – harder yet. It was one thing, many people these days seemed to think, to bind their honoured ancestors in patriotic service to contain the Blight within the Ghostfence. But surely now, since the Nerevarine had defeated Dagoth Ur, there was no more need to further torture their ancestors thus? And, as some of the more radical of the thugs now lining their streets argued, every word smoothed over with dragon-gold, wasn't the very creation of the Ingenium a sure sign of Lord Vivec's disappearance and the desperation of the Temple? The Temple had turned against the Nerevarine, who had ended up saving them all as had been prophesied, and who was to say the adored warrior-poet had not turned away from His Temple in turn for their lack of faith!

She shook her head at the masses' misplaced fervour. "They want to see their god," she murmured under her breath. "Can't say I blame them."

Ordinator-Watcher Gilsa Baren stepped out of the group. Hleran knew her, not as a friend, but out of professional interest. She had been denounced by one of her comrades after expressing certain Views, though there had been no formal investigation. Better safe than sorry, Hleran had argued, wanting to take her in for questioning, but the Grand Inquisitor had overruled her. Preserve unit cohesion and all that soft-hearted bollocks. Now, the suspect watcher said: "This is ridiculous. Lord Vivec could disperse this crowd just by appearing before them. Has anyone approached Him yet?"

The silence that followed Baren's statement was almost audible. The ordinators had all heard the rumours … Hleran scowled. What a fool! A good ordinator, even in the Order of the Watch, had to know when to keep her mouth shut … "We will not surrender to rioting thugs, watcher" she snapped at her. "Lord Vivec will appear when and if He so desires. We do not always understand the will of the Three, but we must have faith in Them nonetheless. You would do well to remember that, watcher."

After a moment's hesitation, the ordinator saluted in a stiff bow. "Yes, serjo. I spoke poorly." Even from across the room, Hleran could see her ears redden.

She let it sink in for a moment before turning back to the window. If anything, the crowds around the High Fane had grown in the short time she'd been distracted. Some were chanting or singing hymns, others had come in full ash storm gear to hide their faces should the worst come to pass, but she sensed that there was not a mer in the crowd who would obey an order to disperse today. Very well then. "Irian, fetch me my helmet. The rest of you, gear up. I want every available ordinator downstairs, under arms, in five minutes."

"Even the doctrinals?," someone asked, incredulously.

For an instant, a very amusing image of an ordinator-doctrinal in the order's elaborate blue and white robes trying to stem back an angry mob with nothing but a scroll of mantras stood before her eyes. "Every ordinator," she repeated, once she had caught herself, "if they aren't too old or too fat to stand, get them to dust off their swords. Now get on it!"

As the assembled ordinators filed out of her office, she reached for her weapons, slung across a hook on the wall. Hleran girded herself with the gilded ebony mace and the shortsword, which she hid in the folds of her uniform's deep blue mantle. For a moment she considered taking the ebony poleaxe that was the mark of her order, then decided against it: the weapon was well-suited to strike fear into the minds of heretics, but less so to control a violent mob. By the time she had fully armed herself, Irian had returned with her helmet. She hardly ever wore it – the helmet's sole concessions to the secrecy her duties required were a somewhat subdued crest, at least compared to the ridiculously conspicuous plumage worn by the other orders, and a suspicious scowl in the mask. For most occasions, a cowl and a plain leather mask sufficed to protect her identity. This time, however, she felt she'd have to ramp up her intimidation factor.

Taking the helmet under her arm, she descended the stairs to the watch house's downstairs. Already, some three dozen ordinators had assembled in the armoury, checking and adjusting their arms and armours. A man in the armour of a doctrinal approached her, she recognised the hoary voice as belong to old Serjeant Uveran, who had left the Watch after almost a century of service two years ago, when his failing strength had become undeniable. "The doctrinals are ready, serjo," he told her as if he wasn't one of them, though his tone was apprehensive. "If I may advice, many of them aren't at the top of their physical strength. Some of the people under my command haven't held a mace in decades. But we will fight if we must, and there's a few tricks the doctrinals have under their puffy sleeves."

She nodded at him. Keep them at the back, then, and see what kind of magics the Temple taught its paper-pushers these days. "Noted." Hleran let her eyes wander across the rest of the ordinators. They seemed as ready as they would get. She raised her voice. "We're moving out. If we're lucky, our comrades in the Foreign Quarter will join us and take the mob in the back. If not, we'll advance in an orderly manner and clear the Temple Canton. You're authorised to get rough with these yobs, but try to avoid lethal force. I know it's what most of them deserve, but a massacre is the last thing we need right now. Ordinators, with me!"

Putting on her helmet, she drew her mace and stepped outside into the courtyard of the Hall of Justice. None of the rioters had so far managed to reach this part of the canton, and the only people in evidence were a handful of anxious acolytes. The tall front doors to the hall had been barricaded with bookshelves and desks, but it did not take long for some of the watchers to clear the way, and then the ordinators marched out into the plaza.

For a moment, Hleran was blinded by the sunlight, and deafened by the noise of the crowd. By the time she had regained her focus, her ordinators were already beginning to fan out, fighting against the push of the mob with every step. A line was formed with some difficulty, at first just surrounding the entrance to the Hall of Justice in a semi-circle. She gave the order to push forward, which was eventually accomplished with much use of the blunt ends of the watchers' spears. A rotten ash yam was expertly hurled over the line and impacted on her shoulder, staining her uniform. Hleran bore it stoically. "Ordinators," she shouted, trying to make herself heard over the roaring cacophony of the crowd, "Forward, march!"

Step by step, the thin golden line advanced, driving the mob in front of them down the Temple Canton. Under their feet, the ordinator left many a concussed and bleeding rioter, but every once in a while, a well-aimed thrown stone also thinned the line. A development, Hleran noted, that threatened to leave the line too weak to hold against the continuous push of the mob. Frowning, she watched the sky to the north, hoping for a signal from their comrades in the Foreign Quarter. If they could pincer the enemy, channel the mob into some of the more easily-controlled parts of the city, they'd be able to contain those criminals in detail …

Serjeant Uveran approached her, once again. "Serjo, a word?," he shouted at her.

"What is it, serjeant?," she shouted back.

"At this rate, clearing the plaza will take all day! Give the order, and we can escalate, no questions asked!"

She hesitated. Hleran had never been good at Illusion magic, but she was familiar with the technique. She let a critical eye sweep across her surroundings. The advance of the ordinators' line had almost slowed to a stop under the pressure of the mob. To the north, the bridge off the Temple Canton was thronging with people. If they could gain control of the bridge, they'd have some room to breathe. "Do it."

Uveran barked an order and one of the doctrinals behind the line surreptitiously raised his hand, targeted into the crowd and snapped his fingers. Hleran followed his gaze. For the briefest moment, she thought she saw a flash of purple light, and then, the tone of the crowd's chanting changed. She doubted the doctrinal had affected more than a handful of rioters, but that was all it took: as one mer slammed his fist in his neighbour's eye, his victim struck back, as bystanders sought to separate them, a fight broke out, and within moments, the crowd erupted in frenzy. "Good work," Hleran murmured under her breath, before barking the order: "Mob's turning violent! Ordinators, permission to use lethal force! Forward, march!"

From that moment on, the ordinators' maces were swung with more force, and crushed many a skull under their weight. As the chanting turned to screams, the ordinators' line advanced down the Temple Canton plaza like a battlefield. Those who weren't cut down, and those who didn't flee, were rounded up with judicious use of Destruction magic. Hleran observed the scene with grim satisfaction, glancing up at the Ministry hovering above them every once in a while. Was that a gilded crest? The flash of the sun shining on a pauldron? Three willing, she'd make Major by the end of the month. Once the Temple Canton was secured, they could send for reinforcements from the Order of War at Ald Sotha and the Ghostgate, re-establish control of the city, and seize the ringleaders. N'wah, in all likelihood, there was no way the empire didn't have anything to do with this disaster. But by then, the Archcanon and the High Constable would have returned to the ground, all thanks to her presence of mind. Oh, and Uveran's Illusion spells, of course. She'd have to remember to commend him for that. Somewhere deep on the inner pages of her report.

"Burn the ships," he orders, to the cheers of monkeys and tigers alike. "Take up arms," he orders, and thus they do, for year after year, stemming back the Tsaesci tide inch by inch.

"When will you let me examine your temples, that I might complete the Undertaking?," he asks his Ka Po' Tun allies. "Soon," they assure him, "Just one more campaign …"

Years pass. He frees and arms the slaves he had brought with him, begins to recruit the most promising of the Tang Mo youth and train them in the Dunmeri art of war. Some die, others are born: take Hrothgar Dragon-born, first child of Captain Freydis Windswept and her husband and the first child born to Tamrielic parents in the land of Akavir. His lord, dragon-born also, approves of the name, but as the Nords laugh and cheer he cannot help but think there's something he's missing.

Take Maron Sulan, hero of a hundred battles, finally brought low by a Tsaesci poison dart. He lives, barely, but others are not so fortunate. He will never charge the enemy again, but he smiles and founds a chapter of the Fighters' Guild in Tang Mo lands.

"But if a man comes to our land and spills his blood for our kings in our wars on our soil, does that not make him our brother?," Omai asks him one day. By then, half of the warriors under his command are Akaviri.

"A man may shed his blood," he snaps back, sharper than he intended, "but who he is, is for him alone to choose." The Tang Mo shirks under the rebuke, born from painful, sleepless nights. Moon-and-Star is hurting on its wearer's finger, fused with flesh and bone, and will not move nor budge. By and by his magic fails him, it seems Aetherial light favours Tamrielic lands.

Only on nights when blood was shed can he now find peace in Vaermina's realm. He dreams of – he dreams that the Brass Tower moved upon the slopes of the Red Tower, he dreams of the Heart, "Receive Wraithguard, Sunder, Keening, guard them with thy life till I return …" And as he finds himself remembering dreams of bygone ages, he fears that one day he will awake and not know which of the two names is his.

Two weeks after the arrival of the reinforcements from the Ghostgate, they met in the Mended Pail Cornerclub in the bowels of St. Olms. It was a quiet place, most of the time, courtesy of being well-known as the customary haunt of many of the city's Watch. In the past, the landlord had issued several complaints against the ordinators' presence driving away "respectable" patrons, but in time he had come to appreciate both the security (and not having his arms broken). Even now, in the middle of the day, a handful of gold-armoured watchmer were around.

Hleran, however, felt uncomfortable as she waited for the others to arrive. In the course of her duties as a young inquisitor, she had frequented many of Vivec's seedier establishments. After becoming an officer, that had largely fallen to her subordinates, and she had moved to more upscale taverns. In private, however, she preferred to avoid clubs and bars – especially the Pail. As an inquisitor, she had to see every ordinator in the room as a potential suspect. Bonding over drinks did not help with that.

Neither, of course, did their present situation. Hleran rose when the doors swung open to let in a group of masked officers of her order. For a moment, the chatter that had filled the cornerclub died down, before resuming at a slightly higher volume. The inquisitors made their way to her booth in the corner. "Sister," one of them said, his voice distorted by the mask, as he closed the curtain separating the booth from the rest of the club. Even before they removed their masks, Hleran could tell who they were: the public was never to know any single ordinator's name and face, but those who knew what to look for could identify them by the 'scratches' on their pauldrons. Thirith, Sarayn, Arendu.

"Brothers. Please, sit. What news?"

"I was called in today to explain to a Ghostgate warrior why it's a bad idea to brain an innocent pilgrim in the middle of the street," Sarayn said with a smirk, lounging on one of the cushions opposite her. "As you can imagine, I had to use very small words. But I reckon that's not what you're interested in."

"The warriors are hell to deal with," Thirith agreed, chuckling. "They have their uses, though, and Three know we've more pressing issues to deal with at the moment …"

"Indeed. Sarayn, I understand you've been further investigating the Nere- the apostate?"

"Yeah. At least, I think I did. Rather sordid affair, on the whole." He cleared his throat. "I went to Sadrith Mora to retrace his last steps. Before he … visited Lord Vivec, the apostate apparently spent several weeks' time as a houseguest of Lord Divayth Fyr at Tel Fyr."

"I don't recognise that name," Thirith interjected. "Is he an important Telvanni?"

"As I understand it, he's not a Telvanni at all, though he's highly respected by them and lives in one of their mushroom castles. He's a powerful wizard, too, and apparently over four millennia old. He's also the guy in charge of that Corprus asylum."

Hleran nodded. "I've heard about him. Every few dozen years, he comes under investigation for heretical writings, but each and every time the investigation is halted from the top. The very top, if you get my meaning."

"Right," Sarayn continued. "Anyway, I rode out to Tel Fyr to ask the noble lord a few pointed questions. Can't say I was expecting much, to be honest, after Mehra Milo proved a dead end. Except Fyr must have been expecting me. The moment I got in sight of the tower, I was, er, 'greeted' by a freed lizard and two delightful young ladies who variably introduced themselves as Lord Fyr's wives or daughters."

"That's disgusting," Arendu commented with the self-satisfied authority of decades of service.

"I know, right? The only good lizard is a collared one."

"Not what I meant, but do carry on."

Sarayn gave a sigh. "This is important, you know. In any case, the girls told me in no uncertain terms that I'd be permitted inside Tel Fyr, but that their, er, father had no interest in talking to me and that I was not permitted into the Corprusarium, at least not if I wanted to leave it again. I … felt it wise not to resist."

"Why in Oblivion not? Fyr knows something, there's no doubt about that."

"You want to oppose one of the world's most powerful wizards and mingle with the zombies, be my guest."

Hleran rolled her eyes. She was quite sure she'd have found a way to fulfil her mission nonetheless. Where there was faith in ALMSIVI, there was a path. "In other words, you didn't actually find out anything."

"Not so hasty. For one, we now know that Lord Fyr has something to hide, and not on his own behalf – elsewise, he'd have laughed in my face at the accusation. That's the kind of guy he is. Also, while I didn't get to interrogate the mer himself, his, er, wives had no compulsions about speaking to me. One of them, Lady, er, Delte Fyr, confirmed that the suspect had, indeed, been a frequent houseguest of Lord Fyr's while the fleet was being built at Sadrith Mora, and that the two of them engaged in several lengthy discussions during their last few meetings, though she and her … sisters weren't privy to the topics they discussed. I asked whether the suspect had left anything behind at the tower, a question which – I note – Lady Fyr neither denied nor affirmed."

"Which means he did."

"Yeah, probably. Well, to make a long story short, I was quickly shown the door. Divayth Fyr is hiding something, no question there, but I fear there's nothing we can do about it if he doesn't want to cooperate."

Hleran nodded. "We suspected he'd be a dead end. This is better than what we were hoping for. Good work, Sarayn."

He grinned at her. "Wasn't it, though. I still think this is a waste of time, but the things I don't do for a beautiful lady …"

"Cut it out, Sarayn," Arendu sharply rebuked him. "Let's keep this professional.."

Thirith cleared his throat. "One way or the other," he rasped, "this investigation is academic. Wherever the Nerevarine went, he is now beyond our reach. Whether he knows anything about the disappearance of the Tribunes or not, it's not something we can waste our time on."

Hleran frowned. "What are you suggesting, then? We can't just abandon the search, and the Nerevarine is our only clue so far."

Thirith shrugged. "If Lord Vivec doesn't want to be found, we can't find Him. And … if the Nerevarine killed Him … then we need to take …"

By the time the others pulled her off him, blood was flowing down Thirith's nose and several of the cornerclub's off-duty ordinators had gathered outside the inquisitors' booth. "You swore an oath!," Hleran snapped at her colleague, struggling against the armlock Arendu had her in. "You dare speak of your gods that way? I should rip out your tongue for that, fetcher …!"

"Calm down!," Sarayn hissed into her ear, "What in Oblivion has gotten into you?! And shut up, will you? There's others listening …"

She ignored him, tried to focus her magicka. "Don't you dare speak of the Tribunal like that," she repeated, spitting every word in Thirith's bloodied face as he seemed to lose consciousness. "ALMSIVI are eternal. They are indomitable. They watch over us, even now. Do you hear me?! ALMSIVI live! They live! They live!"

The moons disappear, and finally they are invited – no, summoned – to the capital. The last of his original crew has long died. Omai still follows him, his fur now almost white as Nerevar remains as young as ever. The company he commands, a motley band of the dragon-born children of Tamrielic parents, Tang Mo recruits, Tsaesci mercenaries, and scarcely any Ka Po' Tun, even though it is the tigers they are fighting for. The war, at last, is coming to an end, the Tsaesci retreat behind their wall of fortresses, fearing that the disappearance of the moons bodes ill for their arms.

The capital of Ka Po' Tun is as splendid as anything he had seen in Tamriel in either of his lives, arousing dark suspicions within him. Instead of being frightened by the disappearance of the moons, the tigers are giddy with anticipation, and all his studies of their religion does not help him understand why. He talks to Omai about it, and the old monkey tells him to be wary. "You came to us to free yourselves, to complete the Psijic Endeavour begun by your prophet Veloth: to overthrow your gods, and put men and mer in their places. Perhaps your realms and ours are not so different, old friend."

But he cannot shake his suspicions. The Ka Po' Tun speak of their mysterious god-king, but he has yet to meet his employer and the tigers are not very welcoming. Politics add to his unease, in coded correspondence, the king of Tang Mo shares his fears that the alliance with the tigers will not survive the long-awaited victory over the snakes.

Nerevar spends two years contemplating CHIM, and Kagrenac's feverish speeches invade his dreams. He draws a line in the sand, shows his men Moon-and-Star, burned into his finger, and takes a hundred volunteers. Some of them are tigers, wary of their countrymen's devotions. Under cover of darkness, they mount the thousand steps of the grand pyramid; under steel, they raise the banner of House Indoril at its apex. Under blood, they withstand the assaults of the Ka Po' Tun, and it becomes clear that they are to be a sacrifice. And under fire, they fight the mighty red dragon that appears to take them. Even as the beast's – the king's – the god's – searing shout cracks and breaks Lord Nerevar's battered bonemold plate, Trueflame strikes true.

For the first time in two years, Masser rises on the horizon.

The city beneath them is gearing up to avenge its king – or revive it? A dragon, they know from ancient texts, cannot be slain by mortal souls. Nerevar lays down his blade, for weeks searches the libraries of the grand pyramid as its defenders fall to hunger and sickness. No one knows what he finds: he sets fire to a thousand thousand scrolls and watches as they turn to ashes.

On the horizon appear the armies of the Tsaesci, under moonlight to lay siege to the tigers' den. Inside the pyramid, only a hundred are left. Lord Nerevar gives the order: 'Raise the banners, let Moon-and-Star march to Tsaesci's aid, to victory or Oblivion.'

That night, the serpent banner is hoisted next to that of Indoril at the apex of the grand pyramid.

She barely remembered how she had gotten into this mess. Sujamma had been involved, lots and lots of imported sujamma. When the sujamma had run out, she'd moved on to Cyrodiilic brandy, then to cheap ale, though by then her choice of drink hadn't mattered anymore. What then? There had been blood, then fire, then darkness.

And then, the cell: damp, cold, grey, a tiny window that let more flies in than light, mouldy iron bars her only privacy. Oh, and the headache. One mustn't forget the headache, and in fact she found it rather hard to do so.

"Look who's awa… oh, my!" The voice would have echoed in her head with the sound of a thousand war cries, if it hadn't been so slimy. As it was, it rather covered her brain in … a disgusting layer of mucus? That did not sound right. Neither did the voice. "I must surely be dead and in the halls of Azura to look upon such a vision. You are so beautiful, my dear Dunmer maiden …"

Groaning, Hleran sat up, raised her hands to her temples and found that they were shackled together. Whatever had happened, it appeared to have been rather more … more than she would have guessed. The voice continued. "One of the guards owes me a favour, you know. I could get us put in …"

She interrupted him. "What is this place …?"

There was a short pause. "You, my lovely, are in the Imperial Prison. The most secure dungeon in Tamriel, they say. Only way out is once you've done your time. For me, that's just a few more months. And for you …" The voice cackled. "You're going to die in here, you hear me? No matter what they told you, my sweet Dunmer maid, they're going to leave you to rot until you die!"

Awkwardly, she dragged her feet off the stone slab that had served her as a bed. "Shut up, outlander." The Imperial City, then … hadn't she been in Vvardenfell just a few days ago? Hleran scoured her memories for some way to make sense of this. There had been a discussion, a ship, and then ungodly amounts of liquor … and then it all came back to her. A time-out, the High Constable had called it. We both know you're not feeling all that well at the moment, he'd pointedly said, It's a difficult time for all of us. There's a placement with the Imperial City watch coming up. I'm sending you there. Consider it … an experience. Broaden your horizons. Learn new skills, that sort of thing.

You're sending me away, she had replied, flatly. Even now, when every ordinator is needed.

There will always be a place for you here, captain. You're an ordinator. What had been left unsaid: Just don't come back. You no longer fit in here.

Stretching, Hleran knelt on the damp stone floor, facing away from the outlander in the cell opposite hers, to say her morning prayers. Was it morning? It was so hard to tell from the few slivers of light that fell through the window of her cell. She cleared her throat. At the academy, she had been taught to always pray loudly, not to be ashamed of her faith, and not to keep secrets from her comrades. Right now, with that boorish outlander leering at her from the other cell? She awkwardly crossed her arms over her breasts and began to voice the First Incantation of Radiant Grace. Almalexia, Mother of the People, Sotha Sil, Father of Mysteries, Vivec, Sister-Brother of the Holy Word. Praise be to you! We beseech you, judge your Chosen people by your own divine right. Reward our service and punish our sins as you see fit …

"Are you praying, birdie? You some sort of priestess? Always wanted to rape a priestess, myself. You know, that Nerevarine fellow? I wonder if he had some fun with Almalexia before he stuck that bitch like a pig. I know I'd have, going by the statues she had fantastic tits. You're no goddess, luv, but you oughta have a bit of fun before you die in here …"

Hleran clenched her fists, ground her teeth. Oh, the things she'd do that that filthy heretic if she were free … A tiny, treacherous voice in her head told her that there were things she could do even in her position; she could throw fireballs at him through the bars, pretend to take him up on his 'offer' then smash his head in, or at least shout abuse at his ugly mug. The guards would come for her, of course, but she hadn't had any compulsions of the sort when she'd beaten that treacherous heretic Thirith's face into pulp. But that incident had destroyed her life, pretty much. There was nothing human guards could do to her that was worse than essentially being dishonourably discharged from the divine crusade she had spent her entire life fighting for. The only family she had ever known. And yet, she couldn't even bring herself to shout at that worthless bit of filth. Mother Morrowind, full of mercy, watch over me in my hour of need …

"Alas, fun will have to wait. You hear that, luv? That's the guards. They're coming for you! They're coming to get you!"

Teacher of Secrets, wise beyond measure, grant me the wisdom to bear my burdens …

"Baurus! Lock that door behind us!"

"My sons … they're dead, aren't they?"

"We don't know that, sire. The messenger only said they were attacked."

"No. They're dead. I know it."

Warrior-poet, bulwark of the people, teacher of faith, Lord Vivec, thou that stemmest back the tides of darkness, protect your servant. Hleran rose to her feet, stretched. The shackles chafed against her wrists. No. There was no point to it anymore. ALMSIVI lived, there was no question there, but she had doubted, and this was the punishment for her lack of faith. I have failed you, Triune lords. I lie at your feet, awaiting whatever penance you may deem fit. Just … let me believe again.

"Hey, what's that prisoner doing here? This cell is supposed to be empty!"

He enters the Tsaesci capital in triumph. Thousands of serpents line the streets of Tsai Sahvek, cheering his name: Nere-vah! Nere-vah! Here and there, a human face: the last of the race that came before the Tsaesci, now enslaved, and they also cheer the man who, though a mer, at least has two legs and no fur. Behind him, his company, battered, but victorious, their packs laden with the loot of a defeated people. Before him on a wagon, the dragon's skull. Omai in a sedan chair, the new Tang Mo ambassador.

The fabled Dragonguard, not long ago his mortal enemies, escorts the triumph to the imperial palace. The emperor slithers off his throne to meet him on the stairs, embraces him as a brother, showers him with favours, titles, gifts. Nerevar gives a brief speech, about how mortals, when united in the brotherhood of shed blood that transcends races and continents, can bring down the very gods. Then it's time for the reception.

Behind the emperor, he spies a Tsaesci in the embroidered, wrapped robes of a duchess, and for a moment he forgets where he is. Normally, he finds Tsaesci off-putting, he cannot bring his mind to bridge the gap between "snake" and "person." This one, however, is the most beautiful woman he has ever seen. Her skin is as white and pure as the fresh snows of Skyrim, her hair, pinned up by a myriad of tiny lacquer combs, as black as polished ebony, just like the scales of the tail on which she stands with the lightness of a dancer. When she smiles at him, her crimson eyes light up, and she bares a set of pearly white fangs around a pointed, hissing tongue.

He learns her name that very night. She loves literature and natural philosophy, both subjects his studies have scarcely touched upon. But she does not hold his ignorance against him, invites him to her library. She has a sharp tongue and a vicious sense of humour, which keeps him on his toes despite having nearly a century of experience on her. When he compares her to Ayem, or Almalexia, he finds it hard to believe who was the goddess and who the mortal.

Towards the end of the social season that year, he rides to her palace in the city. He brings with him Hopesfire, still stained with his own blood, but as sharp and brilliant as ever before. She is confused, until he explains his meaning. Finally, she understands: and asks to be allowed time to decide.

Weeks pass as the nobility of the Tsaesci Empire retreat into the countryside. He remains in the capital, advising the emperor as he reorganises his army on a model that draws as much from the Imperial Legion as from the Ka Po' Tun horde. They write letters, but he takes care not to bring up the issue, wants to leave her time to decide.

When they meet again at the grand ball in the imperial palace when summer ends and autumn begins, she wears Hopesfire at her hip.

The ceremony is only a formality to them. Old Omai manages to rise from his deathbed one last time to place the ebony torques around their necks that the Tsaesci use instead of wedding rings. Even as he dies from the exertion, and Nerevar sheds many a tear at his truest friend since Red Mountain bled, the young union is blessed. They have two children together. Both are Tsaesci, of course, but they are every bit as beautiful as their mother. The children listen to his tales of Tamriel with amused scepticism, and he can hardly blame them. Tamriel seems like a dream to him. His first life, like that of another man, his second, before he became Nerevar again, scarcely a memory. He no longer meditates on CHIM, he abandons the Psijic Endeavour.

Even as he remains as youthful as ever, a hundred years pass in an hour. After a riding accident at a young age, their son grows into a scholar, like his father, a tinkerer and observer of nature. He is fascinated by Nerevar's tales of the Dwemer and their cities, and the might animunculi that defended them. It will be millennia before a Tsaesci builds a Brass Tower, but that doesn't discourage him. Their daughter takes to the arts of war, and hones her skills with the Dragonguard, with the monks of Haessiak, and with her parents. In time, she leads the armies her father built against Kamal and resurgent Ka Po' Tun. She becomes as deadly with her katana as she is powerful in sorcery, and between the forces of Oblivion and those of Tsaesci, little can stand in her way.

Their mother grows old, the first folds appear on her face. But to Nerevar, she is as beautiful as on that first day they met, and her mind if anything sharper and brighter than then. He spends a decade mastering the intricacies of Tsaesci poetry, before he finally feels ready to present her with a poem that does her justice, and yet consists of but a single character.

Nerevar himself exchanges the sword of war for one of state. Emperors have a high turn-over rate in Tsaesci, but he serves most of them for some time. He is prime minister thirty times in a hundred years, and a fixture of political life in between. He tries to remain impartial, do what he feels is best for the people – often no easy task, as Tamriel clashes with Akavir. Even two centuries spent in Akavir cannot erase the three he had ruled and guided the Chimer people. He plays the game, as everyone does. Eight emperors he installs outright, a dozen more reign by his sufferance. He gains friends, the Tsaesci and their human slaves adore him equally, but he also gains enemies.

Nerevar has only himself to blame when, one night, he returns from an inspection of the far-flung reaches of the empire to find his family dead at the dinner table, poison distorting their beautiful faces.

He mourns by taking vengeance, but the blood of the assassins and the ringleaders does nothing to fill the hole in his heart.

There are merchant ships that sail, occasionally, between Akavir and the island kingdoms in the western ocean. He sells everything he owns, buys passage on a ship to Esroniet, and uses the rest to buy free as many human slaves as there still are after the reforms he presided over. Then, Indoril Nerevar leaves Akavir, never to return. From Esroniet, he finds a ship to Yneslea, and thence to the Imperial City. He spends the journey going over his old notebooks, which number in the thousands, once more he takes up his meditations on CHIM and the Psijic Endeavour. He refuses food and wine, and when Nerevar shores up on a Tamrielic beach eight months and a shipwreck after his departure from Tsaesci, he is a skeleton of a mer, clinging to Trueflame and Hopesfire, his only possessions (for Moon-and-Star is long a part of his body).

He is found by an old Dunmer woman, who nurses him back to a state of relative health. But this is not Morrowind, he soon finds: the Dunmer here are slaves of Argonians, in a cruel reversal of fortunes. 'This is not the way' he screams at their Histborn captors, knowing how hollow his words must sound under the teaching of four millennia of injustice. 'Don't you know that you are but the pawns of monstrous deities? That we must all rise above this madness?' In a blind rage, he slays an Argonian that lays hands on a Dunmer child, but he sees the fear in the slaves' eyes and flees. Hounded by enemies, he crosses the border into Cyrodiil and then, into Resdayn. He walks the Ashlands of Vvardenfell, the ruins of Vivec City, and weeps at the doom his attempts to uplift his people have wrought.

With every passing day, Dalave Hleran felt age in her bones, and madness in her mind. The latter, she can struggle with: the balance between Mania and Dementia is and remains precarious, and as they fight each other, she can contain them in a darker corner of her mind. Even so, every now and then, she looks back on her last thoughts and cannot comprehend the reason behind them, or says something that those around her take for signs of progressing senility. She thinks strange thoughts, has memories that she does not remember gaining: there was one time when she vividly reminisced of a scene involving a fork and a surprisingly small giant bull netch. Or that one time involving burning cheese and dogged rain, or maybe raining cheese? Though she feels that one is familiar in more than one way, as if she saw herself looking at herself.

Age, meanwhile, she could fight. When she had first come to Skyrim, General Tullius had been a gracious, if somewhat gruff, host – but when dinner had been interrupted by a dispatch from Eastmarch, he had excused himself and withdrawn to the war room. In bygone days, she would have been invited to join him there, considering that she technically outranked him. But these days, it was implicitly understood that her role in Skyrim was not to be as a warrior or a leader of men, but to aid recruitment by appealing to the country's sizeable Dunmeri population. Three knew what the Elder Council had been thinking there, considering that every man and mer that signed up with Skyrim's legions these days was likely to hasten the end of the stripling of a man who called himself emperor as soon as the Dragonborn returned from her 'meditations' at High Hrothgar to lay claim to the Ruby Throne, her sorcerous vampire queen by her side.

But be that as it may. Her body also was beginning to fail her, Hleran found. Her husband had argued with her about it just before she'd left the capital, but one didn't just refuse a request from the Elder Council. The journey to Skyrim she had accomplished in a litter, and her entry into Windhelm at the head of the reinforcements she had brought from Cyrodiil had strained her so much that she'd had to ask the jarl to delay his welcoming banquet.

The banquet, surprisingly enough, was still being held, the next night – testament, Hleran thought, to the simplicity of Nordic life compared to the lifestyle she was used to in the Imperial City. Having spent much of the day resting, she eventually descended the stairs into the grand hall of the Palace of the Kings. She held herself upright, but it was obvious to her – and, presumably, everyone else – that her suit of Imperial Dragon Armour was made for a much younger mer. Legate Hrollod saluted her, as did a handful of ex-legionnaires in the hall, but she expected that is all the acknowledgement of her service she'd get tonight.

"My lady," Jarl Brunwulf welcomed her, directing her to the seat of honour on his right. She sat, and he raised his mug to her in a toast. "Friends, let us raise a cheer in welcome to the woman who shed her blood to make sure we'd all be here to do it tonight. Let us remember that, while all of Skyrim struggled to close even twenty-four Oblivion Gates, this woman – one hero, on her lonesome – closed no less than sixty of the bloody things, and stood beside Martin Septim when he sacrificed himself to defeat Mehrunes Dagon. Let us raise a mug in welcome, my friends, of the Champion of Cyrodiil, Heroine of Kvatch – Lady Dalave Hleran: one of Morrowind's finest, a hero of the empire, and a true Nord at heart." There was tentative, polite applause. The toast was received, but definitely not accepted. Not even the handful of Dunmer and lizards in the room were particularly enthusiastic, and mostly looked out of place. "And now, let's eat!"

As the long tables were laden with more meat, ale and mead than her eyes can take in, and very little in the ways of vegetables or fruits, Jarl Brunwulf began to introduce her to what he terms 'community leaders'. She'd heard of the race trouble going on in Windhelm under the usurper, but Brunwulf's usage of that particular term made it clear that he was at his wits' end. Nords, Argonians and Dunmer, she noted, were represented in scrupulously equal numbers among those he introduced to her, even though the vast majority of people in the great hall were Nords. Hleran also noticed quite distinctly that this was likely the first time most of those presented to her had been at court. One Argonian fidgeted and avoided her gaze, and wore a ragged dress in the kind of white one got after washing a deep green dress a hundred too many times.

Out of the Dunmer delegation, only three aroused her notice. One, by virtue of his name – Hlaalu had clearly fallen on hard times, but Hleran felt it hard to feel smug about that. The man was too young to have had a part in Hlaalu's treachery, and she – an officer of the Legion, possibly the last living Blade – could hardly judge over them. The other was the local priest, who proudly wore the marks of the New Tribunal on his robes. In Cyrodiil, there existed an understanding between most New Temple priests and herself as one of the country's most prominent Dunmer, that she would publicly support their 'Reclamations' and in turn they'd leave her in peace about lighting more candles than was proper for Saints Vivec, Sotha Sil and Almalexia. This mer glared at her with undisguised hostility, and the blessing of the Three from his mouth sounded like a curse. She returned his glare without any effort, and eventually he shrunk before her: that, at least, was one thing age couldn't take from her. She'd not become an ordinator-inquisitor by letting others stare her down.

The third stuck out not only due to his youth – he couldn't be any older than thirty – but also due to the casual confidence of the natural courtier which he emanated. His head was shorn but for a narrow strip of long black hair going from his brow to his neck, and his forehead was marked with a crimson Ghartok, the hand symbol that represented the Dunmer people. She hadn't seen one of those in ages. His dress also was more old-fashioned than she would have expected from a boy his age, and curiously enough, his many-layered brown and orange robe was stitched with the insignia of House Indoril. On his right hand, he wore a dark leather glove. He did not smile, and moved and spoke with an elegant solemnity that was entirely unbefitting to his age. With a gallant bow that would not have looked out of place in the Imperial City, he introduced himself as Voryn Omai. "And if I may say so, it is a delight to finally make your acquaintance. Your fame, madam, has spread far and wide. In these troubled days, when hostile winds have flung the Dunmeri people into all the corners of the globe like so much ash, it is comforting to see a daughter of Resdayn withstand the fury of a god."

Resdayn, she repeated to herself, the word seemed familiar. Some ancient word for 'Morrowind', perhaps? What an odd young mer. "The events you refer to took place two hundred years ago, Master Omai. Time for a new generation of Dunmer to stop looking back and start looking forward, I should think."

For an instant, a smile flashed across Omai's sharp features. There was something about him that she couldn't quite place, her old inquisitorial instincts all afire. "'We can salvage our future by looking to the past'," he said, clearly quoting from something. "The memory of its heroes – and villains – can give hope to a downtrodden people, and inspire them to rise and surpass to the deeds of their ancestors. Furthermore, your resistance against Mehrunes Dagon, just like the Dragonborn's defeat of Alduin, reminds us that men and mer alike would do well to remember that even, no, especially the will of a god can and must be examined by mortal reason and, if found to be patently unjust, resisted."

She couldn't keep a straight face at that, and almost laughed out loud. The gall! "Mere mortals can't defeat a god," she scoffed, pronouncing the word with more scorn than was reasonable. In the back of her mind, a voice wondered if there'd be a cheese course later on. "That's the whole point of a god: omnipotence." She had already decided that she did not like this boy. On the whole, Hleran found that today's youth were lacking in respect, and this young man was just a shiner side of the same coin. Outright rudeness, in her mind, was preferable to false, mocking maturity.

Once more the boy smiled, ever so briefly. "That is debatable, madam. But I see there's quite a queue forming behind me, I shall trouble you no more. Should you wish to continue this discussion, I am at your disposal." With another bow, he made his way back to his seat, all flowing robes and confident composure.

Jarl Brunwulf gave her a confused glance. "Uh, I'm sorry if he has offended you. He's a decent lad, once you get to know him, even if he talks like an old wizard half of the time."

"He seems … odd."

The jarl shrugged. "Maybe. He's not been in Skyrim for long, I think – moved to Windhelm fairly recently, too. He owns a house in the Grey Quarter, just by the New Gnisis Cornerclub."

She gave him an inquisitive glance, nipping on her wine. It was warm, and spiced, either to warm the drinker or to hide a less-than-stellar vintage. "Why would you invite him as a, er, 'community leader' if he's only been here for a short while?"

Hleran could tell when people were being evasive, and Jarl Brunwulf made no effort to disguise his emotions. It was clear that the question was uncomfortable to him. "He's … proven himself," he eventually said. "When Ulfric was still Jarl of Windhelm, he came to court one day to plead on behalf of someone who'd been shaken down by a guard coming out of the Grey Quarter. Ulfric sent him off, of course, but I enlisted him to help me with a few things. Small projects of mine, to take a bit of pressure of the Dark Elf and Argonian communities. And from what I hear, he's done a lot of good among both – a rare side, considering that most Dark Elves in Windhelm aren't too fond of Argonians."

"I imagine the feeling is mutual."

"I fear so. Young Omai is one of a handful of people who are accepted by both groups, even though he's only been here for a few months. His renovation of Vetrheim put a lot of coin into the Grey Quarter, and from what I hear he's done some work with the East Empire Company."

She nodded. The way he'd moved, the 'projects' Brunwulf was so evasive about – that suggested warrior. What about the glove? An old war wound, some sort of deformity? Maybe a ring he wanted to hide, but he did not seem the sentimental type, who'd enter a forbidden marriage, then continue wearing the ring in such an incredibly obvious way. "And you did not think to ask where he'd come from? What led him to Windhelm?"

"It's really not my place to ask. A man has his secrets, and it's his alone to tell."

The next morning, she made her way to the Grey Quarter – after retrieving her uniform from the cooling chamber. At the time, it had made perfect sense to put it there. Thank the Three for fire spells. As she walked through the Nord quarters of the city, leaning on her cane after last night's exertion, she could feel the stares of the local humans on her. Was this spite, against the outlander come with the legion to crush their foolish rebellion? Or just confusion at the sight of a decrepit old Dunmeri woman in the uniform of an imperial general?

In the Grey Quarter, her reception was … subdued. The proprietor greeted her at the door as she entered the cornerclub and served her flin on the house, but for the most part people here didn't seem to know, or care, who she was. So much for being 'inspiring'. Having finished her drink, she asked for directions to Vetrheim – there had been something about the young man that she couldn't quite place, something familiar. What had there been? An attack, a heretic, a … fork?

The place was non-descript enough. Heavy wooden doors, hardly differing from any of the others that line the snow-swept streets of Windhelm, narrow, glazed windows. The only thing that distinguished it from the neighbouring houses was the small wooden plague beside the door, reading in flawless Daedric calligraphy: VETRHEIM / IF WINTER COMES, CAN SPRING BE FAR BEHIND? She scowled at the platitude, and the pretentiousness. This was more than unbecoming to a mer that young. Without bothering to knock, she tried the door handle: it was unlocked.

Upon entering, a waft of warm air enveloped her. Well, there were a few things to be said in favour of platitudes. Hleran looked around the flat. There was a fire burning in the hearth, which she doubted was entirely natural. A counter divided the room into a cooking and a living area, the former full of baskets of fruit, enchanted meat hooks, braids of garlic; the latter cluttered with odd little trinkets and floral arrangements. By the door, an assortment of boots and shoes to fit Skyrim's changeable weathers rested on a small shelf. "Hello?," she asked into the room. The hearth fire and candles must have been lit quite recently. "Is anyone there?"

There was no reply. Softly, Hleran stepped into one of the adjoining rooms. A desk, surrounded by books, maps, scrolls. Someone had been busy. A sword had been mounted over the desk, a katana much like those once used by the Blades. If her alarms bells hadn't been ringing before this, they were now. Her hand shot to her hip, only to find she had left her sword at home, and in any case it wouldn't have done her much good.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to startle you," a voice said from behind her, startling her. Hleran whirled around. The young man from last night was standing there in a loose red robe, drying his hair. His right hand was still gloved. "Forgive my appearance," he seamlessly continued. "You should have sent word you were coming."

"I … like to take people by surprise. Voryn Omai, correct? I understand you haven't been in Windhelm for long. Where are you from?"

"I was born here, actually, though it now feels like eras ago. I've lived most of my life in Resdayn, though."

"You mean Morrowind."

He smiled ever-so-briefly. "Of course. I don't think I'll ever grow used to calling it that. Please, Champion, have a seat. Can I offer you anything? Tea? Flin? Shein?"

"No, thank you." Stepping closer to the desk, she inspected the sword. The shape of the blade and handguard was close enough to the Blades swords she had seen before the Great War, but the details were off. She'd have judged it a cheap replica if not for the visible quality of the steel and the odd symbols engraved into the blade. "Fancy. Where did you get it?"

For an instant, Omai hesitated. "It was a gift, from someone very dear to me. Now, how can I help you, Champion?"

She ignored the question. Whoever had given it to him had not pulled it off a slain Blade, that much was certain. And as far as she knew, the knowledge to make such weapons had died with the last of the Blade master smiths during the Great War. The pretenders at Sky Haven Temple certainly didn't use new swords. "Fascinating. What does the writing read? My eyes aren't what they used to be."

Almost automatically, the young mer replied "The essence of swordsmanship: red blossoms in the snow, conquering darkness."

Hleran smirked. "You can read Akaviri, then? Not a common skill." Without waiting for an answer, she lifted the sword from its stand above the desk and turned it around. Her eyes narrowed as she saw a symbol she had hoped never to see again. "An Akaviri sword with this on it. How curious."

For what seemed like a small eternity, their eyes locked in a silent glare. "I thought something was odd about you the moment we met. Something I couldn't quite place. Maybe you can refresh my memories … something about a fork and a netch?"

Their locked glares were broken by Omai succumbing to a sudden, violent coughing fit. Hleran used the time to examine the symbol engraved on the blade's other side. It had featured marginally in her education at the ordinators' academy, as it was not a major part of the iconography of St. Nerevar. No, it was associated with someone else …

With a speed and strength she would not have sought in her old body, she reached for Omai's gloved hand and gripped it tightly around the wrist. "What are you hiding, boy?" Swiftly, she ripped off the glove and froze.

The ring finger of his right hand was a shrivelled, blackened twig, the bone clearly visible at its tip. Even so, between what might once have been the first and second joints, a ring stood, almost indistinguishable from the blackened flesh but for the crescent moon and star decorating it.

Hleran let go of the hand. "You," she hissed. "What is your real name, boy? How old are you really?"

Slowly, 'Omai' pulled the glove back over his hand. "I did not mean for anyone to see this," he said, sighing. "My name is Indoril Nerevar."

"Don't take me for a fool. You're the Incarnate, the Nerevarine. You …" You murdered Vivec, she wanted to say, but could not bring forth the words. You caused Red Year.

"I am Indoril Nerevar," he repeated, with a faintly puzzled expression. "That's what I said. I'm not sure I understand the difference."

"The difference …" She broke off. To be fair, she was in two to three minds about most things these days. "You are a monster," Hleran hissed instead, even as sparks began to emanate from her fists. "What is this supposed to be, some kind of joke? Is that who 'Voryn Omai' is, a way to mock us while we're down? You caused this misery! I should kill you where you stand!"

"I have no wish to hurt you, Champion."

"Liar! You … you were responsible for whatever happened to the Tribunal! You caused Baar Dau to collapse, you caused Red Mountain to erupt, and you caused the Black Tide! Everything you did, you did to destroy the Dunmer people, did you not? Don't you dare deny it! And now you're here, in the ashes of our people, and you dare say you don't want to hurt me?!"

Nerevar sighed. "I don't deny my fault. Believe me, I wish it could be otherwise. What I did … the reason I killed Almalexia, and Vivec, the reason I went to Akavir, was to free our people. I realise that I made mistakes, but … I stand by my goals."

Killed Almalexia, killed Vivec. "You lie," she snarled. "You did not slay the gods, heretic. Maybe that's what They led you to believe, maybe that's the only way you could comprehend the horror you had wrought with your treachery. But no mortal can hope to slay a god."

"Not even you, Skooma Cat?"

She did not recognise the term, even as she hearkened to it. For the following part of their exchange, she felt as though she was floating, saw her own body as though she stood beside it, heard her own voice, echoing directly into her mind. "Suicide's not the same, anyone can do that. More than once, if you're lucky. Or unlucky. There's a sweet spot for luck, really. But that you killed that upstart Vivec, which even I could not do – that offends me."

"I see she is mantling you. She must be very strong to resist you for so long. Or maybe it is you who are weak, forever your own greatest enemy?"

"Adversity builds character, my mortal friend. Be lucky you did me a favour once. Come to think of it, you never used that trinket I gave you much. Not good enough for mighty Azura's champion, eh, eh?"

"I used to call myself that, didn't I? How she must have laughed at me then. Kagrenac had the right of it, but the conclusions he drew from it could only have led to ruin. Aedra, Daedra, ALMSIVI – no matter your names, you are all the same. From the moment Padomai sundered Mundus, we mortals have been nothing but pawns to you. Only a fool relies on the favour of a Daedric prince, they say, but the same is true for all the gods."

"And only a madman seeks to slay one, I'm sure."

"That won't be necessary. I slew Almalexia and Vivec, but that was short-sighted and foolish. Already, the Dunmer have turned back to your siblings. I went to Akavir to seek but a single god who would light the way, without leading us into his lair. One by one my men died, sacrifice to my foolishness, but never did I find what I sought. And when I saw the ashes of my wife and children, I understood that there does not have to be one. There only has to be a torch, and a hand to grasp it. Maybe my Undertaking is doomed to failure. Maybe the Dragonborn will break the Dragon's back once more, and maybe it will take me the entirety of this kalpa to accomplish it. But once it is done, the Dunmer people – no. Once it is done, all the races of Nirn will lose the shackles you placed, and will behold Aurbis as Lorkhan did. CHIM is their key, a memory of a truth long-forgotten: that the godhood you pretend to is only a pale imitation of that of which mortals are capable, if they can be made to remember. Now begone from here, mad god, and leave your mortal mantle to end her life in peace!"

Sheogorath cackled in her voice. "What a pretty speech, Lord Nerevar. I see you are already mine. Or perhaps you're sane, dangerously sane, madly sane? My, it will be absolutely fascinating to watch you. I shall be keeping a very close eye on you."

Omai is named after the Ra'iatean young man who was brought to Europe by James Cook and paraded before the London high society. The quote by the door of Vetrheim (a mod by Elionora) is from Shelley's Ode to the West Wind, and the engraving on the sword is inspired by a quote by Yagyu Munenori, an early modern Japanese swordsman.

Thanks for reading. Reviews will be appreciated.