[Please note this fanfiction includes Spoilers from the Dark Brotherhood quest-line in Skyrim]
[This fanfiction is a continuation of the story of Ve'lek Kharvanu, introduced in Kharvanu: A Tale of Skyrim]

***

Part I

Twenty years ago…

Five years. The Dunmer had been working for the guild for five years and the fence could simply not understand why he bothered. By now he might very well have been Master Thief, hell, he might have been the Guildmaster. But Ve’lek Kharvanu had chosen to ignore every special job that came his way and spent his time stealing…books. Books which he sold for a paltry sum and then purchased at an exorbitant rate. He simply could not comprehend what the Dunmer thought he was doing. By now he could be living in a palace in the Elven Gardens not his pitiful shack on the Waterfront. Every septim he brought in to the guild – and it was a substantial sum – was spent buying back books. He shook his head as the Dunmer spilled the contents of his backpack with its predictable cache.

“You know,” the fence said. “A couple gems would be worth three times this haul. Easier to cart too.”

Ve’lek merely looked at him from beneath his cowl. “How much?”

“For this? Fifteen septims…and I’m being generous.”

“All right. And how much to buy them back?”

The fence just shook his head.


Ve’lek stuffed the last book into his pack before opening the door into the Garden of Dereleth. The rose petal blush of dawn was gently kissing the horizon and his blood was already rebelling. It had been a good night; any excursion into Talos Plaza always was. Though he knew she would not hear him Ve’lek offered a silent prayer of thanks to Azura for the rich folk of the Imperial City who lived alone. Their solitary nature made for an easy meal without the possibility of detection he risked when feeding on beggars. Sometimes they were people given to indulgences like the Khajiit last week who was running on moon sugar and skooma; his blood had been…interesting. Last night’s Argonian had a rich, earthy flavor to it; it reminded him of the smell of old trees, like the parklands of Cheydinhal. He was feeling a little spoiled, honestly. Living in the Imperial City was cheap, easy, and relatively safe. He regretted he would be leaving it soon.

Ve’lek let himself into his shack and gingerly sat his pack down. It wasn’t an impressive home certainly; nothing like the manor where he grew up in Anvil, but it was his home. The sparse tapestries kept out some of the cold and the fire took some of the chill from his blood. Most importantly he had tarred and thatched the roof to keep the sun out. Lighting a fire he lowered the cowl of his leather armor and settled down in front of the hearth, pulling the books from his pack.

The last one he handled almost reverently; it was ancient. The leather was cracked and the pages had yellowed with time, but the book was surprisingly intact. Ve’lek stroked the aged cover; five years he had been searching for it, all on a rumor that he might find the answers he was looking for. The trunk in the corner was filled with every book ever written on his condition, except for this one. He had learned little. Most of the books were fictions written to scare children or to titillate advlts. His greatest discovery had a been a tattered tome that detailed the origin of the curse – Molag Bal’s [censored] of a Nedic maiden. But here; here in his hands Ve’lek held what he thought could be his answer. Taking a deep breath he opened the cover and began to read.

***

Now…

“I’m not sure I understand.”

Astrid leaned back from where she was hovering over the map of Skyrim and crossed her arms over her chest. She was scowling. “What’s so hard to understand? I’ve given you a very simple mission: go to Dragon Bridge and make sure Commander Maro finds that letter. Honestly, Ve’lek, if you can’t do that I’m not sure I have any further use for you.”

Astrid’s barbs meant little to the Dunmer. “We’ve been at this for weeks, running all over the province preparing for one of the biggest murders in Dark Brotherhood history. Why are we suddenly contacting our greatest adversary?” It was true; every member of the Sanctuary had been running ragged as Astrid and the newly dubbed “Listener” were busy plotting a new rise to power, fame, and wealth. Not even Cicero had been able to stop them – his corpse was decorating the walls of the ancient Dawnstar Sanctuary, or so the Listener said. Ve’lek was not sure what he thought of this sudden job to murder an Emperor, but he was definitely skeptical about contacting Maro.

“Because it’s part of a plan whose details you don’t need to know,” Astrid answered. There was an edge in her voice and he knew he was treading on dangerous ground. If he wasn’t careful he might waken to a werewolf objecting to his words.

“Of course,” he said, relenting. “I meant no disrespect. It’s just…this is a big contract. I guess we’re all a little nervous.”

“The thrill of the hunt,” Astrid replied. “Forget your nerves. We’re about to reclaim a place we lost a long time ago.”

Ve’lek nodded and pocketed the note. As Astrid returned to her vigil over the map he jogged up the stairs to begin his journey to Dragon Bridge.


Part II

Now…

If it were not for the ancient Nord bridge that gave the town its name, Ve’lek decided, Dragon Bridge would have been instantly forgettable.

It honestly looked like any of the dozen other villages that dotted the landscape of Skyrim. There was, at least, a mill where the people eked out a meager living, but otherwise it was a tavern and a few houses. Even Morthal had more character. But the bridge was striking, as was the considerable fall into the river far below. And, of course, there was the Penitus Oculatus outpost. In the years following the Oblivion crisis the fabled Blades had ceased their function as protectors of the Emperor and had seemingly vanished. When Titus Mede came to power the Penitus had been created to protect him. From his reading Ve’lek gathered the Blades were largely a group of warriors and agents but the Penitus had a strong thread of magic users in them. His own brief interaction with the Imperial agents had never been positive; the magics they courted tended to be very unpleasant.

It was after midnight when he crossed the bridge into town. He could hear revelers in the tavern singing one of the Nord ballads – there seemed to be no end to stories about heroes and fair maidens in Skyrim. He wondered if the Penitus agents ever indulged in the Tavern; the windows were dark in the outpost. As he approached the building he felt his stomach rumble and knew that the hunger was coming upon him again – it had been almost a day when last he fed. His hands were still steady when he picked the lock but he could already feel the cold spreading inside him.

In the early years the curse had been unbearable. Before he came to understand the nature of the sickness he had been at its mercy and had lived in fear of the hunger. Worse than the disorientation of not feeding was the discontent that came with gorging. It was a two-edged sword, this curse of Bal. If he refused to feed he felt weak, unfocused; if he gorged he felt sluggish and yet still racked with hunger. No matter how much he fed he was always hungry, the sickness always craved more. That was the worst insult of the King of [censored]. Long ago Ve’lek had decided that Bal’s curse was more than an affront to Arkay, but was also a mockery of mortal contentment. Most people sought to satisfy their desires: hunger, lust, a need for rest. There was no satisfying the restless death. Only in taking what he needed to stay alive did Ve’lek find control over the sickness inside him, only in a kind of detached indifference to his continual suffering did he find any modicum of peace. He wondered if the other “divine” diseases were similar; did the werewolf live in fear of the moons, yet still craving the pain of metamorphosis? Had the sufferers of Corprus lived in an agony not availed even in destroying the enemies of Dagoth Ur? Ve’lek smirked as he found Maro’s bed; if the gods were indifferent the Daedra, at least, were passionate in their invention of torments.

Ve’lek slipped the letter under Maro’s pillow and glanced around. The outpost was dark and empty; he supposed the agents did spend time at the inn. He turned and made for the door. There was, he remembered, a barracks in this town and perhaps some of the off-duty guards would be resting – a perfect meal.

Closing the door behind him he turned for the barracks and did not feel the blow that sent him into unconsciousness.

***

Twenty years ago…

The southern forest thinned out and Ve’lek saw the small farm house seated on top of a hill overlooking a long fall into the river below. He wondered what the author of the journal had felt the first time he saw this sight. Did he feel the same hope, the same fear? The journal did not say. Ve’lek adjusted the straps on his armor and opened the gate. Passing by the small garden he approached the door and rapped on it.

He was not prepared for what greeted him. The author had described the woman in some detail; a Breton fleeing from Skyrim, possessed of powerful magics; he wondered if the author had looked upon her affectionately. The creature that opened the door engendered no such reaction in him. It was bent in all the wrong directions, the skin taut and filthy. The odor was overpowering. The face was almost corpse-like.

“What do you want?” it croaked.

“I’m…looking for a woman with particular skills. In alchemy.”

The crone considered him a moment. Her fingers – they were talons really – ticked on the door frame. “You’re one of Bal’s,” she said. It was not a question.

A sick feeling moved in his stomach. “Something like that.”

A smile spread across the crone’s face and Ve’lek swore even Molag Bal could not have looked so malevolent. “You’ve come to the right place. Come in, my sweet.”

Ve’lek passed the threshold.


Part III

Now…

Consciousness came back slowly, and as it did, Ve’lek regretted its return. Before his eyes opened, before he felt the bands that held him, before he knew he was held in a torture rack he could feel the hunger. It was ravenous. How many days had he been asleep? He could smell blood everywhere – on the rack, in the cracks of the floor, pulsing through the mice padding invisibly on the other side of the room. Flowing freely, warmly in the neck of Commander Maro.

Ve’lek opened his eyes and stared at the Penitus commander. “We were beginning to wonder if you’d ever wake up,” the Imperial said.

“You shouldn’t have hit me so hard,” Ve’lek’s voice sounded gravelly to his ears. He watched Maro’s heart pump individual bursts of blood through his neck, temple, and eyes.

“I’ll tell my men to be gentler when apprehending Dark Brotherhood murderers next time,” Maro retorted. “It’s sad really; all the stories just don’t do you justice. A simple spell and you missed every single agent I sent. You really are pathetic.”

Ve’lek was amazed at how well he could see everything. He noticed every bristling hair in the commander’s unshaven face, watched the damp draft move the rags hanging off a skeleton in the corner. In the deepest center of his being his dark father wakened from a long slumber. He had never gone this long without feeding; he had never felt this close to the King of [censored] before.

“I suppose Astrid thought she was sending her best. Or maybe you’re her worst – a small sacrifice? A payment for what’s to come?”

He breathed in deeply; could smell the arrogance oozing out of Maro’s pores, could taste the death hanging like a presence in the air. Yes, he was hungry. All he wanted was to tear out Maro’s throat, but there was power in the hunger. Gods, he had never felt like this before. He felt a strange connection to everything that was dead down here. The very bones called out to him.

“It must really burn you up, being betrayed by your dark mother. You know I’ve read all the books? All that talk about mysterious ghost-matrons and dread fathers…its all just lies to cover the fact that you’re opportunists looking to get rich. Nothing but a bunch of killers for hire.”

Ve’lek’s mind touched the currents of Oblivion, felt the life boiling there. “I’ve never known,” he said in a voice not his own. “Who my father was until this moment.” He called to the daedra and felt one call back. The shadows came unbidden and surrounded him.

Maro shook his head and turned to leave. “Keep an eye on him,” he told the guard. “We’ll save him for the axe-man.”

The door closed as the commander left. The guard was sneering when the skeleton came to life.


There was terror, but not for him.

There was violence, but not for him.

There was blood. Oh yes, blood. Warm, fresh, soothing blood.

He bathed in it.


Ve’lek could feel that it was morning, felt his blood weakening. He was lying on the ground in darkness. His eyes shifted into night vision and he saw the eviscerated remains of the guard among the strewn remnants of a skeleton. It was not a dream after all – he almost wished it had been. He felt weak. His arms hurt from being tied to the rack for so long. He brushed a hand over his face and felt the tackiness of half-dried blood. He stripped the guard and pulled on his splattered armor – better that than walking out in his loin cloth. Staggering, he made his way to the door and opened it, climbing the stairs.

The Penitus base was empty. His Brotherhood armor was nowhere to be found but the weapon racks still held a few swords. A wash basin in the corner still had cold water in it and he splashed some on his face. Bal’s voice was far away now, the shadows sticking to the corners of the room. A clear memory of the guard’s terrified face passed before his eyes, as well as a memory of his teeth ripping the Imperial’s throat apart. It had been ecstasy – the blood, the violence, the horror. It called to him even now. Ve’lek pushed it away, focused on the coolness of the water. He thought about the here and now; the dustiness of the room, the smell of the dead fire. As his mind cleared he remembered Maro’s words.

He stood up in shock. “Astrid,” he whispered. And suddenly he knew he had to get back to the Sanctuary. “A payment for what’s to come…”

The sun was blazing as he exited the Penitus base. He had taken two steps down the stairs when a voice yelled “You there!”

Ve’lek didn’t bother to look but ran and knew the Penitus agent was behind him. His ears cracked at a sound behind him and he heard a horrifying roar. He was almost to the bridge…

Claws rent the armor on his back and found flesh. Ve’lek staggered and turned, drawing his swords. The creature towered over him, some kind of monstrous Argonian with a wide head crest and razor-sharp beak. It leapt at him with claws extended. Even as he sidestepped Ve’lek saw the Penitus agent was not far behind. Launching a volley of quick, shallow cuts he put as much distance between himself and the daedra as possible. The Penitus agent’s hands were already glowing with a fiery light.

“Azura, preserve me,” he whispered and turned as a fireball flew past him slamming into the ancient bridge and bathing the world in fire. The daedra’s claws tore into his arm as he threw himself out into the void and fell to the raging river below.

Just before he hit the water he could hear Molag Bal laughing in his mind.


Part IV

Twenty years ago…

It was dark when he returned to the witch’s house. It had been days – long, horrible days delving into crypts, Ayleid ruins, even stealing into the Synod’s apothecary – but he had done it. His pack rattled with the bottles of ingredients. His mind raced with the possibilities – would his mother welcome him back? Were his sister’s married now? Ve’lek took a deep breath and tried to steady himself – his heart was racing. Lifting a hand he knocked on her door.

“Aren’t you doing well?” the crone rasped in a tone he suspected she thought was endearing. Instead it made him think of dead things scuttling across the cold stone of the Ayleid temple he had ransacked. He shivered as he entered the house. “If you’re cold stand by the fire…not too close deary. Your kin are sensitive to the fire, no?” Ve’lek nodded but stood exactly where he was.

“It’s going to take a while,” she said after a time. “Everything has to process through the apparatuses. Come back tomorrow.”

“It will work?” he asked, trying not to sound too eager. “Do you really think it will work?”

“Of course,” she said not looking at him. “Now go away.”

Ve’lek closed the door behind him and made for the nearest inn. It was, he hoped, his last night as a vampire.

The moons were so bright…

Now…

The Black Door had been shattered. Drawing his sword Ve’lek stepped into the dark corridor beyond.

It had been several days – he was not sure how many. The impact on the water had knocked him unconscious, but only for a few seconds. Once he had breached the surface, swimming to the river’s edge had been easy enough. But the daedra’s claws had done their work and he was bleeding badly. Long ago he had learned a simple healing spell but this needed a healer. Traveling had been hazardous – he was in no shape to fight the myriad dangers of Skyrim’s wilds. By the time he reached a small village it was well after midnight. He had no money for the alchemist or the inn, but a lockpick was better than both. Five minutes and he was hale again, and on his way to the pinewood.

The Sanctuary stank of fire; fire and death. There were charred corpses everywhere; they were impossible to identify. Ve’lek stared up where the stained-glass image of Sithis had once been. There was nothing but jagged, blackened pieces of glass. Whatever magics the Penitus had used had brought down most of the ceiling – there was no way into the inner rooms. Mercifully, the stream had not been cut off, and fresh water still flowed into the pool in the main hall. Sitting down next to it Ve’lek stared into the surface of the water, at his own gaunt reflection.

Was it really true? Had Astrid brought this upon them all? Why? Why would she ally herself with the one man who could not only stop their contract but destroy them as well? Astrid was no fool, but only a fool bargained with the Penitus. He simply could not understand. Perhaps the Listener had betrayed them…but no, that wasn’t it. Maro had said Astrid. Glancing up where the window had been Ve’lek supposed even the Night Mother’s coffin had not spared her from the destruction. “You’ve killed us all, Astrid,” he whispered. “I don’t know what you planned…but you’ve destroyed the Dark Brotherhood.”

Ve’lek stood up, knocking the dust from his tattered armor, and made his way back towards the broken door.


Part V

Twenty years ago…

He waited a full day, then returned to the house on the cliff.

She did not answer at first, and Ve’lek felt fear course through him. What if she had deceived him, what if she had left and all of this had been for naught? His fists clenched in his leather gauntlets. But then the door was opening and the hag’s hideous features welcomed him inside.

“Is it ready?” he asked her, surprised at the mixture of anxiety and impatience in his voice.

“Aren’t you the anxious one?” the hag crackle-cooed. Something like a smile split her face, revealing her jagged teeth. “Not even a ‘good evening mi’lady? Tsk, tsk.”

His cheeks burned and he hated himself for it. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Good evening, mi’lady.”

The crone cackled with laughter. “Such smooth talk from one of daedra’s own. Old Bal could learn a thing or two from you, no?” She winked at him and Ve’lek thought he might be sick.

“Here,” she said. “It’s ready. Not an easy concoction. You’ll want to take that someplace where you can lie down – might be difficult for…hey!”

Ve’lek grabbed the bottle from her hand and had torn the stopper out before she could say another word. The liquid burned his throat, tasted like ashes. He coughed, almost vomiting, but kept drinking until the bottle was empty. The hag scowled as he lowered it.

Her eye twitched. A think smile cracked her lips.

Ve’lek stared. He waited.

“Well, well…” she hissed.

He could see the blood pulsing in her veins.

“It didn’t work!” he roared throwing himself at her, hands reaching for her throat. “You said you could cure me!”

Suddenly he was flying backwards, ice all around him, and slamming into the door. He could not move as the hag shuffled closer to him.

“Well I must say I’ve never had one of you at my door before,” she hissed. “Where you turned in a ritual, then? Violated by the King of [censored] himself? No? Ah, a parent then. You were born one of his, weren’t you? Tsk, tsk. A pity dear.” She gently caressed his face with her rancid, reeking claw.

“No cure for you,” her voice was like breaking glass. “The daedra’s curse is a part of you, makes you what you are. No mere alchemy can draw the disease from you – you are the disease; a genuine child of Coldharbour. Too bad really; I like the boys warm-blooded when I take them. I suppose a walking corpse will have to do. You see,” she reached to unbuckle his armor. “I’ve been so very anxious.”

Somewhere deep within him Ve’lek found a rage he had never known. Maybe it was the ancestral memory of the Red Mountain, the image of Corprus-hordes, or the disgust of the great prophet Veloth. Within him his ancestor’s roared and fire erupted from Ve’lek, shattered the ice-sheath and hurling the hag backwards. He was on his feet, wreathed in flames; they danced about him setting everything they touched on fire. Ve’lek drew his dagger and approached the hag.

Her claws tore through the flames but she cried out, cradling the burned limb. Her eyes blazed with hatred and a stream of ice blasted from her hand. The flames flickered, faltered, but then his dagger was slashing outward, carving the flesh of her torso, cutting cruel lines on her chest. The hag roared in anger and in pain, a spear of ice launching towards him. It caught him on the shoulder, tearing skin and muscle. Blood, his blood, spilling on the floor. It wasn’t enough to kill her; a black rage filled every corner of his being. He saw the horror in her eyes as his dagger cleft her hand. “A kiss for you, then,” he said in a voice not his own. “A kiss before dying.”

Her blood was warm in his mouth.


Now…

Masser was cresting the horizon as Ve’lek closed the door behind him. His eyes took in the slowly darkening sky, watched the clouds of smoke drifting up from the smelters in Lowtown. It had been a warm day – well, warm for Skyrim – and for once he didn’t feel like he was going to freeze to death taking his evening walk. Beyond the city walls he could just make out the river snaking its way through the Reach.

Markarth wasn’t the sort of place he had ever imagined himself living. The almost paranoid suspicion against outsiders; the cruel divide between rich and poor, Nord and Reachmen; and, of course, the stone beds – most anyone would have preferred Solitude or Whiterun. But there was something about the City of Stone; something about the jagged streets, the startling vistas…and the waterfalls. Ve’lek smiled as he sat down with a view of the smelter, the blacksmith, and the waterfalls cascading down the cliff face that was Markarth’s back wall. The sound was deafening; but on a warm day like today the pervasive mist felt cool on his skin, cool and clean.

He had been living in the city now for almost four months. After finding the ruin of the Sanctuary he had wandered for a time before coming here almost by accident. The Brotherhood had sent him here before but he had never really taken the time to look around. He was awestruck by the austere beauty of the stone walls, houses, and castle. It wasn’t long before the locals were trying to pull him into their intrigues, but Ve’lek resisted. He took to hunting bandits or the local menace – the Forsworn. They didn’t stand a chance against an assassin of his caliber, and it wasn’t long before the Jarl noticed him and allowed him to purchase property in the city.

It wasn’t much, his small home, certainly not like Vlindrel Hall where the Dragonborn resided when bothering to visit the Reach. But Ve’lek liked it; small but comfortable – and his own; something bought not with blood-money made assassinating politicians or landowners, but by stopping criminals from preying on the people of the Reach. People paid good money for the weapons and armor of the outlaws, and Ve’lek was well on his way to independent wealth
Of course, Markarth’s barracks made a convenient stop when he was feeling…hungry.

And the hunger was getting worse; worse and better. In the intervening months it seemed to take longer for the sickness to worsen. He could go days without feeding and never feel any effects. But once they came – he would wake at night remembering his visit to the Penitus Occulatus, and the way he had felt. Even sitting there under the beautiful sky listening to the water Ve’lek heard Bal’s whispers in the back of his mind, promising power beyond his comprehension. The raising of the dead was only the beginning of what Bal was offering – there was far, far more. Ve’lek pushed the thought away and tried to focus on the scene before him: the men working, the Orc foreman yelling orders, the way the various streams flowed into the pool beneath the smelter. He would not heed Molag Bal; would not give in to the temptation. No, that was not who he wanted to be. What he wanted…

A slim figure emerged from the pool and Ve’lek immediately recognized the Black Hand image on the armor.

He was halfway down the ramp-way before he knew what he was doing, malachite dagger in hand. Crouching, he watched the assassin climb on to the lower steps and peer over the lip of the stone, at one of the workers. Ve’lek slipped noiselessly into the water and moved to just below the assassin. It was a woman – Breton, he suspected – and she was reaching for her dagger, a wicked steel blade with daedric sigils carved along the edge. She was about to leap up when Ve’lek’s malachite dagger rested against her throat.

“I’m not sure where you found that armor,” he whispered. “But you shouldn’t impersonate a dead guild.” The blade pressured against her jugular.

“What,” her voice hissed. “Is the music of life?”

He answered without thinking, “Silence, my brother.”


She sat at his table, sipping at the water he’d given her. He was still in disbelief. “How…how did they survive? I never knew…”

“Never knew? Hadn’t you heard the Emperor was assassinated? And Maro? You really are cut off from the world out here, aren’t you? The Listener did it after killing that traitorous [censored] Astrid. Can you believe she tried to have the Listener killed? Didn’t like the old ways – probably would have burned the Night Mother’s body afterwards.” She spat on the floor in disgust. “The Listener killed her with her own blade. After burning her alive.” A sick smile creased her lips before she finished the cup. “I suppose you’ll want to join us in Dawnstar. then. Nazir says the new Sanctuary is better than the old. I wouldn’t know of course.”

“How did you know the Black Door’s passphrase, from the old Sanctuary?”

“The Listener said there might be some of you still out there. Apparently not everyone was there when the Emperor’s lackeys descended. Said to be on the look-out for any errant Brothers.”

Ve’lek felt like his head was spinning, like he hadn’t fed in weeks. “I thought…they were all dead. Who else…?”

“Just the Listener, Nazir, and the creepy vampire girl. She makes great poisons, that one. Hey, don’t tell her I said she was creepy.”

“I won’t.”

“I’d better get going. That smelter worker isn’t going to die on his own. Thanks for the water. Oh,” she told him the passphrase.

He did not watch her go.


Ve’lek left Markarth quietly in the pre-dawn hours. He did not speak to anyone, and wore his cowl close to his face. He knew that he was never coming back. Above him Secunda had begun its descent to the horizon.

It was a long walk to Dawnstar and he spent most of it thinking, and trying not to think. Would the Brotherhood come for him if he didn’t return, would they let him slip away? Unlikely. The Breton would take the story of a Dunmer Brother back to the Listener and if he did not show his face…well, the Listener might decide Astrid had not been alone in her betrayal. No, he would need to go and avail himself of the Brotherhood. They were, as Astrid used to say, a family. A family of ruthless psychopaths.

Astrid. Ve’lek had never felt any strong kinship with the woman, but it was hard to believe she had sold the Sanctuary out. Maybe she only intended to kill the Listener, maybe she was truly afraid of what the Night Mother represented. In the end it didn’t matter. The Dark Brotherhood was more powerful than ever and they would paint Tamriel red with blood. Ve’lek shook his head; he just couldn’t escape blood.

As he left the Reach and crossed over the snow line he watched the biting wind lift the snow in swirling patterns. The last few months felt like a dream; a quiet, beautiful dream. What had he really expected? That he would live peacefully, perhaps marry, have children of his own? That he could leave behind all the violence, death... and blood? No, there was no escaping any of it. He learned that years ago from the old hag in Cyrodiil. It had been a dream. And now he had woken to the same dark world that had been his life since the Change came.

He came to Dawnstar at night, walking through the town as just another traveler making his way north. No one talked to him, no one seemed to notice him. He passed by the old Mythic Dawn museum and out of town.

The Black Door was set into a snow-covered hill. Above and behind a ruined tower lifted into the moons’ light. Ve’lek considered the image on the door – the skeletal Night Mother offering her children to the Dread Father, the Black Hand branding his deathly face. The worst dreams, he decided as he approached the door, were the one’s that made you believe – the one’s you wanted more than anything to be true.

The Black Door stirred as he touched it. “What,” it whispered in its high, harsh voice. “Is life’s greatest illusion?”

Ve’lek Kharvanu did not hesitate, but answered, “Innocence.”

The Black Door opened and he stepped into the darkness beyond.

Wow that was a good read.