It was not as you hoped. At Bleakwind Basin, two giants are hammering away at three Dwemer Centurions, their blunt weapons bouncing off the metal bodies, practically useless. One Centurion lifts the plates around his head, readying to exhale a steam attack. The other two are swinging at the giants. This is calamity for your plan, not to mention the lives of the giants. They will lose.

In your memory, the giants would have towered over the centurions, easily besting them with one swing of their club. You had seen on more than one occasion an unwary bandit or would-be tusk poacher get sent reeling sky high until they seemed to nearly touch the clouds by the force of a giant's hammer. During a particularly memorable fight with a dragon, you were knocked to the ground when a giant charged in and stomped on the snout of the great snapping beast. It left the dragon severely injured, and made your job to finish him off almost an act of pity. Once the dragon was dead, you hastened away from the site for fear of drawing the giant's wrath. This had created, you see now, the inaccurate picture in your mind that giants are impossibly tall and nigh-unkillable.

The Centurions are all a full head above the tallest giant. Between the nearby stream and a huge bonfire lies the body of a stricken mammoth. A third giant is tending to it, uselessly trying to coax breath from it. There are other dead giants scattered around the area. The rest of the herd has fled west, and you can make out shorter giants, presumably younglings, chasing after them.

Over time, Bleakwind Basin had become one of the larger giant camps, more akin to a colony than temporary lodging. It was common to see young giants splashing around in the stream, adults cooking this or that on the fire. But now their pastoral home is being senselessly sacked.

The Centurion looses his steam breath, stunning the two giants. One falls to his knees. You hear a guttural yowl, fury and suffering from one of the creatures. The third giant still will not engage, refusing to give up on his fallen livestock. If the giants are to win, you must somehow intervene.

You gesture at a short fir tree near the bonfire. "Rokvir, up there, they will not reach you."

"Um…"

You hold your hands out to boost him up. "Do not waste arrows on the chest, just aim for joints." Muttering but dutiful, Rokvir steps on your hands and climbs up to a middle branch on the tree.

Crouching low to the ground, unseen by all combatants, you run in close to the legs of one of the Centurions. With a battle cry, you swing your sword as hard as you can, slashing the back of the knee joint. The impact against Dwemer metal is like punching a rock. The painful reverberations up your arm nearly makes you drop your weapon. You grit your teeth and ignore the discomfort, just barely dodging a stomp from the alerted Centurion. You have it's attention now.

An arrow from Rokvir whizzes by your head and bounces off the Centurion's leg, missing the joint. You take another swing, half-power to conserve your arm. You manage to dent the gear, but not enough to stop the Centurion from walking. It spins it's body halfway around on it's axis and raises a warhammer arm up. You hold position, waiting for it to drop. Three, two…with inches to spare, you dart out of the way, and the warhammer falls to the ground. Top-heavy, and with it's legs pointing the wrong direction, it struggles to get up again.

"Now!" you shout. Rokvir shoots an arrow right into a hole in the knee gear. Your yell has drawn the attention of the giants and other Centurions. The still-standing giant sees that the Centurion is stuck and lopes over, club held high. You whack a knee with your sword, flames shooting off the blade and fizzling to nothing. It is doing very little damage, so you gratefully jump back and let the giant club the Centurion's legs. The huge machine collapses face-down, arms swinging uselessly in the grass.

A second Centurion is advancing toward the giant, gearing up with an axe attack. "Behind you!" you point. But the giant does not understand, and sustains an axe hit to the shoulder. The giant roars in pain as the Centurion pulls the axe away, readying another hack. The giant drops his club and grabs hold of his injured shoulder. Rokvir gets an arrow through the Centurion's axe gear, momentarily stopping it's ability to rotate. The Centurion spins to look for the new enemy, and finally spots Rokvir up the tree.

"Can he reach me?" asks Rokvir, panic rising in his voice.

"I…umm…"

The Centurion clambers over and squares up for a steam attack. Rokvir shoulders his bow and tries to climb to a higher branch. The harried, heavy movements make the thick branch underneath him start to crack.

"Hurry!" you call.

"I'm goin', I'm…"

The Centurion expels steam, and the branch flies off. Rokvir, hanging by his hands, groans from the heat but does not let go.

"Hang on!" you yell, though you are not sure how to get him down.

While the Centurion is shooting steam, a second giant tackles it from behind. The machine stumbles forward into the tree, and the giant flails ahead with it. The tree trunk is no match for the force of them both, and snaps. The tree falls back, and Rokvir rides it down, landing on his knees. The giant struggles back up to his feet, and clubs the back of the Centurion, doing little damage but at least keeping it down against the tree for now.

The third Centurion is heading for the giant tending to the dead mammoth on the ground. You shout for attention, trying to get one of the other giants to attack it, but the other two are focused on the Centurion tangled in the tree.

The giant with the injured shoulder picks his club up from the ground in his good hand, and lugs it through the dirt. As he walks toward the fallen tree, his club drags through the bonfire, and flames up. He whacks at the Centurion's back, fire flaring. A spark lands on the tree, and soon some of the branches are alight.

You run for the third Centurion, trying to get attention away from the grieving giant. "YOL TOOR SHUL!" Your words become flame, and you breathe an inferno like the dragons of old. You know the fire will not be hot enough to melt a Centurion, but you hope it will be enough to perhaps bend some of the moving bits, knock something out of joint. The Centurion halts it's advance and whirls around on you.

Back at the tree, the Centurion is swinging it's arms backward, artlessly trying to hit either giant with an axe. After several swings, one of the giants catches it's arm and holds on. The giant drops the flaming club and holds onto the arm with both hands. The giant grunts. The Centurion's gears grind. The metal screeches like a resentful sabre cat, then pops. The giant has the Centurion's axe arm. Holding it over his head, the giant brings the axe down into the Centurion's back and cuts through the thick metal, knocking loose the dynamo core inside. The Centurion instantly stops all movement, the tree fire enveloping it's body.

Yelling in exertion, you charge the third Centurion, glistening red sword held aloft. You smash your weapon into it's knee gear, propagating the magic fire encasing your metal foe. The Centurion swings it's warhammer at you and misses. You hit the same knee gear, the vibrations throbbing in your elbow, shoulder, and lacerated forearm. You will not be able to keep this up for long.

"Rokvir!" you shout, hoping he is not under attack from the giants. You hear no response, so you keep at it – dodge, attack. With each successive hit, you thrust with less and less force, trying to save your arm. "Rokvir, I need help!"

"RUN!" comes the frantic reply.

You dodge another attack, then risk a glance over your shoulder. Less twenty yards away, you see what seems to be a floating tree heading your way. And it's on fire.

You leap to the left, ducking and rolling. From the ground, you crane your head up. Of course, it was not a flying fire-tree, but rather a tree with two giants holding it horizontally, lumbering towards the Centurion at full speed. The Centurion takes a few steps, but does not move fast enough. The giants ram the machine right at the waist, knocking it flat on it's back. The ground quakes and a plume of dust shoots up.

Rokvir lets out a whoop of approval. You cannot help but smile. "Clever creatures."

The giants clumsily wheel around for a second strike. The Centurion shoots steam up into the air, but the giants come to on either side of the machine. Then, they simply drop the tree onto the construct's body. It lands with a crack, branches flying and fire sparking. The Centurion stops moving.

The giants observe for several seconds, making sure it is dead. Then they join their fellow on the ground, pawing at the dead mammoth.

Rokvir approaches and helps you to your feet. "So how do we get them to the main battle field?"

"We, um. Well." You swing your sword arm, stretching out the shoulder. You bend your weak knee. This was always going to be the tricky bit of your plan.

"Your Companion friends will be charging the catapults any minute now."

"I know, Patrolman. I know." You look at the giants, mourning their dead herd. "We will have to…annoy them."

"We what?"

"Giants are territorial creatures. Now that they are safe from the…"

"You want to annoy giants?"

"…so the only way to lure them out of their camp is to present as nuisances worth chasing."

Rokvir throws his hands up. "I know that you used to do battle with dragons and all, but why go out of our way to kick up a hornet's nest of giants?"

"Gather your spent arrows, Rokvir. You are going to shoot at them."

He crosses his arms.

"Not to hurt them, of course! Aim for the ground near them. Make it seem like you are trying to shoot them."

"But…" He waves his arm around at the ruined camp. "I don't feel right doin' that, Dragonborn."

"We will not hurt them. I promise."

"But the metal creatures will." He points at Whiterun. "If we drag the giants into that, they will get hurt. And it's not their fight."

"Is this reluctance? Or refusal?"

He shakes his head. "I won't do it. I'll follow you to the last, Talos knows. But I won't do this. You're wrong this time."

Far away, you can hear another catapult projectile hit something large in the city. Is it fair to trick these creatures into a fight to save the city? Is this your dragon-morality again – win no matter the cost? Dominate. Prevail.

Whiterun did not ask for this fight either. Nor did Skyrim, or anyone living on Nirn. No, the blame can only fall on one creature.

"Dragonborn, look."

All three giants have gotten to their feet. One is still holding the Dwemer Centurion axe arm, and the other two are holding clubs. They are walking toward you. "Get ready to run, Patrolman." But they do not attack. They stand in front of you, look down at you. It is astonishing; you have never seen such behavior in giants before.

"Say something," whispers Rokvir.

"I do not speak Giant!" you whisper back. He nudges you, so you speak up. "Well, greetings, ah, noble giants. I am the Dragonborn, this is Rokvir. The loss of your herd is a great grievance. We tried to help."

Gray eyes blinking, waiting.

"If you would be willing to pledge your … um … axe and club to us for just a little while, we would consider it a fair exchange for saving your lives."

"Maybe let's just go," whispers Rokvir. "I don't think they understand you."

"I agree."

You turn to the field south of the city, and set off at a trot. The three giants shoulder their weapons and stride on after you. Whether or not they understood your speech, they clearly intend to participate in the battle.

It is properly sunset now, and the air is choked with blood dust and smoke. It is hard to see much further than a few hundred yards. As you near the field, the Whiterun-controlled catapult fires a boulder at the machine army. A fleet of constructs are heading northwest for it. The soldiers will have to destroy it soon.

The first giant to reach the field bellows an animalistic howl. He picks up the boulder thrown by the catapult and hurls it at the constructs near the stables. It rolls, taking out fences, plants, and about two dozen Dwemer spheres. The boulder comes to a stop with a heavy knock on the stone road.

The second giant, still wielding the Centurion arm like a club, swings at the constructs near his feet, causing a small explosion of metal parts. He flings a Dwarven sphere a few hundred yards, where it lands on a rock and immediately falls apart. A squad of spheres take notice and roll in the giants' direction, shooting a volley of arrows. All three of them take a few bolts to the chest and arms, but they seem unfazed.

Somewhere east of the city, you hear the distant blowing of horns. The Companions must have somehow seen your signal. It is time.

"Now is our chance, Patrolman!" Rokvir nods, and the two of you start running as fast as you are able southeast towards Pelagia Farm. With the majority attention of the construct army on the trio of giants, you are able to get a couple hundred yards away from the remaining catapult before meeting any major resistance. You can hear the Companions closing in from the other side of the river. Between you and your target are a few dozen spiders, a handful of spheres, and that Dwemer man commanding the machines with his control rod.

You point at a boulder. "Up with your bow until they get through me."

Rokvir wordlessly pulls himself onto the stone as you jog forward. Focus, calculate the best line through your opponents. Block out the knee pain, the lacerated forearm. You roll your sword wrist once, feeling the weight of the foreign weapon. It will be awkward but you are practiced. "Vurko vukein, dremko dinok." (Valor in combat, peace in death.) A breath, then you charge.

Crack, metal on metal pushing and throbbing. Resonating through your arm and feet and spine. Wooden stave whipping through the air, soundless. Everything quiet except the pulse of battle, pounding you all into grime-oil-pulp. Spiders expel electricity. Dwemer parts collapse, detonate. Rokvir's arrows seek targets. You advance. Enemies land a blow on your bad knee. You cannot count the numbers now, there is only a crush of machines upon you. Mashed between a sphere and spider, you yank your left arm free to drive the staff into the sphere head, only to spray it with red liquid. Staff gone, hand unknown. There is a cry, but not from you.

"BREACHED!" Rokvir shouts. There is a pause in the battle-pulse, your opponents are taking stock. You cannot see what Rokvir is referencing. You do not bother to look. Is there still a hand on the end of that mangled, wet mess of a left arm? It looks wrong, an error, a limb like an incomplete letter never sent… Your arm. Light-headed, massive blood loss. Come back, somehow.

"VEN, GAAR…NOS!" you shout, and from your lips materializes an instant funnel cloud. A cyclone that grows in power, immediately lifting the nearest spheres and spiders off the ground and tossing them like skipping stones over the field. With whatever magical energy you can muster, you summon a healing spell to staunch the bleeding. Instinctively, you press the arm to your torso.

With your immediate vicinity cleared of constructs, you look to Rokvir. He is distraught, bow lowered, and staring back at the city. "All is lost!"

At the barricades is a great glow. Fire, no doubt. The catapult the Whiterun soldiers were controlling is no longer firing and presumably destroyed. You cannot see through the dust to the barricade itself, but the constructs are surging towards it, and the walls there are engulfed in black smoke. The mechanical army has lost all interest in the giants, instead rushing up the road and past the stables. If Rokvir is correct, the machines have made it through and will be on the city gate in no time.

Rokvir jumps down. "We must go help!"

"Patrolman, no!" A sphere is speeding towards him. Change your grip, stab the construct in the back hard as you can. It stutters forward from the blow, then topples. You also find it impossible to stand, and slump to your knees.

The sphere falls at Rokvir's feet. He turns to you. His face, already troubled, shifts to outright panic and he runs to your side. "Forgive me, Dragonborn!" He rips off a piece of his tunic and takes your arm.

"Our mission is here," you mutter.

"I forgot myself." With a dagger, he cuts off the remainder of your gauntlet. You feel nothing, not the pressure of his hand or the leather ripping from your arm. Probably for the best; it is rather grim. Your spell has slowed the bleeding, but not stopped it. Rokvir wraps your hacked flesh as best he can.

The constructs are paying the two of you no mind, now. The majority of them are rushing past, away from Pelagia Farm to the city. The Dwemer man is busy loading and firing the remaining catapult, still using it to hammer on Whiterun. What could be left? At this point, surely he is only throwing rubble onto ruin.

Is the Doctor still in there, still alive? Can he protect his people against the horde where you have failed? You wonder about your time-sight ability. Is it still working? Can you try again, make different choices, so neither of you perish? Or have you served your purpose, at last? This "gift" that makes it so you always win, was it only to bring the Dwemer back to Tamriel and ruin all?

Or, you remind yourself sternly, losing a hand and some blood does not mean death. Vulom ni viik. (Darkness is not defeat.)

"Rokvir, tell me of the Companions. Do you see them?"

He glances up from his work. "Can't see through the dust and throng."

"Then we press on." Rokvir tucks the last bit of fabric into itself. The blood is already coming through, and a breath of nausea hits you. Pulling your arm from his grasp, you try to think of it like any other battle wound. You have had hundreds; this is no different. Strategize how you need to rebalance your attacks and blocks to be strictly one-handed. Your staff is gone, you have been…

"Disarmed," you say out loud. Rokvir says nothing. "I have been 'disarmed.'"

"By Talos, Dragonborn. That's grim." He pulls you to your feet.

"The Doctor would have been amused."

The Dwemer constructs are nearly all gone from the farm now, taken to the field towards the city. The Dwemer man eyes you warily, but continues organizing his handful of remaining spheres loading and firing the catapult.

"How many arrows have you?"

Rokvir glances back at his quiver. "'Bout a dozen."

"Are you ready?"

"I don't think you should…"

You drum your fingers impatiently on the leather grip of your sword. "Cover me, Patrolman."

"No, I have a better idea." He digs through the scrap metal of a dead Dwemer sphere, and comes up with a canister of Dwarven oil. "I'll need to borrow your sword." He pulls a handful of arrows out of his quiver and dips the heads into the oil. Getting back up from his squat, he holds his hand out for your sword. "Dragonborn?"

Could be a trick to get you to stop fighting. But Rokvir has certainly earned trust by now. You hand it over warily.

He takes it and hands you the coated arrows. He removes one arrow and holds the head to the blade of your sword, igniting it. Dropping the sword, he draws his bow, takes a few seconds to aim. He releases, and the flaming arrow strikes the rear of the catapult. It has missed the rope and firing mechanism, but does bite into the wooden arm.

The spheres halt their work and wheel around to face you. The Dwemer man holds aloft his control rod, and three spheres come rolling toward you.

You hear a horn blowing. One long note, signaling an approach. With the odd way sound travels through dust, it is hard to tell how far it is. But the Companions are still alive. Just hold on.

The three spheres are approaching fast.

"Patrolman, my sword."

"Wait." He pulls another oil-coated arrow out of your hand and lights it on your sword.

"You know I could just build you a fire."

The spheres are a couple dozen yards away. Rokvir prepares to shoot.

"Roast you some arrows, marshmerrows, whatever you like."

He shoots. Instead of aiming for the firing mechanism of the catapult, you see that he has shot for the tree behind the catapult, with branches and leaves hanging over the load staging area. The arrow buries into the trunk, ignited oil dripping down the bark.

"Have we not started enough forest fires today?" You drop the remaining arrows, scoop up your sword, and dip the tip into the canister. The oil catches.

You charge forward at the spheres, flicking your wrist horizontally. The oil flings off the blade of your sword, splattering in droplets onto their chest plates. You lightly slash the middle sphere, flaring up the oil. It sizzles as it flares on the metal, and seeps into the seams of the armor. The sphere raises an arm to attack, but it's insides are glowing now. The core must have ignited. You leap back as the sphere falls forward.

You attempt to repeat with the sphere on the right, but it blocks your attack with it's blade arm. The sphere on the left wheels around to flank you. It hacks at your maimed arm. An explosive pain, momentarily robbing you of sight or coherence. You howl.

A long horn blast answers from near the catapult, and the two spheres immediately disengage with you. They withdraw back to defend the Dwemer man.

"They're here!" shouts Rokvir.

You press your arm to your chest, trying to lessen the pain and bleeding. Breathe in. Out. Open your eyes.

Fire rains down from the tree, catching other trees and showering the catapult with sparks. In the smoke, you can see silhouettes of men in battle with Dwemer spheres.

"We must…help…"

"Heads up!" shouts Rokvir. Over your head sails the burning canister of Dwemer oil. It smashes into one of the wooden wheels of the catapult and explodes in blue-white flame. Smoke envelops the area, and soon you can no longer even see the forms of the combatants.

You use all the magic energy you can muster to cast a healing spell on your arm, then run into the inferno, sword aloft.

Smoke stings your eyes and throat. You can see only a few feet around you. Like a courtly Imperial dance, the spheres and Companions glide in and out of your proximity. As best you can tell, Gralnach, Jon, and five other Companions remain. Nothing else can be observed here – not the city, not trees, not even sky. Just allies and targets, wheeling around in improvised choreography. You get to work, hacking and stabbing at spheres as they come around.

Eventually, no more spheres materialize. You can hear a great pop and burst, and a shower of sparks volley towards you. The catapult has collapsed. You run at it, hoping to capture the Dwemer man. Perhaps the Doctor could get information from him. But he has burned to death, trapped under a heavy beam. The control rod, twisted metal, is melting beside him. Another missed opportunity.

Coughing, you stagger northwest, away from the treeline and burning wreckage. The Companions emerge from the smoke as well, blood, oil, and grime caking their bodies. Rokvir joins you.

It is twilight. The orange glow of Whiterun on fire is now brighter than the sky. Collectively, you take a heavy breath.

You hear a whooshing, and for a moment, you are afraid the sound is coming from within your own head. Are you passing out from blood loss?

No, down near the road, the river and feeder stream are quickly drying up. What mischief is this? With the water suddenly disappearing, more of the constructs take to crossing it, moving toward the city in a massive drove, no longer sticking to the bridge on the road. Did they dam it up somewhere upriver? Use water to power one of their terrible steam machines?

"We have to fly!" demands Jon.

"We left them to die," laments another.

What is going on with the White River?

"Dragonborn," says Rokvir, quietly. "We must go help our city. You can stay here, if you need."

The whooshing stills. For only a moment.

The boom rattles the stone beneath your feet. All creatures, flesh and metal, quake. The White River shoots up and out from somewhere upstream, hurtling in a dozen-foot wave toward the construct army. Some manage to flee in time, but most are caught in the muddy banks. The crush of the water is upon them in seconds, causing dozens of machines to erupt into parts from the force. The huge wave moves for a few hundred more yards past the city, then calms in an unnatural stopping motion. The river resumes its normal flow. A hundred or more Dwemer constructs are left motionless in the aftermath, unmoving in the water and on the banks.

"They just…stopped!" exclaims Gralnach.

"Do they have an off-switch?" asks Rokvir. "If they had an off-switch all this time…"

"They do NOT have an off-switch," you insist. "Nor can they be poisoned. I am not sure what spell has been cast on them."

"No spell has been cast on them," says a voice behind you. You turn and see a hooded man holding a staff. "My way was more fun."

"Who…"

He steps closer to you and throws back his hood. With a wide grin, the Nerevarine gleefully confesses, "I cast 'burden' on the water! Weighs them down for several minutes. Anything or anyone that touches the water for the next while will be stopped dead in their tracks."

The Nerevarine looks so gleeful, so pleased with himself, that he seems younger somehow. Instead of the legendary Archmagister of the Telvanni wizards, he has the manner of a boy conspiring with friends, or a young lover wanting to show off for…

"The poor fish," you say.

"Nah, they'll be fine." He notices the increasingly bloody bandage around your arm, and the playfulness drops from his face. "That, however, will not be. Let me have…"

"Dragonborn," interrupts Rokvir. "Now is our chance to get to the city."

"Yes yes, go," says the Nerevarine waving his hand. You clear your throat. His eyes widen, then he bows his head slightly. "I mean, follow the Dragonborn's orders, of course."

You raise your voice to address the warriors. "You are right, Patrolman. Companions, let us make haste to Whiterun and do what we can! For our Shield-brothers and the city!" They shout their approval and you step towards the field, only to feel the world drop away. You stumble, then drop to your knees. The voices around you are indecipherable now, and the edges of your vision have gone dark. The blood loss has caught up to you. You will pass out soon, nothing for it. Issue the order for them to go without you. They will not proceed without your leave. Say the words, out loud.

You part your lips. Nothing comes out.

The only thing you can see, directly in front of you, are feet. And then suddenly, gray. Is it smoke? Or is it nothing? Are you back in the Void? Back in Coldharbour? Not that place, anywhere but there.

"Dragonborn? Are you in there?" A hand passes in front of the gray and gently touches your face. "Come now, you haven't admired my water trick nearly enough." Pressing against your jaw, the hand rolls your head to the side. The Nerevarine's face slides into view. He has pulled his black hair back into a knot, though a few strands have come loose and hang toward you as he kneels closer. As he sees you focus on him, the Nerevarine's easy smile returns. "There you are. Only gone a few seconds. You know muthsera, you shouldn't have gone to such extremes just to get me to hold your hand."

The corners of your vision start to return. You feel a tingling in your arm and wrist. The Nerevarine is using some advanced healing magic on you, and it seems to be working.

"Wake up, Dunmer. I still haven't seen one of your Dragon Shouts," Gralnach gently chides. You weakly exhale, an approximation of a laugh.

"Lets sit you up." The Nerevarine pulls you into a sitting position and lifts your arm over your head. He holds it gently, warmth emanating from his hands. A bone-deep ache sets in, but he is expertly counteracting the worst of it with his spell.

You can see properly again. Rokvir and the Companions are still waiting, weapons drawn. "You will need several minutes to recover. By then, my burden spell on the river will have faded," says the Nerevarine.

Understanding his meaning, you wave Rokvir closer. "Go with the Companions now. Hurry. I cannot join you yet."

The Nerevarine adds, "You have about eight minutes before the rambling rubbish near the river wake up from their naps. Take advantage."

Rokvir nods. "Aye. Recover fast, Dragonborn. Fight well."

"Good hunting," you call after him. "And stay out of the water!" He and the Companions take to the field.

The Nerevarine waves his fingers around your arm, and the bloodied bandage falls off. "You won't need that anymore." He releases your limb and you bring it down into your lap. It is mangled but miraculously no longer an open wound. He has sped the healing to a rate that not even court wizards could manage. Tender, fresh skin is actively enveloping the bone and sinew of what remains of your wrist. You will never again wield a staff with your left hand, but at least it will not turn gangrenous.

Weakly, you joke, "Could you not give me a hand?"

The Nerevarine shakes his head. "Alas, I this is the best I can do. Magically respawning limbs is beyond even my ken."

From your seated position, you watch the silhouettes of the Companions and Rokvir, easily besting any straggling Dwemer constructs still on the field that did not touch the water. The giants have shouldered their weapons and are walking back towards their camp, occasionally clubbing a spider or two. Up at the city, though, the Dwemer machines are very much still active, as you can hear crashes and screams echoing across the field.

"I do not understand why they are doing this."

The Nerevarine releases a yellow shaft of light from his hand, and it swirls around you both. An invisibility spell. He settles down next to you. A pair of ancient Dunmer taking a momentary respite during a siege, unseen to friends or foe.

"They were first spotted in Markarth. Rumbles in the dark. A few couriers escaped, bringing word to Rorikstead. Solitude responded by sending a small platoon to investigate, but they have not been seen since. I can tell you…" he pauses to shake his head. "Your High King severely underestimated the threat. Markarth is lost."

You think about the city, so obviously an ancient Dwarven stronghold. The huge Dwemer cavern beneath, still filled with functioning constructs. They could have easily streamed up from Understone Keep, carrying out new orders from their old masters. And all the structures carved into the mountain once again home to those who so skillfully built them.

"Markarth…" you start. "But Whiterun was never Dwemer territory. Why here? What is there to reclaim?"

"It is not just here and Markarth. Best I can tell, they are attacking every major settlement in Skyrim, Morrowind, even as far away as High Rock and Hammerfell. Dwemer men come in small groups, not more than a dozen, and awaken whole armies of their once-sleeping metal servants. Spiders, spheres, ballista, Centurions, anything that still functions and can heed their call. They come up from below and strike without warning. Houses of men, of elves, of orcs…they make no distinction."

"The Rani has stirred up something deep within those people," you say bitterly.

"The Rani?" asks the Nerevarine.

"Kagrenac."

The Nerevarine's eyes widen at the mention of that name. "No, you couldn't have…" You just nod your response. He looks stunned momentarily, then almost a little in awe. "Dragonborn, I am impressed. Azura said you draw the legends to you, but I thought perhaps she just meant yours truly. The Chief Tonal Architect…" he whistles instead of finishing his thought.

"He is not from Morrowind. Not even from this plane. He is…Amzamakai."

"My dear, I am not familiar…"

"Dwemeris for Time Lord, apparently. Kagrenac is the Rani, a Time Lord like the Doctor."

The Nerevarine's face hardens, and he gets to his feet. He takes a few steps towards the field and stares. After some silence, he asks, "Did the Doctor let Kagrenac escape?"

You do not answer his question. Instead, you ask, "Can you see my staff anywhere? I dropped it, when I lost my hand."

The Nerevarine casts Night Eye, and walks west towards Pelagia Farm. You do not entirely know why you refused to answer his question. You felt a strange need to protect the truth. The dark impression that the Doctor let this happen, let all this fire and suffering occur, just to save a kinsman he does not even like. Sacrifice a city, a country, a whole world, for this one man? What about the others like him, the Siben people? They claim not to be Time Lords, but they are from the same place as the Doctor and the Rani.

Are you even people to the Doctor?

The Nerevarine returns, your staff in hand. He gently straps it onto your back. "Did you ever possess Wabbajack?" you ask.

"I did not. Though I have heard of it. You are truly favored."

"Your river trick was rather fancy."

He bows slightly. "I am glad you noticed."

Your arm stops tingling, and you hold it up for inspection. "I…I cannot believe…"

"I am sorry for your hand, sera," says the Nerevarine. In his eyes, genuine pity.

This alarms you, so you pick up your sword with your good hand and push yourself up to your feet. "No time to dwell on it."

Down on the field, the machines that are still whole are beginning to stir. A new fire has broken out somewhere in the lowest district of Whiterun, the vicious glow illuminating the swirling dust around the walls.

"Have you a resist shock spell?" you ask.

"Of course."

"Then I suggest you use it. STRUN BAH QO!" The smoky skies turn even darker as storm clouds form. After a few seconds, rain starts coming down in sheets, extinguishing some of the fires. Lightning strikes spheres and spiders on the field.

Between the pair of you and the city, about a hundred constructs are still active. They have resumed their rush toward the demolished barricade and city gate beyond.

"Shall we, darling?" asks the Nerevarine.

"We shall."

You charge onto the field, sword at the ready, the Nerevarine on your left. Lightning strikes a Dwemer sphere, sending metal parts flying. The sudden flash illuminates the ruins of the Whiterun outer wall; a grotesque likeness of what it once was. In anger, you shout, "Ahrolsedovah los ni hin!" (Whiterun is not yours.) You stab your sword down through the soul gem casing of the nearest spider to you, knocking the dynamo core out of alignment. You run forward, clear of the resulting shock bolts as the spider overloads then explodes.

From the northeast, down the road along the river, comes a roiling darkness. Something low to the ground blocks out any light glistening on the water. Some sort of physical gloom, it makes no sound, and is coming toward you with a jittering swiftness.

You dodge a sphere attack, and counter with a stab at it's face grill. "What is that?" you shout over your shoulder.

"I'm not…" The Nerevarine leaps back to avoid a hit, and tosses an electrical bolt from his staff. His shoulder pressed up to yours, you both hazard a longer look at the incoming shades.

Somewhere north of the stream, near Chillfurrow Farm at a guess, you can hear the clash of metal. The darkness is tearing into the edges of the Dwemer construct army.

"No honestly, what is that?" you ask.

"I do not want to find out."

The Nerevarine casts Earwig, and a disorienting sound echoes around the field. The constructs nearest you stop, and wander aimlessly. "I may not have a control rod, but this should keep them off us for several minutes." You cross the road and near the White River feeder stream, but the peace is short-lived. All at once, the constructs resume their earlier behavior, with the spiders closest to you gearing up to attack. The sound continues to ring from the Nerevarine's raised hand, but it is no longer having an effect.

You raise your sword, confused. "Nerevarine?"

"Admittedly not great," he responds.

You are quickly surrounded by Dwemer constructs. Your thu'um has not yet recovered from conjuring the lightning storm. Readjusting your grip on the sword, you look back and forth at your foes, trying to figure which will strike first. Behind you, the Nerevarine's back pulls away from yours, leaving a chill down your spine. Is he no longer covering your flank?

"Sera, shall we make our exit?"

"What?!" you respond. A spider crouches down, preparing to spring on you.

"Forgive my forwardness." The Nerevarine slips an arm around your waist and hauls you up. You are lifted off your feet and into the air, the pouncing spider missing you by a half-second. The Nerevarine pulls you snugly into his side, and you ascend dozens of feet above the field.

You sputter, astonished at his latest feat. "You…you can fly?"

"Levitate spell from my youth. Can't understand why it fell out of use. Did spend years to master, which is not fashionable anymore I suppose. Mages these days…"

"Why not fly us over in the first place, s'wit?!" you interrupt.

"Ah, well…"

He does not finish the thought. Below, a few spheres fire bolts at you, but the Nerevarine dodges them. You can feel the tenseness in his body. Despite his easy words, this is clearly a magic that takes a lot of energy to maintain. And now you have your answer.

"Never mind, look!" You point to the east.

From up above the fray, you can see the dark creatures ripping into the Dwemer constructs, breaking and ruining the machines with staggering efficiency. It is still too hard to see in the dusk and cloud, so you cannot make out what they are.

"As much as I would love to have a closer look, I think we shall have to cut our first dance short," says the Nerevarine, gliding you toward the ruined city walls.

Your rain storm has put out the fires in the Plains District of the city, but still smoke billows over all. The marketplace is empty of fighting. The single-minded metal animunculi surge through the streets, pushing through ruined bodies of soldiers and civilians dead on the ground. They do not appear interested in ferreting out anyone who might still hide in the few remaining buildings, which is a relief. They all seem to be heading up towards the Cloud District.

A flash of light catches your attention. A fireball roils up from the eastern wall. "Jorrvaskr!" you shout.

"On it," replies the Nerevarine. No longer under attack from Dwemer bolts and arrows, he is able to put all his energy into flying you faster towards the Companions' headquarters.

The Wind District comes into view. The Gildergreen tree is chopped and uprooted, it's sacred branches scattered in front of the Temple of Kynareth.

Your breath catches in your throat at a far worse sight. Fire is ripping through the longship roof of ancient Jorrvaskr. Half of it is collapsed, and smoke blossoms out like flowers on the holy Gildergreen. The home of the first Nords, the first Man, the first King is disappearing right in front of your eyes.

In a stuttering gasp, you whisper, "Ysgramor forgive me."

Bodies are all around it, Companion, civilian, and…

"Are those dead werewolves?" asks the Nerevarine.

You are too distraught to answer, so you nod.

Fighting on the stone stairs in front of the hall are Rokvir and Jon. Though most of the constructs are ignoring them as they flow up to the Cloud District, two spheres are engaging them in combat. One of them knocks Rokvir onto his back and pins his leg with it's ball. Rokvir cries out.

"Get us over there!" you command. The Nerevarine flies over, descending closer to the ground. You ready your grip on the sword. The sphere raises it's blade arm over Rokvir's head. "Let go!" The Nerevarine releases, and you drop twenty feet. You smash into the sphere sword-first, utterly crushing it's metal spine. It crumples to the right. You hit the ground hard, and roll off the construct.

Rokvir pulls his leg with his arms, trying to get out from under the heavy sphere. "Wait, you will make it worse." You scramble over and hook your stub arm through one of the crossbars. You pull up with all your strength and hiss through labored breath, "Now!" Rokvir rolls clear of the metal, and you drop it.

Jon finishes dispatching his sphere foe just as the Nerevarine touches down. Rokvir points at the collapsed entrance of the hall. "Doctor!" He struggles with his crushed foot, trying to stand. "Doctor come out!"

The Nerevarine holds Rokvir down, and hurriedly casts a healing spell. "Stop moving!"

You sit upright next to him. "Patrolman, report!"

"He went back inside. Couldn't stop him. He insisted on looking for any survivors…" He removes his helmet, his brown hair soaked in sweat and oil. "They're all dead, Dragonborn. Machines got here before we…any of the Companions who stayed to defend this place died in the attempt. And the Doctor's friends."

Stubborn mules, not friends. They do not deserve the devotion of the Doctor.

A snap and a roar. Another beam in the roof collapses. Soon the whole place will be ash. You attempt to summon another storm, but your thu'um energy still has not renewed. "Nerevarine, can you bring down some rain?"

He shakes his head regretfully. "No my dear, that is strictly a 'you' thing."

"Then we have to re-open this entrance." You dash up to a large catapult boulder that has crushed the doors. Jon and the Nerevarine join you, pushing and pulling, but it refuses to budge. You start shouting with exertion. "Doctor! Can you hear me? We are coming for you!"

Suddenly, the boulder twists out of the way effortlessly, causing the three of you to stumble. Two Dwemer spheres push at the stone, and smoke billows out from the depths of the ravaged hall. You immediately assume a battle stance. Jon readies his axe, and the Nerevarine starts an ice spell. The spheres do not return the aggressive moves, however. They wheel away back into the building.

In the blaze, you see a silhouette, one you immediately recognize. He holds his sonic screwdriver out to his left, the blue light an ominous contrast against the orange flame. The spheres flank him like an escort. But it cannot really be him, for in his right hand, held masterfully at the ready, is a sword. The Doctor is wielding a weapon.

He emerges out from the building, dirt and Dwemer oil splattered all over his body and face. His eyes are set straight ahead, harder than any metal a Dwarf could ever produce. If he notices you, he is not showing it.

"Doctor?" you say, your voice tentative like a child.

The sound from his screwdriver warbles, and the light goes out. Immediately, the two spheres break formation and prepare to attack the Doctor. With a reaction faster than most trained warriors, the Doctor chops off the raised arm of one of the constructs. He whirls around and blocks another attack with his sword. Parry done, riposte. Thrust, parry, counter-attack. For a moment, you and the Nerevarine are motionless, too surprised to fully register what is happening. The Doctor is so expert in his defensive movements, so precise in his attacks, that it is somewhat unnerving to watch. Almost like a machine battling other machines, just as decisive and, strangely, just as dispassionate.

Rokvir shooting an arrow through the face grill of the first sphere snaps you back into action. You hammer away at the grimy metal of the construct bases with your sword while the Nerevarine slows their mechanical movements with his ice spells. The Doctor easily dodges their attacks and returns hits three-fold. Whatever fascination he had from his first encounter with these Dwemer creations is apparently gone. Now you see before you the Doctor as avenger.

With the five of you working together, the skirmish lasts less than a minute. All other constructs ignore you, heading straight up towards Dragonsreach. For the moment, there is only the sound of ancient Jorrvaskr Hall, foundation of Whiterun, burning to the ground.

"We must get this fire out," you say, trying to slow your breathing after the fray. "Jon, perhaps the well in the market…"

"Don't," says the Doctor. "Let it go."

"But…"

"I started it." The Doctor stares at the flames, the glow reflecting savage orange light in his eyes. His voice is flat, matter-of-fact. "I set the fire. Last rites for our dead. Time Lord and Gallifreyan civilian alike."

Then Rokvir was right. The Doctor's people are lost.

The last of the roof groans then collapses in a burst of sparkling cinders. It is hard to accept that the Doctor destroyed this hallowed place in his selfish rage. Or indeed your own role in Jorrvaskr's calamity. You glare at the Doctor, remembering the grand words you had used to get Jean-Giraud to grant him safe harbor. "'Worthiest creature and most honorable man,' I said."

"The hall was already collapsing, Soldier. A catapult punched…"

"Bringer of Doom. Destroyer of Worlds! Those were the titles your own people gave you!"

He says nothing. Does not move.

"Why?"

Still no response.

"Why?" You push him with your good hand. He staggers, and he looks in surprise at you. His sullen mouth, his fixed red eyes, his whole face…ah. There. Barely-contained wild grief. You understand.

If you were burying the last remnants of your people, would you not want everyone else to notice? To see, to feel some of your suffering as well?

You look away, out of respect. "There is still the Rani," you say.

He breathes in deeply, then nods. "Yeah."

A comfort for the Doctor, maybe. But also a reminder of who you really need to stop.

"The metal beasties have been going up to Dragonsreach." The Doctor turns to you all. "I think we should see what's so interesting up there, eh?"

As the five of you pass the ruined Shrine of Talos, the constructs start to take umbrage at your presence. You are soon surrounded by a sea of machines, weapons drawn but not attacking. The Doctor tries to use his sonic, but it only works for a few seconds to calm them. "I couldn't command them either," says the Nerevarine, aiming his staff at a sphere.

"Don't attack!" says the Doctor. He pockets his screwdriver and turns to a sphere. "Du chal chend thua aka. Du chal chend thua aka!"

"What's he sayin?" asks Jon.

"No idea," you respond.

"He's getting us captured," says the Nerevarine irritably.

"Quite so, Neverwhat. How else will we find out what they want?" The Doctor drops his sword on the ground and holds his hands up. "We surrender!" He looks around at the rest of you. "Well? Surrender, everyone."

You glance at the Nerevarine, and he shrugs. You bend down and drop your sword. The others follow suit. A sphere removes Wabbajack from your back. The spheres place metal hands on your shoulders and grip tight.

Up the many steps to Dragonsreach, the five of you march at crossbow point. As you enter the hall, in the flickering candle light, you can see Whiterun citizens sitting, standing, leaning on poles in the foyer. They are all, presumably, prisoners of the Dwemer army. They all have numbed faces, paying no attention to your passage. Just some more captives of the enemy. Standing against the stone wall, you can just make out Blacktooth the Beardless, the angry bear of a Nord from your Bannered Mare bar fight. Prisoner chains are still around his hands. The Dwemer must have even emptied the Whiterun dungeon.

"Please, no!" You hear the anguished shout echoing through the hall. Before you can even see the person, you know it is the desperate voice of the Jarl. "Not her, no!"

You are jostled through the crowd and up the wooden steps toward the banquet room. On the floor, in front of their own thrones, kneel the Jarl and his wife. They are bound at the ankles and wrists. Two Dwemer men are holding the Jarl down, as a third Dwemer warrior holds an axe over the golden-haired head of his wife.

The warrior asks the Jarl a question in Dwemeris.

"What do you…I don't understand!"

Apparently this is not the answer the warrior wanted, and he raises the axe up.

The Doctor shouts something at the men, and struggles against the sphere gripping his shoulder.

"No, by Talos! Stop!" The Jarl launches himself forward, tears streaming down his face. The two Dwemer men behind jerk him back. "Leave her, please."

His wife defiantly stares at the dwarves, a slight smile creeping across her lips. "To Sovngarde." As the warrior brings down his weapon, she jerks her head back, stabbing him in the pelvis with her crown. His axe falls upon her abdomen, blood immediately soaking the throne platform floor.

You look away and wince. This is gruesome, even for you. The wails from the Jarl are momentarily drowned out by the clatter from the stabbed Dwemer man staggering to a throne, then slumping over. You remember grimly how you had banged your fist on the arm of that throne years ago, frustrated at the Jarl for not taking your city defense recommendations to heart. You had been right. Again.

The Doctor yells more incomprehensible Dwemeris words, and this time, the warriors seem to notice. One of them releases the Jarl and motions to the Doctor. The sphere holding the Doctor wheels past the banquet tables toward the throne platform, dragging the Doctor with it. The rest of you are left on the landing.

The Doctor begins hammering the two living Dwemer men with words. They respond in short, clipped phrases.

"Are you getting any of this?" asks Rokvir.

"Some," responds the Nerevarine. "The Doctor is asking why they are here. What they want."

"And?" you ask.

The Nerevarine shakes his head. "Just know that none of this bloodshed was necessary, Dragonborn."

Agitation seems to be rising. The Jarl, splattered in his wife's blood, is angrily shouting for answers. The Doctor raises his voice to be heard over the yelling. The Nerevarine cocks his head. "Now the Doctor is asking about…the Rani? He says…" The Nerevarine looks at you. "He is telling these men that they are innocents. That they were slaves to the Rani but they are now free to leave. Go away and…he can't, Dragonborn. The Doctor can't do that."

Another bellow from the Jarl, and one of the Dwemer men draws his control rod. The Nerevarine jerks an arm free from his captor and quickly holds an open palm towards the device. Before the constructs can do anything to restrain him, he has conjured an orange light, and shoots it at the control rod. The metal ignites in magic flame, then melts. The Dwemer man lets out a grunt and drops it. Rotating his hand with a flourish, the Nerevarine mutters an incantation that quickly morphs into a piercing ring noise. The constructs all immediately release their prisoners and drop into a neutral stance.

"Doctor, I do believe you'll find the sonic useful again," says the Nerevarine, massaging his shoulder where the sphere had been gripping it.

The Doctor draws out his screwdriver and immediately puts it to work. The constructs set about helping the civilians to their feet, righting overturned tables and other furniture. The spheres return your weapons. A spider cuts the Jarl's binds. Four spheres roll up behind the Dwemer men and aim crossbows at their heads. The Doctor laces his hands behind his back, and begins sternly talking in Dwemeris.

"Could you not have done this sooner?" you ask the Nerevarine dully, surveying the distraught Jarl grasping his dead wife in his arms. Unbecoming behavior in a Nord man. But you understand.

The Nerevarine follows your gaze. "Regretfully no. Had to be able to see the control rod to act upon it."

Having freed the Jarl, a few spiders are now binding up the Dwemer men. It appears the Doctor does intend to take them alive. The Jarl chokingly shouts, "Kill them! I command you to kill them."

The Doctor crosses his arms. "Command whom?"

"You! My guards! Anyone with any honor…"

"No honor in killing prisoners." The Doctor returns to his conversation with the Dwemer men, so the Jarl waves his guards over.

"It appears I am once again on bodyguard duty," you mutter as you walk past the banquet tables, placing yourself between the guards and the Doctor.

"Move out of the way, Doctor. Or my guards will remove you! I will have revenge on the savages who murdered my wife! There will be justice."

"No, there won't be." The Doctor glances coldly at the Jarl. "Grief for grief, murder for murder… There won't be justice. But I will still give them a choice."

"Why?" you ask gently.

"S'always a choice."

The Jarl, despondent, waves off the guards.

The Doctor turns to you, his voice serious but kind. "Always, Soldier. Always always." For a change, you feel like you are not simply the nearest sentient object being talked at. He looks down at you and pulls on his ear. "Your hand, I – I didn't notice."

You shake your head. "You were busy. Time Lord, your people… I am sorry."

He takes in a breath. "I lost my hand once, sword fight sorta fight. Grew a new one. Can you not?"

You raise an eyebrow in response.

"No? Shame."

Outside Dragonsreach, you hear some sort of commotion. The doors fling open, and a couple of the civilians near the entrance scream. You crane your head to see, but you do not have to wait long. Like smoke, in sweeps dozens and dozens of Falmer. Bent over on all fours, sniffing, listening, pawing, prodding – they leave alone the Nords but take up the Dwemer constructs. This was the dark force you and the Nerevarine saw out on the field.

"Wait!" shouts the Doctor. He holds up his sonic, trying to command the constructs in some fashion. But the Falmer are fast and strong. They dismantle and dismember, then haul away out the door. Up the stairs to the throne platform come several of them, snuffling at the air. They pause near the Dwemer men, and before anyone can react, the Falmer have slit their throats. "No!"

The Falmer turn at the Doctor's outburst, but do not seem interested in harming him. As fast as they came, they leave, taking the three dead Dwemer men and every scrap of construct metal. The last one sniffs, then pulls out a bow. He fires an arrow that lands at your feet. Message apparently sent, he leaves.

The Nerevarine walks over to you and looks at the arrow. "Lest we mistake them for friends."

"Never," you respond. You pull the arrow out of the rug. "That was a millennia-old slave revolt, finally coming to an end." You break the arrow and drop it. "Aal nust loost drem." (May they know peace.)

The civilians start to murmur and exclaim. "Dwarves! Here in Skyrim!" "And Falmer beside!" "Damn elves." The crowd mills around, then timidly starts to exit Dragonsreach.

"They wanted to know if you had something of theirs," says the Doctor, helping the Jarl to his feet.

"I don't keep dwarf stuff. I stick to man-made steel, thank you. Nothing tricky or magic..."

"Not even in a treasury? Or as a trophy?"

The Jarl shakes his head. "Why do they think I have it?"

The Doctor takes out his screwdriver and starts running it over the spots in the rug where the dead Dwemer had been. "I don't think they necessarily knew, themselves." He furrows his brow, then turns off the screwdriver. "This is not a targeted strike. From what they said…seems like they're sweeping as many cities they can. Though I'm not sure why they are presuming their missing objects would most likely be held by leaders."

The Nerevarine interjects, "It is not just Skyrim. They are attacking cities in Cyrodiil, Morrowind, and beyond. You failed to stop the invasion, Doctor."

"That… was not my priority." He studies his screwdriver, avoiding the Nerevarine's gaze.

"What was, praytell?"

You hold your hand up. "Enough, Nerevar."

"Azura has seen much about this man of the stars. How this Time Lord participates in events, but somehow remains above it all. He swoops in, makes grand fixes, then leaves everyone else to pick up the pieces."

The Doctor kneels by the body of the Jarl's wife, and runs the screwdriver over her body.

You sigh. "Some could say that describes you and me as well, Moon-and-Star."

The Nerevarine steps closer to the Doctor. "No wonder your people did not want to leave with you. They were hiding from you."

The Doctor stands up, but does not respond. He is trying to work something out.

"Existence isn't a romp through history for the rest of us, Doctor. Tell me, if stopping the invasion was not your concern, what was? Was it solely saving your people? How did that go?"

You grab the Nerevarine's arm. "Enough!"

He holds his hand up in supplication, and you release. If the Nerevarine's words are hurtful, the Doctor is not showing it.

Some of the guards walk over to the body, and surround it. The Jarl nods, and they lift her up. As they take her away, the Jarl deflates into his throne. "Everyone leave me. Please."

The Nerevarine softens his voice. "You have arrived at a late hour."

The Doctor kicks at the broken Falmer arrow with his toe. "So I gathered."

"Late?" you ask. "How late?"

"What I don't understand is why the Rani came back to now. Why this time, instead of centuries ago when he could have just grabbed the tools from his old lab?" The Doctor looks at his screwdriver again, then pockets it.

The Nerevarine's eyes darken. "'Tools', you say?"

The Doctor nods and starts walking down the stairs. "Kagrenac's tools. Three objects with pompous names." He deepens his voice and over-pronounces his words. "Sunder! Keeeening! …something else!"

"I see." The Nerevarine runs his finger over the carving at the top of his staff, his face unreadable.

"How long were we in Coldharbour?" you ask again.

"A month?" guesses the Doctor.

You shake your head. "It was nowhere near that long! Was it? I mean, it felt like an eternity but…"

The Doctor talks over his shoulder. "I had to take my best guess with those Daedric anchors. You should be more excited I got us here in the same decade."

The Nerevarine breathes in and looks up, "A month and three weeks, this Middas. And even if it was your 'best', it is still a late hour." The Doctor dismissively waves an arm, and makes his way toward the exit. The Nerevarine turns to you and holds out his hand. "I require my Amulet of Recall back, my dear. Needs must."

You tug it over your head and hold it out hesitantly. The Nerevarine does not elaborate, but gives a smile. It does not reach his eyes. He touches a ring on his hand, then vanishes.

"Bye Nevermore," mutters the Doctor.

You rush after the Doctor, joining the trickle of survivors evacuating Dragonsreach. Rokvir and Jon have already left. Going through the huge doors, you are momentarily stunned into immobilization. Below you smolders Whiterun as you have never seen it. Far worse than after the Civil War, ruin is all around. The fires are mercifully all out, but the smoke hangs like grief. Ancient Jorrvaskr, the Gildergreen tree, the houses and inns, the shops and temples – wrecked. The only building that appears unscathed, ironically, is the Hall of the Dead at the back of the Wind District. Every other structure is either damaged or utterly battered to rubble. The streets are filled with the dead, and people mourning them. It is shocking. It is heartbreaking.

"Doctor," you wheeze.

He stops on the stair ahead, his shoe squeaking lightly on the stone. He looks back at you, and for a moment his practiced resolve is softened by compassion. "I know," he says quietly. "Come on."

"I am so…tired."

He bobs his head and holds his hand out to you. "I know."

"What is…what happens now? I cannot fix this."

"No you can't." He steps up to you, and takes your left arm. You let him. Slowly, you begin to descend the stairs together. "The people will, though. They rebuild. They always do."

"And us?" you ask.

"We stop the Rani from doing it again."

As you walk, you look down into the water that runs in rivulets around Dragonsreach. Three men and a werewolf are facedown, gently bumping into equally lifeless stone. You recognize the warhammer of one. He never did get to see you use one of your Dragon Shouts.

"May Aela and the brothers greet you in the Hunting Grounds, Gralnach." You grip your staff tightly, and straighten up your spine. "Whatever it takes, Doctor."

"Good. First, we need a ride."

"A ride?"

"Mmm. The Dwemer men let slip about a blue box in the North." He puffs up his cheeks, then slowly releases the air. "Soldier, what is the fastest way to Solitude?"