EPILOGUE

He heard the wind howling, but could not fathom how or why he could not feel it on his flesh, or even where the noise was coming from. He wasn't even sure he was hearing the wind at all. All he was certain of was that every inch of his body felt like it had been bled and beaten—and nowhere did it feel worse than his face.

And then, the memories crashed down around him in an avalanche; he remembered the undead dragon, the true face of M'Alga, the spell, the light … the pain … and the last words of the Sload …

He … didn't kill me … ?

With a great effort, he tried to open his eyes—or one of them, at least. The right eye ached with a stabbing pain so intense that Grimnir could not even move the lid. He saw several moving shapes at the edge of what little vision he had; they looked human, but beyond that, he could make out nothing.

"Where … what … ?" His lips did not want to move, and so his first words came out very mumbled. He felt cloth rubbing against his lips and cheeks, and over every inch of his arms and chest—even his head, save for his eyes.

"Lie down, Arch-Mage." It took a long time for his stirring consciousness to place the voice: Colette Marence, the restoration instructor, gentle but firm, like a mother. "Don't try to move to quickly. You've been through a lot."

"The College … " Grimnir groaned. " … When?"

"You've been out for a whole week, my dear boy." Tolfdir, he knew immediately—no amount of pain or injury would ever make him forget that kindly old voice. "It took a whole day and a half for Onmund and the others to carry you to Falkreath—and another day and a half to cart you back here."

Grimnir blinked his left eye, and his vision suddenly came into focus; he was back inside his quarters at the College. Colette and Tolfdir were looming above him, while the faces of J'zargo, Brelyna and Onmund were hovering just behind them. All of them wore the same look of concern on their faces—no one seemed to be relieved that he had regained consciousness.

"What happened?" he finally managed to say—he'd never thought it would take so much effort just to string two words together.

"Direct hit from a lightning spell," Colette said. "We had your friends fill us in when they came back, and frankly, after what they told me, it's a wonder that blast didn't kill you. Second- and third-degree burns are difficult to heal, even with magic."

"The lightning spell was cast from a proxy to this M'Alga," added Tolfdir, "and that may be the only reason why that bolt wasn't as strong as it could have been. If he'd actually been there, right in front of you, then … oh, my boy … " He let the implications hang, and gave a shudder most unlike the normally unflappable Master Wizard.

Grimnir felt some of the pain leaving him as someone tipped a potion into his mouth—probably Colette, he thought, though he could not see her with his right eye still refusing to obey him.

"My eye … " he said. "Why can't I see out of this eye?"

Immediately all was quiet—and immediately Grimnir knew something was very wrong. Slowly, he raised a bandaged hand, ignoring the leaden feeling that suddenly pressed down on it from the shoulder to the fingers.

Onmund started. "Grimnir, don't—"

But the Arch-Mage sat up, and everyone present took a step backward. "Why can't I see?!" Grimnir demanded, raising his voice, noticing it felt much more scratchy than usual. "Answer me!"

But no one answered him … and only a few moments later, as he raised his fingers to his brow with difficulty, Grimnir found out why—and he needed no sensation in his arm at all to realize what had happened.

Where there should have been an eyelid, there was only an empty space that stretched deep into the skull. Blackened flesh lined the rim of the hole; Grimnir felt his finger brush it for only a moment, and the pain that flared up was so intense that he had to bite his lip until the blood flowed in order to stave it off.

But for once, the pain was merely an afterthought for Grimnir Torn-Skull as he slowly realized that he'd lost an eye.

"I'm so sorry, Arch-Mage." Brelyna looked close to tears, and her voice was much higher than normal. "Colette was only able to seal up the scar tissue, and even then … " She swallowed, and averted her gaze from Grimnir's own. "Even the priests of Kynareth could never have fully healed an injury like that. I'm so very sorry."

Onmund did not speak. His face had gone the grayish-white of half-melted slush, and all the spark that had hitherto been in the young Nord's eyes was nowhere to be found. He looked utterly woebegone—and J'zargo didn't look much better

The Khajiit pressed something into Grimnir's lap. "Here, friend," he purred, "though I fear this face is not quite so handsome as yours."

Grimnir's bandaged fingers felt the cold edges of the object, and he realized what it was: Morokei.

Without a second thought, he covered his mutilated face with the moonstone mask, and immediately felt its ancient magic wash over him. The pain was dulled almost instantly, but it did not disappear; the ravaged eye socket felt as though someone was still scraping around inside it with a very blunt needle.

"Damn it," he growled, cursing the Sload who had caused the world so much grief, and him so much harm, with every breath he took. M'Alga had lured him into a false sense of security, he now realized; by answering those questions, Grimnir had let his guard down. Confident that his friends would even the odds, he had now realized that was simply not true. M'Alga had no intention of fighting them at all—he'd been toying with them from the start.

Damn it, he continued to swear. Damn it. Damn it!

"There was nothing we could have done against him," Brelyna said again, tentatively. "None of us were about to take M'Alga on when we saw him cut you down the way he did. J'zargo didn't even see him flinch—he knew what he was doing when he did this to you. We made a decision to get you out of there as quickly as we could—you were more important to us than the Sload."

"Not like he gave us any chance to strike back anyway," added Onmund sullenly. "The moment he cast that lightning, he started turning back into that ash pile from that dragon. He was gone before you hit the ground."

A sudden noise caught Grimnir's attention, far off to his right, beyond the range of his vision: footfalls, heavy and armoured. Everyone else looked up, and suddenly rose to their feet—even Tolfdir and Colette. The looks in their eyes had morphed from concern to surprise in a matter of moments.

The footfalls stopped, and then, a voice—one that Grimnir had only heard once before in his life—but was etched into his mind because of how recently he had heard it, and more importantly, what had happened at that time.

"Solitude has fallen," declared Varulf Blackmane, Stormblade to Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak, and Harbinger of the Companions. "General Tullius is dead. Skyrim is free."

The world seemed to grow silent as the last words fell from his mouth; no one dared speak a word.

Grimnir felt a sudden, strange emptiness spreading throughout his insides. He had completely forgotten about the civil war; he'd even seen the armies marching west to Solitude as they flew on Odahviing in pursuit of M'Alga. But the battle atop Ancient's Ascent had eclipsed it completely.

And now, it was over. The war was over.

Finally, after a long time, the Arch-Mage cleared his throat. "Leave us," he said, his vocal cords unable to say the words in anything else besides a gruff bark. "All of you—go now."

Why he had suddenly decided to say the words, Grimnir had no idea. But the mages rose to obey his command all the same—though Brelyna and the others lingered behind for several long seconds before disappearing down the hallway, leaving the two Nords behind to talk.

Neither Grimnir nor Varulf broke the silence between them for some time. The Arch-Mage, from his supine position on the bed, could a sliver of the Stormcloak elite out of Morokei; Varulf looked badly scratched in places, and his armor sported several new dents and tears. But Grimnir still envied him for at least being able to stand on his own two feet.

"Jarl Ulfric and I wanted to thank you, for what you did for him," the Harbinger finally said. "You never stayed long enough, though."

"Pressing engagements," grunted the Arch-Mage. His voice sounded so much stranger through Morokei's mask—it was like he was hearing a whole different person talk. "I'm sure a man of his stature could understand."

"Ah, yes. The Dragonborn goes only where he is needed, is that right?" There was an unusual tone in Varulf's words; they almost sounded distasteful, mocking. "But who dictates that, I wonder? Do only the gods see fit to guide you through your life, Arch-Mage?"

Grimnir sighed—of course that was why he sounded so bitter. "Don't start this again with me, Varulf," he grumbled. "There was a reason I turned down your invitation to fight the Empire."

"Oh? And what was that?"

The Arch-Mage paused. He had told the same thing before to the envoys that had arrived on his doorstep, asking him time and again if he would fight under their banner. All of them had used the same argument, and so all of them had received the same rebuttal. But Varulf was much different from any Stormcloak Grimnir had yet encountered—the zeal was there, the patriotic fervor that every so-called son or daughter of Skyrim possessed—but there was something else there, deep inside his bloodshot eyes … something different … and he could not fathom what it might be.

… seems to think that having one faction's allegiance will help spread the word throughout the province …

And Grimnir understood. The Harbinger of the Companions wasn't simply fighting for the Stormcloaks—or even for Skyrim. He was fighting for something far more abstract than home and country … but far more powerful.

Dah ro fus, the rumbling voice of Odahviing now echoed in his mind. It is in your nature to change the balance of the forces in this world, for better or worse.

The language of the dragons, as Grimnir knew, carried many layers of allegory and symbolism; even a master translator would have difficulty understanding all of those layers. Even Grimnir, though he knew those Words to mean "push," "balance," and "force," respectively—indeed, he could even Shout them all, though in a different order. But he had never truly understood the words behind the Words .

Until now.

When he looked back on it later, Grimnir would come to think that this moment had been some kind of divine intervention—though for good or evil, he could not yet say. He did not feel as if his actions were his own—though with the state of his body, it was impossible to tell for sure.

But somehow, he now knew what he needed to say—what he needed to do.

"Dah ro fus," the Arch-Mage eventually responded.

"Hmm?" Varulf leaned forward, evidently not expecting this answer.

"Dah ro fus," Grimnir said again. "I push at the balance of force—be it to bring order to chaos, or the other way round. I chose not to take sides because I knew that no matter who I sided with—Ulfric or Tullius—it wouldn't matter. They wouldn't be the ones to seize victory—I would. I was afraid that if I threw my hood in the ring, then I would be sealing the doom of either you or the Empire. I didn't want to bring that doom down upon anyone."

Varulf looked perplexed—not an easy accomplishment for a man wearing the armor he was. "What do you mean?"

Grimnir sighed again. "I hoped things wouldn't have to come to this, Varulf … but now I have no other choice."

He pointed his free hand downwards at the floor. "Go to the Arcanaeum downstairs, and tell the Orc in charge that I want the book he saw me reading last week. Tell him those exact words. He'll know what it means."

The Harbinger frowned, but nodded sympathetically. "Of course. I can understand if you want something to pass the time while you recover, but I'd like to know why—"

"The book's not for me," Grimnir interrupted. "It's for you." He raised a hand before the shocked Stormblade could interject. "I want you to read that book, Varulf—and I want you to keep on reading it until you know every word by heart, until the ink of every letter is burned into your mind. I hope you will find it in you to do what you think is right from there."

By now, Varulf looked scared out of his mind. "What are you talking about?" he cried. "What do you mean?!"

Grimnir only spoke three Words. "Dah ro fus."

Varulf drew back, clearly perturbed, and Grimnir instinctively knew the Harbinger had been listening; he too understood the meaning behind the Words—or at least one of their meanings. Though neither of them would know how those three little Words would come to shape Skyrim in the years to come, there was a very small part of Grimnir's mind that was beginning to wonder if he might indeed be changing the world as he knew it, just by lying down on this bed, and speaking the words he had to the warrior by his side.

Varulf bit his lip as if to say something, but evidently thought better of it, and left his quarters without a word. Grimnir watched him leave until the Stormblade had left his gaze, then fell back into his bed with a soft whoomph.

"That was well handled," said a voice, airy as Colovian brandy and twice as refined. "It isn't every era that the world has to be saved so often."

Grimnir knew that voice, too—but was too occupied with his wounds and his words to be startled by the fact that its owner had appeared quite literally out of nowhere. That wasn't to say he was surprised by this unexpected visitor—in hindsight, given recent events, he should have expected him to appear much sooner.

"Not that I'm not happy to see you," he grunted, "but what are you doing here?"

Quaranir hovered into his vision, his footsteps not making a sound as he stopped directly in front of Grimnir's bed. "I wished to personally convey the Psijic Order's deepest regrets for your current state," the monk said solemnly, "and our best wishes that you may recover in due time to combat the rising threat of … "

But Quaranir cleared his throat here with a little cough, and did not finish his sentence. " … Yes, well," he continued, as though nothing had happened, Loremaster Nerien also sent me to bring you a warning."

Grimnir stared back with his single eye. "I'm listening."

"Perhaps you are not yet aware how Tamriel at large might react in the event they were to … discover the extent of Celeralmo's actions," the Psijic said. "Collaborating with Sload and necromancers, for instance. Such things are abhorred by the Thalmor. If the world were to find out what the Dominion had done … "

Only a last-second flare of pain kept Grimnir from sitting bolt upright in alarm. "You're suggesting we break the news?" he rasped. "That'd be a prelude to war!"

That was no exaggeration, he knew. The Thalmor might be the majority opinion in the Summerset Isles, but Grimnir was certain there had to be some form of opposition—underground or otherwise. And this wasn't counting their protectorates of Valenwood and Elsweyr, either—the Khajiiti criminal organization called the Renrijra Krin was even openly opposed to the Thalmor's regime, last he had heard. Finally, Hammerfell and Skyrim—who had both been in opposition to the Empire's capitulation to the Dominion in the White-Gold Concordat, would definitely not take this lying down. Even the remnants of the Empire would undoubtedly consider this an unconscionable action.

Quaranir nodded. "A war which, I regret to say, is not one that your world is ready to win as it is now," he said. "There is still much to be done before the conflict to come rears its head—and even you will not be able to make it all possible yourself. But rest assured, you and I—and Celeralmo, though he does not yet know it—have already set the wheels in motion."

It was Grimnir's turn to feel confused. "You and … what are you talking about?" he asked, though something in the Psijic's tone told him he was not going to like the answer. "Out with it—what did you do?!"

Alinor

Earlier that week

"Damn that obese little maggot!"

If one word could describe the scene in the office of the Highest and Most Eminent Justiciar of the Third Aldmeri Dominion at this moment, it would have to be tense. That said, the two high elves that currently occupied that office were each feeling tense for equally different reasons.

Melanwe looked as though she had been to the Quagmire and back. The moment Celeralmo had interrogated the survivors of her ill-fated expedition into the cave where His Eminence had been holding M'Alga, and discovered the Sload had somehow not only bypassed, but nullified all the defenses and wards the Mages' Guild had laid into it, Celeralmo had immediately stripped her of her Justiciar rank and shouted at her for roughly an hour before ordering her to prepare him a fresh pitcher of Isgareth nectar.

That pitcher now sat on Celeralmo's desk, where it was still wobbling slightly; the High Justiciar had slammed his fists on the furniture in a fit of such unexpected—some might even have said un-Altmerish—violence that it had nearly toppled over the edge and spilled its invaluable contents onto the floor—and no doubt Melanwe would have been in even more trouble then.

As for her, she too sat in the office, directly in front of Celeralmo's desk as her superior paced back and forth along the window—just another one of his attendants. A glorified servant girl—again. But Melanwe was too terrified to care that her gaffe had cost her a promising career opportunity, and most likely her parents' standing with the Sunhold nobility. Celeralmo had been so enraged at the news that she was lucky to still have her neck—and luckier still to have avoided prison or reeducation.

"I knew he was a snake, and I still let him bite me!" fumed the High Justiciar now. He gave a long, suffering sigh, then abruptly turned to Melanwe as if he'd just now noticed she was here. "Well, go on, then! Speak your piece and begone!"

Not wanting to waste any more time than was necessary to be in the same room with an exceptionally angry Altmer, Melanwe began speaking immediately. "The Harbormaster has just reported back, Your Eminence. No ships arriving from the west have been sighted alongside the coast since the embargo you issued last week. If he left for Thras, it wasn't by boat."

"And the caves beneath Alinor have already been scoured, no trace was found, and so on and so on," snorted Celeralmo imperiously. "Tell me something I don't already know. You have suffered enough consequences for your failure in the cave, Melanwe. Do not presume to disappoint me again."

"Now," the Altmer said, finally returning to his seat, "if you have no good news to deliver to me today, I suggest you get out of my sight before you come to regret it."

Melanwe had dashed from her seat before Celeralmo had finished his sentence, without so much as a "Yes, Your Eminence." She was too relieved to care that she'd committed a faux pas of Altmer propriety—so much so, in fact, that only at the last possible moment did she avoid colliding with the runner that had suddenly burst into the office.

"High Justiciar!" the teenaged elf cried breathlessly, not even looking at a red-faced Melanwe as she bustled through the doorway. "From Skyrim—it appears to be the Arch-Mage of Winterhold!"

He carried a tiny scroll that Celeralmo telekinetically snatched from his grasp before he'd even skidded to a halt. The messenger, evidently just now noticing the dark look on his face, saluted to the High Justiciar, and then strode from the room at a near sprint without a word, or any further response.

Celeralmo wasted no time in drawing a blade across the ribbon that bound the scroll, slicing it open with hardly a sound. His eyes alighted upon the words on the parchment—three lines, each a simple sentence, but with each one he read, the High Justiciar's eyes grew narrower and colder:

We know what you are doing.

We will be watching you.

And we will be ready.

His nostrils flared as the last word was burned into his mind, and Celeralmo felt his free hand harden into a fist so tightly that his knuckles were white in seconds.

"Leave me," he growled at the half-dozen Altmer that constantly guarded his office around the clock. "All of you—get out, now!"

By all rights, especially considering Celeralmo's rising temper, the guards were well within their rights to have made a mad dash for the door like Melanwe or the messenger boy. But none of them had been singled out like she had, and they were more familiar with the darker moods of their charge than most in the Dominion. And so, with a crisp salute, they marched out single-file through the door, and closed it with a quiet snap.

The High Justiciar walked to the window of his office with an eerie calm that did not suit his mood at all. While he was not given to fits of rage—proper Altmer were more composed than that, after all; they did not behave like beasts and bloodthirsty savages—that did not mean the temptation hadn't entered his mind in the past, just as it was now. Only a faint note of pride kept him from losing his temper again; the plan he had set in motion had not been a complete failure, after all.

Celeralmo wondered how the College of Winterhold would react if he came to discover that those necromancers were by no means adored in Alinor any more than in other parts of the civilized world. It was perhaps the one thing he would admit to having in common with their Arch-Mage, whom he had heard so much about following his very rude astral projection right in front of his desk—they both hated the Order of the Black Worm. But where the Nords of Skyrim, brutish as always, were determined to wipe them out without a second thought, Celeralmo had planned to accomplish the same thing—but in a far more subtle way, and with much more welcome results.

The plan had started off so simply—send one of his most trusted and accomplished agents in Ancano to Winterhold, under the pretense of acting as an advisor to the Arch-Mage there—but given secret orders to shadow the day-to-day routine of everyone there, inform Celeralmo directly of any unusual artifacts uncovered by the College—and to await further instructions pending further developments abroad.

Said developments had commenced the moment Celeralmo had secretly sent envoys to the isles of Thras in the preceding year; he had heard of the mastery of the subject of necromancy in that far-off place, and was determined to discover more. While he abhorred the practice on principle, Celeralmo nevertheless held a grudging admiration for anyone who was exceptionally proficient at it. Mannimarco was a universally reviled figure, but that did not stop a considerable few from constantly naming him among the most powerful and famous of mages to ever have lived—which, in fairness, wasn't wrong by any means. Moreover, Celeralmo was well aware of the old proverb: to defeat an enemy, one must first know his enemy.

At length, the envoys had returned back to Alinor sooner than he expected, and his plan bore an unexpected amount of fruit—not only had they proved beyond a shadow of a doubt that the necromantic powers of the Sload were unmatched in all the world, but they had brought an actual, living Sload with them. Of course, Celeralmo had no intention of meeting him face to face, as he preferred not to become too attached in one of his means to an end—but even so, when he had heard this, he immediately sensed that he had the potential to accomplish a great many things.

By that time, Ancano had responded with several updates, several of them detailing an artifact he claimed with certainty to be the fabled "Eye of Magnus." And even as his agent mentioned tales of the Psijic Order becoming personally involved—to say nothing of a novice beginning to sniff around in places he ought not be—again Celeralmo felt the winds of fate shifting in his favor. Here he had an opportunity to eradicate perhaps the greatest opponent to his plan in one fell swoop—but a third and final unexpected windfall brought Celeralmo to ultimately act sooner than he would have believed.

No sooner had their Sload, who called himself M'Alga the Grub, been taken in absolute secrecy to the caves beneath Alinor than he proved to be a goldmine of information—and more importantly, an ally who was even willing to assist Celeralmo without the High Justiciar having to get his hands dirty.

And yet …

Perhaps, the High Justiciar thought now, as he stared at the shimmering skyline of the Dominion capital, this was where the wheels of the cart had begun to wobble. Ancano's reports were growing more worrisome—and the Stormcloak uprising was beginning to destabilize once more, after the all-too-brief peace manufactured by the Dragonborn. This had put the Dominion's own plans in jeopardy, as they recognized the Empire and Skyrim alike as two forces with the potential to challenge them, and knew they had to be weakened from within sufficiently enough to render their military might negligible—and Celeralmo, damn him, had no idea how to fix it.

So it was that, in a stroke of inspirational genius, he had decided to make M'Alga solve it for him.

In hindsight, he thought, the Sload had been almost too willing to assist him. M'Alga had claimed that a sect of necromancers yet survived in Skyrim, and that they would provide the perfect means to carry out a creation they had previously discussed: a monstrous, invincible fighter, with the characteristics and strengths of every sentient race in Tamriel—and with none of their weaknesses.

Celeralmo wasted no time in contacting Ancano to verify these claims—investigate, but do not engage, he had made clear in his letter—and then ordering the Sload to make any preparations he needed in order to fashion a fighting force of these creations. But here, for once, M'Alga had been adamant; he had refused to make any more than one of them. His reasoning had been sound, Celeralmo had admitted—not only did the process consume precious time and resources that the Dominion needed, but also that a single one of them would provide a better testing subject than, say, a thousand.

But the High Justiciar was not deterred; indeed, only a slight adjustment in this phase of the plan had made it to both their suiting. And Ancano's subsequent response had been so perfectly timed that Celeralmo suspected divine intervention: the Thalmor agent had found a "nest of worms" in several caves not far from Winterhold.

Celeralmo knew then and there the time was now to act. He instructed M'Alga to relay instructions to the sects of necromancers Ancano had identified—and he contacted the agent with what would be his final letter, and ordered him to carry out his secret orders.

And yet …

He knew what happened next, despite not hearing any news of it for some time. Ancano killed Savos Aren—and then, not one week afterwards, the novice from before killed Ancano, and became Arch-Mage in Savos' place.

The timing could not have been worse—especially with the Stormcloaks sacking a vital city in Skyrim. If the wheels were not beginning to come off already, they certainly had started then. But Celeralmo was determined to press on, and he ordered M'Alga to target certain persons in Skyrim with the living weapon he was responsible for making and guiding—the two main players in the Civil War, for instance: Jarl Elisif and Jarl Ulfric.

At first, the reports were promising. M'Alga's weapon singlehandedly brought the city of Morthal to near-total destruction, and murdered a respected Jarl as well. But then the Dragonborn began to interfere—everywhere M'Alga struck, he was there to intercept him. And to make matters more irksome, M'Alga was not returning his letters—and only too late did Celeralmo realize what was going on: the Sload wasn't just going off the script, but he had had no intention of assisting the Dominion at all.

The entire plan to create a living weapon had been a ruse to further the Sload's own plans—M'Alga had only told Celeralmo enough that the Altmer had foolishly believed their goals were one and the same. The Sload had deliberately withheld information from him, and disobeyed direct orders from his master. And in the span of a week, Celeralmo had seen everything he had planned come crashing down around him—M'Alga fleeing his cave, Melanwe's debacle in said cave … and the Sload's greatest weapon destroyed by the hated Dragonborn.

And yet …

Through all this failure, Celeralmo knew there was at least one part of his plan that still had some chance of success. He was well aware that M'Alga's assaults on the major cities in Skyrim, while ultimately ineffective, had still been responsible for much death and destruction—enough so that the world at large might take notice, and devote itself to stamping out the hated Worm once and for all.

The battle would not be easy, he knew. Though Celeralmo was already mentally writing a speech in his head that would endorse all efforts to rid the earth of the Order of the Black Worm—and deflect any suspicion from any skeptics who might suspect foul play in the process—the High Justiciar was well aware of the strength those necromancers possessed. Every military force in the nation would be so devoted to fighting them that either a victory or a loss against them would leave them completely exhausted. Vulnerable. It was not unlike the scenario that the Thalmor had envisioned in Skyrim, only applied on a much wider scale—a scale that, if balanced the right way, would give Alinor the dominant military force in Tamriel, and give the Dominion free will to carry out any plans they desired. Though the risk was high, the payoffs would be unimaginable.

And yet …

There was a reason why Celeralmo did not like to gamble. He wanted to have a plan for everything to make sure the Thalmor became the dominant force throughout the land. But sometimes, even the best-laid plans could be undone by a mere moment of chance—and the Dragonborn had certainly been more than just a mere moment.

He was going to be a problem, Celeralmo knew. Perhaps it was time the Dominion address him directly.

The high elf moved towards a bell he kept on his desk to summon whoever was outside his door—any one of the guards outside would suffice. He rang it—and before the echoes had dissipated from the office, one such guard had presented himself before his desk.

"Yes, Your Eminence?"

Celeralmo's blue eyes locked on the guard's amber stare. "I want all Emissary-level operatives in our intelligence division before my desk within the hour. I want no excuses and no exceptions—and you may tell them their lives and positions are forfeit if even one of them does not show by precisely the appointed time."

"Immediately, Your Eminence." The armored elf saluted. "Will that be all?"

Celeralmo considered this for precisely one silent second. "I will need to see the Archmagus at his earliest convenience. There are some questions of a … sensitive nature I wish to discuss with him. That will be all."

The guard bowed stiffly, and disappeared from the room, once again leaving Celeralmo alone.

At length, the High Justiciar sat back down upon his desk, and unlocked a drawer where he kept his more unsavory documentation. Currently, the only such papers in this drawer were all bound in a plain folio of black cured leather with gold lettering in the center. The letters were far from flowing, thin, and beautiful, as would normally befit Altmer culture—but the large, capital letters of the printed words served to further convey an undisputable message:

THE DOCUMENTS HEREIN HAVE BEEN DESIGNATED LEVEL BLACK BY DOMINION INTELLIGENCE.

ANY UNAUTHORIZED POSSESSION OR DISSEMINATION OF THIS MATERIAL WILL BE CONSIDERED GROUNDS FOR TREASON AGAINST THE ALDMERI DOMINION.

Celeralmo, of course, was more than authorized—he was the one who had issued the order to classify them in the first place. Wary of dissenters who might go to extraordinary measures to explain his rationale—and in so doing could uncover one of the Dominion's uglier secrets—he had pushed the intelligence division to seal up every shred of information they possessed on Ancano and M'Alga. From there, a representative of the Mages Guild would take charge of the documents—and destroy them posthaste. No mess, no fuss … and especially no loose ends.

Yet there was one more loose end that needed to be addressed—and Celeralmo would be damned by the Eight if he let the latest political developments in Skyrim keep him from tying it up.

He reached in another drawer for his best quill and a fresh bottle of ink, and then for a fresh sheaf of parchment. The High Justiciar had called the senior operatives of Dominion intelligence here today for a very specific reason—they were to concentrate all otherwise unnecessary effort on hunting down a very specific person.

He took a quick draught of Isgareth nectar, wiped his lips, and began to write:

FOR IMMEDIATE DISTRIBUTION (EMISSARY-LEVEL)

CLASSIFIED DOCUMENT – INTERNAL USE ONLY

SUBJECT: GRIMNIR TORN-SKULL (TARGET ONE)

And below that, in slightly smaller letters:

Status: Active (Hostile, Exterminate on Sight), Highest Priority, Regent-level Approval

Winterhold

Several more weeks had passed by the time Colette Marence judged Grimnir healed enough to leave his bed. The month was about to draw to a close; the beginning of spring was on the horizon—the time of healing that followed the long, brutal struggle of winter. Whiterun and Solitude were rebuilding the damage they suffered even now, and Skyrim was indeed beginning to heal after the civil war that had ravaged the land—but it would take time before both the cities and the province had returned to their old strength.

Even Grimnir was healing—just not as well or as quickly as he would have preferred. He grimaced as he gingerly put down his foot, steadying his legs on the simple cane. The aid was only for the time being, fortunately, but Colette had insisted that he use it; in her words, the injuries that Grimnir had suffered on Ancient's Ascent even before the reveal of M'Alga had been "quite enough damage in one man's lifetime."

The Arch-Mage limped over to a polished mirror in his quarters, gazing sadly at the face that stared back at him. He had never been too proud about his appearance in the first place; his blond hair could have been found on every other Nord in the province, along with his blue eyes. But as the old saying went, you never knew what you had until it was lost forever—and as he pulled down the mask he wore, the face he must now show to the world, Grimnir found himself longing for the face he'd had until only recently.

He had never cared for looking the part of a hero—actions spoke louder than even his Words. Nevertheless, he was beginning to believe that most people in Skyrim—and many more hereafter, he was beginning to suspect—would be needing to put a face to the legendary hero they knew him to be. What Grimnir had seen in the mirror that day—the bald, shredded skin, scarred, blackened flesh, and single blue eye that now lay under the mask of Morokei—would never be accepted as the face of a hero.

For now, this—the mask of an enemy—would have to do.

And Grimnir knew by now the Thalmor would make an enemy out of him yet. He had not approved of how Quaranir had circumvented authority, and forged that letter to the High Justiciar himself to make it appear as though it had been from Grimnir's own hand. But he knew it was pointless to argue—the Psijics, after all, had assisted him invaluably once before, and they were better placed than he to observe the affairs unfolding in Alinor. And at any rate, Quaranir had also left Winterhold without either word or sound before the Arch-Mage could discuss the point.

He hobbled out of his study, thinking he ought to stretch his recovering legs outside. It was very slow work, especially as he descended the spiral stairs that led up to his quarters. Grimnir prayed to Kynareth that he would make a speedy recovery—not simply for his own sake, but for the rest of the world. He knew full well the threat that lay beyond the horizon—of Celeralmo, of M'Alga the Grub, and a revitalized Order of the Black Worm.

And this prophecy—the one M'Alga had spoken of. It sounded as though it was related to the symbolic pictures the Akaviri of old had inscribed in Sky Haven Temple—the return of the dragons, of Alduin, and of the Dragonborn … and the climactic battle that had taken place between them, at the end of the world. Grimnir could not for the life of him wonder why the Sload was interested in such a thing, or how had he had come to possess the knowledge of either them or the Elder Scrolls in the first place.

But they could wait. Though this so-called prophecy certainly bore investigating—and the first chance Grimnir got, he would be doing precisely that—at the moment there was another threat that needed to be dealt with first. A closer and more convenient one by far, to be sure, yet by no means less pressing than necromancers and Thalmor, or Sload and Scrolls.

"Solstheim?" Brelyna Maryon repeated.

The Arch-Mage's path had taken him along the Arcanaeum, where the Dunmer had spotted him from a table laden with books. She'd cleared a space and appropriated an extra chair so Grimnir could sit with her; grateful for a respite, he'd obeyed. The two had sat there talking for some time, about the implications of M'Alga's brief visit, and what it might mean for the rest of the world in the years to come. Inevitably, though, the subject had strayed onto the three strange Dunmer they'd met on the way to Windhelm, their denouncing of Grimnir as a false Dragonborn … and that name, Miraak.

"Someone over there knows who I am, Brelyna," Grimnir said to her, having explained his intent to venture there and discover everything he could about the Miraak behind the attempt on his life. "Someone on that island wants me dead. It's only reasonable I find out more about that person—who he is, and how he knows what he knows."

"But now, though?" asked the dark elf. "You're in no shape to be fighting anyone, Grimnir."

"I'm healing faster than I thought—probably the dragon in me. I don't see myself needing this cane by the end of the week." He cast a dispassionate look at the walking stick in his lap, though the effect was lost on account of the impassive mask that covered his eye.

"Your legs and your back are one thing," Brelyna said, lowering her voice so no one could hear—Tolfdir had done his best to limit the full extent of Grimnir's injuries to the senior staff at Winterhold, and to Grimnir's closest of confidants. "But your senses—especially where your sight's concerned—are another story. You're going to be living with a massive blind spot for the rest of your life. You'll have to learn how to do everything you've ever learned about battle all over again."

Grimnir sighed, running a hand over Morokei. "Then I guess I'd better get started," he said. "I can start learning as soon as we board the Northern Maiden. I just hope it's still docked there after the last time we were in Windhelm."

Brelyna was eyeing him with a sad sort of resignation. "I knew it'd be a miracle if I could talk you out of it," she sighed. "But I just didn't want you to think I didn't have your own health in mind. I can't promise I'll be around to watch your back over there—but maybe you can take the chance to visit me from time to time."

There was a distinct lack of J'zargo and Onmund in her words, Grimnir thought with a frown. "It's a long way to Solstheim," he said, "and somehow I don't think I'll be able to charter my own personal boat just to get back to the College and visit you all—especially not if Miraak turns out to be one more threat to the world for me to deal with."

The dark elf's expression became sadder, and more resigned still, and Grimnir knew then that something was off. "All right, Brelyna—what's going on here? You're starting to look like you're writing my own eulogy."

Brelyna chewed her tongue for some time, and when she next spoke, each word she spoke sounded as though it was on tenterhooks—like she'd was about to deliver some bad news.

"I wanted to talk about it with you before, but then … " She stopped, cleared her throat—Grimnir wondered if she was reluctant to bring up the subject of M'Alga—and spoke again, more clearly this time. "Tolfdir sent me a letter. From Drevis, shortly before you left for Mzulft. He's offered to assist House Redoran with the rebuilding efforts in Morrowind.

Grimnir remembered his talk with the Master Wizard, after they'd arrived from Windhelm; now he thought back on it, Tolfdir had indeed mentioned some kind of letter from the illusion instructor. He looked at Brelyna, and sensed that this piece of information was something she'd wanted to talk about for some time—perhaps ever since the letter had arrived. Recent events, however, had dispelled all thought of the correspondence from everyone's mind.

"And?" was all the Arch-Mage eventually said.

"I replied back to him," said Brelyna, "while Colette was healing your injuries." Her words took on a more guilty tone; she wasn't looking Grimnir in the eye, either, which was a big tell to him. "And I might have … insinuated that you were planning to go to Solstheim at some point in the near future. He'd like me to come with you."

Grimnir's loud sigh came as a metallic hissing noise through the carved mouth of Morokei. "Brelyna, I appreciate the thought, but neither of us knows what's out there. Especially after … " He did not want to say M'Alga's name.

The Dunmer, however, waved him off. "I wasn't implying that," she said airily. Her voice was much more composed than before; perhaps Grimnir's reaction to her news had been better than what she'd been expecting. "Drevis reckons it's high time I studied under a real Telvanni. There's a Master who lives on the island, name of Neloth, that he'd work alongside every so often. The arrangements have already been made."

The Arch-Mage listened to his friend with a sinking feeling. He'd known Brelyna had come from mages' stock—she often joked that her family had applied her for every Mages' Guild in the east the day she'd been born. But being a part of House Telvanni had left her with a lot to live up to—and though she was an exemplary mage by any description, Grimnir had known deep inside him that sooner or later, the College would have nothing left to teach her, and she would have no reason to stay here any more.

He was grateful, however, that Brelyna seemed to be taking this letter rather well—no doubt she, too, had know this day was eventually coming. "You should drop on by if ever you get a chance, Grimnir," she told him. "The Telvanni aren't exactly known for being social, after all. I could use a familiar face to talk to."

"Have you broken the news to Onmund and J'zargo?"

"She did," a voice from behind him answered. Grimnir only just stopped himself from leaping up in surprise—he hadn't heard Onmund walk up behind him. The Arch-Mage was further surprised when he turned round to look at Onmund: the Nord wasn't looking him in the eye at all. Something was clearly bothering him, Grimnir thought.

"It was the day after we brought you back to Winterhold," Onmund said, mumbling his words slightly; Grimnir had to lean in close with his good ear to hear what he was saying. "She would have said something sooner, she told us—but we were too worried about … " He broke off here, but Grimnir didn't need him to go on, and he felt touched by the affection his companions had shown him while he'd been so gravely injured.

"Are you still worried about me, Onmund?" he soothed him, wondering if that was why the Nord was feeling so uneasy. "I'm feeling better; I just told Brelyna that I won't be needing to dodder around on a cane before long."

"I-it's not that," Onmund stammered out. "It's … I wanted to tell you sooner, but … "

"It's all right," Grimnir said as gently as his voice could let him, patting Onmund on the shoulder. "I know you all were too concerned about me to say anything. But I'm alive, and I'm here. So—what's on your mind?"

He never caught Onmund's next words; the Nord had delivered them so quickly and so quietly. "Sorry? What was that?"

Onmund's lips pursed briefly, as if he was already wishing he could take those words back. But he swallowed, and spoke again. " … I'd … I'd like to study the Voice … a-at High Hrothgar."

That took the Arch-Mage aback. Not only was this the very last answer he'd expected—Onmund had never once showed any inclination to wanting to learn more about the Thu'um beyond his admiration of Grimnir's own mastery—but he wasn't even sure if that was possible. There was a reason there were only five Greybeards in existence today—the Voice was not taught lightly, and certainly not learned to fulfill some cheap power fantasy.

"I want to know what it's like for you," Onmund went on. "I don't know how close I'll get to your level, and I know I'll have an uphill road ahead of me … but I'm not worried about that. I want to do this because … maybe this can help me … understand you a little better."

Grimnir listened to the explanation with a growing sense of respect. Onmund wasn't interested in gaining power through knowledge—or even the reverse. He wanted to pursue this knowledge for its own sake; he truly was intent on learning why Grimnir was who he was, and what he was capable of doing. Whether or not he wanted to master the Voice was irrelevant, so long as he understood his own relationship to it.

Although … "If I didn't know better, I'd say J'zargo's rubbing off on you," Grimnir said with a laugh. "I ought to be worried I might not be Arch-Mage for much longer, now." That made Onmund go pink, a rare sight indeed, and he rubbed the back of his head in mock embarrassment.

"Of course. I'll take you to the Greybeards before I—we leave for Solstheim," Grimnir went on, sparing a look at Brelyna. "I can't guarantee anything will come of it, of course. They haven't taken anyone in for a long time—years, certainly, and likely longer than I've been alive if you don't count Ulfric Stormcloak. But I can't think of a better student for them than you.

"There's one thing that's bothering me, though," the Arch-Mage said, as a sudden thought occurred to him. "If Drevis is going to assist with getting Morrowind back on its feet, Brelyna, it sounds to me like he won't be back at Winterhold for a while. So who's going to take his place?"

Onmund was looking around. "More importantly—where's J'zargo?"

As if in response, the Khajiit appeared right next to his shoulder from out of thin air. "Now you see J'zargo … now you do not."

This time, Grimnir really did jump—along with Onmund and Brelyna. "How long have you been standing there?" cried the Nord indignantly. The new illusion instructor only grinned back at him with a sly wink.

"That might be the most terrifying sight I've seen yet," Grimnir joked—and then he did something he'd never done before, and pulled all three of his companions into a crushing hug. His walking stick clattered to the floor, forgotten in this moment of rare, long-overdue jubilation.

"Mara help me, I'm going to miss you all," said the Arch-Mage, to murmurs of agreement.

He retrieved his cane, and then made for the stairs to the Hall of the Elements. "Come along, now—come along!"

"Where are you going?" Brelyna called after him.

"The Frozen Hearth," Grimnir called back. "One last round between us—and it's all on me. After all we've been through—and all we've got ahead of us—I think we're long overdue.

"And then," he added, his single eye looking directly at Onmund, "we'll all go up to High Hrothgar with you—just the four of us—and we'll give you a proper good-bye there."

No one in their right mind would have disagreed with the offer—and certainly none of the four mages.

And so, for one last time, they left the College together as one. They did not talk of the paths that lay ahead for each of them, only of the exploits and adventures they had made in the past. For one more day—for these mages that had gone through thick and thin, fought forces beyond reckoning, and emerged the stronger for it—the future could wait.

Mzurkunch

Only recently had the Falmer begun to creep back into the Dwarven ruins deep beneath the earth. After the events that had taken place here mere weeks ago, and the slaughter that had taken place, the few cave-elves that had survived had retreated into the crevices of the Sightless Pit, waiting out the massacre until the lights and sounds had died down for a time. Then, when all was quiet, they squirmed out of the filthy cracks once more, and began the process of reclaiming the hive they called home.

That had been two days ago—and as it turned out, it had been too soon for them to make their move. They had severely underestimated the lone traveler, and paid the ultimate price.

The chieftain of the hive sizzled as he died, and the throaty shriek died in his throat as the shocks of lightning finally claimed his life. The stink of charred flesh and roasted chitin filled the air—for the second time in two weeks, the bowels of Mzurkunch had been turned into an abattoir.

Amidst the carnage and gore, a single man moved. His gait was deceptively unsteadly—shuffling this way and that, doddering with every step he took—but he did not stumble even once as he made his way across the pavilion that overlooked the glittering cave.

Large, hairy nostrils sniffed the air, rank with the smell of dead and dying—and of the faintest traces of dark magic. The man kept on sniffing as he walked on, as if determined to reach his goal through his sense of smell alone. But his eyes, half-clouded with great age, had not yet failed him—though his broken mind wasn't to know that; at any rate, it wasn't his mind that had guided him to this place.

At length, he reached the exact center of the platform. The Dwarven machinery here had not been completely destroyed in the event that had created the horror once called M'Alga. The mysterious metal of the dwarves was too durable to be destroyed so easily, and more importantly, parts of the machine had yet survived. Were any Dwemer alive today, they might have found at least a dozen elements that were still serviceable to some extent; as there were none, however, most men and mer would take one look at this place, and find nothing worth of interest.

But the figure in Mzurkunch right now was not most men and mer—and there was very much something worth of interest here, something he had been in search of for a very long time.

He grasped at the small metal tubing he had just picked up in his hands, turning it over and over in his gnarled, spotted hands, eyeing it mere inches from his face, inspecting it in as much detail as his eyes would allow.

Then, his mouth split in a silent, gap-toothed grin of triumph. A wheezy laugh echoed through the halls of Mzurkunch … and on the heels of those echoes, he spoke.

"Dig, Dwemer, in the beyond … I'll know your lost unknown … and rise to your depths … "

Two days later

High Hrothgar loomed before them with a forbidding air.

Grimnir had offered to take Onmund and the others there on Odahviing, but the young Nord, to Grimnir's surprise, had expressed his wish to walk the Seven Thousand Steps that led to the monastery. At the time, Grimnir could not fathom why—the path was long and perilous, and he thought too much of Onmund to have him walk the Steps himself. He had thus made a compromise—that he and the others would walk along with Onmund to the home of the Greybeards, so they could protect him along the way—and say a proper farewell there.

Along the way, Onmund had noticed the ten stone shrines that lined the Steps, and taken the time to read the tablets etched into each one that told of how High Hrothgar had come to be. He spent minutes at a time reading them, seemingly unaffected by the rising chill that bit into their clothing with each step they climbed—but Grimnir stood fast. This was what Onmund had wanted, he knew, and it was his duty as a friend to help him see it through.

And, he reflected, there was another reason why he had wanted to come here.

At last, the four mages arrived upon the front door of the monastery. The moonlight cast shadows over them; so high up were they that there were no clouds to obscure the two moons, and the multitude of stars in the sky. The gilded bronze doors swung open at a touch, and without a sound, oiled with time and melted snow.

Grimnir felt the flood of memories surge through him as he stepped inside. Already he could hear the first words spoken to him by their Master: So … a Dragonborn appears, at this moment in the turning of the age …

He remembered how the Greybeards had tested his Voice, and at times his bones still thrummed from when they had Spoken to him in unison, and named him Ysmir, Dragon of the North. He remembered the animosity the Greybeards had shown the Blades before the peace talks he had hosted here … and he remembered the moments afterward, when the Blades had spoken words so profane he had shunned them all—but unable to escape the history of their mutual past, he could do little more than run away.

The flood of memories ebbed suddenly when he saw the man in the furred grey cloak walking toward them.

Arngeir's face had gained a few more wrinkles in the years since they'd last met, and his gait was slower, too, in his age. But the eyes of the Master of the Greybeards yet burned with a flame that even Grimnir could not help but feel humbled by. It had all the warmth of an old man—but all the coldness of a warrior beneath.

"Welcome back, Dragonborn." Of the four Greybeards that resided here, Arngeir alone could speak plainly to them; Wulfgar, Borri, and Einarth's Voices carried such power that anything above a whisper would not only destroy Grimnir, but High Hrothgar as well. "We were not expecting you to come back so soon."

His eyes flitted to the others behind him. "And who are these?"

Grimnir nodded at Onmund, and the young Nord stepped forward. His voice was tremulous, but carried throughout the great hall of the monastery nonetheless. "I … I wish to learn about the Way of the Voice." A gulp, and a deep breath. "I wish to learn … what it means to be Dragonborn."

Arngeir blinked, and his brow furrowed as he turned to Grimnir. "I believe an explanation is in order," he said sternly. "The Greybeards have taken in precisely two disciples in the past forty years—and on neither occasion did they come to us of their own free will."

He stared at the Arch-Mage, those gray eyes shining so brightly that Grimnir had the feeling Arngeir could see right through him—and then his attention was focused back to Onmund. "I can only assume, then, that you would bring this … lad to me—but for what reason?"

Grimnir took a few moments to think of a suitable reply. He had expected Arngeir's initial impression to be less than positive—but he was still banking on his word to help Onmund fulfill his dream.

"The decision was his to make," he said, choosing his words carefully. "I didn't pressure him in any way—although I may have been responsible for it to an extent."

The silvery gaze did not waver. "Explain."

Here comes the hard part. "That's … complicated," he said. "Suffice it to say that Onmund here isn't the only one with that question on his mind. I've been wondering the same thing myself, over the past week—recent events have made me … unsure of a great deal of things." He thought of the strange dark elves they'd encountered, and of the shining scales of fire that had encased his body in Windhelm and on Ancient's Ascent. "I want to learn more about what it means to be Dragonborn myself."

His single eye stared back into Arngeir's gaze, and Grimnir nodded at him—just barely enough that Arngeir was the only one who saw it—hoping that the speaker for the Greybeards would take the meaning behind his words.

"As for Onmund," the Arch-Mage went on, "I can vouch for him. I know this is unprecedented, and that he may be young, but he has helped see me through some very rough times in my life. He is one of the few people I can truly call my friend—and I cannot think of a soul more worthy to study the Way of the Voice than him."

Onmund looked as if he was ready to break down then and there. Grimnir had never seen the Nord look so proud of himself—not even after everything he had done in Labyrinthian.

Every eye now fixed itself on Arngeir. The old man was silent for an uncomfortably long time. His eyes were staring at nothing in particular, one moment fixed on the stone floor, another looking to the sky as if in prayer.

Then, he clapped his hands once—and everyone but Grimnir stepped backward as a second Greybeard materialized among them, almost out of thin air but for the flicker of wind he had cast. Whirlwind Sprint, Grimnir knew—and as fine a one as he'd ever seen; the monk hadn't even made a whisper. For all his mastery of the Voice—even going so far as to create new Shouts entirely—the Arch-Mage knew he still had much to learn from the Greybeards.

Arngeir spoke to the new arrival. "Master Einarth. Prepare a space for this young man. He will be staying with us for a time."

J'zargo pumped a fist in triumph before Einarth had even whirled away from their sight to do Arngeir's bidding. Brelyna's smile was wider than any Grimnir had ever seen from her, and was clearly fighting the temptation to embrace Onmund—and the Arch-Mage was broadly grinning himself, even if Morokei wouldn't let anyone see it.

Sensing the jubilation to come, Arngeir quickly continued, "I tell you now, your path will be long and perilous—and no less so for the person who has vouched for you." He cast a brief look at Grimnir.

"But if you remain true to the Way of the Voice," he continued, folding his hands, "if you possess the discipline and temperament to follow the path laid out for you, then you will master much, and learn much more."

Grimnir had a passing thought that Arngeir wasn't simply talking to Onmund alone. But the old monk neither confirmed nor denied his suspicion, and Onmund, who did not seem to be aware of Grimnir's thoughts, performed a simple bow. "I understand," he said.

Arngeir bowed back "I will give you a moment to say farewell," he said, "and then you will join me in the courtyard for your first lesson." He whirled away with nary a sound.

J'zargo was the first to embrace Onmund, and leapt over so quickly and unexpectedly that the two mages nearly toppled to the floor. Brelyna and Grimnir were more reserved; the Dunmer was positively beaming at Onmund, and waited until J'zargo had untangled himself from the Nord before she, too, embraced her friend.

As for Grimnir … There was nothing left to say; neither Nord needed words to punctuate the moment. Though he could not plumb the depths of Onmund's mind to find out what his friend was thinking, Grimnir knew his zeal was genuine; Onmund did indeed want to learn about not only the Voice, but the Dragonborn who could use it. In this, their goals were the same—but here, the similarities of their mindsets ended.

For even though Onmund was ready to face his future with courage and a ready mind, Grimnir was now more uncertain of himself than he'd ever been before—even more so than when he had first been acknowledged as that ancient hero of old, before he had learned of the destiny he shared with the dragons. The Arch-Mage only knew that he would have to return to the place where he had first learned these truths, and learn more about the power that resided within him. Perhaps he could suppress it, or even control it—but he knew that he would have to do either one or the other before he could face M'Alga again.

Time passed, and still the Nords looked into each other's eyes, oblivious to the world around them, not hearing the oaths and promises from Brelyna and J'zargo to visit Onmund again soon. Finally, Grimnir nodded once, and even though Morokei would not betray his face to his friend, he mouthed a silent, but heartfelt, Sky above, Voice within.

Good luck, my friend … and thank you.

Then, without further ado, Grimnir turned away, and headed for the courtyard of High Hrothgar—where his true destination loomed before him.

Somewhere in the Sea of Pearls

The landmasses of coral that comprised the Thrassian Archipelago, the half-ring of islands that the Sload called home, numbered many, and varied over the years—but none of these was larger or more recognizable than Agonio.

No one knew if Agonio or the other islands had once been part of a larger landmass, its vast majority now claimed by the sea far to the west of Tamriel—and the Sload certainly weren't telling. No civilization had ventured this far west in the known world in thousands of years, and given what was known of the Sload, no civilization was willing to try again any time soon.

The wrecks of hundreds of ships, from an era long gone, lingered still in the central lagoon of the atoll. In life, these vessels had been the strong arm of the All Flags Navy, the hammer blow of a continent reeling from death and disease, and raring for revenge against the Sload who had unleashed the plague on the world. Now, in death, these rotted hulks formed a crucial part of the infrastructure that bound these islands together; the Sload, using their arcane magicks, could move through these ships with greater ease than their considerable bulk would normally allow.

M'Alga's beady eyes roved lazily over the wrecks as he approached Agonio. Unable to walk on his own, as most Sload of his age were, M'Alga had been forced to rely on more unconventional means of transportation barely a decade after his spawning. The slab of coral that presently skimmed the brackish lagoon was only one such method; though teleportation was certainly quicker in its execution, this was much more reliable and versatile—especially since no level of conjuration magic could keep M'Alga from otherwise collapsing under his own blubbery weight.

The Sload reclined now on his floating dais, and plucked several barnacles from the grayish-red skin of his flabby chest, inspecting each one with a passing glance before crushing them raw between his flat teeth. As he ate his crude meal, he mused about his confrontation with the Dragonborn of Tamriel, and the events he had knowingly set into motion—though he knew not how far-reaching these events would be.

This one was not intended to know such things, no, he thought to himself. It mattered not how great an impact he had made upon the world with his revelation atop that mountain in Skyrim. For even the smallest pebble could send ripples throughout the largest ocean. All that mattered was that he had finally revealed himself. What happened next was not his to decide.

The waves gave way to beaches as M'Alga made landfall. The thin strip of sand ended almost immediately as it began, sloping upward in rocky shapes, than spiraling upwards and upwards a thousand feet or more into the landmass that made Agonio—and all of the archipelago by extension—so recognizable.

Two thousand years ago, this had once been the infamous Coral Tower. The millions upon millions of blood-red creatures that this structure had been grown from had been created by the Sload for the very purpose of piercing the sky—and making it rain blood. Atop this immeasurably high spike of coral lay a portal to Coldharbour, where rested the Harvester of Souls himself, Molag Bal.

The All-Flags Navy had sieged this great Tower, and cast it into the sea, whereupon a great maelstrom appeared that had swallowed half that massive fleet in a single gulp—and all of Thras with it. It had not been until relatively recently that the archipelago had been restored to its previous state—and it would not be for another long time still that the Sload would reach those lofty heights again.

However, though the thousand-foot tall spike that had been erected in its place would never reach those heights until then, the Sload were content to wait until that moment to plan their counterstrike upon Tamriel.

And as M'Alga applied a burst of magic to his mobile throne, bringing it to a stop before the Pillar of Thras—then scaling its great height with all the speed and grace of a soaring falcon—he pondered if his prowess in magic would eventually see him at the front lines of that counterstrike. He did not particularly care, but the thought of finally bringing his plans to fruition before an unsuspecting Tamriel amused him briefly.

The Sload thought no further on the subject until he had crested the top of the Pillar, and slowed to a halt upon its summit. Then, he waited here, gazing out over the endless expanse of ocean that lay out to the northeast …

The Throat of the World

At that moment, Grimnir Torn-Skull's feet finally brought him to a halt, and he gazed now at Skyrim from the summit of its tallest mountain—the tallest, indeed, in all of Tamriel with the eruption of the Red Mountain two hundred years ago.

Paarthurnax was still there, perched on his usual roost, and Grimnir felt the ancient dragon's eyes stare at him intently. But for the moment, he did not acknowledge him; there would be time later to talk, as much time as they desired—and the Arch-Mage planned on using every second of it.

For now, though, he concerned himself with the scene in front of him, shielding his one eye from the sliver of the sun that streamed through Morokei. The whole of Tamriel lay below him; from this position, he could see all the way into Markarth, and Hammerfell and High Rock—and at the extreme edge of the horizon, just above the tips of the mountain ranges that encircled Skyrim, Grimnir saw the edges of the western coast, and the ocean beyond.

He concentrated his gaze at a point in the southeast, where he imagined the isles of Thras might be, and his idle thoughts turned once again towards M'Alga, and if the nefarious Sload was thinking about him right now, and the threat they each possessed to one another.

And for one brief, passing moment—though neither man nor Sload would ever know—their eyes met.

A/N: And that's the end of First Seed! It's astonished me how little time this entire fic took me to complete—I suppose it's a perk of not having to deal with college classes anymore.

So: where to go from here? Well, writing so many words in such a short time has drained me pretty badly. Again. I'm planning on taking an extended break over July, and probably a bit of August to set my personal affairs in order and play Terraria UM I MEAN plan out some future stories of mine. Rain's Hand will be my top priority—give that a look-see if you haven't already!—but I'll also be taking the time to flesh out some one-shots as well. If I'm lucky, I could conceivably release one or two of those over the next month or so, but like I pointed out in the last chapter, at least you'll know what's happening on my end if I'm not able to hold myself to such lofty goals.

Thanks to all of you once again for reading First Seed, and I hope you enjoyed it! - K