/Hello everyone!

I know, I know it's been a long wait. I'm sorry for it! November turned out to be even busier than October, with my make-up SAT taking place early, my school throttling me with homework I don't like (emphasis on the not-liking), and a rather debilitating sickness called Hand, Foot and Mouth Disease which has had me in its grip for the past week. As I am writing to you now, I still bear the marks of the sores on my hands, which, luckily, did not explode into the pus-filled monstrosities I saw on Google image search 0_o.

The following chapter is a chock full of information, perhaps wholly too much for one chapter. But I promised you one linked to chapter 22, and it seemed only fair that I repay this month of inactivity with a chapter longer than any I've written. I ask you to forgive any lapses in my writing in between, as they were composed in the heights of my sickness. See how much I care about you guys? :P

Now, without further ado, A Reckoning, Dear Dragonborn./

The first came at him from up high, curved blade arcing down for a devastating strike that could cut the unprepared in half. It was also heavily unbalanced on the grip. Arcturus rapped the vampire on the back of its sword hand, making the blow go wide, then stepped in and stabbed the inexperienced duelist in the stomach.

His felt a perverse sense of satisfaction as the creature gurgled its death throes in his ear.

The second, a High Elf, growled in frustration as Arcturus' invasive footwork put the first's corpse, still held upright by way of the blade in its gut, between the two of them. The Altmer stumbled and fell as he shoved the dying vampire's corpse towards it, caught up in a tangle of limbs.

It landed on its back, right next to the its remaining comrade, and recovered amicably with a roll. Its infernal eyes resumed their glare at him, this time tempered with a measure of suspicion. Arcturus could have easily followed through, but didn't. It was as if he were holding back, a notion the foolhardy High Elf took to with little kindness. It snarled menacingly, revealing fangs little more than sharpened canines.

Arcturus smiled and motioned behind it.

Then he watched dispassionately as Serana fell upon their backs. Silverfang punched out of the pale Altmer's crimson cloth armour, its tip reaching for the sky out of its chest. The last whirled to face her, the lack of colour on its skin blurring the distinction between Nord and Imperial, undeath and fear. It shrank and stumbled away from Serana all the same when she snarled in its face, baring her elongated fangs. It gave her the time to fling the drops of blood running down the rippling edge of her sword, and when she closed on the last vampire, Arcturus could see her enjoyment in her measured steps. He felt a similar elation quicken his heartbeat, colouring his vision blood-red.

The last vampire raised its katana desperately, banishing the thought of surrender that so clearly ran across its dilated golden eyes. Arcturus felt the bloodlust in him swell in answer when Serana brought her sword right through the flimsy metal, made for cuts and slashes. The ring of shattered steel was only offset by the sound of it sinking deeply into flesh and Serana's high, savoury hiss.

Arcturus gave his blade a quick, unceremonious twirl as he cast his eyes up Whiterun's gates, just beyond a corner of misshapen brick and mortar, wary for more challenging opponents. When he was sure of their absence, he sheathed his sword, and returned autonomy to his mind.

Keep toying with me, Harkon. Keep doing it up to the moment I shove my sword through your heart. Then maybe somewhere else if that doesn't do the trick. He thought, vaguely aware of the unusual intensity of his emotions embedded within it. The battle, no matter how short-lived, had lasting effects.

"They don't fizzle into ashes." Arcturus diverted his attentions and commented, observing the three new corpses on the pebbled ground. Their pools of blood had no colour and did not bore its customary metallic stench, but the sight of it was enough to remind him of the other manner of nightmarish creature he had encountered in this twisted reimagining of his world. His home.

Serana prodded at the one at her feet, blood dripping from her naked blade. "Their souls belong to Molag Bal. The Ideal Masters could not take them. They tried to take yours, but you are… similarly spoken for."

Arcturus remembered her atop the little hill, protecting him. She was always there when he needed her, though he had the sneaking suspicion he would have to repay such timely favours in the afterlife to come. He tapped the nightbird on his chest. "Remind me to thank her when this is over." He said idly, returning his eyes to the gates still a corner away.

"I didn't mean her." Serana was right next to him. Her proximity alone stole his attention from him. He seldom saw her with her fangs out, and now that he did, he found himself instantly drawn to how they kept her mouth from closing fully. It had a strange, stirring effect on him. "I meant someone closer."

He cocked his head at the undertone in her voice. "Strange. It doesn't get closer than skin-on-skin." He tapped the sigil again, then feigned a look of revelation. "Ohh… I didn't know we were that far in the scheme of things."

"I'm serious! I could've taken a fragment of your soul and it would've worked." She said, kicking the dust at his feet. The fangs were still there, but the bloodthirsty vampire, slashing and snarling, was nowhere to be found. "It would have been a binding contract," she stammered as she searched for the right word, "like marriage, I suppose… only it'd be more utilitarian, and it'd be cheating."

One of his eyebrows rose at the word that was remarkably out of place. The fingers on his sword hand danced. "Serana, are you proposing to me?" He took steps towards her, a coy grin implying itself through his black mask. "Because I might have to take issue with your perception of time again."

He watched as she swiveled on the tips of her feet, tucking her arms into her sides, wide, golden eyes going this way and that – everything a blushing maiden would do, save the actual blushing. When her eyes finally settled on him, and she finally found her voice, it was no louder than a squeak. "I, matter of fact, find marriage to be quite pointless."

Arcturus nodded, bobbing his head, as if toying with the notion. "And if it weren't cheating?" He recalled the Temple of the Divines in the Cloud District. Devoted to Kynareth, yes, but one makes do. The notion of making Harkon turn in his grave alone held an irresistible temptation.

Serana made to speak, but no sound came from her open mouth. Her fangs made to retreat, but held her tongue. Arcturus saw her eyes glaze over then return, all in an instant, and when she finally spoke, she did so clearly, but also quietly.

"It'd make no difference to me. I've been to a temple before. I've stood in front of an altar, I've knelt before it, and I've laid myself on it and let a monster do with me as it willed. From that moment onwards, temples and altars and sacred vows lost their meaning for me." Serana said. Arcturus noticed the whites on her knuckles, and the trembling on her pale lips as her memory came back to haunt her. He felt himself sidle closer, while a measure of guilt replaced the mellow feelings in his chest. "And when I met you, I promised myself that I wouldn't let anyone or anything come between you and me." She met his eyes resolutely then, as if dedicating to him the words that followed. "No god was going to say yea or nay to what or who I love."

"Gods-" Arcturus breathed, noting with a mixture of fascination and appall how shaky it was. "Now I can't even tell the gods to be good, since it won't work as well. But do you really have to do this now?"

Serana shrugged, her lips curling slightly in the smile he wanted to see. "You started it." She said. "But seriously, do you really see us leading a functional marriage?" She cocked an eyebrow, "and if you are to take me the Imperial way, I'd have to change my name!" She paused, running her tongue along the roof of her mouth with her lips closed. "Serana Sunspear… I'm sorry, but that's one thing I cannot stand." She shook her head emphatically.

He brought his head closer to hers, so their foreheads touched. "Is there no way I can change your mind?" He let her notice the sparkle in his eye, only inches away from hers. "I don't have to take you the Imperial way…" He paused, as if to think up the possibilities already wreaking havoc on his sense of propriety. "We can do it standing up, lying down… there's the bed, of course, and I never did find a use for that alchemist's table at the back of the house. Until now, it's always struck me as a waste of good gold."

She fought the grin taking over her face and its lovely features every step of the way, doubtlessly summoning the same arguments he had. Coming onto one another while in a separate plane of existence made for the thievery of souls was duly improper.

Then again, they'd never cared for being proper.

"I'll have you know, I made the ointment for your wound on the arm on that very table." She said slyly, licking her full, ashen lips. Her fangs winked at him, elongated, sharpened canines that would have looked abnormal on anyone other than her. But 'normal' would never apply to her, nor him. It had been good to know that he was no longer alone in the world, but it's infinitely better to have someone join him in being madly, supernaturally strange.

"Even better," he announced, grand enough for the world to heed, soft enough that only she could hear. "that I should return the favour there."

He felt his heartbeat spike when Serana put the implications to her imagination, the flare of her golden eyes betraying the erotic twist of her thoughts.

"Assuming it's still there." She countered, not putting her obvious thoughts to words. Credit, of course, partially went to her restraint, but also to her observance of their surroundings, all crumbled rock and stone and boulders sporting deformities akin to bites from some starved animal.

"It's five thousand Septims' worth of real estate." Arcturus said matter-of-factly. "If he's razed it to the ground, I'm razing him to the ground."

"Were it so easy, I would have done it myself." Serana murmured. "Don't underestimate him, Arcturus. These are but pawns in the game he's playing." She gestured at the corpses scattered around them. The only thing that struck him then was how they could have been eavesdropping on their conversation.

Now you worry about privacy. He thought to himself, amused. "Then he's playing quite the generous game."

"Arcturus…"

"I know, and I'm not denying your father his credit. He's had a thousand years; I have twenty-seven." He fell silent as the magical quality of her words sank in. Coming from her, they seem to acquire a higher order of persuasion. "But I'm not running. I don't run well. I won't even make a league before coughing up my lungs." He breathed in deeply, in an act of preparation he'd never found use for until now. Even Alduin hadn't caused enough trouble to warrant… this. "But I'm not running. Not when I have to take you with me. That's not the life you came back for."

Serana nodded with silent gratitude. Her eyes twinkled with a wonder he could not place immediately. "This belt of yours does do a number on my waist when I move my legs too much."

"Another case of my prophetic genius." He said proudly. A smile lingered on both their faces for a time, like a ray of sunlight peeking through a gap in the clouds before it is hidden away again. "If all goes well, everything ends today."

"Things rarely go the way we want them to." Serana commented pessimistically. Her fangs seemed to shrink back into their sheaths. He dismissed it as a projection from his mind.

"I'm aware." He said, then took her hand from her side and laid it on his chest. "That's why… If he does best me, I want you to bring me back." He squeezed the hand. "However you can."

Her eyes widened, not with joy or surprise, but dread. Dread, mixed with a lingering shock. "Arcturus, it's not what you'd want."

He smiled, perhaps less obviously this time. "Trust me, I know what I want. Not having my heart go thump-thump and going on a liquid diet are small prices to pay."

"For what?" She asked incredulously.

"For these," he brushed a gloved fingertip across the tip of one of one her fangs, and her eyes widened again. "Wait, I'm not there yet. For these." His finger adjusted to trace her lip, finding them yielding. "I won't leave you. Not if I can help it."

"Oh, Arcturus…" Serana sighed, exasperated, caught between polarised emotions.

"If it makes you feel any better about it, give me an hour or two to think it through after I die. Being brain-dead really helps with my thought process." Arcturus jested. He felt oddly at ease discussing his own demise; Saying the words himself was… liberating. Perhaps it had to do with having something to die for, but he deemed two puns in the span of five minutes to be overdoing it.

"I… I should be arguing with you, but if I start, I'd just be telling you to die, won't I?" Serana murmured, moving her hand from his chest to the hand touching her mouth. "And you never listen."

"Not when you're babbling affectionate nonsense." He cocked his head this way and that until she found the movement too comical to withstand. "Are we doing it my way?" He asked.

"For now," Serana agreed, "Mostly because I think you stand a fair chance."

"High praise, coming from you." He held his hands up, looking over her shoulder. A splash of colour had rounded the corner, but Serana apparently did not notice. He quickly judged the distance between it and the she-vampire staring coyly at him, which he did not mind at all. "Speaking of which, I do think it's your turn to lead now." He unhooked Fang from its place behind the quiver, hoping Serana's silhouette would hide his actions from the intruder.

"Why? I'm perfectly fine with picking up the stragglers you leave behind." Serana said nonchalantly.

"One moment, if you please." Arcturus brought the bow up and stepped to the side, lining up a straight shot on the vampire caught squarely in the open.

The predatory thrill that ran through him when the creature's eyes widened was only matched by the feeling of release as the arrow took flight.

Then, not trusting the vampire to keep quiet, he put another arrow through its throat, and looked at Serana with an expression daring her to argue.

Her head swung this way and that. Then she pouted. "Well, I could have done that."

"Doubtlessly," Arcturus conceded with a sly smile, "but with such style? Such recoverable efficiency?" He gave Fang a twirl about his fingers, its balance and weight shifting from one to the other in flamboyant familiarity.

Serana stepped into him provocatively, challengingly. "Are we talking efficiency now?" She put her hands on her hips, bringing Silverfang lightly against his thigh, a feeling most would cringe from. Not to mention the centennial vampire temptress not an inch from their faces.

But not him, Arcturus idly thought. He had eyes for the other, more redeeming qualities she possessed. "You always were all talk." He teased, feeding mischief into her eyes with his own.

"Let's put it to numbers then." Serana arched a thin brow, her pale, unblemished features wrinkling in a gamely smile. "From these," she gestured towards the corpses littering the cobbled ground, "to the last vampire in Whiterun. We'll see who the better vampire hunter is."

Her golden eyes flared, the only colour for leagues around, and the only he cared about.

He started forward, making to move past her into the city, but she kept pace.

"After you, milady." He said, and took a deep breath as she took the lead.

It was not enough to steel him for what lay ahead.

A final turn, then Whiterun's gates were upon them, but it still took Arcturus a few moments to find that they simply weren't there – the walled city's last stone arch guarded its only entrance as it has always done, but the thick, wooden doors nestled in its span, painted a murky white, were nowhere to be found. In a way, the city was wide open, and the hollowness echoed with the feeling eating away inside Arcturus' chest.

Serana faltered in her steps and looked back at him, mirth and mischief replaced by a guarded reserve. She was farther up the slope than he was, and her expression slipped into the hollow of his heart the tentative beginnings of fear. He mounted the gentle slope, anticipating the moment the cityscape would rise over the horizon, and resultant sight did not, in its own way, disappoint.

The Plains district was immediately beyond the gates, a circle dotted sporadically with wood-and-straw cabins, hugging the interior of Whiterun's walls. The city's main street broke off here, from a wide, cobblestoned road into winding footpaths between low-hanging trees and fields of trimmed grass, connecting house to house, family to family. The Soul Cairn, in its haste to get at the souls it coveted, was unseeing of such thoughtless, yet meticulous architecture. Arcturus bore witness to its callous reformation of Whiterun's basest, and largest, district.

All that remained of the houses, no matter their uses, were rectangles of charcoal-black burned into the ground, offhand reminders of where and what they once were. Trees were pulled from the earth by the roots, leaving the occasional tuft of grass, bleached into the white of skeletal remains, stripped bare under the glare of the city's new second sun. And, as if to elucidate to the prodigal Nightingale the totality of his home's transformation, gaping fissures of purple cracked the ground in several places, sending skyward veils of shimmering violet light in tribute to the gods, hidden behind a blackened sky.

Arcturus fought the urge to look away, beating down lethargic despair. But he fight as he did, he could not shake the feeling that he was somehow responsible for this, that had it not been him who slew Mirmulnir, became thane of Whiterun, and made it his home, the city, and all of its placid, plain beauty, would have been spared this perversion. As powerful hope was in giving him strength, so was despair in stripping it from him.

"Arcturus," he heard Serana call him, but his inner demons denied him answer. Then, he felt fingers curl around his numb ones and squeeze gently, bringing with it the words, "stay with me, my love." He brought eyes, faintly atremble, upon her. "This is merely how human eyes see the Soul Cairn."

"Then what it looks like in truth-" he asked, but Serana cut him off.

"-will not matter once we close the portal." She finished, pointing with the tip of her sword at the origin of the violet light, closer than before and high above the withered remains of the tree at the heart of Whiterun, the Gildergreen. He didn't know if the Ideal Masters had a sense for irony, but he took its placement as a personal insult nonetheless. It lent a kindling spark to the dormant emotions inside him, burning away passivity, restoring his strength and his resolve to use it.

He found it in himself to acknowledge Serana's fingers with his own, and apparently to manage humour as well, for he added, "I suddenly have the oddest penchant for deicide."

Serana made a sound of amusement. "Let's stick with patricide first," she tossed a suggestive look at him. "Then we'll see where things take us-"

Her last syllable was cut short by a disturbance in the air behind him, whooshing past with uncanny speed. Undeterred by cloth and skin, it gouged a furrow along Serana's arm, transmuting the end of her sentence into a cry of both pain and shock.

As Serana folded into herself, clutching her arm, Arcturus whirled round in search of the projectile's origin. The sight of her injured, however minor, roused an uncharacteristic anger within him, for which he found direction towards a lone vampire, standing under the shadow of Whiterun's gates. A longbow was in its hands, held at rest, and its eyes were curiously distant, staring at, and somehow beyond, Arcturus and Serana, its intended target.

Then he turned round again, and saw the other vampire at the base of the withered Gildergreen, holding aloft an arrow with a bloodied tip with two fingers. It stood tall, still and straight, a casual hand on the sword at its hip, as if it was the subject of an aristocrat's portrait. Its regalia, though not dissimilar from the average vampire in its protective qualities, were decidedly more immaculate than the foot soldiers and grunts he'd dispatched in droves, more folds and tailoring and gold thread than substantial armour. But the vampire, with the easy, unconscious smile on its lips and the cold confidence in its pure, golden eyes, seemed to pay its lack of protection no mind.

Then its eyes levelled with Arcturus', and he knew. It struck him in the gut like nothing he'd ever felt before, but he just knew. And when Harkon Volkihar spoke, his voice carried over the emptiness effortlessly.

"The prodigals return – the son to his home, the daughter to her father." A hand rose from the pommel of his sword, beckoning to them with a gentility that ended at his eyes.

Serana's fangs tore from their sheaths, and she took a step towards him, still clutching her wounded arm. "And what father would maim his own daughter when they meet?"

Harkon held up the arrow, his expression indifferent as he examined the blood on its tip. Then he brought it against a pendant on his chest, and Arcturus saw it flare bright red. "You gave me no choice, Serana." He said detachedly, discarding the arrow once the blood staining it was spent. "It breaks my heart to see you battling my good intentions at every turn."

Unless 'good intentions' meant something completely the opposite a thousand years ago, I doubt sending vampire assassins after your daughter qualifies. The words were at the edge of his lips, but Arcturus reined them in. He saw what Harkon was trying to do, what purpose his patronising inflections served – Harkon's words may have been directed at Serana, but he was testing him with them. He wanted to see when Arcturus would break, let his emotions get the better of him, and start making mistakes.

Swordplay is thought put into action. Remember this, Arcturus, and your fights will be won before the blades cross.

Arcturus remained silent, content to let Serana do the talking.

"I've suffered enough of your good intentions! I wanted a family once. I wanted to think of you as a father, Valerica as a mother, but it's clear now that neither you care for such petty wishes." Serana spat, taking another step forward. Soundlessly, Arcturus followed, coldly appraising the closing distance between them.

"All I've done, I did to bring our family together again, my daughter-"

"Do not call me that!"

"-in a world where no one can keep us apart. And why should this gift not be shared with them? If I can bring them new life, a better life, a life unfettered from the sun's tyranny, do I not have the obligation to do so?" Harkon exclaimed, voice rising with Serana's every show of defiance.

"It was no gift, Harkon!" Serana screamed at him, throwing her arms wide. Blood ran from her wound, staining the ground. "Your power, your life, came at a price. Valerica and I paid it for you, as did a thousand others." Her straight stare transformed into a glare, primal and hostile, and her grip on Silverfang turned white. "And now, I've come to claim what we're due. You have enough to answer for the two of us alone."

Harkon smiled and shook his head, unperturbed. "My, my, but look at how you've grown! Speaking for your mother, and with such authority." His proud-parent tone made Arcturus want to stick him in the stomach with a dull iron shovel. The vivid imagining made the thought harder to conceal than most. "She would be delighted to see you now."

"She'll be back in time to spit on your corpse, not that there'll be much of you left once we're done with you." Serana said venomously. Arcturus masked his crowing emotions with the cock of an eyebrow. He certainly didn't expect Serana to include him in such a way.

Harkon shifted his gaze onto him, narrowing in earnest scrutiny. Arcturus knew better; the vampire lord had his eyes on him from the beginning. "I can only assume the inclusion of your… unique companion with the proverbial 'we'. Was he the one who instilled such hostility in you, Serana?"

"I had enough cause to hate you before he woke me, and even more after it."

"Ah, but it was not my doing." Harkon pointed out, spreading his hands as he too moved forward. Arcturus debated a snap shot with Fang, but thought better of it. "All I wanted was to have you at my side, but it was Valerica, in her cruelty, who would deny me at the expense of your suffering." Arcturus heard a tinge of melancholy in his amplified voice, but he saw none of it in the vampire's eyes. If indeed the eyes were windows to the soul, Harkon's were shelters to none.

"She used me, just as you sought to. Don't blame me for moving on."

"I do not, because you are too young to know what really drives your desires." Harkon said. Turning to Arcturus, he said, "Do not mistake my daughter's affections for something beyond simple lust, Arcturus Sunspear. It is something you are familiar with, no?" One edge of his pale lips lifted. "You caught your father in the act, after all. You take after him."

Arcturus returned his cold, condescending gaze with one of equal measure, finding it impossible to restrain himself. "I am not my father, just as Serana is not hers. We do not flee from our demise. Nor do we delay it with words. If you are done with yours, surrender to me my closure, and let us end this." He closed his fingers around the hilt of his Nightingale blade, staring intently at where he intended it to go.

"And mortals call us the bloodthirsty ones." Harkon shook his head, eyes hanging low. "I find your impatience as remarkable as your hubris. Look where it has gotten you," he gestured at his surroundings, "the Ideal Masters and I settled upon this place for our opening in no small part due to you, Arcturus. Laughter and tears, love and hate, vibrant joys and lasting sorrows, all these, notes in a melodic weave of life and energy, pale in comparison with the faintest trace of your passing." His cold, golden eyes pierced his, staring through him. "I heed it even now, spreading from you like a plague – a trail of emptiness, darkness, ridden with the scars you inflict in the name of vengeance."

A muscle on Arcturus' face twitched. Even Serana seemed to falter at such an accusation.

Harkon's lips lifted in triumph. "Oh, I know. But does Serana know?"

"Your words are poison." Serana declared. Arcturus felt her eyes move onto him, affirming him, strengthening him, but he recognised the disturbance in her pools of molten gold, ripples bubbling to the surface.

Arcturus was the first to break eye contact, and he saw, out of the corner of his eye, Serana's fire waver.

"He distrusts you, Serana. The Thieves' Guild was his third family. He's never told you of his second, has he?" Harkon asked. The haughty tone in his voice sparked the latent emotions in Arcturus, and he tore his Nightingale blade from his sheath with a contorted groan of hatred. He glared at the gloating vampire lord, every muscle in his body twitching, itching for the moment his restraints erode completely.

And yet, as his peripheral vision included Serana, lost and shocked and crestfallen, he felt regret crawl up his spine and freeze him solid. She deserves better than this. At the very least, she deserves to know.

"Serana," he let the tip of his blade touch the ground.

Serana blinked. Layer upon layer of emotion, dyed in pain, warred to show their colours on her tortured expression. But she held out, just to hear him speak. Her strength broke his heart with the weight of a feather.

"After Whiterun, before Riften, I was approached by a group of assassins. I had stolen one of their contracts, and, after a few trials, they offered me a place in their ranks-" Arcturus cut himself off. That hadn't the word they used. He took a moment to compose himself. "They took me into their family."

"The Dark Brotherhood." Serana breathed.

As infamous as they are ancient. Arcturus thought, recalling the sight of an old, withered carcass pressed into his face, stealing warmth from him with a crooning voice from an unmoving mouth. What would the Night Mother have been like, a thousand years younger?

"Yes. By all accounts, the name should have come with the fear in your voice, but I didn't care." Arcturus held up one of his hands, inspecting the lines and curves etched into his flesh, hidden beneath black leather. "Before I took a sword, these," he turned the palm towards Serana, "were made for arrows and daggers. They gave a man a strange sense of control – given a life, a destiny you could not take in hand, but only follow, the feeling of another's life in your hands was the next best thing."

He lowered his hand, meeting Serana's eyes without obstruction. "I am a man of many secrets, Serana. I try not to keep them from you, but…" I'm afraid of what you'd think, when you know all of them.

Serana shook her head, silencing him. "I understand. We have more in common than we think." She smiled, a movement that both confused and relieved him. "That is what you are trying to say, is it not? Your secrets are your own, Arcturus; I will hear them if you wish it, but I will not have them become something that comes between us." She turned back to face Harkon, her smile evaporating. "I know your tricks too well."

Harkon answered with his own smile. "So quick to trust. Love always was a persistent illusion. Powerful, yes, but so very mortal by nature. Its roots run deep." He moved his hand in an underhand motion, as if in illustration. Then, at the last possible moment, he reached down and drew his sword with a single, fluid motion, bringing its tip from the sky to rest aiming at Arcturus' chest. "But powerful as your connections may be, you lack the means to protect them. That is what I offer you, Arcturus Sunspear, you and every other mortal who refuses my gift – a new world, a better world, free from the limitations of the mortal form, free from the disparate lots they draw in life, free from life itself and its looming end. Freedom, Arcturus, for those less fortunate than you."

"And what of those who cherish their mortality, their normalcy? Those who wish to live but one lifetime on this world, to live, to grow old and to die as the gods will them to? To them, your cure is worse than their affliction."

Harkon smirked. "You needn't fear, Dragonborn. I shan't force my gift upon them. That would make it more a solution than a gift, would it not?" He spread his hands, "I am no tyrant. Those who refuse my gift will be free to do with themselves as they will. After all, there will be a grave shortage of cattle for our consumption."

"I had a feeling you might say that." Arcturus said, his steady return of Harkon's condescending gaze markedly not reflective of his growing desire to separate the vampire into his component parts. "It is good, then, that this power play of yours dies with you."

"I beg to differ." Harkon fondled the pendant dangling from his neck with two fingers. "Even now, the separate parts of the prophecy are coming together. The Elder Scrolls, and the blood of a Daughter of Coldharbour, both of which my faithful daughter has given of herself to provide. But you are aware of this, Arcturus, I'm sure."

"How else could I have gotten an audience from you?" Arcturus asked. It was a calculated risk. If you count betting everything on beating him in a duel.

"Well, here you are. I don't suppose your next step entails handing them over to me?" Harkon asked.

"Your daughter objects." Arcturus stated simply, hearing an answering hiss from the Daughter of Coldharbour in question. "But I won't condemn her to patricide. You've done enough to her."

Arcturus strode forward, clear of Serana, and stabbed the tip of his Nightingale blade into the ground. Then, under Harkon's haughty gaze, he dragged it in a curve before him, drawing a line in the dirt. Of the many Imperial histories and traditions, this was the one he remembered most vividly. Perhaps, long in the past, he knew the day would come when he had to use it.

"I challenge you, Harkon Volkihar, for the possession of the Elder Scrolls detailing the Prophecy of the Sun, for your paternal claim over Serana Volkihar as your daughter, and for the head you hold so high upon your shoulders." He ended his mark on the earth with a skyward stroke, trailing specks of loosened soil. "I challenge you to single combat."

"Chivalry!" Harkon laughed. "I hope this is not part of some bid to charm me, Arcturus Sunspear. I am afraid my daughter places little importance on my blessings." As the ageless vampire lord moved, mirroring his own steps, Arcturus noticed that the jest, as with most everything else, did not reach his eyes, which remained cold and opaquely confident.

Harkon stopped ten steps from the Gildergreen, clear of its sparse shadows, and drew a crescent in the ground with his thin, curved blade. "I accept."

He sheathed his sword. Arcturus followed suit. If memory served, both parties now had a few moments to themselves, as the last illusions of formality fell away.

Arcturus was hearkened to said formality's departure by a stinging slap that made his head ring. He came round and held a hand to the side that was hit. "Can you try not to open every argument with physical confrontation?"

The humour in his words were lost on Serana. "I would if you'd only tell me what you have going on inside that crazy head of yours!" From the tone of her voice, she was very angry, but as Arcturus observed her outrage in such close proximity, he couldn't find it in himself to take her seriously.

"Name-calling," he furrowed his brow, something she could see through the slits in his mask, "not sure if I'm okay with that. Shouldn't you be helping, at this point in time?"

Serana flung her arms wide, eyes staring incredulously into his. "Help? Yes, I definitely should be helping. It's not like you're honourbound after challenging my father to single combat." She broke away from him with a hand on her forehead, pacing. "When I said you stood a chance… I meant the two of us, together."

Arcturus smiled. "I know. My ego is not as expanded as you think." He lowered her arms and drew her close, making for a convincing image of sharing last words. The attached sense of finality sobered him, and he found himself locking eyes with the woman connected to him, cherishing every moment he saw himself reflected in her depthless, golden pools.

"You've come to know me better in the past week better than anyone else. Am I a man of honour?" He asked.

Her hands crept up his chest, pressing against him, feeling his heartbeat. He tried to keep it level, but who was he that could contain himself at such a moment? When all that he cherished and dreaded came together in a showdown of his own making?

"It wouldn't be high on your list of watchwords…" Serana murmured, eyes tilting up to meet his. The upward angle gave her questing eyes a sincerity Arcturus could not deny, drawing him into their depths, into her, whom he never thought he could come to love so much. He took off his mask, exposing himself to the cold air of the Soul Cairn, and showing his face to her.

"Exactly. Have my chances improved?"

"Astronomically."

Arcturus smiled, though he felt the beginnings of doubt gnaw at his lips. If he could think of this, Harkon might have already done so. "That's good to hear. Now, let me go have my fun with him. I'll leave the honours to you once he's too confused to know which end to stick into me."

He tore away from her with an invisible reluctance, leaving his mask in her hands. He would need every bit of his vision, peripheral or otherwise, for the fight ahead. As he moved to face Harkon, still a good fifty paces away, he thought he heard Serana say, "I love you."

He allowed himself to falter once as he turned back towards her, momentarily unsure of what to say.

Then, "Hold onto that mask. I'll be wanting it back."

He stepped back into the crescent he'd made. Harkon was waiting in his. He spoke again as Arcturus reached his position, his voice richer the closer Arcturus came, laden with a softer undertone that seemed to speak to his soul, rather than his ears. "There really is no need for last words, Arcturus. I don't plan on killing you, despite your insistence otherwise."

"Of course not. I'm doing the killing here." Arcturus answered, settling his mind and body. His eyes swept his surroundings one last time, causing his mind to wander slightly. I wonder if the Soul Cairn will let up the moment Harkon dies. Will Whiterun simply… come back?

He shook himself mentally. One thing at a time.

Harkon chuckled. "You overestimate yourself, Dragonborn. A thousand years is time aplenty for one to hone his blade." He drew his sword at a diagonal, letting it rest on his left side, tip touching the ground. The movement was graceful, evidencing centuries of practice.

But he, too, was no stranger to the feel of his Nightingale blade's hilt, his gloved fingers settling notch by notch into the grip, worn into the handle like lines weathered into rock. Across the empty space, set aside just for them, wind ran freely, whipping his unbound hair and bringing him back in time.

You're the best swordsman I've ever known, Arcturus. But remember this – with luck, even a farm boy with a shovel can kill you.

It is good, then, that I have lady luck on my side. Arcturus thought, sparing the circular sigil that was his blade's guard a fleeting glance.

Name-calling. Not sure if I'm okay with that. A female voice, maternal yet sensuous, murmured into his ear.

It's only funny when I say it, milady. He thought half-heartedly, settling into a high guard. Then, very cautiously, he advanced.

Fifty paces became forty-eight, then forty-six, ticking away with the seconds. Arcturus kept a close eye on Harkon's movements, relishing the challenge of dividing his attentions between anticipating his opponent's first move and going over the motions of swordplay. As his mind recalled stances, blocks and attack patterns, bits and pieces of memory came with them.

"Under the assumption that you're not crossing blades with a complete idiot or a nervous wreck, the first thing you must do is not with this-"

Arcturus felt a phantom tap on his sword hand.

"-but with this. "

The next tap, perilously close to his focussed eyes, almost made him wince.

"Only a fool puts his life in the hands of luck. If you are to duel a man, duel him properly. Study his movements, get used to how your sword collides with his."

Arcturus honed in on Harkon's downcast blade.

Low guard, high guard.

Arcturus readied himself for a clash at chest height. Then, at ten paces, he put on a burst of speed. His sword arced down; Harkon's whipped up. The vampire lord's smile was all he saw before the clash of their swords eclipsed everything.

Arcturus pressed against Harkon's block with both hands, but the vampire lord held him off with just one.

"Conserve your strength." The weaponmaster said, twisting his sword out of his hands once he spent himself against his adult, thus far stronger, arm.

Arcturus disengaged, but not from the offensive.

"One, two, three, four." The numbers coincided with dull bangings of wood from above, below, and around the sides, hard enough to test his reflexes, but not enough to hurt him. "Good!"

His blows were met with counterblows, pressing into his defense. He tucked his sword into himself, fending off lightning-fast strikes from both sides, leaning away to absorb the inhuman force behind them.

"The sword is not your only weapon." The weaponmaster's calloused hand, his free hand, closed around his neck with a cursory squeeze.

Shifting sideways, Arcturus slipped into Harkon, where his sword, however curved, could not touch him, and elbowed the vampire lord with his unoccupied arm. Harkon reflexively backpedalled, but not before Arcturus dealt him a backhand across his face, drawing blood. Arcturus saw a split-second of surprise on his face before it was hidden away.

"You're learning." The weaponmaster smiled, nursing a bruise on his arm.

Arcturus pressed his advantage, raining blow after blow on Harkon, slipping into different forms and patterns. His mind moved as quickly as their blades did, supplying the next blow before the current was struck, providing him with endless variations, giving him way after way to test Harkon's defenses. Arcturus combed him from top to bottom, at times pressing in to deliver a thrust, at times retreating to allow wider, stronger attacks more room to maneuvre. But try as he might, every attack was met with a matching defense, as if the vampire lord could sprout another arm, another sword, to parry the blow that would have felled any other man.

Arcturus found himself thinking of the dirk in his boot. If he could reach low enough, he would reach it. It might just be the edge he needed.

"All is fair in love and war." The weaponmaster said to the boy he'd locked blades with, tapping him on the shoulder with a wooden stick he'd slipped into the folds of his tunic. "Though I wouldn't know much about the former."

Serana.

Harkon took a gap in Arcturus' defense as one of his swings went wide, and came down with a helm-crushing blow. Arcturus went on one knee to mitigate the force behind his attack, snatched the dirk from its boot sheath, and drove it into the side of the vampire lord's face.

But the small blade found steel before it found flesh, announcing its failure in the most comical report Arcturus had ever heard. His dagger hand, caught off-guard by the appearance of Harkon's own gilded dagger, was easily dashed aside, and Arcturus felt a slice along the back of his hand.

Harkon's overhead strike came upon a battered defense, this time truly vulnerable. Arcturus could not summon the focus to defend against it.

Shadows and dust. He thought, closing his eyes and bracing himself.

The Evergloam took him with a gut-wrenching change of his reality, whisking him from the blade's edge. He found himself back on solid ground a few paces from Harkon's kneeling form, stumbling as his mind and body reeled from the experience

Harkon looked up, golden eyes steadier than ever. "Lady Nocturnal, this is a gentleman's game! How should I answer to such treachery?" As he regained his footing, dusting his knees where they touched dirt, Arcturus felt the ground open up behind him.

Serana.

He whirled around to see black clouds surround her, taking the forms of the singular black, skeletal creature at the boundary between Nirn and the Soul Cairn. There were five of them, Arcturus saw, forming a circle around her, separating her from him.

Arcturus brandished his blade, banishing the pain in his other hand, and forced himself to focus on the sneering vampire lord, who once again was standing tall and straight, as if his duel with Arcturus had yet to take place. "Leave her out of this." Arcturus hissed.

Harkon shook his head regretfully, staring at the tip of his blade. "You didn't."

The two words, spoken accusatorily, overrode the last of Arcturus' restraint. If there ever was a line between seeking to best a man and to kill a man, it was one Arcturus crossed then and there. There, he found himself in a place where rational thought had no place, replaced by the raw, animal instinct that was his birthright.

With his mind, he called out to his Daedric Prince, the one he knew to be watching him. Bring me to him.

As the Evergloam closed around him once again, eating into his spirit but augmenting his body, he called out in a guttural, primeval tongue none but he could wield.

"Su Grah Dun!" The Thu'um left Arcturus' lips as a rush of wind, swirling about him with the force of a gathering storm. Darkness closed around him, painting a monochromic landscape of the dueling grounds. He quickly isolated the lone, contorted silhouette of Harkon against the disorienting backdrop, finding half of him in the shadow of Shade Perilous. The Nightingale, feeling momentum acting upon him, took two steps and leapt towards his mark, sword arm pulled back in a deadly thrust.

Shadows and dust.

Nirn heralded his return with an airy pop in his ears, offset by the teeth-gnashing grind of steel on steel as Harkon's superhuman reflexes saved him from Arcturus' thrust. With the wind behind it, the tip of his Nightingale blade drew sparks from the flat of Harkon's katana. It was a credit to its resilience that it did not shatter from such a blow.

Seeing Harkon brace himself as his body continued its collision course towards him, Arcturus smiled fiendishly as he fell into Nocturnal's embrace once again, passing through the vampire lord's shade in the Evergloam. Landing on one knee, he pressed the attack with a somersaulting kick, then backpedalled twice to strike his stumbling quarry from the side.

"Up, down, left, right. Faster! Don't make me wait for you, boy!" The weaponmaster boomed as he exchanged blows with his teenaged apprentice at breakneck speeds, at times pressing his advantage, at others daring him to go on the offensive. The relentless midday sun taxed their strength almost as acutely as the sparring did, laying a sheen of sweat on their bare shoulders.

Arcturus materialised face-to-face with Harkon, anticipating his downward cleave. The sun, bright but cold, stabbed into his eyes, momentarily eclipsing the enraged vampire lord. It stayed his sword hand, and he sent his free hand as replacement, clocking Harkon squarely with a savage left cross.

"Don't play with me, boy. Stop trying to hit me and hit me!" The weaponmaster said with a glint in his eye, locking blades with the fledging swordsman and pushing him away. "Whatever's on your mind, either make use of it or shut it out." The boy's eyes flickered in the slightest, diverted upwards to the stony spire towering over them.

Arcturus could hear Harkon's angry roar, even in the clutches of the Evergloam, but he did not allow it a foothold on his mind. Instead, he set his thoughts on the constants in his mind, anchoring himself on the things that wouldn't change even when he moved between worlds. He found himself revising his determination. He'd thought, in the beginning, that he was fighting for Lydia. But his own perseverance, in spite of her uncertain fate, proved him wrong. Then he thought he was doing it to save the world, as he'd already done once before. And yet, as he tried to hold onto that notion while his inhuman strength ebbed, he found it fragile and unbound. It was not enough for him.

As he slipped back into the darkness to evade another attack, losing himself between worlds, bit by bit, Arcturus groped desperately for direction, for purpose.

Serana.

Her face climbed to the forefront of his mind, and he grabbed on and held tight until she swelled to fill him. He saw the forbidden glimmer of her fangs as she snarled, then the crease around her eyes as she giggled. The sound echoed in his ears, high and delicate, and he listened to it again and again, calling him, reconstructing him.

Bring me back.

Keep me whole.

Arcturus Sunspear stood upright in an alien world, shaking off the inconspicuous tendrils reaching for him, keeping him in the Evergloam. He looked up to see Harkon's shade hunched over, perhaps from some offhand blow he'd dealt him whilst moving between planes of existence. Mustering every ounce of his strength, he called for the wind behind his sword arm as he prepared to return to the mortal realm, warped beyond recognition.

Pop went Nirn around him, filling Arcturus' questing eyes with colour once again. His Nightingale blade did not stop its inevitable journey towards Harkon, however, and its wielder found himself aiming for the golden thread at the vampire lord's breast. But somehow, even as his blade thrust past empty space, Arcturus found his foe… changed – his head was more angular, his shoulders broader, and the red-and-gold robes were repainted a dull, matte gray he, for the briefest of moments, could not quite place.

Then Harkon Volkihar raised his head to meet him, and Arcturus finally took in the backswept, triangular ears, wide, blood-red eyes and crooked maw that signified his foe's transition into something truly inhuman, as he did. Harkon raised a hand, tipped with talons and bulging with muscle, to counter his thrust. Arcturus felt it sink deep into the palm, through the wrist and into the arm itself, every inch of flesh consuming his momentum until he was stopped dead, blade halfway stuck into Harkon's outstretched arm.

Then, in a movement that would have elicited an unbearable amount of pain, Harkon bent his incapacitated arm at the elbow, closing the distance, and Arcturus felt taloned fingers close around his throat, rendering his cry of surprise a dying croak.

"I yield." The weaponmaster held up his hands in defeat, visibly surprised at his apprentice's sudden burst of fervor. In the span of two seconds, the boy had tapped his practice blade on both sides in a feint, darted into and under his guard, and settled his blade's edge on his neck. "I don't envy whoever has to go up against you, boy."

Arcturus could not interpret the vampire lord's expressions in his true form, but he was certain Harkon was smiling as he wrenched the black Nightingale blade from his grip, the squelch of flesh nauseating as he flung the blade to the ground. Then, by some magical volition, the black sword lifted into the air with a mind of its own, and flew off to the side with all the speed and conviction of an arrow.

Serana.

Arcturus craned his head to see the blade's target – the disintegrating remains of the last black, skeletal creature, its back facing Harkon, holding Serana at swordpoint. Serana herself stumbled through her captor's lingering shroud of black smog. Confusion melted from her eyes as she saw the situation taking a nightmarish turn, and she bolted forward-

"Stay where you are, beloved daughter, or I crush your Nightingale's throat." Harkon halted her in her steps with a commanding voice. It sounded guttural, animalistic, a complete departure from the dapper, if wizened, the vampire lord had once been. But he realised now that the bulky, angular monstrosity in front of him, with all its strength, physical or otherwise, was the true embodiment of 'lord', entitling a terrible power that twisted the body.

It disgusted him.

He tried to wedge fingers into his captor's grip. If he could loosen his hold, just for a bit, he would be able to choke out the words to free himself. It was on his mind, at the edge of his throat, but he could not sound them. He put his entire body behind the effort, wrenching from side to side, but Harkon merely growled and tightened his grip, watching him struggle with predatory intrigue.

Shadows and dust. Arcturus thought, willing the Evergloam to come for him, but even his soundless pleas fell upon deaf ears. Milady, if you can hear me…

I hear you, child. But I will not be summoned at your whim. I am not a tool for your abuse. Nocturnal answered him, but not in the way he wanted.

You would leave me to die? He asked, feeling his will to resist subside before a wave of exhaustion, of abandonment.

No. I can see that it is not your fate. Not yet. But I will not hand out deliverance, not anymore. This is a lesson you must learn. Nocturnal said, with all the authority of a scolding mother.

Then she left him.

"The Bonemen have not harmed you overmuch, I hope?" Harkon asked, his rough, warped voice belying a civility that chilled Arcturus to the bone. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Serana hesitate, holding Silverfang dubiously in the air – high, as if to strike; low, as if to sheathe. Her golden eyes blazed with a hatred she could not act upon.

"Your creatures cannot harm me." She spat, eyes drifting ever so briefly to dwell on him. Arcturus saw them soften instantly. In pity, or out of fear, he could no longer tell.

"I assure you they are not my creatures. An insurance, you may call it, of a trial by combat uninterrupted by a third party." Harkon leered at his daughter, "not that the idea ever crossed your mind. It is fortunate, though, that this pointless melee ended in time, just enough for Arcturus to have his fun with me."

Harkon turned back to him with a knowing smile that terrified him beyond bloodshot eyes and batlike ears ever could. "Now, Arcturus, you've been wonderful entertainment, but we really must be moving on to the real purpose of this meeting." He moved his gaze between him and Serana. "The Elder Scrolls, if you please."

Serana put her sword between her and Harkon, vehemently shaking her head. "You can't have them."

"Then your dashing Nightingale breathes out of a hole in his throat. I warned you about bad influences, Serana. If you hadn't attached yourself to him, you might have done more admirably in complicating my plans."

"You'll just kill him after I give them to you."

Harkon scoffed. "When did you put stock in such a notion? Once I have the Elder Scrolls, whether the Dragonborn lives or dies matters little to me. He will be a survivor in a new world. My world." A surge in pressure against his windpipe caused Arcturus to choke out meaningless syllables, drawing Harkon's attention. "And as we've proven in the past few minutes, he is no better than the common man."

Arcturus craned his head to meet Serana's eyes, not knowing that the moment their eyes met was the moment Serana's resolve, clearly visible, deserted her completely. He wanted to call out to her, to tell her not to give in, but he stilled himself when he realised how utterly inhuman it would be for her to hold out.

It did not diminish the sense of hopelessness descending over him, infiltrating him, poison seeping into him, as she drew the rolls of cloth, offset by handles of gold, from the pouch at her back. He had put them there, as bait, as a foolhardy act of rebellion against a man he'd underestimated.

He had to wonder, there and then, if he had condemned this world on a whim.

"And your mother thought herself clever to conceal them separately. She was the one who tore our family apart, Serana, not I."

"Keep telling yourself that, father." Serana said with suppressed emotion. "Keep telling yourself that as you take the world under your heel, and have no one to share it with."

"But I will, Serana. Just not with those unworthy of it. For some, the burden of ruling puts too much on their shoulders. I see no purpose in such meaningless torment."

A shadow ran across the violet sun high above, taking the shapes of two men and a hunched woman in between, descending on a spiral from the connection between Nirn and the Soul Cairn. Black tiles formed under their feet with their every step, and before long the vampires presented themselves before Harkon, eyes lowered in penance.

Arcturus heard Serana exhale sharply, disbelieving.

Harkon chuckled, a raspy, inhuman sound that rumbled deep within his throat. "My alliance with the Ideal Masters were not for simply for sake of theatricality. I sought passage into their realm, and the purchase of one of their captives; they, unfailingly, demanded more souls. So rest easy, Dragonborn. Your friends did not perish for nothing."

The vampires cast the woman at Harkon's feet. Further from the glaring rays of the sun, Arcturus saw the familiar lines on the regal outfit Harkon had worn. But as he observed them, curious, he saw that the crimson and gold dye had long since faded, as if inheriting the Soul Cairn's soulless colour palette.

Then Harkon cast him away, and he could do naught but gasp as the ground thudded into his back, driving what little wind he had left from him. Serana rushed to his side, holding him up, but remained carefully still as the vampires trained arrows on them. Harkon flung his hand, as if ridding himself of filth, then prodded at the prostrate figure with his foot, turning her over and revealing her features.

The woman, like Harkon in his human form, possessed an attractiveness that persisted with maturity, like fine wine after years of mellowing. Her face was long and lean, scraped of excess, resulting in a graceful beauty not unlike Karliah's. Her eyes, however, told of her true nature – wide and golden, staring aimlessly into the blackened sky.

And yet, as Arcturus looked closer, he saw her mouth open and close, murmuring inaudibly. Twin rivulets of blood stained her pale lips, flowing from gaps in her teeth, where her fangs should be.

Where her fangs should be.

"Ah, my lovely wife has come from her self-made prison to join us. Our family is whole again, after a thousand years." Harkon said. One of his talons twitched, and Valerica Volkihar arched her back, blood flying in specks from her mouth as she screamed in a tortured, hoarse voice. From its depleted state, he judged she had been screaming long before this.

"What have you done to my mother?" Serana demanded, her voice rising in indignant anger.

Harkon instantly whirled to face her. "Do not raise your voice against me, girl. I am your father. You would do well to remember that."

"Lie to yourself, Harkon. You ceased to be my father the moment you took up your prophecy and left us behind." Serana declared.

Harkon's wide, pupilless eyes dilated in rage. He strode towards her, talons clenching and unclenching in an attempt to restrain himself. "Is it so convenient, seeing your mother writhe in the mud for her crimes, that you forget her part in imprisoning you? She was the one who sealed you away in Dimhollow Crypt. I tried to free you, and you loose your pet dragon to bloody my invitation to be father and daughter again."

He laughed then, as if finally realising how completely he'd lost her. "Oh, you needn't worry, Serana. I have repaid her treachery in your stead. By denying our race the ascension it so rightly deserves over the harems of men and mer, Valerica has proven herself unworthy of Molag Bal's gifts. I had my thralls take them from her slowly, prying her foul mouth open while she thrashed about. And I had them pull…" He looked down upon the twitching body of the woman who had once been her wife, and Arcturus saw his Nightingale blade rise again. "And pull, and pull."

The black blade sank down slowly, trembling as Valerica awoke to the feeling of its wide edge pressing through cloth, skin and finally her flesh. Arcturus looked away, but not before he heard her breathe her last as the blade, his blade, went through her heart with agonising slowness. In contrast to her anguished cries, her last breath seemed peaceful, even grateful.

"Her blood is on your hands now, Dragonborn. Her, and all of my devout you have butchered." Harkon reflected dimly as he extracted the blade from Valerica's corpse, setting free a pinpoint of intense light from her breast. It flew freely for but a moment, then was drawn towards the spiralling staircase to the Soul Cairn.

Anger and despair mixed within Arcturus' chest and pressed down on him, and he feared the tears that might fall from how helpless he felt. He found his voice to counter that fear, and said, "you have… an impressive capacity for self-delusion. My lord."

It got the vampire lord's attention, and his crimson eyes turned on him, low and menacing and contemplative. "Seize her." He commanded.

The vampires discarded their bows and arrows and went for Serana, wrenching her from him in a tangle of limbs and angry snarls. Arcturus wondered if she would revert to her true form, but the thought was cut short as he, without her support, collapsed onto the ground. Harkon was on him in an instant, lengthy fangs curved across his lips as they pressed together in a tight line.

Arcturus tried to push himself upright, but Harkon pinned his arm down with his foot. It was difficult to summon his courage to face the monster holding him down, but he did it anyway. Me and my big mouth. He thought.

"I haven't forgotten you, Arcturus Sunspear. In time, you will pay for the lives you have cost me." He raised the hand that had been impaled by the Nightingale blade. The flesh had already mended, but the hand, and its digits, were frozen in their positions when the blade coursed through flesh and nerve, inflicting a lasting damage on the latter. "But for now, my flesh calls for a retribution in equal amounts of the harm you have caused me."

His foot moved to Arcturus' wrist, pinning his hand down. Arcturus tilted his head to see. Don't look. Harkon's dagger, the one that had frustrated Arcturus' first attempt to waylay the vampire, rose to poise itself above his hand.

"It's a pity your hands don't grow back." Harkon observed.

The dagger fell.

Arcturus summoned a desperate burst of strength and shifted under Harkon's foot.

But it was not enough.

Arcturus felt his eyes well with tears as cold steel descended upon him. It was through in an instant, and in that instant, he felt every nerve in his body cry out as parts of his body were separated from him. This time, presented with the choice of either his voice or his tears, he elected to let them fall from his eyes, gritting his teeth to keep himself from screaming out loud. He knew that if he started, he would never stop.

But even as he stifled the scream in his throat, he heard a bestial roar fill the air around him.

Serana?

At first, it was in front of him, beyond Harkon's shadow. Then, it was behind him, accompanied by the sounds of tackling, the tearing of flesh and Serana's cry of surprise, high and very much still human.

Harkon released him, and Arcturus rolled over to nurse his right hand, trying but failing to feel the two digits severed from it, his ring finger and his little finger. He raised his eyes to gauge the disturbance and saw, from beneath the shadow of Harkon's batlike wings, the silhouettes of two bulky but hunched figures. Humanoid in stature, but lupine in form, they stood at almost the same height as the vampire lord, and the claws on their elongated fingers flared as they growled from a maw of sharp canines.

Far in the distance, a dazzling explosion of light and sound overwhelmed Arcturus' senses, making him shield his eyes reflexively. Blood dripped from his open wounds onto the nightbird sigil on his chest, and he was dimly aware of hands around his shoulders, dragging him away from the standoff. Dimly, he could see the silhouette of an old man in robes, the three fragmented Elder Scrolls unfurled before him, bathing him in an oval of pure white light.

He tried to rise, to close the portal, knowing that the prophecy was nearing its completion, but Serana whispered into his ear and pulled him ever away. "We'll find another way." She whispered.

Beside the Elder Scrolls, and a good distance from the portal, Harkon and the creatures came head to head. The vampire lord extricated himself from a cage of clawing hands and hind legs, barrelling through his opponents to reach the portal. Once he was past it, taking the old man with him, the portal collapsed on itself with a diamond flash, closing the gateway with a shockwave that rocked the city.

The gate to the Soul Cairn was similarly affected by the closure as it was squeezed from this plane of existence, hastened by the departure of a plane far greater than itself. As its rays became sporadic from a dying sun, the land under its influence struggled to revert to its former self. It did so slowly, with painstaking backfires as one world warred with another over sovereignty, but eventually the Soul Cairn was forced to recede. For the first time in hours, Arcturus saw green return to his home, along with many other, more vibrant colours which rejuvenated his memory – the yellow of flowers, the pink of the Gildergreen in its bloom, the brown of wooden walls and homes, the grey of cobblestones littering the road, and the red of blood.

Invariably, he was drawn to the sight of his hand, and the absence of his two fingers, weeping crimson, hearkening him to the pain he still felt.

He looked up to find the creatures that had engaged Harkon before he left to be no more. In their places, a man and a woman clad in naught but their skin stared observantly at him, standing tall and motionless. Arcturus could not summon the decency to look away as the woman approached, the orange light of twilight highlighting the diagonal dashes of ink on her face.

"You'll live, Dragonborn." She said, not dispassionately, and offered a hand. Arcturus did look away when Serana helped him up behind him, arms wrapped tight around him in more of an embrace than an aid for him to stand upright.

"You're hurt." She whispered, gasping in fear as she saw the stubs that had once been his fingers.

"I'll live." He said. He found his voice devoid of emotion, but made no effort to inject any. To the woman, whom he identified as Aela the Huntress, one of the Companions, he said, "how did you survive?"

She stepped aside and pointed at Jorrvaskr. "The gates were not the only ways out of the city. When the vampires began to subvert the city with their magic, we stole as many people as we could from their homes and ferried them through the Underforge. We hid them in the bandit holdouts northwest of here and returned here, waiting for a chance to strike."

"You didn't do a very good job at striking, did you?" Arcturus said, bitter, and saw Aela bristle. Her companion, a bulky Nord, stepped in with a hand on her shoulder.

"Leave him be, shield-sister. He's been through enough." He said.

"You have enough to answer for, Dragonborn. They would not have come here if not for you." Aela spat, driving a lance straight through Arcturus' heart with her brutal honesty. There was no denying it now, after he'd heard it spoken out loud. Serana wrapped an arm around his shoulder, but it had about the same effect as pouring salt over the wound in his heart, making it flare in even more pain.

As Aela the Huntress turned away to nurse the wounds she'd received from Harkon, Arcturus could not help but ask one more thing.

"What of… Lydia?" Speaking her name alone was agony for him, darkening the world as he pondered her fate in the moments Aela formed her answer.

"She fought them when they took the people from their houses, gave us time to save the others." Aela halted, turning sideways to look him in the eye. They were as hard as ever, but Arcturus thought he saw some emotion in them. "It was a good death."

Then they went their separate ways – Aela and her companion to their Jorrvaskr, Arcturus leading Serana to the familiar, cramped doorway that was his home. He wondered if it was still home, now, when there was one less person who could call it such.

Then Arcturus Sunspear opened the door to its customary creak and slipped inside Breezehome, a lesser man than before.