Chapter Text
“At 1400, you will give a speech to the Imperial War Council at Castle Dour.” Legate Rikke read from a stack of notes as she paced a few feet ahead of him.
War council? Vitus squinted, fighting in desperation to maintain his fraying composure. “Didn’t I do that yesterday?” He questioned, shifting uncomfortably on his feet.
“Dragonborn, you must hold still.” An Altmeri tailor wrestled to secure a weighty belt around the Imperial’s waist while a blacksmith burdened him with a decorative breastplate.
Rikke glanced his direction, and something resembling a flicker of pity flashed behind her eyes. “That was the Council of Thanes at the Blue Palace.” She respectfully corrected. “Where you called Erikur…” she flipped through her papers, “‘a pontifical parcel brimming with drivel and ineptitude.’” She concluded, refolding her parchments. “But I award you points for being poetic in your delivery.”
“Ah. I thought that was Turdas.” Vitus muttered just as his head was forcefully tilted downwards. The straps of the chest plate were pulled taut, pinching uncomfortably at his shoulders and squeezing the air from his lungs; robbing him of each breath.
A third set of hands yanked at his hair and Vitus winced faintly as the cold kiss of a blade brushed near the tip of his ear. Seconds later, handfuls of his dark locks collected on the floor around his feet, only stopping once his hair had been tightly trimmed to Imperial standards.
A Dwemer spider scurried along the floor just inches past his legs. “Tikk…? No. Can’t be.” Vitus whispered. Yet, no one else gave the little construct a second glance. How odd. “Has Jarl Elisif always kept automatons?” He mustered with a gentle clearing of his throat.
“Dragonb-” The legate paused, then abruptly decided to use a different title. “Thane Vitus?” Rikke studied him, as if silently trying to read his expression. “Would you rather I tell them you can’t make it? You seem weary, and I assure you that no one would fault you for resting.”
Yes. The staggering weight on his shoulders and back came less from the cumbersome armor being strapped to his person than from the single wedding band that had nestled deeply into his pocket. Laelette’s husband deserved the closure…he deserved to know his wife was a hero. Even if the rest of Skyrim never realized what she’d done for them. “No.” He finally mumbled the response. “I’m fine, Legate Rikke.” His words wavered with each gasping breath that attempted to satiate the burning need for air in his lungs.
“Turn.” A rough grasp spun him in front of a nearby mirror where a hollow-eyed man stared blankly back at him. “What do you think, Dragonborn?”
He peered into the face of the stranger, taking longer than he cared to admit to realize that the haunted visage looking back at him was his own. Dark circles hung heavy beneath his eyes, bearing wordless testimony to the sleepless nights he’d encountered since emerging from the catacombs of Solitude. His fingers grazed idly through the tight crew cut atop his head as he tried to reconcile his identity with what he was seeing in the reflective glass.
“That particular cut is very popular amongst the finest soldiers in the Imperial City.” The stylist boasted.
“But I’m not a soldi-” The ornate armor flashed fancifully in the sunlight that streamed through the ceiling-high windows, cutting his words short. Bulky and boisterous, it was fit only for parades and ceremonies. A decorative piece that would never know the grime of battle. The jewel encrusted scabbard of a sword glimmered at his hip, carrying a weapon of status rather than a weapon of war.
“If you’ll pardon us.” Legate Rikke took Vitus by the arm, leading him away from the flock of servants bustling themselves over his appearance. “Jordis.” With a discreet motion, she gestured the retired soldier to accompany them across the hall. Once they were well enough away, both women scrutinized him.
“Something on your mind, Legate?” Vitus asked, making no effort to hide the fatigue in his words.
“Many things. First of all, you look ridiculous.” Rikke gestured across the flamboyant armor with clear aversion.
Vitus scowled and shifted the armor’s weight upon his shoulders. “Noted, but how about you tell both General Tullius and Jarl Elisif ‘no’ and see how well that works out for you.” He rebutted. Somewhere outside the palace walls, a muffled cry arose from the bustling streets. What was-? He rapidly peered towards the windows, realizing that neither Rikke nor Jordis appeared to notice.
He felt the gaze of both women on him. “You haven’t been sleeping, Thane Vitus.” Jordis relayed quietly, making no mention of the distant scream. “You’re still having those nightmares.”
Another shriek rose to join the first, somewhere well beyond their sights. Somewhere lost in the blinding sunlight streaming through the milky glass panes.
“You work the forge well into the small hours.” Jordis continued. “And you think no one knows.”
“Only occasionally.” He bitterly lied. The truth was that the terrors came nearly every night, and he’d pay almost any price to have them stop…to have a moment’s peace.
“It’s back! It’s come back!!!!” The outcry from the streets steadily grew louder. Wails and screeches rode upon the winds. “Kill that thing!” The faint scent of smoke and sulfur burned at Vitus’ nostrils, but he couldn’t figure out why. “Hopeless….we’re lost! It’s over! The city’s lost!”
Vitus frowned, starting towards the windows with labored steps. “What is th-?”
“Vitus.” Jordis began, her tone freezing his steps. “Have you spoken with anyone?”
“Spoken with…? Are you serious right now?! Never mind any of that!” He gestured frantically towards the commotion. “Don’t either of you hear-?”
The doors to the chamber burst open. “Vi?”
The screams of terror swelled with the opening of the door, but the voice breathing his name steadied his wavering spirit. How?
“Vitus!”
He spun just as Serana ran to meet him. Throwing her arms around him, she buried her face into the curve of his neck. The cool touch of her skin raised goosebumps along his flesh. His lips parted but his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth, refusing to form words.
“Vi, I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”
His mind was reeling. “Serana?” He wheezed against the armor’s painful clamp on his chest. “Why are you-? What’s happened?!” His breathing became more and more labored. Behind the vampire’s back, Inigo stood rigid and silent. The Khajiit’s face was set hard with a grim frown, and his blue fur appeared dampened and matted with blood. “What’s happened?” Vitus repeated, barely above a pant.
Like a sandcastle broken by the waves of the sea, the palace faded away around them until they stood in the center of an ashy wasteland. There was no color, no vitality, no life. Rows of trees, all stripped bare of their leaves, balanced upon blackened trunks disfigured by flame. Soot hung in the air like mist. Rocky soil bore neither shrub nor flower. No birdsong filled the air, and no rabbit scurried along the ground. Dead. Truly dead. Gods…was this Morrowind in the wastes of the Red Mountain?
“DRAGON-!” The strangled shriek of a frightened man was cut brutally short as the jaws of a beast snapped around him and tore off into the sky.
“No…”
Helgen?
A child wailed and choked on the plumes of inky smoke before falling eerily silent. Fire rained around them but there wasn’t a thing that Vitus could do. His feet stood soldered to the ground, leaving him forced to watch the havoc unfolding around him in utter despair.
“Dragonborn! Praise the gods!”
Or…Kynesgrove?
A wing crashed through a stone tower, leveling it to rubble before his eyes.
“Dragonborn?!”
“HELP ME!” A woman met his eyes in desperation seconds before the stone and lumber collapsed atop her.
“Dragonborn!!!”
“SAVE US!!” A crowd of bodies burned; running, crawling, scrambling, rolling…trying anything to put out the flames that relentlessly consumed their flesh. “FOR THE LOVE OF THE GODS! DO SOMETHING! CAN’T YOU HEAR US?!”
But try as he might, his legs refused to move, as if he were nothing but a statue carved of marble. Cursed to watch the destruction again and again and again.
“PLEASE! WE DON’T WANT TO DIE!!”
“Dragonborn! Dragonborn! Dragonborn! DRAGONBOR-!!!”
“-ARGHHH!!” His own roar joined the chorus as a flash of white-hot pain seared through his neck and into his veins. He reacted on instinct, thrusting his swords forward and into his attacker.
And there, everything stopped.
When he opened his eyes, he instantly felt his heart fall into the darkest depths of his stomach. “No…” He choked.
Serana stared back at him. Droplets of blood, his blood, shimmered upon her lips from the bite. “I’m sorry.” She whispered once again.
Vitus staggered back. Releasing the grips of his swords, he gazed in horror at the blades still piercing her stomach. “No…” He repeated, reaching out but unable to undo his actions.
“VITUS?!” Inigo hissed, pinning his ears against his head. “What have you done!?” The Khajiit’s cry rang with a mixture of anger and disbelief.
Serana hunched forward, slowly collapsing to her knees. “What he had to do.” Her voice faintly changed with each word until it was no longer hers. When she lifted her eyes, it was Laelette’s gaze that now pierced his own. “I am sorry.” She repeated one final time.
Her body crumbled to dust and the world around him erupted into screams. Dying Falmer. Screeching vampires. Thundering dremora. Razed cities and dragon fire. Crying people. Shattered families.
“Stop.” Vitus fell to his knees, covering his ears in vain against the anguished shrieks. “Stop. Stop! STOP IT!!!”
“WHAT ARE YOU WILLING TO DO TO MAKE IT STOP?”
Deep, menacing, and dripping with malevolence, the voice burned with an otherworldly authority. One that demanded submission and fear from anything within its range. Hands trembling at his sides, Vitus found his soul tossed into a battle between mortal terror and burgeoning rage; neither of which he felt like he had control over. The remnants of Serana’s bite burned at his neck, causing the Imperial to place his palm over the injury.
Eyes wide open, he realized immediately he was standing in the cellar of his sister’s home, where a forge burned with an unnatural green fire. But whether he was awake or still asleep, he couldn’t say. Furniture and tools hovered in the air around him, flipping and spinning without direction or reason. “…Molag Bal?” The scorching pain at his neck intensified. “RARGH!” Vitus clutched at the wound. “LEAVE!” He thundered. “You have no power in our realm! Akatosh assured it.”
“WRONG!” The voice boomed. “I MAY HAVE NO PLACE IN YOUR REALM, BUT I STILL HAVE ALL MY POWER.” Somehow the Dark Prince’s words came from everywhere and nowhere all at once. “JUST ASK MY DAUGHTERS.”
Vitus grabbed for his swords, only stopping himself short when he realized he had no idea where his enemy was, or if he was even reachable.
“AND I AM NOT AFRAID OF WIELDING IT, UNLIKE YOU. NOW KNEEL DOWN!” A crate flung itself towards Vitus’ head, which he just barely managed to dodge. “CHOSEN OF AKATOSH. YOU’RE THE MOST WRETCHED OF HEROES. BAPTIZED IN THE POWER OF GODS, BUT YOU DON’T HAVE THE STOMACH TO PAY THE PRICE TO WIN! YOU’RE WEAK!” Something unseen yanked at his neck, tossing him about like a child’s doll before throwing him to the floor.
Vitus grit his teeth against the pain. “If I’m weak for refusing to be a monster that kills without remorse,” he heaved a frantic breath and pushed himself to his feet, “then I’ll wear that weakness with pride.”
The beast laughed deeply, as if fueled by a twisted amusem*nt. “YOU MISUNDERSTAND ME, MORTAL. BEING WEAK DOES NOT MAKE YOU LESS OF A MONSTER.” The voice slithered through the room. “PERHAPS YOU ARE EVEN MORE OF ONE THAN WHAT YOU MORTALS CALL ME. I, MOLAG BAL, LORD OF DOMINATION, AM AT LEAST HONEST ABOUT WHAT AND WHO I AM. I TAKE WHAT I WANT! I OVERPOWER WHO I WISH! I DESTROY WHEN I DESIRE TO! BUT YOU!” The galloping of Vitus’ heart threatened to choke him where he stood. The grip tightened on him again, hoisting him several feet off the cellar floor. “YOU PRETEND TO SAVE LIVES! YOU WEAR A FAÇADE OF COMPASSION! BUT YOUR MERCY HAS BROUGHT ABOUT MORE DESTRUCTION AND DEATH THAN YOUR WRATH EVER WOULD HAVE!” He was thrown back into the wall.
Ears ringing, Vitus tried to straighten out his muddled mind. “What…?”
“EVEN, MERIDIA, MY MOST REVILED ENEMY, SAW THAT INSIDE YOU AND CALLED YOU VILE.” The Daedric Prince mocked. “HAD YOU OBEYED HER COMMAND TO SLAY EVERY CONJUROR IN WOLFSKULL CAVE, POTEMA WOULD HAVE NEVER AWAKENED AND SOLITUDE WOULD HAVE NEVER BEEN ATTACKED BY THE ARMIES OF OBLIVION. SO MANY LIVES COULD HAVE BEEN SPARED IF NOT FOR YOUR ‘KINDNESS’.” A beat of silence fell hard upon him before the dreadful lord continued. “BUT IT’S NOT THE FIRST TIME YOU DOOMED THE INNOCENT WITH YOUR MERCY, IS IT, TINY HERO?” Vitus could almost hear the smirk in Molag Bal’s words. “AFTER ALL, HAD YOU SIMPLY KILLED MY DAUGHTER IN DIMHOLLOW CRYPT…NONE OF THIS WOULD HAVE HAPPENED IN THE FIRST PLACE.”
Vitus blinked, then snarled. “Liar!” He slashed one of his swords through the air.
“IN WHAT WAY DO I DECEIVE YOU?” Stone-Fire challenged. “WOULD MY SERVANT, HARKON, HAVE LAID EYES ON A SINGLE ELDER SCROLL HAD YOU SLAIN HER AND TAKEN THE ONE SHE CARRIED AS YOUR OWN? WOULD HE HAVE EVER LEARNED OF THE NEED FOR MY DAUGHTERS’ BLOOD TO FULFILL THIS SO-CALLED PROPHECY? WOULD HE STILL BE TEARING APART YOUR CITIES DAY BY DAY IN HIS GROWING BLOODLUST? BOTH MY DAUGHTERS WOULD BE OUT OF HIS GRASP, ONE DEAD AND ONE IN EXILE. THEREFORE, WOULD NIRN BE IN THE PERIL IT IS IN RIGHT NOW…HAD IT NOT BEEN FOR YOU?”
Vitus’ stomach soured, his mouth growing dry at the realization. It felt as though the room tilted beneath his feet, throwing everything he was once certain about off balance.
But Molag Bal wasn’t finished. “WITHOUT ENTANGLING YOURSELF IN A PROPHECY BORN OF YOUR OWN FOLLY, WOULD YOU HAVE STILL RESISTED THE CALL OF THE GREYBEARDS AND THEREBY YOUR OWN SOUL? WOULD KYNESGROVE PERHAPS STILL BE STANDING? WOULD ALDUIN BE NEARLY DEFEATED? ANSWER ME! MERCY ALWAYS HAS A PRICE AND THE WORLD DOES NOT FORGIVE WEAKNESS! SO, WHAT HAVE YOU BROUGHT UPON ALL OF CREATION…HERO? ARE YOU ITS SAVIOR OR THE HERALD OF ITS ULTIMATE DEMISE?”
Vitus staggered on legs of jelly, mind reeling with thoughts he’d never before considered.
“SO, I ASK YOU AGAIN, MORTAL. WHAT ARE YOU WILLING TO DO TO MAKE THIS ALL STOP?” Thunder cracked overhead. The distant screams of tormented souls erupted around him from the empty husks of fallen mortals, all culminating into one ear-splitting symphony.
“ARGGGHHH!!!” Vitus roared, dropping his swords and clenching at his ears to stifle the terrible sound. With a rush of wind, the green flames of the forge burst back to their amber glow and the screams all fell hauntingly silent.
“Vitus?!” In a blink, the world was back as it should be. Iris stood at the base of the cellar stairs, clenching at the fabric of her gown. Her eyes were wide and reddened from a lack of sleep. Was she just now returning from the temple and Brandr’s side? Was she even real…or was it all just a continuation of this waking nightmare?
“Iris?” He stumbled towards her. “Iris, are you…?” He reached out with trembling hands, touching upon her shoulder to confirm that she was there. “This is…this is real.” He gazed about with wild eyes. “You’re real…” He reassured himself.
His sister laid her hand upon his forehead. “Again?” She whispered. “You’ve had another?”
Another? As if they stopped? He merely responded with a nod, and quickly waved it off. “I’m fine. How’s Brandr?”
She pulled away to rub at her face. “Still in the care of the healers.” She replied quietly.
Vitus paused, his features briefly softening. “He will survive this.” He solemnly promised. “Keep faith in him.”
Iris clenched her jaw. “And you?”
His veneer instantly hardened, and he turned his back to her. “I’ll do what needs to be done.”
“You cannot go on like this.”
Despite her words, he was already moving. “Look, I have to hurry.” He stirred the fires of the forge before pulling the tongs from the cinders. Tightly woven chainmail, scales of ebony and as black as the midnight sky, flashed in the firelight. “The days are going quickly.”
“Vitus, you need to talk to someone.”
He scowled. “What I need is to complete this armor and get to Dragon Bridge!” He snapped at her. Pulling at a rucksack near the forge’s side, he produced a glowing heart from the depths of the canvas. Cut from the chests of the fallen dremora, the organ still hummed with a power born from the wastes of Oblivion. “I NEED to know what’s become of the Dawnguard. I NEED to know that Serana and Inigo are okay.” He squeezed the blood from the daedra’s heart into the fire. “Then MAYBE I can finally start to set things right!”
A tremble lined her words as she watched his work. “What are you doing?”
“Smithing.”
Iris took another step forward. “That’s no technique that Dad ever taught us.” Her voice lowered.
“No.” He agreed. “But Potema did.” Conjuring a fire spell in his other hand, he blanketed the smithy in white-hot flames, forcing Iris to retreat by several feet from the rising temperature. In the center of the blaze, the armor began to radiate with an ominous red glow.
“Potema?” His sister raised her hand, shielding herself as best as she could from the radiant heat. “Vitus, enough!”
“I’m fine, Iris. There’s no harm in using what I learn to make myself stronger. I’d be a fool not to.”
“This isn’t you! You needn’t become-”
“ALL I HEAR ARE SCREAMS!!” He spun, his face contorted in desperation. “I don’t sleep anymore, Iris! There are only screams.” He breathed, trying to control his voice. “You want to write a song about what it’s really like to be some ‘hero of legends?’” He made quotes with his fingers. “Well, then write about the endless evenings riddled with nightmares. Write about the burden of your every decision affecting countless lives- often for the worst. Write about the gods who watch from their realms and only smile in amusem*nt, who do not intercede no matter how fervently you pray!” His voice grew more frantic with each sentence. “Why don’t the bards ever sing about any of that?!”
Moisture glistened in her eyes as she approached him and laid her hands upon his shoulders. “You cannot lose yourself to this, Vitus. Please, let me in.”
He carefully pushed himself away. “I’m already lost to it. Because if I’m not, then Nirn isn’t going to survive.” He replied. “Iris, tell me something. Do you think a Vampire King is burdened by guilt for every life that he takes? Or do you think that he drains the blood he needs to ensure that his kingdom will never end, and then goes about his immortal life without remorse?”
When she didn’t answer, he continued.
“When the Falmer attack innocent travelers on the roads, are they feral and wicked?” He pressed. “Or did decades of cruelty and betrayal make them grow so cold, that they vowed nothing and no one would ever make them feel helpless again?” He ran his hand through his hair, quickly reminded of its newly shortened length. “When a dragon descends from the skies and burns an entire city to the ground, do you really think he’s worried that he’s seen as an evil monster? Or does he remind mortals of their place and that we only exist because he allows it?”
“Stop.” Iris glowered. “That doesn’t make any of them right.”
“What makes a path right or wrong?” Vitus countered without hesitation. “I was once told that a dragon only finds peace through ruthlessness. Well, I’ve seen enough now to believe that it may certainly be true. Falkreath was sacked by vampires. Helgen and Kynesgrove were both razed by dragons. Solitude was invaded by Daedra. I don’t know if the Dawnguard exists anymore. Civilians and soldiers are dead. Brandr is fighting for his life. All because of me. Iris, this CANNOT continue to go on!” He cried. “So, if I must go to the very edges of Oblivion, I’ll walk where even the Daedra fear to tread! By the gods, I’ll hunt Harkon and Alduin until THEY see ME in their nightmares!” He roared.
Iris shuffled back from him, her growing worry darkening her eyes.
“And if I have to rip the soul from another elf so all of Nirn doesn’t die, then so be it!!! I’ll become the greatest threat Mundus has ever known!!!” He paused, attempting to fortify his composure. “And maybe then there can finally be peace.”
~~~~~ ~~~~~
“Something’s gotta break, and I swear to the gods, Vampire, it CANNOT be your will to see this through! Not now!” Farkas snarled, looking every bit the wolf they said he once was. “I am going to avenge my brother’s blood even if it’s the last thing I do before Sovngarde welcomes my soul! You can either help or you can get out of my way!!”
“Farkas.” Iselin grabbed at his shoulder, her voice low in warning.
“Stand with me or stay behind, Harbinger!” The Nord barked, though his façade wavered beneath the dogged gaze of his wife. “Vilkas’ blood cries for vengeance.” His voice faintly cracked. “And my blade will answer.”
At Serana’s side, Inigo kept his hand vigilantly atop the hilt of his sword. Days of mourning had transformed grief into rage, tears into bloodlust. She couldn’t say she faulted the warrior, had the roles been the reversed, she had no doubt she’d react in the same way.
Still, she stood her ground, shoulders set as rigid as the mountains. “You can cut me down right now,” she began, “you can charge your way across the entire damn province,” she kept her voice level and calm, “but you cannot defeat my father.” The words came out with a cold certainty. “None of us can.”
“So, you’d have us hide with our tails between our legs, then?!” Aela snapped. “You’re the reason we’re in this mess in the first place!”
“Hey!” Iselin scowled. “Enough.”
Serana held up her hand. “Don’t.” She had both Iselin and Inigo stand down. “She’s right.”
“She is not, my friend.” Inigo replied through tight teeth. “You are the reason we are able to fight back.”
It took every ounce of Serana’s strength to keep from crumbling to her knees at the futileness of it all. No matter how much she pushed against it, the world always pushed back harder. “My blood is the reason Harkon is pouring out this reign of terror upon the mortals.” Her eyes darted to Inigo’s, meeting the cat’s vivid irises in the dim light. “And the failures of my past are why he’s not been stopped before this. We have no power on our side that can stop him now.”
“But we do.” Inigo interjected. “We have you.”
Serana gave a humorless laugh. “And I have no strength, no magicka, no stamina.” She reminded him. “I couldn’t even perform a magician’s party trick if I were asked right now.” She looked at her palm with a bitter glower. “To attempt an assault on the castle would mean our deaths.”
“And to do absolutely nothing would mean the same.” Aela bit. “Or have you already forgotten the testimony of Whiterun’s bloodstained stones?”
“I will never forget!” Serana bared her teeth. “I have lived centuries and I have never forgotten the scent of spilled blood, or the cries of dying innocents, or the wails of hopeless terror!” She took a step forward. “Immortality isn’t the blessing you mortals always seem to think it is!! I will bear these memories long after you have taken your final breath, and I will shoulder their weight alongside every single other I’ve ever known!”
Aela pulled back the slightest hint, though the hardened frown remained unwavering upon her lips.
“I’ve been forsaken by the very god that I was sacrificed to for power!!” Serana roared. “If even HE won’t answer and restore my strength, then nothing will! We can’t win!!”
Inigo turned his gaze away. “My friend, Molag Bal cannot give you strength.” The Khajiit murmured. “He can only test it. And you have proven stronger every time.” He ventured a glance her direction. “The evidence is that you are still standing here.” He gestured. “But fortitude, like a blade, must be repeatedly tempered and sharpened. Will this moment be the fire that refines you or will you be found wanting now that Tamriel needs your courage the most?”
Serana attempted to swallow past the large lump that had formed in her throat. I am the product of five generations of royalty before me. I’m the daughter of a king who refused to surrender his throne, even to Death. But was all her bravado merely a façade from day one? Safe in the security of her gifts and powers, of course she’d never truly tested her own courage. She’d never had reason to. There’d never been a reason for her to be afraid.
Lydia took a step between Iselin and Inigo. “Look, I think we’re all painfully aware of the cold truth.” The housecarl grimly eyed the faces in the circle around her. “Even if we tactically retreat and decide against a direct strike on Castle Volkihar, the attacks on our Holds and our cities will not stop.” The Nord woman searched Serana’s gaze. “It’s going to happen again and again. And my Thane believes you’re the one who can stand up and stop it.” She crossed her arms. “Is he right, or should we go and look for someone else to lead us?”
Serana didn’t answer right away. Lost to her own thoughts, she realized she had known fear before. Fear was what had kept her silent when she was led before Molag Bal. Fear was what had kept her from standing up to her parents all those centuries ago. Her fear was the reason they were all in this very predicament. If she kowtowed to fear again, how many more generations would suffer? How many more generations would even be left?
She turned her eyes upward and released a breath. She could still see Mila’s terrified gaze as the child was escorted from Whiterun by caretakers from Honorhall Orphanage. Bitterness and fright shimmered in the little girl’s glare as she’d passed by on that misty morning. How many more children was Serana willing to see orphaned? How many more families torn apart? How many more bloodstained stones? She didn’t know how they could ever overpower her father, but the circle standing around her was right, they couldn’t afford to run away and do nothing. Not anymore. I was born as unyielding as the snows of Atmora and I was reborn again when even Molag Bal couldn’t kill me. I’m Serana Volkihar and I bow to no one. Now was her chance to prove to herself that she truly believed those words.
“Gather any warrior still willing to fight and lead them to Dragon Bridge.” Serana finally responded, struggling to push each word from her lungs. “But be aware, this will be a battle of heavy sacrifice and death.” She darkly reminded the Companions. “When you seek your volunteers, do not woo them with promise of glory and song.”
Iselin bleakly bowed her head. “Let the gods claim us.” She murmured.
The soft words were echoed by both Farkas and Aela.
“Inigo and I will join you there once we find what has become of the Dawnguard.” She tightened the cowl around her neck. “However, you should be prepared to fight without ally or reinforcement.”
~~~~~ ~~~~~
The new armor hummed at his touch. Each smooth, tiny scale flashed like fragments of midnight, while their links emitted a soft, ruby glow. The helmet and the left pauldron, alike, were both crowned with a pair of twin horns; the inspiration drawn from the very demons that Vitus had cut the hearts from. It was lightweight and versatile, and seemed to feed from the shadows surrounding it. A hunger gnawed at Vitus’ chest as he finished securing the pieces into place, and it wasn’t a hunger that would be satiated with food.
“I can feel the enchantments.” The weight on his back and shoulders seemed nearly negligible, as if he were wearing naught but a comfortable summer outfit. “This is incredible.”
Eadric offered a wary nod. “The stamina enchantment on your boots will bolster your strength and your endurance. I’m sure you’re feeling that right now.”
He felt as though he could run for miles without growing fatigued. “And the others?”
The Breton hesitated. “Just as you requested. Frost and Lightning resistance on the helmet and breast piece. One-Handed Weaponry enhancement on the gauntlets.”
Vitus flexed and relaxed his fist, studying his gloved hand. “I should’ve been more open to this magic stuff long ago.”
“Vitus, this doesn’t make you invincible.” Eadric cautioned, turning over one of the swords that had been crafted alongside the armor.
As if he’d not heard the warning, Vitus wordlessly settled the helmet into place. The completed armor set almost seemed to hiss with the murmurs of Oblivion. “Did you see the final piece and the note I had with it?” He asked, his voice echoing ominously from within the solid shell of ebony. With a few quick adjustments, he cleared the mouthpiece, allowing for easier speech.
“I…did.” Eadric’s brow creased. “You didn’t want that one before you left?”
“No.” Vitus slid the swords into their sheathes. “If I don’t make it back, my instructions concerning it were clear.”
The Breton took a step towards him. “Vitus, your family is-”
“-Exceptionally high maintenance, I know.”
“Not what I was going to say.”
“Has any word arrived from the college?” Vitus quickly changed subjects.
Eadric released a sigh. “None yet. If they are to arrive, I suspect they’ll be-”
“Thank you.”
His future brother did a doubletake.
“For sending word to Winterhold so quickly. For enchanting the armor without question.”
The Breton waved it off. “Child’s dabbling, really.”
“And for being good for my sister.”
Eadric blinked then turned his face away with a faint smirk. “Come now, that one is no burden in the least.”
“Ha!” Vitus shook his head. “Damned lovesick fool.”
“Thane Vitus?” Jordis called to them from the top of the cellar steps. “Your gear is packed and ready.”
He parted his lips to ask her to drop the ‘thane’ nonsense, but realized he had no energy to pushback. Succumbing to the title, he merely nodded. “Thank you, Jordis. While I’m gone, please see to Iris’ needs.”
The woman rigidly saluted. “At your request, Sir.”
Vitus faintly smiled to himself, resisting the urge to shake his head. He assumed it to be her years with the Legion, but Jordis was certainly much more regimented than Lydia. “At ease, soldier.” He softly teased in reply.
In the dim stairwell he couldn’t be certain, but he was almost sure he saw her lips relax into a subtle grin.
Before Vitus ascended the steps behind her, he peered over his shoulder one last time. “Anything you need before I roll out?”
Eadric remained planted where he stood, arms resting casually at his sides. “For the sake of your loved ones, make it back alive.”
For the first time in his memory, Vitus was thankful for a helmet that hid the majority of his face. “For the sake of my loved ones, I’ll do what I must to end any threat.”
~~~~~ ~~~~~
They hadn’t seen another traveler for miles as they descended deeper into the forests of The Rift. The moons provided the only light, bathing the cobbled stones in a silver glow. Silence hung heavier than the shroud of the grave, broken by neither insect nor owl, wolf nor whippoorwill.
“Wait. Back up, Inigo.” Serana frowned off into the distance as her mind spun over what the Khajiit had said. “Gelebor said what to Vitus?” She pressed.
The blue cat hesitated, seemingly caught off guard by her apparent surprise. “When you laid injured that day in the chantry,” he began, his amber gaze going distant, “he told Vitus that the enchantment from the bow could not be removed but by a force of equal strength.”
The sound of hooves lingered in the air as Serana processed that new bit of information. “Gods, you adorable idiot, why did you never mention that?” She murmured, picturing Vitus’ face as she pinched the bridge of her nose. “And what, pray tell, might hold equal strength to the powers of a god, Inigo?” She challenged, straightening her back with a sigh of resolve. “And not just any god, the chief of the gods. ‘King of the Divines’ if you will.” She fluttered her hand through the air with a scowl.
Her friend offered an uneasy grin from her peripheral.
“I’ve kept wondering why Molag Bal hasn’t cured me, and I assumed it to be his punishment.” Serana muttered. “But what if he simply can’t?” She mused. “What if even his powers fall weak in comparison?”
Inigo slowed Shadowmere to Serana’s side. “A Priest of Akatosh may have an answer.”
“True.” Serana briefly conceded. “However, Skyrim doesn’t have a Temple to Akatosh.” She reminded the cat. “And I don’t have the luxury of traversing to Cyrodiil, right now.”
The cat grunted quietly. “So, what do we know of Akatosh? Or Auriel? Or…Time Dragon?”
She bit at her thumbnail idly. “Only what the legends have always said.” She responded. “‘Anu created Auriel, the soul of his soul. And Auriel bled through the Aurbis as a new force, called Time.’” She quoted a passage from Monomyth that she’d come to know by heart.
“So. What is of equal strength to Time?” Inigo gazed at the stars.
Gods, it was like an unknowable riddle. “Creation? Space?” She made a face as she wracked her brain. “Dragon Breaks?”
“Fragments of Time?” Inigo blinked. “Dragons?”
Serana froze at the thought then snorted. “Something tells me it wouldn’t end well if I tried to drink the blood of a dragon, Inigo.”
The Khajiit flashed a grin. “It could get very exciting for a moment, though.” He quipped before rubbing at his chin. “We know that Auriel’s Bow draws its power from Aetherius itself, and that it channels this power through the sun.” He began. “If we are to believe the legends of the elves, the bow was created by Anuiel for use by Auriel against the forces of Lorkhan during the Ehlnofey Wars. When Trinimac defeated Lorkhan for his trickery, he tore out his heart, and Auriel fastened it to an arrow and shot it long into the sea with his bow.”
Serana rolled her eyes. “Again, that’s if we believe the legends of the elves.” She reminded the cat.
Inigo sagely grinned. “My mother always said that legends are born from one shard of truth and three shards of imagination.”
“Those are some great odds.” Serana teased.
The cat ignored the dig. “Throughout history, it is said that Auriel’s Bow has been discovered in hours of great strife, only to be lost to Time anew.”
“I suppose that could be your shard of truth.” Serana flicked a bang from her eyes. “Even if it is all true, it still gets us no closer to figuring out how to rid myself of its enchantments.” She reminded him. “What power can even a vampire find that is equal to the strength of the Divines? It would seem that not even the lords of Oblivion have the answer.”
Lightning struck a treetop directly ahead of them, causing Serana to rear back in her saddle from the blinding light and deafening roar.
“So, AnOTheR sEekEr oF KnOWledGE wALks UPoN NiRn. AlL wHo SEek AfTEr tHe sECreTs oF tHe wOrLD, mErELY sEEk mE.”
Serana’s eyes readjusted to the darkness. “What?”
Inigo curiously glanced at her from her side. “My friend? What is it?”
A dark mist hung in the air near where the bolt had struck. The glimmer of dozens of eyes in the oozing darkness and the swipe of a tentacle played at her fuzzy vision. “I think that lightning strike is messing with my sight.” She blinked.
The Khajiit frowned. “Lightning, my friend?” He scanned the treetops. “The sky is clear. I…did not see any…”
“SeEKer of kNOwleDGe, fOr thE InFOrmATiOn YoU dESiRE yOu wiLL BrINg mE wHaT I deSIre iN dUE TIME. ThE LORD oF FATE hAs DEeMeD iT sO.”
“What you desi-”
A spike of ice fired from the shadows, shattering whatever illusion had befallen her eyes. Inigo had already leapt from his saddle, bow drawn and aimed into the forest.
“Show yourself!” Serana drew her dagger from her waistband.
They waited.
“Serana?” Finally, a voice came from the darkness. A familiar voice.
Sliding from her horse, she followed Inigo towards the edge of the woods.
“When they told me to keep an eye out for vampires, I wasn’t expecting it to be you.” A woman materialized from the nocturnal shrouds, a crooked grin spreading across her lips.
Relief washed over Serana’s shoulders like a cool breeze and she sheathed her dagger. “Illia.”
~~~~~ ~~~~~
“Welcome to Darklight Tower.”
“Hold on. There’s something I don’t understand.” Serana and Inigo followed as Illia led them into the ominous shadow of a towering bastion built into the craggy foothills of the Jerall Mountains. “Who told you to keep an eye out for vampires?”
The Imperial woman shouldered the entry open, leading the way into a torchlit corridor. “I was returning from Riften with supplies when I heard a commotion along the roadway just southwest of the city.” She began, lifting one of the torches from the sconces as they continued deeper into the tower. “Running to find the source, I came upon a caravan of travelers being ruthlessly attacked by a group of vampires.”
Serana’s eyes darted in thought. Vingalmo.
“It wasn’t until after I’d managed to drive them away that I realized, it wasn’t a caravan that was being attacked. They were soldiers of some kind.” Illia continued.
Serana frowned. “Soldiers? Stormcloaks?”
A hulking shadow darkened the doorway ahead of them. “No.” Isran stepped into the torchlight, his uniform stained in stale blood. A fresh scar ran the length of his face from the top of his forehead, over his right eye, all the way to his chin. “What are you doing here, Beast? Come to finally finish what your family has started?”
Taken aback first by his injuries, followed quickly by his accusations, Serana glowered at the man. “I’ve come seeking your alliance to finish this war.” She replied. “The time to attack my father’s palace is at hand.”
“Ha!” The Redguard skulked back into the room behind him with a pronounced limp to his step. “You’re too late.”
Serana and Inigo hastened to follow only to stop short at the nightmare on the other side of the door. A dozen injured bodies laid upon various mats and cots around the dank chamber. Some tossed and turned, writhing in agony from their injuries. Others merely whimpered beneath the blankets of furs, shivering and sweating from infection and fever. Still others laid perfectly still, barely appearing alive but for the faint rise and fall of their chests. Gallons of blood soaked into bandages and blankets; puddles of it coated the flooring. The scent was so thick that it nearly choked Serana where she stood.
“I had seventy-five trained men and women when I left Fort Dawnguard. I’m down to five soldiers still able to raise a blade.” Isran motioned to a dining table in the far corner. Two Nords, a Breton, an Orc, and a Wood Elf divided a meager portion of bread between them. Their somber faces laden with grief and shadow.
Serana stared, feeling her spirits plummet further into the relentless depths of despair. “That’s it?”
Isran grunted. “Sorine and Gunmar had remained at the fort. They’ll be here by dawn’s light along with a priest of Arkay. I asked them to bring someone who…” The man paused, glancing over his shoulder at the nearest wounded before lowering his booming voice. “…I asked them to bring someone who can provide final rights.”
Desperation mingled with a growing sense of anger. “Why didn’t you wait for Inigo, Vitus, and I to return?”
The Redguard peered at her as if she were the most hideous thing this side of Oblivion. “How was I to know when or if you fools would ever come back?” He spat. “The man lied about being Dragonborn. The three of you vanished into Oblivion for all I knew! Weeks passed with no word or indication that you succeeded or died.” Malice lingered on his tongue. “And in the meantime, the vampires grew stronger. They didn’t stop attacking just so you three could go play Moth Priest in a hole somewhere. Something had to be done.”
“And are you satisfied with what it is you’ve done?” Serana bit.
Isran reached for his hammer then stopped himself. “Just get out of my sight, Vermin.” He growled, turning away. “Before my patience runs out.”
“We still need the Dawnguard’s help.” Serana stood her ground behind him.
The old Redguard stopped. “Haven’t you been listening? There is no Dawnguard anymore.” He grumbled. “I have five capable warriors. Seven if you include Sorine and Gunmar.”
“And we have Auriel’s bow.” Serana countered, taking a bold step forward. At her side, Inigo shifted, revealing the weapon strapped to his back. “It can take down my father.”
For a moment, the old man actually appeared to be in awe of the relic, but his expression quickly hardened and he crossed his arms. “And?” He prodded. “Even with that dusty trinket, we’re not getting near that castle without being overrun and slaughtered. Seventy-five men. Remember?”
“The Dragonborn is on our side.” Serana reminded him. “And the Dragonborn’s allies. The Dawnguard isn’t going in alone. March with us and we can win.”
“Or you could be leading what remains of us as a meal for your little family.” Isran sneered. “I see no Dragonborn with you.”
“He is preparing the rest of our allies.” Serana pointed sharply towards the door. “And I literally showed you the bow!”
Isran snorted. “Could be any old elven bow, for all I know.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me right now.”
“Do you want me to shoot him, my friend?” Inigo glanced at her with a co*cked eyebrow.
Serana held up her palm. “No yet.” She released a breath. “Isran, this isn’t about-”
“I believe her.” Illia took a stand at Inigo’s side and folded her arms upon her chest. “She could have left you to rot here.” The woman pointed out. “She could’ve led more of those vampires here to finish the rest of you off.” She glanced from Isran to the table of survivors. “But she didn’t. She came for an alliance to do something bigger than herself.” The Imperial turned to Serana. “As I once promised, I will join you as an ally. My kindness for yours.”
Relief swept over Serana’s face, softening the taught muscles in her jaw. She then lifted her gaze to Isran. “What is your choice, Isran? Will the Dawnguard live up to its ancient legacy and name?” She challenged. “Or will the songs and stories that arise from this battle sing tales of a vampire that rose up when not even the Defenders of the Day would?” She leveled her gaze. “Has tribulation proven your weakness, Mortal? The test of your fortitude is at this hour, but will you be found wanting?”
The two glared at one another for several long beats; the Redguard’s eyes colder and less yielding than stone. Finally, he shifted, turning his face away from her brutal gaze. He eyed the last five members of the Dawnguard, and straightened his spine in a last ditch effort of defiance. “Prepare your gear and get a full night’s rest.” He ordered, his voice rolling through the hall like a rumble of thunder. “We move out in the morning to exterminate that nest of parasites.” He pointed. “Durak, ride to the fort and have Gunmar bring what remains of his trolls and dogs. Also, tell Sorine we’ll need those experimental schematics.”
The Orc hesitated only a moment then wordlessly stood. Teeth clenched with his every movement, the Orismer strode for the door and vanished into the halls.
The Breton and one of the Nords shifted uneasily in their seats, eyes darting uncertainly towards Serana where she stood.
Isran’s face hardened. “Anyone not willing to fight better be gone by dawn.” He warned. “And never return to Fort Dawnguard again.”
