Chasing Aetherius: Chapter 14 - Shards of Aetherius

• Posted by Karver the Lorc December 31, 2016 - Filed in TSC: CB Story - #Straag Rod  #Chasing Aetherius  #Lissette  #Karver  - 1,539 views

   

  

  Couldn't find any clues, so I'll make a sketch and work through this carefully. Five Resonators. Five tones. Just have to hit them in the right order. Let's see...

   

  19th of Morning Star, 4E 203

   

  They spent the next three days on the frozen road in tense silence, with the body wrapped in furs, strapped onto a somber Allie, her head uncharacteristically low, hanging in front of them like a ghost of past. Reminding them what they have gained. What they have lost.

  
  
  Serana was still in pretty bad shape, passing out now and then and Grulmar was thankful for the horses Dreth left back at the camp. The horse and clothes, the gear they so desperately needed to make this journey. If they had to travel all the way to Fort Dawnguard with one dead and one undead body on foot, they wouldn't have made it. The mare ahead of him was uncommonly strong, but even she had her limits.

   

  The cold was always present, reminding them that the winter wasn’t over yet, but they all just seemed to...accept it. If there was wind, they went against it. If there was snow, they trudged through it.

  
  
  It was a strange journey for Grulmar. He was lost in his own thoughts mostly, thinking about Decimus' knee. That maybe he could have done more, convince him to use the balms and potions. That if he had done that, his knee wouldn’t have failed him in the time when the old Blade needed a healthy knee the most.

  
  
  It nagged at him. Decimus was one of the best swordsmen around, he had both Jenassa and Bleak Walker nearly defeated. Just one second later and the Redguard would have been already dead and he would be bitching about his broken leg. Grulmar would give anything to hear that bitching, the cussing from that Imperial’s mouth at the pain. His ornery cries to leave him the fuck alone, disappearing with a bottle of wine and a few potions.

  
  
  But the knee failed him.

  
  
  Belrand was riding close to Grulmar the whole time, always helping him with the body. Grulmar understood they were good friends. Belrand later told him how he took the job, but right from the start he was trying to do everything he could to keep Decimus from harm's way. That he didn't take the job to kill him, but to earn money and at least try to protect his friend somehow. And he also talked about Shiny a lot. The Ash King he was calling him now, for coming back from the dead. What bullshit.

  
  
  Erik and Aela kept their distance, talking amongst themselves as they rode and Grulmar couldn't care less about what. More than likely some Companions bullshit or about Shiny. More Shiny. Shiny this, Shiny that. He didn't give a crap.

  
  
  And then there was the Orc female. Borgakh Steel-Heart. He had to tell her to tusk off the first day of their travel because she always tried to do... Grulmar felt a blush creep to his face and his crotch twinge a little...do Malacath knows what to him. She called him her little warrior, acting like a rutting horker. He wondered if she had taken one too many hits to the head or something. Nah, it wasn’t wondering, Grulmar was sure of it. She even came to his tent one night and he ran like a crazy Orc, waking up everybody in camp because he thought it was a bear poking its head inside.

  
  
  When they finally reached the Fort, Grulmar wasn't sure if he should be glad or just run. He wasn’t a fucking priest, he had no idea what to tell everyone or what to do with Decimus’ body. The Imperial never talked about this kind of shit with him. He knew he hated gods, so definitely no prayers and shit like that. Burn his body maybe? Tusk. I have no tuskin' clue what do to.

  
  
  When they passed through the outer palisade, the Dawnguard were watching them, in silence, their faces sober upon seeing the body wrapped in furs, and upon seeing the vampire. They knew Grulmar and the others, except Belrand and Borgakh. They fought alongside each other against the Volkihar. I should have died back then. I shouldn't have been there in the first place. It was a bloody mess. And when they entered the Fort, the reception was...strange.

   

  Reluctantly, perhaps knowing that Shiny was indeed still alive and able to cause damage, they fetched Florentius to tend to Serana—even though he kept muttering something about Arkay not liking it at all; a weasel of a Breton Vigilant of Stendarr not far behind. Grulmar guessed it was their new Keeper. It was clear the Vigilants were more concerned for Shiny, a little Redguard taking the news that he wasn’t there yet particularly hard. At least she had emotions.

   

  When Isran came out and they told him what had happened, his face didn’t even flinch, not a single damn emotion and Grulmar wondered if he was related to that dead fucker they left at the Forge. But the other Dawnguard who heard it started murmuring to each other.

   

  And the Goldpact. Grulmar saw how that lizard, Teineeva, then disappeared somewhere—which was strange, because he and Decimus were good friends. Grulmar thought that the Argonian would at least say his goodbyes, but who was he to care about some lizard?

   

  If Grulmar had stayed longer in the mess or the Main Hall, he would have learned that Decimus’ death had hit everyone hard. It was Erik, with a long face, who later told him that it was all they were talking about. Well, that and how it was Shiny who was the cause. For putting Decimus in that position, for getting him killed, for bringing in the monster into the Fort again and putting everybody at risk. Everyone thought that the Old Blade would outlive them all, that there was something eternal about him. That he was a better man than all of them combined, that he put the Dragonborn to shame. But Grulmar was glad he didn't hear that, not then. It would have broken him.

   

  They then moved Decimus’ body out, beyond the walls. It was hard to say it aloud, being such a sensitive thing, but they didn’t want his body to start decomposing. So Grulmar kept vigil, protecting him. He was sitting on a crate next to the body that was lying on the nearly frozen ground. He was shrouded by darkness, with only bright stars shining down on both of them. He had wrapped himself in heavy furs because the weather in the vale wasn’t much better than anywhere else in Skyrim. He had several bottles of mead sitting next him on the crate and he was slowly working his way through the second one. To keep himself warm.

   

  “Do ya remember that one time we were in Winking Skeever?” he asked Decimus, taking another sip of mead. “Ya know, when one of the Nords in there accused me of stealin'. Ya stood up for me, broke that tusker's nose. But that was Solitude, eh? Civilized almost like one of Cyrodiil's cities, that's what ya told me. Guards stopped that brawl real fast. But ya know what's funny?” Grulmar looked at the body wrapped tightly in linen and furs with a big grin on his face. “I really did steal there.” He then took another sip of mead and frowned. “But I think ya knew that. And ya stood up for me anyway. Why? Ya should have beat me like the dog that I am. Trinimac knows I deserved that more than once.” A sad smile appeared on his face, and he turned to the body again. “Eh?” He leaned in closer. “What's that? Ya are thirsty?” Grulmar looked around to see if there was anyone around, but he didn’t see anyone. “Here, Uncle. Have a drink. It’s on me.” He poured some of the mead on the furs where he thought the Imperial’s head was and chuckled. “Just don't drown, alright?”

   

  Don't die…

   

  “Why couldn't ya listen?” he suddenly murmured, looking at the night sky. “Why couldn’t ya be arsed to put on that balm? Take a potion? We were supposed to go to Cyrodiil. Away from all this mess. Away from Dragonborns, dragons, the Civil War...Yeah. Ya said that Cyrodiil was more acceptin' to the Orcs. That I could do somethin' with my life, somethin' that would really matter for the first time in my life.” He then frowned at the body. “But I have no tuskin' clue what that means. And ya will never tell me, eh? Tusker.”

   

  He took another sip of mead and sighed. He grabbed his pack and set it on his lap, opening it to reach inside. He pulled out the Aetherium Crest, looking deeply into that deep blue crystal. It was almost as if the Aetherium had its own stars in it. “Was it worth it? Just for this piece of crap? Chasin' Aetherius. And ya are the only one who reached it—if there even was such a thing. Ya never believed in such things and neither did I.” He laughed. “Even Shiny cheated it. Cheater. Bet the tusker for all his religion don’t believe in it either.” Grulmar paused. Enough about the tusker, it would only make him mad. He frowned at the shard. “It's just...I can't stop thinkin' about it. Was it worth dyin' for this tuskin' thing? I don't think so.”

   

  Unbeknownst to Grulmar, there were few pairs of eyes watching him from the sturdy door leading to the Fort's tower. Erik sighed when he saw Grulmar pour mead on Decimus's body. Belrand laid hand on his shoulder and pulled him back into the tower and the two began to descend the spiral stairwell.

   

  Erik wasn't sure what to do. He had known Decimus for very long time, his loss hurt him, but he wasn't as close to him as Grulmar was, who shared some sort of father-son relationship. And Ronnie wasn’t around to offer his usual guidance. He still hadn’t arrived. Erik thought he would have caught up by now. But he hadn’t and Erik was now getting worried, for the both of them.

   

  “What do you think? Is he going to be alright?” he asked Belrand as they continued walking down the stairs leading back to the main hall. It was cold, Fort Dawnguard, a sturdy structure of smooth stone, lacking Jorrvaskr’s warmth.

   

  Belrand shrugged. “I don't know. Loss ain't easy, lad. Especially the loss of someone who was really close to you. Dec was a very good friend to me too.”

   

  “So how do you deal with it?” Erik wondered. He had seen Belrand and Decimus drinking together before and they looked like they knew each other a long time. Belrand said since the day Decimus showed up in Skyrim. But Äelberon knew him even longer. Longer than any of us. Since the Old Blade was Gru’s age. So, we have to wait for him. He’ll know what to do.

   

  “Look at me, lad,” Belrand sadly laughed. Erik faced the balding Nord. He still held his gut when he walked, but Brother Theodard was working round the clock to make sure all their injuries were being tended too. “I'm not young anymore. I've seen a lot of my friends die and it's not getting any easier to lose them. You just...get used to it, after a time. I just never expected that I would outlive the fucker. He was the best of us all.”

   

  “There was something unbreakable about him,” Erik nodded.

   

  Belrand laughed out loud. “Yeah. I mean, he was drinking like a fish, whoring any chance he could and killed more people than a damn flu I bet. But he still was the best man I've ever known. He and his stupid honor...I'll really miss him.” The Nord turned and left to continue walking down the stairs, leaving Erik puzzled.

   

  He realized then how alone Ronnie was. When they thought he was dead, nobody spoke of him that way. ‘Best man I ever knew’, things like that. Save maybe Serana and Aela. They only thought one thing and Erik, deep inside, had felt the same thing. What happens when the dragons attack now? And when he came back, they were…almost afraid of him, the only hug again, coming from Aela. What if he doesn’t come back now? Erik furrowed his brow. He was a good Mer, he deserved kindness too.

   

  They got down to the main hall and Erik had to agree. Decimus was a great man, but what did he leave behind, besides his friends? A true Nord hero had bards singing songs about him, making him immortal in the face of history. Even Ronnie had a song, a song that made him cringe because he thought it was terrible, but he at least a song. Decimus, however, was an Imperial, a bounty hunter. No one would remember him in few decades—well, only Ronnie. If he lived. What was his legacy? Yes, the Goldpact Order was still around, but would it be the same now that he was gone? Erik couldn't get it out of his head. He felt like he had to do something to honor him…

   

  And honor both in some way. Both deserved it. Decimus told him once that it was Ronnie himself who sat with the founder of the Goldpact Order to work on their Goldpact. “See, no Gods” a joke between the two of them. It was funny how somebody so devoted to a God could be so close to somebody who didn’t worship them, but they were.

   

  He suddenly noticed the Argonian, Teineeva, hobbling towards the gate, with all his belongings, it seemed to Erik, stuffed in a backpack slung over his shoulder. What the Oblivion are you doing? Erik frowned and hurried to catch up with him. He over took him, which would never have happened normally and blocked his path. “You're going somewhere?”

   

  “Step aside, Nord, or I'll cripple your other hand,” the Argonian hissed and Erik scowled at that. Fortunately, Belrand was nearby and took a stand next to Erik. They both noticed how the Argonian’s piercing blue eyes shifted back and forth, scanning, calculating.

   

  “Drop it, Tein,” Belrand growled. “You're going to do a runner, aren't you? Figures,” the Nord snorted.

   

  “Xuth!” the Argonian hissed and Erik didn't even want to know what that meant. “It's my fucking choice. I hate funerals.”

   

  “He was your friend,” Belrand shook his head in disapproval, favoring his stomach again. Erik noticed that the pain made him more irritable, though the lizard was probably causing most of it himself. “Don't you think you owe him at least that much? To say your goodbyes?”

   

  “Fuck you. If you knew him as well as you claim to, you’d know that he'd hate this shit. Ceremony and all that,” Argonian replied and tried to push his way between them, but Erik stopped him with his crippled arm—which was still healing from being pierced by an arrow and knife-cut. It was why he was heading downstairs from the tower in the first place. He was supposed to meet Tavia, a Vigilant of Stendarr. She had been changing his dressing. A student of Brother Theodard’s the Keeper. She was nice, Erik admitted to himself, feeling a bit of a blush creep to his cheeks.

   

  “That's not why you are running,” he whispered, refocusing his attention back to Teineeva.

   

  “No, but I don't have to explain myself to you, so please don’t try to stop me.”

   

  Belrand snorted and then chuckled. “Our hunter can't handle some emotions, I see. Alright, we won't be stopping you, but... How about this?” he reached to his belt and unknotted a pouch with money. “There's approximately one hundred septims in this pouch here. One hundred septims says.” The Nord flashed a grin, jingling the bag for good measure. “You’ll run away from here, lad.”

   

  “That's not fair,” Teineeva hissed, his eyes darting from the pouch to the gate leading outside and back again. Erik had absolutely no idea what that was about, but it seemed Teineeva was at least considering staying.

   

  Belrand shrugged. “You've asked for it. The next time I see you leave this fort, you’ll owe me one hundred septims. And maybe I'll cut off your tail too, just for being a dick.”

   

  The Argonian bared his teeth at them. “I fucking hate you.” He then turned around and huffed back into the dimly lit mess hall.

   

  Erik looked at Belrand, who threw the pouch into the air and caught it again, only to nearly drop it when he felt pain in his gut. The Nord groaned and tied the pouch back to his belt. “You alright, Belrand?”

   

  “Yeah, fucking felt the scarring. Hurt like Oblivion for a second there.”

   

  “What was that about?”

   

  “Oh that. Well, lad, the Argonian's an addict. He can't say no to a bet,” Belrand then shrugged. “Good thing to remember, lad.”

   

  Aye, Erik nodded. Good thing to remember.

  
  

  20th of Morning Star, 4E 203

   

  It was already past midday, the sun just above their heads and Äelberon still hadn’t shown up. Erik and Aela wanted to wait, asking for time on account of the fresh snow fall, but Grulmar was tired of waiting, even though a part of him still wasn't ready to go through with it. But the other part wanted it to be over already, to move on. He wasn’t sure, however, if such a thing was really even possible.

   

  Florentius and Brother Theodard washed Decimus' body, changing his clothes and Gunmar cleaned his armor, but Grulmar didn't want him to fix any of the dents and scratches. It was part of who Decimus was, all scratched up and dented, and Grulmar thought it would be best to bury him like he was.

   

  When the two priests finished, they then bore the body through the cave systems under the fort, though the mountains, towards the cliff hanging over the pool. Near the entrance of the valley, somewhere high. Belrand said that Decimus wanted to be buried somewhere near a waterfall, though Grulmar was surprised when the Nord couldn’t exactly recall what Decimus had said it to him. Mentioned something about Potema’s catacombs and that the Mer would know more because he was too busy trying not to die while those two carried on like school boys. “Until the bitch herself came”, the Nord had said with a cringe and then was silent.

   

  Well, the Mer wasn’t here.

   

  The Dawnguard used the spot as an overlook to see who was entering or leaving the canyon and Grulmar thought it was a perfect place for him. A bit barren, but good, he could see everything.

   

  Isran prohibited all the Dawnguard from making the trip, saying that they would be allowed to say their goodbyes later. The Keeper of the Vigilants followed suit, though they sent Brother Theodard as a representative. So it was just Decimus’ closest circle of friends. Grulmar, Erik, Belrand, Teineeva, Isran, Florentius, Brother Theodard, Aela and Gunmar—who was keeping watch on a cliff. Serana was still bed-ridden, but had sent something along with Aela. They were all there.

   

  Save Decimus’ closest friend. The one who knew him longest. Äelberon. He had not yet appeared.

   

  They exited the cave on the cliff and then suddenly everything was drowned out by the sound of the waterfall directly to their left. They exited the cave on the cliff, onto the snow, and everything was suddenly drowned out by waterfall directly to their left. The Dawnguard had already prepared the stones for the cairn. They laid Decimus carefully into the circle of stones.

  Grulmar had a feeling Decimus, from wherever he was, was frowning at all this bullshit going on because of him, but it wasn't for him. They needed to say their goodbyes. Because of the waterfall, there was no point in having a speech or any last rites. Decimus wouldn't want that anyway, especially some Arkay bullshit prayers. He expected no one would really bother to raise him back as an undead.

   

  So they put him among the stones, in silence—except the fucking waterfall—with their own thoughts.

   

  I know ya weren't one for speeches, Uncle, so ya'll get at least that. Though to be honest, that waterfall was some serious bullshit idea. It's so tuskin' loud it would wake up even the dead. He looked down into the valley, breathing in the cold winter air. I never told ya and now it seems it's too late, but...I want to thank ya. For everythin' ya did for me, ya know. Ya were the only person who really did give a tusk about me. And...yeah. I'll miss ya, old man.

   

  He reached into his sack and pulled out a Shard of Aetherium. He was thinking about it long into the night, deciding that he wouldn’t sell the Aetherium Crest—even though it could garner a considerable sum. No, it would serve as a memento, for him, Erik, and even Äelberon, though a part of him didn’t want to let the Elf have one. He knew Uncle would be pissed if he pulled that shit, though, so he removed the Shards from their Dwemer frame.

   

  He laid the Shard on Decimus' chest, right on the hole left by the Bleak Walker and then took a step back. Grulmar swallowed hard, trying to prevent tears from pouring down his cheeks. Orcs don't cry.

   

  Others then came to the circle of stones and each left something behind. Belrand came with a bottle of wine and smirked when he laid it next to Decimus's hand. Grulmar nodded in approval. Uncle couldn’t be without his wine. Florentius left a silver ring on Decimus's chest. Isran put a Dawnguard crossbow on his legs. Brother Theodard laid a shield on his chest. Each gave something of theirs. Shame they couldn’t drop in a woman, but that might have pissed off Aela too much, Grulmar sniffed. They could always grab the little Redguard. She had a nice ass. Grulmar shook his head, no, that was a bad idea. He just remembered, he’d have to remind Belrand to tell the Lioness over in Solitude and that crazy Argonian holed up in Proudspire manor with her huge collection of lovely ladies that their favorite was now dead. Belrand would do it.

   

  Teineeva didn't seem to be very happy about being present, but even he stepped forward, resting a pouch full of gold at Decimus’ other hand. Grulmar guessed that there was approximately one hundred septims in there.

   

  Aela left behind a hunting horn and an Elven dagger—which probably belonged to Serana if Grulmar’s memory didn’t fail him. Seemed, she understood Uncle better than most, despite knowing him for the least amount of time in their group. It was clear she was making a joke. The Imperial hated Elvish weapons, and she knew it. For a brief moment, Grulmar was brought back to his time with Fangs in Windhelm. She was alright, he nodded.

   

  Erik then stepped forward with Decimus’ sword in hand, ready to rest it in the Imperial’s hand, but Grulmar stopped him. He shook his head and leaned closer to Erik, so that his words could be heard over the roaring of the waterfall. “He wouldn't want it in there with him there. Keep it, Ginger. Carry it, use it. For him.” He said into Erik’s ear and the Nord nodded, his face going blotchy and his eyes watering. Erik blinked away the wetness around his eyes and tucked the sword under his bad arm. He then drew his Skyforge dagger and laid it on Decimus’ arm instead.

   

  Gunmar left his watch of the Cliffside to join them. The Nord blacksmith placed a smithing hammer into the cairn. They all then began the process of laying rocks on Decimus’ body. So he would rest, in peace, and no animals would touch him. It was sad, slow work, but it had to be done. The stones had to fit tight, so that nothing could get through. Grulmar lifted a stone and placed it. One stone after another, covering his face. The eyes were now closed and the face had been moved so it was more peaceful. No more pain or surprised, just pale. Dead. He stretched his back from the work and stared absently into the mouth of the cave where they came from.

   

  And his jaw dropped a little. The others had not seen him, continuing to work. But Grulmar had seen him, like seeing a ghost that nobody else can see, save you.

   

  Äelberon was suddenly standing at the mouth of the cave, his form blending in with its blackness, save his tangled, soot-stained white hair and his face. Standing aside, just observing. Still covered in dirt and blood, the fire in his eyes almost gone, the circles under them like smudges of heavy charcoal against his intense pallor. The beard overgrown and dirty. But the face was devoid of anything it seemed to Grulmar, empty, distant. Perhaps sad, but Grulmar couldn’t tell and didn’t care.

   

  Tarnished Shiny. Too late. You're always too late.

   

  Grulmar locked eyes with him and sneered. Or… was it a smile, he wasn’t sure. And he waited. Hoping perhaps? Come, be a priest and give speeches and do all the tuskin’ shit Uncle never wanted. It’s what yer people do. It’s what ya do. Bet the waterfall was your tuskin’ idea and everything. And he waited for a bit while others paid their respects, laying more stones, talking quietly. Not a single one of them looked at the cave and Grulmar then thought that maybe Aelberon was a ghost. That maybe he died and was just haunting him, but he quickly dismissed the idea. That wasn’t a ghost, so he waited.

   

  But nothing. The Mer didn’t move from his position, only stayed at the cave entrance watching the funeral happen in front of his eyes. Eyes that were beyond the mountains now, through the very canyon. Grulmar narrowed his eyes and wrinkled his face in confusion. Ya are here, Shiny, late, but here, put somethin’ in. But nothing. He made no move to join the funeral. No move to honor Decimus. The Altmer noticed his hard stare and then looked away from him like a beaten animal, slowly bringing the hood of his cloak over his head to obscure most of his features. Hiding like a fucking coward. He then disappeared back into the cave like a shadow, his shoulders stooped under his cloak, his gait slow and stiff, and Grulmar felt his jaw drop, but now not out of surprised, but of building anger. Ya are leavin’? Just like that?

   

  He had left and Grulmar blinked before turning his head back to the cairn.

   

  He saw Belrand’s lips moving as the last rocks were laid and only then realized that Belrand was singing. It wasn't loud enough to drown out the waterfall, but the others then joined him and Grulmar finally recognized it the tune. Decimus' favourite song. Sung on late nights when he would sit by the fire with a bottle of wine in his hand. He could almost picture Decimus by the fire, lifting his head and smiling on him. Grulmar bit his lip and tears started pushing their way from his eyes, down his cheeks.

   

  War is coming
  War is crying out
  The world is shaking
  The sky is falling down

  
  
  Something’s coming
  Something’s on its way
  Mountains are crumbling
  Like statues of clay – something’s on its way

  
  
  We are one
  We all must run
  We'll burn a light
  We all must fight

   
  

  Grulmar dashed into the mess hall, barely able to contain his rage. He noticed the young Nord, Agmaer, sitting, working on a loaf of bread and some cheese. Grulmar slammed his hands on the table hard to get the Nord’s attention. “Where is he?” he shouted at him. “'Where's Äelberon?!”

   

  “He went to see the vampire, though I dunno why, she looks pretty dead to—“

   

  Grulmar didn't wait for him to finish and ran up the steps into the second floor. Almost tripping, skipping steps. He stormed into the room where Serana was being kept and stopped, ignoring the footsteps faintly behind him.

   

  Äelberon was sitting on a chair at her bedside, holding her hand with his forehead pressed against it. He looked up when Grulmar entered and the Orc could see the steaks of tears on his dirty face. Like the tears he saw when he was at the dragon’s side.

   

  “Not now.” Grulmar heard him whisper faintly, the eyes raising a white flag of truce and begging Grulmar to do the same. Not this time.

   

  “Where have ya been?” Grulmar growled, slamming his hand against the stone door frame. It hurt but he didn’t care.

   

  Aela then stormed in right after him and grabbed him roughly by the arm, nearly pulling him away. “There will be a time for this later—“

   

  “Shut up! Shut up! Shut Up!” Grulmar exploded, breaking free from her grasp. He pointed at Äelberon, his look one of condemnation. “A day we waited for ya. We waited. And when ya arrive, ya don’t even have the decency to say yer goodbyes? What kind of person are ya, eh?” The Mer hesitated, the eyes faraway. “ANSWER ME!” Grulmar bellowed.

   

  “He did not want a ceremony.” The Altmer said, looking at him, his face like somebody who was dead inside. “He never did.”

   

  “Then ya should have let him in the Forge! Ya, of all people, should know that the ceremony isn't for the dead, but for the living!”

  
  
  “And you think I do not know this? This is not my first funeral, youngling,” Äelberon growled, a flicker of spirit creeping into his eyes. “Do you have any idea how many funerals I have attended over the centuries? Have presided over as Auri-El’s priest? Friends, family, but this time,” he looked as his now clenched hands and unclenched them. Grulmar noticed the purple bruising along the joints. He then looked up at Grulmar, the expression dark in a way that made Orc uncomfortable. “I could not—“

  
  
  “I don't give a shit about yer stupid problems or yer religious crap. This was his funeral! Ya should have been there—“

  
  
  “That's enough!” Aela snapped at the Orc, ready to grab him away to drag him off. “Leave him be, Grulmar!”

  
  
  “Tusk off!” The Greenskin snarled back at her, pulling something from his belt and Aela almost lunged at him before she noticed the shimmering blue. “Here, ya piece of shit! Here’s yer share of Aetherius!” With those words, he threw the Aetherium Shard at Äelberon, watching with satisfaction as it struck where the fucker had stabbed him. He then spit at the Altmer’s feet and stormed out of the room. I don't give a shit about yer explanations! Ya should have been there. Saying yer goodbyes. But ya weren't, because of yer vampire and petty revenge. Ya weren't there…

   
  

  She stirred from her deep rest and took in a small breath, feeling the now-familiar aches and pains associated with silver poisoning. She could feel the heat of his forehead on her hand. And, aye, the wetness of sweat, tears, and the intense smell of blood. Old blood, new blood, Decimus’ blood, other Elf blood. It was the words from the Orc that made her wake. Aela, Serana managed a tiny smile through the fog that was still her mind, always protecting her brother, Ronnie.

   

  What a stupid name, Ronnie. She remembered the day she told him that she hated that name and wasn’t going to call him that. He had just given her his private name for her. Ana. And asked to call him ‘Ronnie’. A gesture of love in the snowy mountains of Haafingar, when the terrors of castle Volkihar were finally behind them. The look on his face when she told him. Dumbfounded, arguing back about a family tradition that had spanned eons and shit like that. Then she flat out told him she wasn’t going to call someone she had just made love to and wanted to be with what his parents bloody called him. He had looked at her, the jaw down, and then he laughed realizing that she was absolutely right. He was not laughing now. She’d give a lot to hear him laugh like that again.

   

  What the Orc said had been cruel, and then she heard it, the clang of something striking Beron’s chest. Bal’s Blood, he threw the shard at him. At Beron, the one who never wanted the treasure in the first place. Who only went with them because he wanted them safe. Because of all fucking people, he wanted Grulmar safe. Aela had lingered for a moment and Serana saw the Nord woman through the slits of her opening eyes linger at the doorway before she left, her face sympathetic. Of all his Shield-Siblings, she seemed to understand him most, she and Farkas.

   

  Beron was now in the same position he was before the Orc spoke to him. He could be that way, unmoving sometimes for hours on end, just thinking, waiting. He had been waiting for her to breathe, like he always does. She was now keenly aware of his own breathing in the now quiet room. It was no longer silent, but accompanied by a faint wheeze, a whistle. Damaged lungs.

   

  Serana willed her other hand towards the mass of black fur that was his cloak. Under all that was his head. If he had a severed arm he’d still be like this. Her hand was undaunted though, she knew what he needed. It was like the night at the mill, pulling away layers of black as she pushed aside the hood of his cloak, gradually exposing the white of his hair. White still under all that darkness, despite all that darkness. Serana bit her lip when she felt those shoulders begin to shake in silent sobs, when she felt more wetness on her hand. Aye, I’m alive, gentle Beron.

   

  “No, do not touch me.” he croaked, his choice of words surprising her. He had expected her to lift his head, begin smiling. I’m alive. It’s over. “I am unclean…” Her hand stopped and he continue to weep. What does he think he’s done that he doesn’t even want you to touch him?

   

  “Shh.” She soothed, ignoring his request. Her fingers found his scalp and began to gently caress the back of his neck, despite his feeble protests. “It’s alright, Beron. So am I. So is he. So is everybody. What do you always tell me? No one is without—“

   

  “Sin.” He murmured into her other hand and she could tell from the way the breath escaped his lips. He wanted to kiss her. “I tried to tell him.” he continued between sobs and coughs, finding more of his voice. “I wanted to be there, but I could not go near that place. Not the place where Dec was.” His other hand clenching the sheet so hard the knuckles were white as snow. White under the purple and Serana’s brow furrowed with concern. His joints, his knuckles were badly, badly bruised. He had bled into his joints and she found herself wanting to know what had happened.

   

  “I know you tried.” She said softly.

   

  “I failed.” His voice broke and she felt a terrible heaviness in her heart. “I had lost. Defeated.”

   

  “No, Beron, please don’t do this to yourself.” She began.

   

  “It would have been wrong to bring such darkness there,” he argued back. “So I stayed by the cave. Watched...”

   

  “What darkness?” She asked. He was not relaxing. Normally her fingers would have worked their magic by now, easing the muscles in the back of his neck. But not this time.

   

  “Do not ask me such things, Ana, please. I am unclean.”

   

  She kneaded his scalp in silence for a few moments more before she dared ask. “Are they—“

   

  “Yes.” He whispered. “And the darkness…” He continued, barely able to get out the words now. “Is that I am glad in it. The darkness is that I cheated, unaccepting of fate.”

   

  Her heart went straight to her throat and her voice caught. Instinct found her fingers moving from his scalp down his neck and lower towards his back, to check. Check his hair. Did he? Did he cut it? Aela had said once that in a moment of despair he had tried to and he rarely bound his hair like he used too, feeling unworthy to show the public display of his priesthood. Serana released a sigh of relief when her probing fingers felt more silky strands. The thought to cut it had not yet occurred to him.

   

  “They had won, they had brought me to my knees, about to cut my hair, but I would not yield. I would not accept honorable defeat, so in my arrogance, I brought the mountain upon them. I used it and squashed them like lir.” The switch to the dragon tongue at that particular word made her cringe. “I cheated, like a snake in the grass. Unfair because they had won. The mountain snow broke them, tore them to pieces and I did not even give them the satisfaction of knowing that the mountain would take me too in my hasty violence. I used the shout the dragon in Windhelm used. And I was saved. I watched Ondolemar’s face in the last seconds of his life, heard his scream of comprehension as I became spectral.” He continued and Serana understood. He had used the thu’um, against people. He usually saved it for monsters or other dragons, but against regular mortals, it was something he rarely used, his code of honor deeming it unfair. This was a Mer who always depended on the honor brought by his blade, his bow and his magicks. Skills he had spent a lifetime honing, mastering. The thu’um, however, was different. A gift given, or a curse sometimes, the way Beron spoke of it, its deeper meaning disturbing to him in a way that she still didn’t quite comprehend. He despised it when dragons used it to gain an unfair advantage in battle and she remembered his anger when the dragon at Windhelm used the thu’um in that way.

   

  But he was older now and Raldbthar had scared her to death. Seeing him fall at the Forge even more so. Some enemies are just too strong for your honor, Beron, and you are already burdened by the dragons.

   

  Burdened by both the dragons that roam the skies and the dragons screaming in your soul. And the Dragon that is your soul. Oh Beron, but you are a dovah too. She now understood his grief. He was ashamed of himself. He had told her often that it was the Dovah’s way to dominate and her chest tightened in understanding. We both fight against our natures, don’t we, my love. But he clung to his honor, his selflessness the way he clung to his priestly leather. A lifetime of loving others before himself. You can’t deny your nature forever, Beron. The dragon inside you gives you such strength. He loves life, all dovah do and he wanted justice for your father. He saw them beat you and said “no”. She knew how much Beron loved his father. Ondolemar had used Beron’s father’s name and did evil under it and yet Beron still felt ashamed of himself after those two had done so much damage, hurting Beron, hurting her. And gods, Ondolemar had so much to answer for. A monster for what he did to Beron’s city, to Imperials, to men. A monster like her, only without the fangs.

   

  “And for that,” he continued. “I did not see my dear friend to the earth. I could not shroud Decimus with that. He did not deserve it.”

   

  She stroked his hair for a few more minutes while he wept silently thinking of words, words to say to comfort the Mer she loved. At first, nothing would come to her. She usually always had such quick comebacks, a “quick wit” he would say with a smile. But what do you say to this? The lesson was brutal, but in her mind, to be honest, it needed to be learned. And better now than when he actually did lose. Enemies will not show you the honor you show them, Beron. They do not believe in your Tenets. They will not show you mercy. You will need every advantage against Alduin. The dragon soul in him stepped up on that day and she was glad in it.

   

  “I gave him something. Decimus.” She managed. She felt his head turn against her hand and he shifted his position to face her, giving her palm a tender kiss. She froze at first, the image of him dead at the forge still fresh. Him falling to his knees, lying in a pool of blood. The image that now gave her nightmares, slowing her healing. This was the first time she had seen his face alive. They had told her later what had happened, after he had already gone to hunt the Thalmor, he himself not knowing if she was dead or alive. And it was the first time he was seeing her “alive” since the Forge. The first time they had touched since Raldbthar.

   

  Bal’s Balls, he looked better dead and she couldn’t help the sudden sad guffaw at the craziness of her mind. He was taken aback by her laugh and she studied his face. You love... this? There was still blood from Oblivion only knew how many people on his skin and armor. His hair was badly tangled and streaked in places with soot and his face bore new cuts and bruises. Circles like smudged coal were under his bloodshot eyes. The beard was unkempt and he smelled worse than he had ever smelled in her presence. He looked about a thousand years old to her, weighted and sad. So far removed from the Star-Knight at Dimhollow Crypt with his silver finery and glowing golden aura. Was the Star-Knight what these people wanted to see all the time? Was it what Gru saw? And then when faced with the reality of the Mer before her, do they then become cruel? She thought about the Star-Knight at Dimhollow Crypt, remembering that day, remembering how incredible he looked, so sure of himself, righteous in his might.

   

  I had wanted to kill that Son of a Bitch.

   

  Her hand left his scalp and traveled to a stained and grizzled cheek. He closed his eyes and sighed raggedly. “I missed you.” He whispered, kissing her hand again, before pressing his face against it. And you fell in love with this ugly mess who is more beautiful inside than any armor of silver and sunlight. Beautiful because of his flaws.

   

  “Look at me, Beron.” The eyes opened and met hers. She could tell by their worried cast that she wasn’t looking much better. The poison had left her pale, a multitude of blue-grey veins intensely visible through her skin, the fire in her eyes dim. His fire was diminished too and she knew they both had sustained damage, possibly permanent, she wasn’t sure. Only time would tell. “You are no less honorable than any of the people who went to that funeral. Do you understand me? Go, talk to your friend one last time. You will regret it if you don’t.”

   

  “But, I use it against them. I am no better than—“

   

  “Then they are? Is that what you are saying?” Her eyes narrowed. “Fuck them. Fuck saving the thu’um for dragons and creatures. Those Thalmor bastards deserved it. Think about what they did to your family, your people. Where they put your father, Beron.” She saw his brow furrow with guilt and felt her own eyes blaze. “In my eyes, you showed mercy by dropping a mountain on them. Your old soul, despite the Dovah or maybe because of the Dovah in you, is a good soul. White under...” she wiped a soot-stain from his cheek. “White under all that black. Beautiful and good.” She saw fresh tears well in his eyes. “No, no more tears from you. No more shame. They got better from you than they would ever have gotten from me.” Her next words were barely spoken and she meant every one of them. “I would have sent them to your father, Beron.” His eyes honed in on hers and Serana could see their shock.

   

  Aye, my breath, I’m still evil deep inside my cold, lifeless heart. The heart that you say is yours. The ridiculous things lovers say to each other, she mused through the dull throbbing in her head. She would need to rest soon and her mind was wandering as a result. He was alive, rest would come easier, the desire to heal now strong. No point in healing if her breath was gone. Aye, he was her breath and she was his heart. Like they were completing each other or some dumb shit like that, she thought sleepily. Words probably first spoken after a good, hard bang… They were often guilty of stupidity like that. Two intelligent, rational souls most of the time, except after sex.

   

  “You cannot mean this…” He whispered.

   

  She could feel the sting of shame in her eyes at his words and the shock quickly left his face, replaced by such incredible tenderness and from that she found strength. “I am glad for my sake and yours that it was you they faced in the end and not me. Your mercy. Your justice. I don’t know if I could have resisted the temptation and I don’t know if I could have lived with myself or with you if I succumbed. I have overcome so much of my nature already and I don’t want to go back to where I was before you. I am... less of a monster because of you, my glorious Star-Knight, fe’angua Varla-Pelin-El rille.”

   

  She had remembered more of his ancient tongue than she had let on and could see in his face how profoundly moved he was.

   

  “Ana…” He let his eyes close again and they were silent for a few moments, his cheek almost resting on her hand, punctuated with the occasional soft kiss. Just them breathing, resting in the calm before the next storm would strike. Time passed and at first she thought that he had drifted off. “What did you give him?” He murmured, still with his eyes closed.

   

  “My Elven dagger.” she replied, moving her finger tips against his temple. It was then that she saw it. The corner of his mouth turning upwards in a tiny smile. She felt the muscles of his check move under her hand.

   

  “He hates Elven weapons.” he smirked.

   

  “I know, I thought he’d appreciate the humor. Aela laughed too when I gave it to her to leave with him. I couldn’t go.” Serana threw her head against her pillow, making Beron open his eyes and face her. “I hate being like this.”

   

  “She is a good child. Helped me through this. Her and Erik. The time after Raldbthar…” He shifted position against the edge of the bed and extended his hand towards her face. He tried to cast, but nothing appeared save the faintest of lavender lights from his hand and he slumped. “Better than it was yesterday, but not enough for you. I hate magicks sometimes.” He grumbled, erupting in a fit of coughing.

   

  “We’re both in poor shape and I don’t like that cough at all. Better head to Decimus before it gets dark and the cold comes.”

   

  “Nag.” He countered, some of the old snap returning to those dragon eyes of his.

   

  “Nag? My arse. Now go see your friend, but first… Clean yourself up, bind your hair, and say your prayers.” She then chuckled.

   

  “What is so funny?” He asked, beginning to sit up.

   

  “Give me a kiss.” He leaned towards her and she wrinkled her nose against his stench, but she didn’t care. It was good to feel him near her again. His lips hovered over her forehead. “You kiss me there—“ She started to warn, but his lips quickly found hers. Gentle and soft against hers, though, as if it hurt him a little. She felt the scab of a cut on his lower lip. Felt how they were chapped from the snow and cold. Tender and raw. He kissed her few more times and he rested his forehead against hers for a moment. “This was not why you were chuckling.” He said, finally pulling away to sit up. She didn’t want him to, her hand reaching for his, loving the warmth of it, but she did need to sleep. “There is either something on your mind. Or you so knackered, you are silly with it. You need to sleep.”

   

  “Oh, was just remembering Decimus telling me how you two first met. He had wanted to kill you, right?”

   

  “Aye, threw a dagger at me. Damn near hit me too, despite being as drunk as Oblivion. I will miss him terribly.” Beron bent his head.

   

  Only Beron would miss someone who had tried to kill him.

   

  “I had wanted to kill you too.” Serana pointed out.

   

  Beron stood up and Serana winced at the cracking of his bones. Well, he sort of half-stood, half-leaned against the bed, because if he rose to his full height, he could no longer hold her hand and he was still holding it, his thumb moving over it. She finally looked past him, her eyes heavy with the need to rest, and saw a pack wrapped in fur at the doorway. She could make out the outline of his bow, but there were other shapes too. Shapes of weapons she didn’t recognize. She broke her study of the pack when his hand gave hers a squeeze. Their eyes then locked. “I know.” He said.

   
  

  He had hoped that he would avoid detection as he silently made his way down the stairs on his way out of Fort Dawnguard. After all, he was far more quiet when only wearing clothes and furs under his cloak. The time with Serana had helped him considerably as did taking some time to wash, strip of his armor, rebind his hair, and aye, pray. He had not said his Tenets since the events at the Pass and he knew that that had probably been the cause for his poor mental state, not his actions. And certainly not Fasendil.

   

  That had been a huge surprise. After all these years, to run into family in Skyrim. He knew they lived in Anvil, but his words to his cousin were true. If the Thalmor had learned he had contacted any member of his family, they would have died.

   

  But now, things were different. The Thalmor would still target him, of that Äelberon was certain. More so now, because of Ondolemar’s death and the failure of the Fist, but he was more accepting of it. And, seeing family again after all those years. It felt different. To look upon someone who knew him before skies burned, before his exile, and who did not want to kill him. Aye, you will stop at the camp on the way back home. You will greet Fasendil as family, see all the silly drawing by his great great grandchildren, introduce him to Serana, and you will meet this mysterious Olaf. Because it is a good thing to do, old Mer. It is good to not be alone.

   

  Äelberon adjusted the hold on the sack bearing the weapons, the shard, the seeds of flowers and pine and… a bag of troll shit. While checking on a resting Serana, Brother Theodard had told him where Decimus’ cairn was and Äelberon bared suppressed the wince. That cold, snow-covered cliff near the loud waterfall was not exactly what Decimus had in mind.

   

  Flowers, trees, and shit. I did not even get that right. If you haunt me for that, I would not be surprised, old Blade. He did not blame Belrand. The Nord was not exactly paying much attention to their conversations in the catacombs. But a promise was a promise and maybe, perhaps maybe, the scattering of winter’s seeds would yield spring flowers and a new saplings. It was a chance to take.

   

  At least you will have shit. Courtesy of Gunmar’s trolls. He was still unsure what to give. What to leave behind. What would have the most meaning. He knew the answer, but it could potentially be very unpopular with the Goldpact. Dec would understand, they would not. Hmph, you keep losing the people who understand you, Old Mer.

   

  “Brother Äelberon!” She exclaimed as his foot left the last stone step and Äelberon winced. Of course you still think a forty-two and a half pertan Elf can remain hidden. He managed a small smile when two pairs of baby blue eyes framed by clay-colored skin beamed at him.

   

  How can you not smile at your little sister…

   

  “Tavia.” He whispered and was immediately greeted by a surprisingly robust hug from the tiny Redguard lass. Äelberon released a gasp of pain when he felt the pressure against his rib cage, felt the fresh liquid release from the still open wounds. Not blood anymore, just fluids. The sick-smelling dampness of the liquid, the heavy odor of life seeping into his freshly changed shirt. She was blissfully ignorant of the pain she was causing, continuing her hug and his arms could no longer resist the desire to hold her back, dropping his pack to circle them around her. His lips finding the top of her head in a grandfather’s kiss. “Come to pinch my apples?” He murmured, biting his lip to curtail the surprising wave of emotion.

   

  His reception at Fort Dawnguard had been poor. What did you expect? Your party brings in the dead leader of the Goldpact Order and you bring your vampire to be healed. Your vampire and petty revenge. Those were Grulmar’s words, the angry spokesperson for many in the Fort. The shard struck right where he had been stabbed and it hurt. More hard words then came from Teineeva, who almost wanted him thrown out of the Fort. But some understood him better. Some understood that he was capable of pain, and he stifled a strange sigh.

   

  She chuckled and pulled away from him. “Nah, I got my own stash now, Big Brother.” Her name for him, seemed like ages ago when they rode to Stendarr’s Beacon together, talking of the autumn trees, of lighter things, her munching on his apples. And Äelberon remembered why. To bring another body. I bring the bodies, child. I am the Harbinger of death, cloak of black and sad of soul. How many lives, how many lifetimes?

   

  Oh stop being such a dramatic shit. He chuckled.

   

  Her face scrunched up. “What so funny?”

   

  “Laas.” He said, remembering the dragon of Northwind summit again.

   

  “Huh?”

   

  “Life, child, life.”

   

  “You alright?”

   

  “Merotim was a dear friend of mine.” He answered honestly. “I will mourn his loss for a good, long while, but I will endure.” His hand found the top of her ebony-haired head. She was in the plate armor of the Vigilants now and it suited her, though he thought the robes a bit long. She was surviving, becoming stronger.

   

  “You practicing your spells?” He asked like any good grandata would.

   

  “Aye, Brother Theodard is very patient with me and even Master Isran—“

   

  “Isran?” Aelberon smirked. “That Redguard doesn’t have patience for anything.”

   

  “It certainly hasn’t been easy, but I’m learning from him.” Tavia nodded.

   

  “You going to join up?”

   

  “No, my place is with the Vigilants. We want to start working on the Beacon again. It was Merotim who let us stay in the fort and Brother Theodard thinks we should be prepared to move out soon.”

   

  “Please child, say it will be when winter ends and not before?” He frowned.

   

  “Oh no.” She shook her head. “Not until spring.” She then furrowed her brow noticing the pack he was stooping to pick up. “What’s in the sack?”

   

  What a youngling! “None of your bee’s wax, Nosey.” He chided.

   

  “You going to see him?”

   

  He sighed. “Yes.”

   

  “Aela told me why you didn’t go and I’m glad.” She furrowed her brow and Äelberon braced himself. “I don’t understand why they are angry with you, though. She fought with us too. At the battle.”

   

  He thought of Vilkas then. Xarxes’ arse, he was dreading Jorrvaskr. Something gnawed at the pit of his stomach since he left the Imperial camp. One of the millions of things that gnawed at him, but this was new. Not the coming of Farkas’ baby, something else and he was ready to leave. To go home. It all depended on Serana. “Some only see what they want to see. They do not see that a person can change.”

   

  “Makes me angry.” Tavia huffed, crossing her arms over her chest. “It isn’t fair.”

   

  “She is a vampire, Tavia.” Äelberon explained. “The stance of the Dawnguard and Vigilants on the matter of Serana makes sense.”

   

  “But you love her. And if you love her, then she is not evil.” Tavia argued. He patted her head.

   

  “Thank you.” He said. His hand left her head and he continued towards the caves. Passing the looks in the Mess Hall. The eyes of Gunmar, Sorrine, Celann. The Knights of the Goldpact Order. The cold stare of an Argonian with piercing blue eyes. Ah, Teineeva, I never wanted to kill the last Shadowscale—

   

  “Ro—Shield-Brother!”

   

  Erik, Äelberon let out a gust of air just as he was about to step into the cave systems. Lad still did not know what to call him, though he cut him some slack as the company was mixed. He turned to face the Nord, adjusting his grip on the pack. The weapons were heavier than he expected and he did not know why he was carrying all of them. His mind was pretty much made up. You’ll have to wait a bit longer, old Blade. I do need to speak with the cub.

   

  He did not expect the hug from the Nord, but he took it just as he took the one from Tavia before. He ended it by clasping Erik’s neck. “I am alright, lad.”

   

  “I know, but I heard what he had done.” Äelberon made a tiny groan, Aela. “He actually gave me my shard, but I wanted to shove it up his arse after what he did to you.” Erik finished, crossing his arms over his chest.

   

  “He is just grieving.”

   

  “It’s not an excuse to treat you like shit, when it was his own fault.”

   

  “It was no one’s fault.” Äelberon snapped quickly, but he changed his face when he saw Erik’s lengthen. “Well, maybe Dreth’s and… the dragon. Gah, and that Thalmor asshole.” That got a chuckle from the lad and Äelberon relaxed.

   

  “Can I see her?” Erik then asked, taking Äelberon aback.

   

  “Serana?”

   

  “Aye.” Erik nodded. “I wanted to make sure she was alright.”

   

  “She is resting, but I do not think she will mind if you sit with her.” The Mer gave Erik’s shoulder a squeeze. “Thank you, son. We will never forget your kindness. And ah, see about readying our group to head home.”

   

  “Already? Do you think she can even travel?”

   

  “I think she wants to. And I miss the old snowberry. I think a stop at Riften is in order to pick him up. Nerussa has enjoyed his company far too long and I am sure Rumarin is jealous.” Äelberon released another groan. So much to do. “And we need to speak with Ulundil and Arivanya, ask them where they want to go from here. Their home is gone.”

   

  “And Gru?”

   

  “If I have to strap the lad onto Allie myself, he is coming with us, though I think Borgakh will save the mare the trouble and carry him herself.” They both shared a chuckle at that remark, seeing how the She-Orc was looking at Grulmar. “Once I pay Belrand and he heals up for a few days, enjoying Jorrvaskr’s hospitality, he can see himself to Solitude. But I think he will be by more frequently.” The old Mer snorted. “The population of designated Old Farts in Skyrim is decreasing. We should perhaps stick together. He, Vignar, and I can play cards with Tilma.”

   

  “She’ll win.”

   

  “She always does.” Äelberon smiled and both warriors let the wave of homesickness hit hard.

   

  “But why the rush, Harbinger?” Erik asked.

   

  Äelberon gave Erik a funny look, shifting his eyes to the cave. “Let us just say that what I do at the cairn may not be seen in such a good light.” He was tempted to give Erik the other weapons then and there, the decision was clearly made in his mind, but it would be better for the boy if he just continued carrying the whole bag. He cleared his throat and gave Erik a look, leaning closer. “Just be ready to leave. Tomorrow, if possible.”

   
  

  I am sorry that I did not give you want you wanted, Old Blade, Äelberon apologized as he surveyed the dismal scene, the roar of the waterfall loud against his still-sensitive ears. He gathered his cloak about his shoulders as he sat next to his—shit it was his best friend, he thought feeling the wee sting in his eye—his best friend. Together, they watched the start of the sun set a final time, the steam blowing from his mouth as Äelberon breathed, the icy wind ruffling his cloak, making his nose run.

   

  He coughed when a breeze blew into his mouth the wrong way and he could sense the beginnings of sickness settling into his lungs, feel his rise in body temperature. An infection. Fever. Expected. You should be inside, by a warm fire and maybe it will not be so bad, but you want this sunset.

   

  He was a rotten alchemist, knowing next to nothing about potions save that one was red, one was blue, and one was green, but he was an Altmer. Which meant that he was a fine gardener. It was simply in the race to know how to grow things and he knew exactly what would and would not do well in the harsh landscape Belrand and Grulmar had mistakenly selected. All the plants he selected could lie as seeds dormant in the snow for months, using spring’s thaw to sprout. He had then, using the troll shit as fertilizer, planted the seeds around the cairn, careful to not pray out of respect for his friend’s beliefs. You did not need to pray to have faith, and he was confident that these tough winter’s seeds would yield spring flowers and the strength of continued growth. Behind the cairn, he planted two pines. One for him and one for Dec. To grow tall and strong. To the right of the cairn he sowed the seeds of the blue mountain flower. The blue to match the Imperial’s eyes. And to the cairn’s left, he sowed snowberry. My eyes, old blade, so we can watch each other, eh? Make sure no one gets into too much trouble. He had a wee bit of troll shit left and that he put in a small burlap bag, tied it, and buried it right the front of the cairn with a naughty chuckle. Your little bag of shit, old blade, he thought with a cheeky grin, not really caring that the tears now freely flowed. That was Grulmar. He sniffed and swallowed. His hands were sore from delving into the frozen earth and his back stiff from planting, but the master gardener was proud of his work.

   

  “Flowers, trees and shit. Just as I promised.” He sighed, watching the dazzling colors of dusk frame the reddening orb of Magnus descending to the horizon. Deep, like a blood orange, against a back drop of blues, purples, pinks, and—He gasped at its beauty, everything. “Aye, the pinky swear of the Ash King fulfilled.”

   

  He leaned against the cairn, ignoring how hard the stones were against his sore body. “You will not believe who I saw the day after you died, Dec.” Äelberon’s voice choked as he spoke and he bit his lip, but he was not sad. “After I killed those fuckers. I killed them, you know. I listened to you, old friend, and it was their bodies face down when all was said and done, not mine.” He shook his head and wiped his eyes. Fuck, you are rubbing troll shit on your face, you dolt.

   

  Smokes. He almost forgot the smokes and Äelberon reached into his pack to pull out his pipe and some moon sugar. “They survived.” He smirked towards the cairn as he set the items down in front of him. He was sitting cross-legged, barely. “I cannot believe it, but my pipe survived this wild chase.” He held it in his hands for a moment admiring it. The very pipe Akhari gave him over a year ago. “I would give it to you, but you hated smoking and I love smoking far too much, so no, do not expect me to leave this in your cairn. Besides, old Fasendil would kill me. It is his moon sugar I am smoking.”

   

  He nodded and smiled. “Aye, old Blade, the person I saw the day after you died. Like fate had brought him down my path because, who knows? Maybe she knew you would be gone. Ah, let me give this old Mer a break and send him somebody a lot like you. Lived in Anvil, and everything. My cousin. They did not all die, Dec. An Imperial Legate.” His hands trembled as his put the moon sugar in his pipe, seeing the tears fall on his pipe as he worked to prepare it. He closed his eyes and composed himself. “He is fat, has a foul mouth, and he drinks like a fish, and he has more great great grandchildren than he can remember, so that means he has probably fucked a lot. And he’s my family. Just thought I’d tell you that.”

   

  Äelberon finished preparing his pipe and turned to the cairn again. “Want to see a neat trick? He waited. “You do, eh? Alright. I will show you. Beats your coin trick, hands down.” He eyed his pipe, specifically the interior of the bowl where the ground moon sugar was and then looked at the cairn with a teary grin. “Wait for it, friend.” He whispered softly.

   

  “yol…” It was barely audible, but from his lips came the tiniest ball of fire. It followed the direction of his breath and landed on the moon sugar, heating it. He puffed his pipe to finish and then took a deep inhale of the smoke, letting out through his nostrils. He chuckled to himself. Zu'u meyz zos ahrk zos med dovah voth rahn sul, he thought through heavy lids that now saw the blood orange descend past the horizon, only brilliant colors left in its wake. “Take that to all those who said I would never learn to heat my tea. And again, old blade, I have you to thank. Carrying you through the Forge on my quest to fulfill my oath to you… it changed how I view the thu’um. I stopped practicing it. I made it part of me instead. I accepted it. Embraced it.”

   

  He let the smoke seep into his lungs, felt the effects of the moon sugar relax his emotions. His lungs would hate him in the morning, but he did not care.

   

  You are not caring about a lot of things now, eh, old Mer? The unimportant things no longer mattered.

   

  “I will do Ustengrav, Dec, when winter thaws. And she will come with me. Together, we will perform the final trial of the Greybeards and may it brings us what it brings us.” He nodded again. “I was so bloody lucky. She is alive. My Ana. We are…” He admitted. “Worse for wear, some damage may be permanent. I am quite sure you do not remember my lungs singing so. They are nearly as loud as this blasted waterfall!” He raised his voice, but laughed when he still could not hear himself above the din of flowing water. “Confounded Belrand! This is not what I told him, Dec, when I left instructions before I went for Ondolemar. I specifically said, ‘flowers, trees, and shit’.” He rolled his eyes. “Which you and I both know is down in valley, not the fuck up here. You know, sometimes, I wonder if that little bag of shit you and I are both attached to does not deliberately go against my word, just because.” He sighed.

   

  His dream about Grulmar before he woke up in the Forge. It would take him a long time to figure that one out, but in his gut, he knew that it would explain much of the animosity between the two. It was clear that Grulmar was connected to him somehow and gods, Malacath spoke to him through the lad in the prison. And Malacath was right. Of all the Daedric princes, I probably dislike you and Merid the least. He shrugged, and maybe Athis’ Azura. Gah, I still hate the lot of you fuckers, he smirked, taking another long puff of his pipe. He thought about the dream more, replaying in his mind several times. The mud was a reference to Reman Cyrodiil and could be easily written off from one of his many books. But the use of Ehlnofex, that bothered him. And then when the Fist spoke the tongue too.

   

  The greens, purples and blues of the forming auroras began to compete with the oranges and reds of the just set sun and Äelberon watched the battle in the sky. The battle of day versus night. He could see the stars in the sky. Hmm, let us see how much of astronomy you remember, old Mer. Can you still stargaze? He opened his pack and put away Fasendil’s moon sugar and then saw the glimmer of his shard. There were stars in his very pack and he gasped, enthralled by the beauty of the Aetherium. He took out the shard and set his pack to the side. He would have to go inside soon. Serana would not let him hear the end of it otherwise.

   

  A few more moments with your friend before you give your gift. Then it would be a long time before he would be able to visit again.

   

  Maybe never.

   

  Äelberon watched the sky, fingering the shard as he puffed his pipe. Who is in the sky today? It is Morning Star, he smiled, should be…The Ritual. He scanned the stars for the familiar seven-star pattern in the shape of a numeric “3”. His mouth opened and his brow furrowed when he couldn’t find it. Where? He glanced at the cairn. “I do not see it, Dec… Oh, there is a star, let me see…one.” He froze mid-count, his pipe smoke following the rhythm of his breathing, his eyes fixed upon the four-star pattern he saw instead. A central star with three other stars that radiated outwards, like spokes of a twisted wheel.

   

  “Most blessed and most cursed.” He muttered, his eyes not leaving the Serpent for a few moments, studying in the sky. Clear as crystal. He bent his head and looked at the shard, feeling its smoothness against his fingers. Grulmar had given one to each of them, Erik, himself, Äelberon and Decimus. The last shard must have gone to Decimus. He could see the lad placing it in the cairn. On his chest, covering where the Bleak Walker ran him through. Äelberon nodded. Aye, he could see the lad doing that, he thought as he looked at his own shard, as if he was there himself. It glimmered like it had its very own stars and he remembered the pattern of the sparkles. This was the Shard from Raldbthar. He thought about how Gru threw it at him, felt the pain of it striking his chest.

   

  “I wish I could understand you, lad.” He murmured. He could picture the lad in his mind. He was… He grinned, releasing a chuckle. There were mead bottles. A good number of them for one so small. Getting good and drunk, eh? The young Orc was under a table, his feet resting on the seat of a chair and he was looking at his Shard. It is pretty, isn’t it? Äelberon would have to meet with the lad soon, but it could wait some. Grulmar needed to do some healing first. Maybe mend his friendship to Erik? You two were like brothers, you can fix this.

   

  He and Vingalmo were once as brothers and Äelberon sighed. No, you cannot fix everything. It would not be for Erik’s lack of trying, he thought, gazing at the Shard. He wiped his nose with the back of his hand and shivered, coughing. Now that is a lad, he thought, his heart swelling with pride. He would speak to the Circle about him. Killing a dragon, saving his life. He had more than proved his mettle as a Shield-Brother. Offer him a place in the Circle? It had crossed his mind. Would the boy take the offer? Äelberon was not sure. He had the bravery, he had the strength, but most of all, he had the compassion. He had asked to see Serana. He had held the door for her. “The very reason why I went on this wild chase with you, eh Dec? You were ready to argue your case and then the lad held the door for my Ana.” Bet he is telling her jokes now, or, Äelberon nodded, making fun of you. He laughed, but a different image came to his head.

   

  She was awake. Serana was awake? Standing, supported by Erik. He was helping her walk. Äelberon furrowed his brow and dropped the Shard on his lap. The image suddenly disappeared.

   

  Pick it up again, Old Mer.

   

  Äelberon picked up the shard and the image of Erik helping Serana continued. He set down the Shard again, and his heart started racing, his breathing quickening. It was getting hard to see in the night, but the images were clear.

   

  His eyes narrowed and he chose his next words very carefully. “Show me Grulmar.” He ordered softly, picking up the Shard. He saw the young Orc suddenly move from his position under the table when he heard the heavy thud of orichalcum boots echoing in the hall way. He heard the laughter of the others around the Orc when he started running away from Borgakh towards one of the towers. Steel-Heart was undaunted and pursued the Orc. He watched the Orc run for a few moments and he laughed out loud. The Orc froze and Äelberon’s eyes widened.

   

  “Tuskin’ Shiny laughin’ at me. Tusker.” Grumbled the Orc, looking around. Shit! He’s looking for you, drop the Shard, you moron!

   

  It fell to his lap and Äelberon could scarcely contain his excitement. He dumped the contents of his pipe on the ground and stashed it in his pack. That is enough smoking for you tonight, old Mer. He sat for a spell, propping his chin on his touching fingers, balancing it as he rested his elbows on his thighs. Deep in thought, the cold now meaningless. He thought about the images of the Dwemer in the Tower, a strange-looking people, the men with great beards that were ornately decorated with beads. They wore at great deal of jewelry, matching the Ayleids, almost in sheer elaborateness. The Ayleids preferred extensive overlays in a feather motif, beads and feathers in their hair, whereas the Dwemer used that golden-orange metal of theirs. He remembered the Dwemer jewelry on display in the Tower. Complex geometric designs, stunningly beautiful in their precision, inlaid with a smooth blue, shimmering—He did not finish his thought.

   

  “Aetherium.” He gasped aloud. They used Aetherium in their jewelry. Gods! It was in every piece of jewelry he ever saw at the Tower. Earring, necklaces, rings, circlets. He ran through all the images of the Dwemer from the Tower in his mind. All the images had one common thread. All of them had Aetherium in their jewelry.

   

  Was it? He almost did not want to ask the question. 

   

  Äelberon was now trembling with excitement. He could feel that his eyes were as wide as septims, understanding. The nervous sweat poured from his skin, chilling him further in the cold night air.

   

  Their telepathy?

   

  “Xarxes’ arse! Was this how they disappeared?! When Kragenac touched the heart. Oh fuck.” He exclaimed, waving his hands in the air.

   

  Äelberon slowly turned to the cairn. “Now it may well be the moon sugar and fever talking. I can accept that, but I think, Decimus Merotim, Knight of the Goldpact Order, that I may have figured out how the Dwemer disappeared. Or…I may just be high.” His thoughts suddenly turned to Galar back in Windhelm and a low, smug chuckle escaped his lip. Doing his best to imitate the Telvanni magister. “Progress requires experimentation.” He slapped the cairn with his hand as if he were slapping the Old Blade’s shoulder, grunting when the stone smarted his fingertips. “Thank you again, friend. If I had given into my despair, my shame, I would never have come here and I would never have—“ He yawned, putting away the Shard. “Well, enough of that. That is not why I am here. It is time to say my goodbyes, old Blade. Time to give my gift to you.”

   

  He unraveled his legs and then laughed like a fool at the stiffness. “If I can get up.”

   

  It took some doing, huffing and puffing, whimpering like an old, beaten dog, but Äelberon of Dusk finally stood on his feet, grabbing the sack of weapons. He took it out, the ebony bastard with red and gold in the hilt. The weapon that killed Decimus. The weapon that tried to kill Ondolemar.

   

  If Decimus’ leg had broken later, they would be standing together and he would have carried Dreth out of the Forge. No, that was not right. You would not be standing here. It would be your cairn and him standing here.

   

  You would have perished in the lava below because it was your love of Decimus that gave you the synergy with the thu’um you so desperately needed. Dreth would not have inspired you to trust your thu’um so blindly, but Dec, he did.

   

  And it was also the weapon that he carried into battle against Ondolemar. Again failing and again you learned. Learning the tools he needed to stand up to Alduin. Learning to still be honorable, but to not let it be his undoing. Learning to value yourself.

   

  These were bleak, difficult lessons to learn. But the blade itself was bleak, a bleak but strong reminder of the little factors in life that can drastically change the outcome of a scenario. He held the weapon in his hands, testing the weight of it. What was the original wielder’s story, he wondered. You will never know, save that he was Redguard.

   

  Can you wield this blade one more time, Äelberon of Dusk?

   

  His eyes searched the cairn, his Altmer eyes studying the gaps and twists in the stone, finding a spot to thrust. When he was satisfied, he took a deep breath and lifted the weapon to thrust it downwards, bracing his hands carefully. If you fuck this up…

   

  But you won’t. He closed his eyes and took a deep, deep breath, as deep as his broken lungs would allow. They would not understand, but Decimus would. My gift to you, friend.

   

  With a powerful thrust, he brought the blade down through the rocks. The boulders shifted a bit, the vibration from metal striking stone hurting his ribs and arms, but the blade went on its path, through the cairn, while he screamed a line from the Book of Circles into the night. From one bladesmer to another and one bladesman to another. From himself to Ondolemar and from Decimus to the Bleak Walker. From loser to winner.

   

  “Do not lose the melody in the rapture of one triumphant note!"

   

  Äelberon had many more melodies to sing before this was over.

   

  Translations

  Zu'u meyz zos ahrk zos med dovah voth rahn sul
  I become more and more like a dragon with each passing day.