#sanbosm

Those words echoed in the black. Abruptly, the scene turned to Lette. A specific thought, though it certainly did not belong there. No, it came later. A light. A candle. A night shared in a warehouse on the edge of that town. It was a special night for many reasons, one being that I had trimmed my mustache. She wanted to see how I looked without it. It was and is iconic to my appearance, yet I had zero hesitation. I recall how she would stroke my bare lip and chin, I could still feel her touch. Her perfumes, just as vivid as that night. The blush atop her cheeks, I could feel it on my fingertips. How it would smear when nudged, revealing wrinkles she sought so desperately to cover. She wanted to look young for me, though she knew that it did not matter. It was one of her quirks. We lay together between crates and boxes, that single candle, our only witness. I peered long and deep into those eyes. Piercing red eyes. Until sleep did find us.

Where was I? Ah yes. The battle.

An amber mist, foul of scent. It breathed and sighed, quickly climbing above our heads then dissipating as though it were never there. From the adjoining halls, a flood of Assuts craft and loyalists. Among the cries of foe and ally alike, one could scarcely hear himself think. I slew several, their collected bodies came to coat the floors. My allies, they held their own somehow. Certainly faring better than most I had so thoughtlessly thrown to their deaths. I smiled, knowing that I had done right by choosing Dunmer. That Nord in his drunkenness would not have lasted even this long.

The man took three, the lady, two. At last the halls grew quiet, no longer did they churn with distant prayer and ghastly moans. Though soon heavy breath and curses of pain came to take their place. In safer halls, I gave them time to treat their wounds, of which there were many. The man had developed a limp, his thigh badly mangled, yet he saw fit to move on. It mattered little to me in that moment, but I allowed time to bandage it.

During one such respite, a peculiar thought came to me. I did not know the names of my companions. Peculiar, because it was a new thought. They were the third, perhaps fourth group that I had fed to the upper halls of these very ruins just to get as deep as we are now. The upper floors were fortified, heavily in some places. They were just as expendable as those others. I am an old man. My limits are high, but I know them. If not for these distractions I bring with me, I could not continue this war of mine. Yet, something was different this time. I found the words, on multiple occasions. I could feel the questions dancing at the tip of my tongue. I would open my mouth, quickened breath tickling the outstretched bristles of my mustache. Hesitate, then slam it shut. Battles and far off sounds did well to keep us occupied and before long, it seemed that I had lost the last chances at conversation.

Progress was slow, flickering abyssal halls make for poor travel. Some paths were blocked, sealed with debris, collapsed pipe-work, or intentionally so to guide trespassers down a specific way. Past stacked chair and old desks, scraps of Dwemer metal, cages and strewn remains of all sorts. We had entered his workshop. Here he would make his monsters. Those that had truly fallen for him, they would be "enlightened", made to imitate the olden beasts of the Sixth House by means of brass and magic. The most loyal had given up large portions of their bodies, the flesh discarded here, left to rot in some secluded corner. Their limbs and organs replaced by whatever mechanisms he had fashioned to give them the appearances that he held so dear. Some it seemed, had not taken well to the "enlightenment", as they lay whole-bodied and long dead in cages or other recesses in the halls. His work was of course not left undefended. Every unlit corner was a potential danger. We would clear a hall, only to find red eyes gaining on us from behind when we had finally dropped our guard. The hulking ones, their booming footsteps followed us much of the way.

Through screeching door, we were met by a long open corridor and a wall of sound. Monstrous voices crying out, whispers barely audible, and sporadic words in broken Dunmeri. The humming of my cap meant only one thing. He was close, and he had begun his assault. My worn eyes strained to see far in the low light, but I could see just enough. Down the center ran a grate with molten metal flowing beneath it. A grate had been removed to allow ore-flow from an above chamber, leaving a haphazard gap in our path. Off to one side, a wall had given way, revealing a fiery pool, charred wood and remains. Used a makeshift incinerator of sorts perhaps. Ahead of us, shadowed shapes bobbed up and down, their prayers distorted and unnatural.

Four sets of pews, cloaked figures sat in the center rows, while those that could no longer move as normal folk stood, leaned or levitated. The congregation was enthralled in their chatter and paid us little mind. On the far wall, a statue of Dagoth Ur bore witness to the scene. At the podium, the most high, Assut. My eternal prey. In his place above all others, he delivered his doctrine by word of mind. He stood motionless, back turned to his crowd. There I stopped, a hand instinctively racing to secure my cap. I turned to my companions, intent to tell them what they would need to know, only to find them wall-eyed, mouths agape, their expressions that of horror or grief. The man shuddered in place, clutching his face as tears streamed. The woman merely shook her head as though she had water in her ears. I thought it too late for them.

The congregation fell silent for a moment then flew into an uproar of horrific cries. The cloaked humanoids, lowly members, they rushed to me with daggers or magic. No sooner had they left their bench, than did their ranks begin to thin. The black corridor shone like the heart of a storm. Some cowered at my might, fleeing to the far wall or trying to escape past me. I would have none of it. Assut himself played witness, his mouth like stone, yet I could hear him. From all sides he spoke. Idle conversation, propaganda, his mantras over and over. If not for the cap, he would have already filled my head with those memories that pain me. Cripple me without so much as lifting his finger. That is his way.

At times, he would project his form. A mere illusion. It did well to intimidate and draw ones attention. I never let it be long enough to find out what other capabilities it may have had. One bolt or swing of axe tended to dissipate it. It was a particular favorite of his. By the time I had passed the collapsed wall, none of the lowly remained. The true devout, the monsters, they sought me next. The hulking ones, bumbling and rumbling they fumbled to their deaths. Two by hammer and one to ash. In the heat of things, a stray bolt splintered the podium, yet Assut did not flinch. The creeping crept, the wise soared, and the most enlightened of them remained at their seats. Mouth pipes singing song no man should ever hear, content to watch those below them fall before they would dirty their own hands. Our newly realized similarities sickened me.

My hammer would tremor in my grip on occasion, Assut saw fit to wrestle it from me by magick. It had worked before, my hammer cast aside. But never again. With each attempt, my cap did chirp, a signal of the enchantments success. Should the cap fail, should my reserves fail, should he attempt to disarm me at such an end, I had affixed a rope to the handle to ensure that it would not go far regardless. The rope proved handy as I could drop the hammer to free both hands for spells, a simple thing I wished I had thought of decades ago. I blame this Nord mind of mine. Defective at birth. By the doorway, my allies made battle despite their affliction. Ambushed. They spoke to themselves and wept between the trading of blows. Trying as they might to overcome whatever tortures he was subjecting them to.

One after another, a meter at a time, I cleared the room. The most enlightened came to shuffle before me. From their snouts, foul magics. Confounding mists. It had worked before, in the confusion of those mists I had nearly fell. But never again. The cap purred on. They were powerless before me, mere distractions before the main event. The first met the flat of my hammer. The metal plating of its head chimed out like a bell, in sync with the pipe music of his companion. Assut manifested another massive visage between us. His illusory eyes like fire. I struck it with my hammer, dissipating it, then soared toward the final musician. I took a mouth pipe in my grasp and lifted that hollow head so as to face whatever humanity might be left in there. To look upon it and I cave it in. Another bell. Then, my attention went to Assut. He spoke again from all sides, but nowhere. Giving me one last chance to stop, one last chance to "join him in the likeness of His flesh."

The voices stopped when my hammer passed through his head. Like smoke, his form melted into the floor. I had been this far before, but then, like now, exhaustion had set in. I would make mistakes in my tiredness, and my prey would escape me. I thought this day different. Another illusory giant came to obscure my vision. I cast it aside by lightning then peered across the corridor. Again, I looked to my companions. They held well enough, though I could see the same weariness in their movements. It disheartened me in ways I had trouble understanding. At last I found him behind a pillar. My might crackled, echoing much like those bells. Another face to anger me, then another set of eyes in some corner.

It continued in this manner until out from behind a pillar, he slowly stepped, revealing himself rather than letting me find him. He held aloft a hand. From it, a red aura carried down the length of his arm, consuming all but his head. It swirled about him, leaving Daedric armor in its path. In his other hand, a marked black sword came into existence. In seconds, his blade met my axe and we found ourselves in actual battle. His frail appearance did well to hide his prowess. If not for the strength with which he struck at me, I would have thought it another illusion. He moved so oddly, his face as blank as always as he lunged or parried. As we danced, his voice continued to ring in my ears. Every time I forced an advantage, he would find some way to regain the lost ground.

His looming projections grew in size, number and frequency. I found myself spending more time dealing with them than partaking of the duel itself. They would swing at me bare-handed, mountainous blows thudding and ringing as they struck the floor. Others would push against me, or attempt to bind my arms. As the barrage of illusions carried on in his stead, his motions grew more sluggish, each strike more labored, less weighted.

That black sword gleamed past my head. A mistake. Wide open, I locked his arm and flung the both of us tumbling against the far wall. Scrambling to my feet, I felt a breeze atop my scalp. No sooner had I taken notice of the breeze, than had he found his way into my mind.

My vision blended and flowed like oil, painting the scenes that ailed me. I saw a world cast in shadow and far off lands aflame, naught by the tops of the mountains visible only as their silhouettes blocked the distant fire. In this nightmare, his orange fog, and beyond that, a road. At the beginning of that road, my life in passing. Happiness, short-lived. The murder of the guards. The path winded. The ridicule before the council. My hand tightened around the hammer. Every emotion, every thought, as though I were there. On the path came my first encounter with Assut, the first time I had succumbed to these very nightmares. Slowly the hammer rose.

Lette. She walked the long-years path behind me, dead at her feet. On her face, the marks of age no longer hidden. She sobbed, alone on that road as a great city lay behind her, engulfed in those same flames. His gravelly voice chimed and echoed, bellowed and whispered. It roared then drew to a close as the hammer found his head. The impact shattered the device on his forehead. Struggling as he might to find his feet, he backed against the shimmering face of his benefactor. I lifted the ever-heavier hammer, then brought it down upon him again. A gasp and a swear. His true voice. A thing I had not heard in all of our years. "In the end he speaks." I grumbled down to him.

His bound armor and sword melted into a fine powder below him, leaving robe in its place. The old man drew heavy breath as he watched the hammer rise again. Between us, a specter formed, prompting me to take a few steps back to deal with it. The form wavered, then dissipated before I could strike it. In desperation, his hands darted behind his back, in search of anything to save himself. His frail fingers found the gold of his god and at his touch, the statue vanished, revealing a long dark hall. He stood, staggering, turning to face the dark as the hammer found the back of his head. The new hall echoed, the chime of another bell. And with it, a trail of blood came to mark his path.

Ahead of me lay the end, I thought that certain. Behind me, I heard the cries of my allies. Waves of the abominations fell upon them, backing them into a corner. The man held them back with a wall of flame, faltering with every flicker. I secured my cap and diverted my gaze, as I had done so many times. "This is the end", I told myself. There would be no more chase. As Assut crawled, I walked, the pace of a snail. Content to let him suffer as long as need be. I gripped tight my hammer, visualizing how it would end.

The dark shuddered as I beheld a future I would make. A dream of my own. I could see myself atop the council platform, years from now. Shimmering robes draped over polished Daedric. In my place above all others, I delivered my doctrine. Below the council platform I saw Nords, Dunmer, Argonian, every folk from every corner. All were equal under my new Telvanni. Our power, my power, became our only defining trait. I had done away with false hope. There would be no others like Assut. I had abolished slavery and made amends with all of Argonia. Our people had rebuilt and rose from our calamities, all credit due to none other than I.

I saw them. Faces I had known. The ones that had condemned me, they looked up at me with eyes full of praise. Ten more steps. I held the hammer high, pouring myself into the metal. It reverberated and hummed, lighting the pathway. My eyes darted through the crowd. Face to face to face. My mother and father, long dead, yet they were there. My mother, a Nord slave no longer bound by chain. Father looked to me, knowing that every harsh word, every scar, every cane lash had been just and necessary. His abuse had brought me to great heights. Everyone that had ever mattered, in any way, no matter how inconsequential, they were there.

But she.

She was not there.

I was so close to him that I could hear his breath. Shallow, hastened, abnormal. Why would she not be there? Again I checked every face. Off to one side, all of those I had hired and led to their deaths. In their near-transparency, they still wore the armor or robes of their days. Cloth still marked by the trials I had put them through. Unlike the others, there was no joy on their faces. They looked upon me like an enemy. I felt a presence at my sides. Rippling figures. My allies who lay dying behind me as I daydreamed futures that I knew would never be. Weeping, howling, I spun around and soared across the vast hall. The remnants of that dream world washed itself from my eyes in a bout of brilliant glowing rage. The final cultists were wholly consumed. In those few moments, Assut vanished down that long hall. My mind was tangled and tied, I knew not what to think. Of myself or of the things that had brought me to that point.

I recall the soreness in my shoulder as I hoisted Dather atop it. Dather, ah yes, that was his name. The path ahead wound upwards at a steep angle for some way, then fed into the upper ruins by way of a hidden door. We were soon greeted by the sight of our Skyrender, a sight met by many a sigh of relief.

With the ruins and horrors behind us, we began tending to that leg wound. Dather had spent all of his reserves, and in my state I could do little more than close the surface wound. He would need proper healing once we were back on solid ground or once I had collected my thoughts. With our buzzing ascent, Mornsu opened up. Ah, that was her name. She had been quiet throughout the ordeal but had become a chatterbox. We shared many a laugh and tale. Histories, family, and those names I had so wished to hear. Friends? I supposed so. I had long since known such a thing. The day had taken its toll, and by nightfall, in those flimsy saddles, we all found some sort of rest. Or at least I hoped as much. Beneath my cap, I knew that my dreams would be my own, though I feared that theirs would never be the same. The night in the warehouse with Lette. That memory, that dream was my reward. I remember now.

The Skyrender traveled at a fine pace. In half the time of the previous journey, we were fast approaching our destination. I recall the sudden storm. Clouds, they swirled from horizon to horizon. We dropped below them, only to be met by another wall of cloud. Again and again, until we found ourselves entirely immersed in it. Storms raged, lightning as lively as my own. Near misses. Then a great flash. Utterly blinding. These memories, they are all in order now.

In those moments, as my eyes cowered in their sockets, I saw HIM in the clouds. His face, like the face of a mountain. I know not if it were an illusion or a trick of my mind, the failings of eyes long since expired. But there, I made another mistake. My palms screeched alight as I poured my entire being out my fingertips. Depleting the entirety of my magics, the sky shone far brighter still. A barrage of bolts in all directions and a beam straight ahead. My glory pierced true, dissipating and devouring the clouds, giving way to clear skies. A triumphant moment, if not for the distressed squeals of our Skyrender. I looked to a crippled and seared wing and saw what I had done. It chirped quickly, then slowly, then not at all. We descended, tumbling wildly and beyond all control. I had nothing more to give, there would be no levitation, no slowfall. A change of heart, new friends, it mattered not. The fall.

Darkness. Numbness. Then pain. I thought myself dead before the pain. I could not move, but my back and legs felt as though they had been taken from me entirely. Then came a sensation. A touch, small and delicate. I felt it against my chest, then another. Warm and comforting. With this sensation came a light. Then came another pair of sensations against my chest. These ones more weary, less warm. Just as comforting at first, but then pain. More pain than before. The light became green, a swampy complexion. It fluttered then departed, taking the new found pain with it. Slowly, I regained feeling of body.

Chill night air, a light sea breeze tickling my mustache. Too tired and groggy to open my eyes, I drifted in and out of awareness. I recalled hands upon my cheeks. Heavy, rough, cold. I recalled a tugging at my robe, gripping at my shoulders and beneath my arms. Struggling to lift the dead weight I had became. I recalled the weight of the world below my feet. How each step felt as though it would be my last. I recalled a shuffling of my skullcap, and my instinctual bark to leave it be. I struggled to form even those words, and for a time, uttered no more. Speaking, though involuntarily, seemed to bring me closer to my senses. A torrent of memories. A great fall, but not a death. My life in summary, as it were.

"Attention. Attention please. My time is limited."

In the dark before me, it folded and weaved, bringing form to the events that had brought me here. I could do little more than watch, feel, and listen.

I crossed my arms, leaning back against the door. The boss of my shield dug into the wood audibly. Not quite splintering but parting in it's wake. So shoddy, no doubt built by a Nord. Gazing about the room, I cleared my throat and spoke. As usual, my best attempt at an educated Dunmer accent and tone. I hadn't used my real voice in years. So many years. Thirty, maybe thirty five. This one comes out shrill, high pitched. Irritating to some I am certain, but no more irritating to me than that of any other Nord. I cannot bare to hear the real thing. Hearing it in my head is bad enough. My curse is nigh inescapable.

"Would anyone be interested in accompanying me to the work site? Mercenary work. The usual."

The bar chatter continued uninterrupted. I had spoken plenty loud enough to hear over the chiming of tankards. I lifted my skullcap and dug a finger along the back of my ear to tend to an ever-growing itch. This thing chafes, but it is more essential than words can describe.

"Anyone?"

Few heads turned. All of them too busy with their drink I imagined. I knew some of these people. The same ones here drinking their lives away every night. They could at least have the dignity of wine at home like civilized folk. Mead is the drink of beasts. Ah wine. Lette did enjoy her wine. I was a man of mead back then, but she swore by wine. A regretful chain of thought. My fists clenched, face grimaced, as I fought back the memories. I turned from the crowd to hide my shame. Why is the mind so cruel?

Cruel, yes. The room washed into shadow, it churned around me like a sea then fell away as another thought came to mind.

"Cruel and utter destruction of House Telvanni's already waning goodstanding in unsanctioned lands." A ridiculous claim. They had likely spent years just waiting for the opportunity to pin a petty charge on me, and I eventually gave it to them atop that silvered platter. For so long I had thought myself the change. I spent the better part of my adulthood trying to prove my worth, that we were all equals. I succeeded for a time, but things were not to be. In the end, my mother had so sorely cursed me with the body of a Nord, and in doing so, sealed my fate. Their reaction was all the proof that I needed. I had "no right to climb so high." It merely made the fall all the worse. Fate brought me to that despicable cesspit of a town and to the one who I would love, Lette. Golden days. Thrown-stones to pelt her window until she would answer, the secret nights and yearning days. In time, she came to carry my child, if rumors were to be believed. I did not get a chance to find out. The guards came for me with blade and magic. There were no words, only the roar of my lightning. No sooner did they lay in the dirt than did a whole platoon of guards round the corner. Rather than worsen the situation, I complied. I was then escorted back to Port Telvannis with threat that if I should ever return, they would end all business with House Telvanni. A mistake. It goes to say, that I never saw her or the supposed child again.

The council stripped me of all rank and made fool of me. As a mere Nord, I was "lucky to have gotten so far as I did". They thought to humiliate me then cast me aside. Yet I surprised them as I wept and asked for death. Their satisfied expressions melted away, leaving wide eyes and nervous hands. None would lift hand against me. They thought it a trick, that the room would crackle with my splendor if one so much as lifted a finger toward me. I saw fear in them. A fear unlike I had ever seen. Those closest to me advised me to take the demotion with grace, that I could work my way back to Magister in a matter of weeks. I could still be the change. Again, I complied. The political and societal climate of our lands were shifting in those days. Every House was involved in the relief efforts in one way or another. When things are bad, people of course seek out promises of a better way. A better life, salvation, miracles, what have you. It was ripe for that sort of business. From that day onward, I was instructed to tend to these growing cults rather than be simple errand-boy and flower gatherer as my new rank would normally dictate. They would send me out into the wilderness, to towns that law and society had forgotten. I was to make friends, learn what I could, then investigate. Stamp out these falsehoods. There was work to be done and reputation to restore. It kept me from dwelling on what I had lost, to some degree. Those same allies ensured me, "Soon".

Then came Assut.

It started near Necrom, rumors of monsters in the night, disappearances, nightmares, cryptic symbols and artifacts. Familiar yes? I saw fear in them. Fear unlike I had seen since that day. They sent their most expendable. My name was of course high on that list. A Dunmer miracle maker calling himself Assut had taken a following.

Where he went, things grew weird. Very weird. His red eyes in the night, above their bed, out of the corner of their eye. People knew of him, knew where he would show up next, but little else. "The dreams brought me to him." In those places, one might find their words, scrawled across walls in Daedric lettering. Ink black as the halls they wander.

"He will return" or "Do you know of Him?" seemed to be common phrases.

I met him that very day, in the depths of one of those tombs. Eyes burning like coals. A vampire or part of the illusion, I knew not. He got into my head. He knew my name, he knew everything about me. My every thought, my every intention. He twisted the memories that pain me and used them to taunt me. The fight was long, but he survived. He always did. I would travel to a new locale, only to find the same things, and at the end of the day, Assut. I took it personal, in ways. I feel as though he is one of the only reasons I am still here. A goal. His skillset came to be something of an obsession of mine. I strove to understand some of his powers and sought to counteract them. I fashioned a skullcap of Dwemer metal and enchanted it. As I learned more, I poured more of myself into it. By our sixth or seventh exchange, the skullcap gave me some degree of immunity to his tricks. Yet, as I gave years to my craft, he gave to his. He would make abomination of men and women alike. Affixing Dwemer appendages and sacks to their withering forms. His flock, ever growing, ever more terrifying to behold. Assut himself wore many a burn from my magics, his body scarred from head to toe. The "third eye" atop his head grew ever more advanced with each encounter. In our first meeting, he wore a blindfold and headband, then black face paint, then a knifewound presumably by his own hand, and most recently, some sort of Dwemer metal appendage in the center of his forehead. I would hire locals at each site, pit them against his monstrosities like stones thrown against a window to garner his answer.

His face faded, leaving only his eyes. I found myself wholebodied again, a growing chattering behind me. Here again. I turned back toward the bickering crowds and began.

"You will of course be compensated. I could put in good word with the House as well if that interests you."

A few Dunmer heads turned at mention of the House. Though still no takers. Nodding to those I knew, I made my way toward the center of the establishment. Speaking again.

"Regardless, I need assistance. Are any of you willing?"

An elderly Nord emerged from the crowd at the counter. He stood, weak-kneed, giving a wavering stare, arms crossed, a mug barely in his grasp.  A slurred "Ay", barely audible among the patron's chatter. Sorely drunk, he smacked his dry lips and stared on.

"Sit down, oaf. No Nords. Not this time. I want the job done. No pissing about with mead on my clock. This is important."

My head instinctively tilted skywards with the words. The pompous way was not always my way. It came to me... naturally over the years.

The man slammed his tankard onto the counter. I can't say I didn't expect such an outcome. It always happens. Wobbling, he staggered out of the crowd, shoving people out of his path.

"Watch ye mouth, wizard." He paused, squinting his eyes. "A Nord wizard, ay. Ain't that a sight."

A deep chuckle, his trembling hand smacking the back of a Dunmer seated beside him, forcing drink to spew from his mouth. Friends or acquaintances of this poor man, arms outstretched, attempted to block him. Pointless attempts to save him from making a further fool of himself. As if on cue. It always happens like this. Pointing a shakey finger across the room, he snarled. Lifting a fist. He took another awkward step in my direction. I lifted my right hand, finger tips glowing a brilliant violet.

"Sit down, have another drink. Gods know you want to."

At my final word he dug for a weapon along his waistband, prompting me to act. The once dark room now fully lit. The arcing caught him in the upper chest, my hand rose, lifting him gently. Fingers outstretched, the current swelled and fell as necessary. With the flash of light, the crowd erupted into gasps and awe. Chairs and tankards fell to the floor as guests backed against the wall. Taking shelter from my brilliance. He tried to speak but his muscles fired against him. His shirt crackled and sizzled at the point of impact. Just a moment longer, just enough to make a point. I dropped the spell, letting him fall to a knee. His allies knelt and comforted him, shaking their heads in embarrassment or perhaps in worry. They dared not look at me. I took a satchel from my belt and tossed it onto an empty spot on the counter.

"Get the man a room and drink. I do apologize for the disturbance, friend."

This was not the first and would likely not be the last of such disturbances. The barkeep knew this just as well as I. I had spent the last five years on this dreadful shore. I had been in here nearly every month seeking assistance. The help rarely survives the first week and word has a way of getting around fast. On the far end of the room, two motioning arms emerged from the crowd. A Dunmer woman, dressed as a mercenary of sorts. Iron armor, mohawk, a dim-witted looking lass. Across from her, a Dunmer man. A lowly Telvanni hireling from the look of him. I thought the mention of rank might have caught his attention.

"Sanbosm Tedalen, Telvanni. Do excuse the complexion. You seem capable sorts. Far more so than those other ruffians. Do you do mercenary work, by chance?"

As I spoke I looked at one and then the other. It seemed I had found some company for the evening. I gave them a few hours to get ready then met them at the Sky Render dock. We flew southeast, along the coast and then a little ways into the gulf of Vardenfell. Throughout the flight, my companions held tight, obviously unaccustomed to such travel.

That day soon passed and another rose. Across the waves, Red Mountain stood motionless and barren. Pillars of smoke still churning high above the clifftops. By the next morning we had arrived. An excavation site. Towers of brass, forgotten and rediscovered. I had already been here. The previous week. Through many a winding tunnel we went. Silent halls slowly overtaken by a growing murmur. We came upon a dark corridor. My companions of the last week fell here. Their bodies were gone. Dragged back into the depths I supposed. Scraps of metal, splatter of blood and distant chanting brought us deeper and deeper by the hour. My new companions wearily trudged behind me, unsure of what I had gotten them into, though I knew. At once the chanting stopped and we found ourselves surrounded by shuffling of robes and hushed voices. I lent the room some of my light and gripped tight my hammer as my companions made themselves just as ready for what would surely come. All around us, barely legible in the dim candlelight lay the words:

This once depressing hovel, though now cramped, had certainly grown warmer. The nightmares all but chased away by gleeful words, laughs, and occasional sobbing. Tear soaked shoulders abound, we talked of things. Things that were, and those yet to be. Many words. My reason for being here, and theirs. The town left in flames, brothers and sisters, her aunts and uncles left to their fates, the line of dead from here to there. My coldness shocked her. That Nord blood had mellowed her. I always expected as much and would honestly have it no other way. There is hardly a Dunmer there at all. She could not truly understand how, but she understood why. The children. My grandchildren. The mere thought of them likened my shriveled grey heart to an ever burning coals. They were so small, yet so familiar. The girl, Fannah. I said their names over and over again in my mind. She was the very image of my young daughter. Her mannerisms, her voice. Everything. The boy too, Fanar, though to a lesser extent. As we talked, they ransacked the room in search of sweets or playthings. Finding neither, they found themselves bouncing on the bed. The father. My son-in-law. A man of mysteries it seemed. I was just to call him "Snake" for now. He sat boldly in front of the fire pit, smoking his pipe. My daughter, her skin, clear and unblemished as mine once was, stood behind him. Her arms thrown about his neck. They would occasionally trade passionate glances, a thing I once knew. All but a memory now. I looked away, his face filling my mind. In this hour, in our merriment, there were times that he was not the center of my mind. I had urges to quit here, to take what I had found with me, or to go with them. The realization sickened me. How easily I could be swayed. In time, I came to accept it. That if I were to go with them, it would be temporary. A much needed respite before continuing my search. I could live with that, just a bit longer. I would hold him, if not today, then soon. In the end it mattered not, but I resided in those thoughts. Behind our voices, the streets outside had grown ever more crowded. Yarti would at times leave Snake's side and peek out the window with some concern. On more than one occasion, one of us had questioned what exactly was going on, yet none wanted to interrupt the reunion to check. It had finally began to calm down when came a frantic knock on our door and a fretful tone. "Is there a healer in there?"

We looked to each-other and then to the door. Yarti stood, tracing her hand down Snake's arm as she stepped forward. He rose behind her, his arms encircling the kids and ushering them to a quiet corner of the house. With my daughter at my side, I opened the door and stepped out into the faded light. The woman who had knocked on the door motioned toward us before darting across the street. The crowd had dispersed, revealing a crashed Sky Render just shy of it's platform. I took note of the sickening smell, something akin to Kwama innards. Against it's mangled abdomen, the townfolk had propped up it's presumed passengers. My failing eyesight made it difficult at first, but as we got closer I could make out the rest of the scene. A Dunmer man in Telvanni garb, certainly dead. Beside him, a Dunmer woman. A mercenary or something of the like, she wore cumbersome iron armor that had done little to save her. She looked as though she were crushed. Perhaps found under the mount. And lastly, an older Nord man. A pitiful weary old man. Clothed in a Telvanni robe and topped with a Dwemer skullcap of some make. Enchanted, heavily so if the shimmer was any indication. Beneath the cap, a handlebar mustache and worn pink paint covering half of a wrinkled face. His face. My legs gave way at the sight of him. My Sanbosm, haggard and aged beyond his years. I fell to one knee, gasping and clawing at the dirt before me. I thought my heart to explode. Yarti saw me go down. I think she knew, somehow. She nodded and continued toward him, hands aglow. Laying them upon his chest, his body consumed in her light. I found my footing and came to join her, eyes pouring like rain. My mind raced, hands joining hers, their glow paling in comparison. Sorrow, anger and regret, white magics flecked with green. I could do no good here, I would poison him. It was too much. I fell back on my knees while daughter carried on as best she could. My hands found his face, holding it between them. I peered into his wrinkled visage. He was alive but injured. Minutes felt like ages as his wounds were undone.

He was conscious, but did not speak or acknowledge us. We took him atop our shoulders and made way back to our room. Each of his pained grunts took my breath, making our passage more difficult. He was far too large a man to be carried by two Dunmer of our stature, but we managed by grace of Azura or whoever had brought me here. There were no words. Again, there could be none. These bones would be dust before I could say half of what need be said. We brought him in and tossed aside his heavy robe before hauling him to the bed. I wrapped my hands about his Dwemer skullcap and attempted to remove it, only to be met by a low snarl from his lips. Voice weak, matured, shrill, hateful. A voice quite unlike the one in my memories and dreams.

"Leave it."

He spoke no more, seemingly content to rest and recuperate, so we allowed it. We had time. Some hours into our endeavor, Snake disappeared, only to return with a Dunmer friend of his. Darfin I believe. We stood around the bed, a crowd of our own, yet the room lay silent. Yarti had came prepared and by nightfall, had laid out bedrolls for each of us. With that done, she devoted herself to a warm meal. Her cooking was special to me. I had never been one to cook, my meals had always been tended to by others. I did not teach her this. I taught her nothing. She made me proud. They all did. Even my Sanbosm. He had lived on without me. His body littered with scars, but ever so toned. He had been busy, active. He had done things these long years, made something of himself. While I withered away, solitary and sedentary. My creams and oils thrown aside, a face once clear as that of my child, now racked by the age I had so long hidden. My Sanbosm. He was a young man when I knew him. Bounding with energy, but now shriveled and bedridden. His hideous crone, clothes thick with rage and guilt, hovering above his would-be deathbed. Waiting and hoping. At once, his breath hastened, eyes fumbling in their sockets. He grunted and blinked, gazing through the gloss and matter, his wandering eyes found mine. His violet met my crimson. The end and beginning of this long overdo reunion.