For the Knight Who Moves Like the Flash of a Sword

I know not when or where we may meet again

In this life or in realms beyond

Ephemeral your light may have been

But the spark it kindled will never fade

The life of a hero sure has its ups and downs. Sometimes, you're on the brink of calamity, careening along the razor's edge from crisis to crisis with barely a moment to catch your breath. And sometimes, even though you just know there should be another crisis ready to smack you in the face, it doesn't seem like a whole hell of a lot is going on.

Our arrival in West Weald was weirdly anticlimactic, after the flurry of trying and failing to keep our rogue Daedric Prince contained. There's a weird forest that just showed up one day, and a really bleak blighted area bordering it, and some Daedra stuff going on, but it's all been just... kinda there. I mean we've been checking it all out, and we've learned some things about the forest and taken care of some of the Daedra, but when one of the highlights of your adventure so far is rescuing a pet bear cub, you know it's a slow day.

And then... we met Ithelia. Which in itself seems like it should have been a bigger deal than it was. We just stumbled across this strange lost lady in a ruin that turned out to be one of Ithelia's old shrines, back when people knew who she was. And somehow Leramil knew who she was, and somehow she... didn't. Not really. When I mentioned the term Daedric Prince, she sort of knew that she was one, but everything else seemed... uncertain.

She sensed the Moric artifact I carried, and remembered that the Echonir had been created to remove truths about her from this world. There was a hidden memory nearby, and she wanted to see it. I was not entirely certain that this was a good idea, but Leramil gave me a nod, and I supposed that it would not help our cause to make the disoriented Prince unhappy.

And so we all got to watch past Mora warn past Ithelia about the threat she posed to reality, and Ithelia tell him he was full of it and to get lost. At least Torvesard comes by it honestly.

When the vision was gone, so was Ithelia. I'm hoping this doesn't mean she remembered everything and got real mad and left to start punching people in the face. But I honestly have no idea how to size her up as a potential threat or a potential... anything. She probably does have some powers, of some sort, and she obviously knew that Mora was her adversary, if not her mortal enemy, but she didn't seem hostile to me and Leramil at all, even though we've been known to be readily identifiable as agents of the Great Eye.

Does that mean she's open to negotiation, rather than inevitably trying to kill us? Or is she really just that confused about who she even is? And is it worth trying to be buddy-buddy with her while she's going through the process of rediscovering herself, or will it all end up the same either way?

I guess I should be relieved that our first meeting with the walking existential threat was so unexciting. She didn't seem to be ripping reality apart wherever she walked, and avoiding climactic battles with inexorable forces of nature is always nice. Unless we're just putting off the battle until she's regained more of her memories and powers and contempt for her old enemy and his lackeys. But I'm sure it'll be... No, you know what, I'm not even going to say it. It'll be what it is, and we'll just have to take it as it comes.

We all know I'm not a mage, right? I mean I can use magic, a little, but that's mostly just this thing I do where I draw from the shadows when I need them without really thinking about it. I'm not even sure when or how I started being able to do it, but I'm pretty sure it's not the sort of thing you would learn in mage school.

I did join the Mages Guild, when I was stumbling around Daggerfall trying to find my place in the world, but at the time it seemed like they mostly just wanted me to read a bunch of books. And then I got roped into helping Shalidor with his island problem, and that got me enough cachet that nobody's really thought to ask me about my actual spellcasting credentials.

But I've always left the heavy magic lifting to people like Gabrielle and Valsirenn and Bastian, because they know what they're doing and I'm much more comfortable with my bow and my blade.

I am still an adept of the Mages Guild, though, and I guess enough people still remember my name that it's on a short list of "people to ask for help when you need to go rooting around in a place that's probably really dangerous and might have books."

At least this time they sent a letter instead of having Adelle shout at me across the street. Our petitioner was a Bosmer woman named Nahlia, a Votary knight of something called the Order of the Lamp. I'd never heard of them before, but apparently they provide muscle when mages need backup on their dangerous missions.

This mission was potentially dangerous enough that even the muscle wanted backup. Nahlia had discovered a portal in a decrepit Mages Guild holding on Summerset, and she didn't want to take any chances with whatever was on the other side. And who better to jump through strange portals with than the Savior of Eyevea and close personal friend of Archmagister Galerion?

As Nahlia briefed us on the situation and explained her plan, though, an obvious issue stood out to me. She'd mentioned that the first time she tried to use the portal, it kind of exploded because it didn't like that she was trying to go through alone. And so, she said, she needed a second person to go in with her, because that seemed to be how the portal was "keyed."

A portal requiring the buddy system was all well and good, but if it required exactly two buddies, we were going to have a problem - in the form of the red-headed mage that I was absolutely not going to leave behind if this was going to be the kind of adventure where you really want to have a mage.

Nahlia saw where I was coming from, but I think having to account for my unexpected plus-one mostly made her impatient. "Well... maybe the two of us can explore first, and then see if there's a way to come back for your friend?" she suggested.

Not even being sure if there was a way to come back for him did not reassure me that this was a good plan. And as eager as Nahlia was to get exploring, I didn't mind being stubborn if it meant brainstorming a strategy to get all three of us through.

A strategy like... "You said two keyholes. Is that like... two people-shaped things?"

"Uh... I guess?" Nahlia replied. "Why, what are you thinking?"

I glanced at Bastian, who looked similarly perplexed. "Okay so what if Bastian and I could count as one person. Shaped thing."

Bastian raised his eyebrows, and yes I knew how weird that sounded but just hear me out. "Like if you pick me up, and we sort of squish together."

"Squish... together?" he repeated, vaguely waving his hands toward each other. I shrug-nodded, very nonchalantly, but he seemed even less convinced. "Are you sure?"

"Would it work?" I looked at Nahlia.

"It... might? It's not literally two holes we have to fit through, like a block puzzle. It just rejects me, violently, when I try to go through alone. I need another body to go through with me."

"And if that body just happened to have another body attached to it..." I prodded.

Nahlia sighed, but not without humor. "Look, if it's that important to you that he comes along, you can work out between yourselves how you want to try... attaching. Just keep in mind, if it doesn't work we'll have an angry source of unstable magic on our hands, and if it does work there's a not-insubstantial chance we'll have to come out on the other side fighting. So either way maybe try for something... hands-free?"

I will not attempt to recount the ensuing "attachment" strategizing, except that it was hilarious, and I'm pretty sure I caught Bastian blushing, and he might have caught me blushing too but it's not like it's the first time he's had to carry me somewhere and okay that time didn't involve me getting as close as I possibly could to him with my arms tight around his neck, but it also didn't involve a piggyback ride while he held his staff out ready to cast a barrier which is what we ended up going with and by that point I was laughing too hard for anything to get more awkward than it already was.

And so the moment of truth arrived, and Nahlia stabilized the portal as best she could, and I held tight and braced for potential impact if the portal decided it disapproved of Bastian's human backpack. But wrapped in a nice warm blanket of barrier magic, the two of us apparently fit entirely acceptably through our keyhole, and out we came on the other side.

I'm sure I only looked a little smug as I hopped down and nodded at Bastian, and Nahlia was just happy that we'd made it through without getting blown up again. And then, with only a few more magical anomalies to dodge and conjured creatures to fend off, the mysteries of what we came to know as the Scholarium began to present themselves to us.

It was a place that looked an awful lot like the old ruins on Summerset, and smelled of stale parchment and candle wax. It was hard to tell how long it had been since anyone had been there, but it must have been a really really long time.

Before we could start looking for books to stuff into our packs, though, there was that whole unstable energy thing to deal with. The trail of anomalies led us to a central chamber where even angrier-looking energy was converging on some kind of altar. Closing the doors around the room to cut off the flow of bad juju didn't entirely calm things down, so Nahlia decided that smashing the altar's corrupted crystal was our next best plan of (literal) attack.

In her defense, hitting things with swords is often a solid way to solve problems. But in this case it only made the now-unfocused magic even angrier, and also awakened the place's caretaker from her centuries-long slumber.

And that's how we made the acquaintance of a talking crow. Well, another talking crow. I haven't ascertained if she's familiar with the Blackfeather Court, but at least she doesn't seem to have anything to do with Nocturnal. She was, however, the familiar of someone named Ulfsild. Now where had I heard that name before...

...Oh right, she was Shalidor's wife. The one who left him because he was all obsessed with Eyevea. I'd seen echoes of the two of them back when Sheogorath was putting on his theatrics. But I'd never given her much thought apart from her being yet another thing that Shalidor had lost.

But it turns out she had a lot more going on than just being a footnote in Shalidor's biography. She was an accomplished mage in her own right, even before she met and got together with her eventual husband. This place, the Scholarium, was the sanctum on Eyevea where she carried out her own magical work. And now it was the repository for that work, safeguarded like a time capsule before the Mad God claimed the island as his prize in Shalidor's foolish bargain.

Conveniently, the magical secrets Ulfsild had entrusted to her familiar were just what we needed to calm the corrupted magic threatening to consume us all. Once we'd secured a replacement crystal for the altar, the Crow gave me a book - sorry, a grimoire in fancy mage-speak - and guided my fumbling attempt to shape it into a usable spell. I think we ended up with something I could use to zap people? With magic? And they wouldn't like it? But more importantly, channeling that magicka into a focused form pacified the surging torrents of energy, and the sanctum was quiet once more.

Which is good, because we definitely needed a breather at that point. Stumbling over a long-lost treasure trove of centuries-old knowledge isn't something that happens every day. And while there were more conversations to be had, with both the Crow and Nahlia, there was a whole lot of just plain looking around to do too.

It really should go without saying that it was a damn good thing I insisted on bringing Bastian through that portal. The place was made for him. There were practically sparkles in his eyes as the sanctum revealed more and more of its secrets to us. I kept having to drag him away from bookshelves, except for the times when I caught a glimpse of text over his shoulder and ended up standing there reading along with him.

Most of the books we found had to do with historical battles and conflicts. I had seen some of them before, but there were also some ancient writings that must not have seen the light of day for ages. I wonder what that old... Nord? would think of all of the "not real" races and creatures we've seen with our very own eyes.

Eventually, we made it back to the Crow, who was only moderately antsy to get us back on the topic of Scribing. Which, if I hadn't mentioned it before, is what this whole system of shaping spells is called. You start with a basic book - grimoire - to lay the foundation, and then add aspects to it that shape what it actually does. Like I think you could take that spell I made to zap people and tweak it so it would heal people instead. And there are even subtler nuances that give benefits or detriments that you might not even think about until you're in the thick of battle.

I only understood about half of what the Crow was going on about, and not just because I was distracted watching Bastian eating the whole thing up like a ja'khajiit in a moon sugar shop. It was actually pretty funny, the way he hung on her every word with those sparkles in his eyes. I'm a little surprised he wasn't actively drooling, but I commend his restraint.

And then the Crow got to the part about finding an inheritor for Ulfsild's legacy, and I had to start paying attention again when I realized she was looking at me. What, just because I was the one to quell the angry magic, and I guess she assumed I was in charge of this whole expedition, that meant I was qualified to take over Ulfsild's Scribing Emporium?

I never did get the chance to challenge those assumptions, because the next thing I knew we were talking to magical Ulfsild projections and finding a magical lens and playing magical detective to track down a magical indrik. I mean even if it were just Bastian skipping along as I did my best to keep up, I wouldn't have let myself be left behind, so we were both along for the ride wherever it was going to take us.

As we romped through our magical scavenger hunt in Auridon, though, a new thought settled in. What if this whole adventure was about Bastian and not me? What if this time, he got to be the one everything revolved around? What if we just made him the inheritor and called it good?

The more I thought about it, the better it sounded. Bastian could be in charge of figuring out all this magic stuff and get his mage power-up, and I'd be perfectly happy over here looking for urns to loot and fables to read until he needed a wingman for his next field trip.

At least being pretty good at spotting magical wards made me not totally useless as a sidekick. It got us through our secret door, and there in a peaceful Summerset-esque glade stood the majestic form of the Indrik, the first of the Luminaries that had guided Ulfsild in her understanding of Scribing.

If glances could speak, I'd like to think that this was the silent conversation that passed between me and Bastian in those moments:

Me: Well, here we are.
Bastian: Yeah, we made it.
Me: You got this?
Bastian: We got this.
Me: Shall we head on in?
Bastian: Sure, go ahead.
Me: I mean, you can go ahead...
Bastian: Is something wrong?
Me: No, go ahead.
Bastian: What are you waiting for?
Me: I mean...

And then the clearing of a majestic throat convinced me that I'd better just get things moving.

The Indrik greeted me - us? - as the bearers of his fable, and sensed the connection we had already established to the Scholarium. He surmised that we - I - had designs on becoming Ulfsild's inheritor, and he seemed pleased to think that his old friend's magical legacy would live on even though she was no longer in this world.

Placing the fable on its special dais unlocked the door that I had previously closed, and this time the magical energy flowing into the Scholarium was pure and beneficent. The Indrik was quite happy to contribute his power to reviving the Scribing altar's vitality, but he also wanted to ensure he wasn't misplacing his trust in its new keeper. And that's about where I had to finally get something said.

"So before we go too much farther, you should know..." I pointed at Bastian. "He should be the inheritor. Not me."

I'm not sure which of them was more surprised. But the Indrik merely regarded me curiously.

"Is that so?" he said. "The promise of power beyond mortal comprehension lies within your grasp... and you would cede it to another?"

"Well... he is the mage here."

"And yet you come before me, seeking my favor."

"Well yes, but for him."

The Indrik tipped his head, and his insightful eyes appraised me and then Bastian before settling back on me. "You are accustomed to taking the lead, being the one who does the talking. Yes?"

"That does sound about right."

His gaze drifted back to Bastian. "And you are content to follow her lead, let her do the talking."

"Of course."

The Indrik seemed amused by Bastian's forthrightness. "Then I will ask you to speak for yourself, mage. Do you desire this power?"

"I... do, yes. Just imagining the possibilities... my blood is fairly singing with excitement."

"And if I were to ask you, which of the two of you is more deserving?"

That caught us both off-guard. As we exchanged uncertain glances, I'm not sure how great Bastian felt about having to make that kind of judgment call with me standing right there. And what would I say if it were up to me? Could I claim to be deserving at all?

But this was Bastian's question to answer, his chance to speak for himself, and so I simply waited.

"I... don't know," he began hesitantly. "She's done so much more... I think we'd both use it wisely, or try." He furrowed his brow. "I don't know if that's a decision I can make."

I knew what he was doing. He wanted that magic, badly, but not if it meant shoving me aside to get to it. But dammit Bastian, this was not the time to be noble.

"Give it to him," I said firmly, not caring if it qualified as insubordinate. "He can make better use of it than I can. And if either of us were unworthy you'd say so, wouldn't you?"

Fortunately the Indrik didn't seem offended by my challenging tone. He simply chuckled, and closed his eyes, and set about pondering.

"Very well then. Perhaps Ulfsild's legacy has found two inheritors. A most interesting development indeed."

It took a moment for his words to sink in. Two inheritors? Like... both of us? Like not just Bastian? Wait, that didn't mean I was supposed to do all that magic stuff too, did it?

But yes, that is what it meant. The power of Scribing was to be placed into both of our hands, should we each have what it took to master it.

We did still have to prove ourselves, of course. One extended lecture about the nature of power later, we were given a selection of tasks to undertake that would illustrate what power means to us and how we would choose to use it.

I peered at the list of errands in Bastian's hands. "Do we each pick one? Or do we take two apiece?" I whispered, hoping he'd understood the assignment better than I had.

"Two in total," the Indrik said, having overheard me. "Your first step is to come to an agreement on which ones."

"Does that mean we can do them together?" Bastian asked.

The Indrik smiled. "More than that. You must do them together."

The big deliberation ended up being pretty straightforward. As much as we appreciate teamwork, gladiatorial matches against other adventurers seemed kind of pointless beyond personal glory and spectacle. And after all of the world-ending threats we've faced together, proving our strength against a mere bandit captain hiding in a cave would be a trifle.

Tracking down the remnants of the Worm Cult still trying to reenact the Planemeld and ruining their day, though... that was an easy choice for someone who has a history with Molag Bal and someone who really doesn't like cultists. And after they conveniently deployed an array of animated skeletons against us, all we had to do was swing by the still-slightly-zombie-infested environs of Phaer to finish off our cleansing of the undead.

The Indrik perked up from his meditations when he saw us reappear. "Ah, you return. You have witnessed power unleashed upon the world, and you have brought your own power to bear in response. What have you learned, I wonder, and what may I now learn about you?"

I opened my mouth to launch into a report, but he preempted me with a quiet "hmmm" and another one of those contemplative stares.

After a few moments of studying, he had his answer. "So, you use your power to defy the forces of evil. To stop bad people from doing bad things. To do that which must be done, that which no one else can do."

It was Bastian's turn next. "And you, you seek to uphold justice, to fight for the right." He chuckled. "I know someone you might get along with." His gaze softened. "But more than that, you use your power to protect. The innocent, those who cannot fight for themselves... and those whom you hold most dear."

His gaze flitted back to me, and he smiled. "A most interesting partnership indeed."

"Does that mean we pass the test?" Bastian asked.

"You have not failed," the Indrik said indulgently. "But while you have completed my trials, I would now bestow upon you a task. A favor in consideration of the power you seek to borrow. A wrong that has gone too long un-righted."

It turned out that even illuminated manifestations of pure magic make mistakes, just as the Indrik knew I had. He had acted in haste and hubris, using his power to protect a hunted fawn without considering that it might be going overboard. And ever since, both the fawn and the hunter had been caught up in a never-ending chase, while the fawn remained overwhelmed by a power it had never asked for.

We released both hunter and prey from their predicament, and the Indrik reclaimed his gifted power. And while the fawn found sanctuary in its protector's glade, Bastian and I went on to seek out the other three Luminaries who had once lent their power to Ulfsild's venture.

The Netch kind of warned us what we were getting into with its colorful, perhaps-not-quite-biographically-accurate rendition of its fable. But just in case we weren't paying attention, the ghost-squirrel chase through the Scholarium halls and the multiple pranked doorways to its domain were also pretty good clues.

While the Indrik was a portrait of stoic dignity, the Netch was anything but. Buoyancy is the name of its game, and what it wants most is to see the joy in life and help others see it too. Even if that mostly manifests in jokes, practical and otherwise, that may best be appreciated by those who don't take them too seriously.

The Netch was very quick to clarify that it had games, not tests, for us to undertake. Helpful games, designed to take some of life's weight off of others. Any number of them could have been perfectly suitable for Bastian and me, but we went with a little light fishing, retrieving some purloined goods from a mine, and culling the surplus Daedra population. (For the record, I won our little fishing competition, 2-1.)

The Netch's final trial had more weight to it, but that simply meant it was more in need of lifting-up. A man approaching the end of his life had long been estranged from his son. By following the trail of his life experiences (aided by Nahlia's trusty portals), we were able to help his spirit pick up the pieces of his life's regrets and put himself back together long enough for one last loving family reunion.

"Grief is heavy," the Netch said when we returned. "Not good for floating. Regret, that's even worse." It may not have been talking directly to me, but I certainly got the message. And I'd say we were all feeling a little bit lighter by the time Bastian and I went on our way.

Next up was the Gryphon. At least the fable said it was the Gryphon. It was a bit sparse on details beyond that, which might have had something to do with the much smaller critter scurrying around stealing pages out of the book.

Fortunately one page had been left behind in all the scurrying, which got us to the first set of hidden wards, which got us to our little page thief. Who, fortunately, had figured out by then that we were friends trying to help rebuild Ulfsild's library and not brigands trying to pillage it, so he was happy to help us with the rest of the pages and wards.

We hadn't heard anything about a fox Luminary, but he turned out to be just your regular everyday native of the Hunting Grounds. He'd befriended the Gryphon long ago after the big guy saved him during an unfortunate bakery-related incident, and had tagged along pretty much wherever he went ever since. And now, ever since the Scholarium had been sealed away, the Fox had been returning the old favor watching over his friend. Which was good, because the Gryphon wasn't in much of a state to watch out for himself.

As the self-appointed shield of the Scholarium, the Gryphon had reacted badly when Sheogorath threatened Eyevea. And knowing that even a mythical being was no match for a Daedric Prince, Ulfsild had frozen him in place to keep him from doing anything injurious. Thus he had remained, frozen in mid-flourish, until (with the Fox's blessing) we released Ulfsild's chilly wards.

The pent-up roar he let out would have at least given Sheogorath pause. Fortunately he recognized we weren't the Daedric Prince of nonsense (heh), and the Fox smoothed things over well enough to get us into a conversation.

Once he had come to accept our dedication to Ulfsild's legacy, the Gryphon wanted to see if we were similarly dedicated to his principles of protecting the innocent and defenseless. Sounded like we'd finally met the justice-minded acquaintance the Indrik had mentioned, and I wasn't the only one who picked up on the interesting combination of personalities in the room.

"Does their dynamic seem familiar to you?" Bastian side-whispered as we went for the list of commissions.

"What, the honor-bound stickler for justice and the free-spirited acquisitions expert? I'm sure I don't know what you mean."

The tasks that the Gryphon considered "safeguards" were a peculiar mix. I might have predicted the slaying of various baddies, and the retrieval of some kind of Aetherial shards from Ayleid ruins wasn't out of the ordinary, but pickpocketing and Thieves Guild heists? Was I reading this right?

Well that would at least make the task-choosing process easier. "Okay, I know which ones we can cross off..."

"Wait. Let's not be hasty," Bastian said, reaching for the parchment.

I raised an eyebrow and waited while he gave the list another mulling-over.

"I've been thinking about what the Gryphon told us," he said deliberately. "It seemed strange to me, that someone so devoted to justice would condone thievery. He might be able to excuse it in his little friend, as just a lovable quirk, but asking us to steal from other people..."

"We don't have to take those options if you don't feel good about it," I said.

"I know, and that would be the easy answer. I know it's what you expect. But... maybe the lesson here is that justice doesn't always look like we think it should."

"So what do you want to do?"

He took one last mulling breath, and then held out the paper. "I'll leave it up to you. I know you have certain skills, and maybe you should get a chance to use them. I'll go along with whatever you choose."

"Even..." I gestured vaguely at the list.

"Yes, even those." He grinned. "It might even be fun to see you in your element."

I narrowed my eyes, slightly melodramatically. "Who are you and what have you done with the real Bastian Hallix?"

"Hey, I'm trying to be supportive here."

"I know, but... are you sure? We can always go find a lich to kill."

"We can, if that's what you'd prefer. Or, we can punish an unscrupulous merchant for swindling sick people and help your friends in Abah's Landing stimulate the local economy."

You know, sometimes my partner finds the most unexpected ways to remind me how much I appreciate him.

We took care of business in the Rift quickly enough. The herb retrieval errand was meant to be stealthy, but we can be forgiven for leaving a few dead Worm Cultists in our wake. And then Bastian stood watch on a street corner in Riften, pretending not to notice as I relieved my greedy mark of his ill-gotten gains.

The trip to Hew's Bane was more involved. On the way I regaled Bastian with some of the old stories of intrigue and close escapes, maybe leaving out some of the more incriminating details. I left him to browse the marketplace while I picked up the day's heist assignment from the Den, and then it was off to the Underground Sepulcher.

Fa'ren-dar was surprised to see me arrive with an accomplice, but he knew better than to ask questions, and Bastian did his best not to look too law-abiding. The two of us paused at the door while I scanned the entryway and tried to recall my mental map of the place. It had been a while, but I could feel the old route coming back to me.

"Are you ready?" I asked Bastian.

"Ready as I'll ever be. I hope." He was trying not to sound nervous. It was probably hitting him how completely out of his element he was.

I could still leave him here and take care of business myself, but... "Just stay close to me. Move where I move, wait when I wait, keep to my shadows. I'll take care of the locks. If we do our job right, nobody will get hurt, and no one will even know we were here."

"Understood."

I gave him another moment to steel himself, and then we were off. There would be no holding back for his sake this time, but he made sure to stay right at my heels as I forged ahead. We had to be patient when a lantern trap guy decided to take his job super seriously right in front of the big prize, but soon that lock capitulated like all the rest, with plenty of time to make it back to the exit.

And then, just as I was starting to get self-congratulatory, a clunk and a whispered curse behind me, and a growl as a bandit realized someone was there who shouldn't be. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Bastian instinctively pull out his staff, but this wasn't the time for fighting.

"Just run!" I hissed between clenched teeth, barreling forward and hoping that my shadow cloak would obscure both of us long enough to confuse our pursuer.

I can only imagine what the rest of the bandits thought of the sudden wind blowing through their quiet lair, or their sputtering crony dashing in its wake. The commotion got their attention, though, at least long enough for a few of them to stick confused heads out of side rooms. And then one of them decided to get a better look, by coming straight out into the hallway directly in front of us.

I'm still not sure how I pulled it off, but in slow motion it must have been beautiful. I darted around the woman, somehow pulling Bastian to the side with me, and as she started to move past us I stuck the tippiest tippy toe out in front of her, holding onto Bastian to keep my own balance. She stumbled into her careening comrade, and just like that the pursuit was lost to a flurry of angry shouts as we resumed our getaway.

The exit awaited, but we couldn't breathe easy just yet. On a normal run the only hazard left would be the sentry patrolling the entryway, but right now the last thing I wanted was to be stuck waiting for a lantern to amble past while the seconds ticked away and the squabbling bandits got closer to getting their act together. Especially since those big laundry baskets aren't exactly made for two.

But the sentry wasn't going to make us wait for her lazy rounds. There she was, lantern raised, coming to see what all the fuss was about.

We weren't even going to make it to the basket. But if my memory didn't fail me, wasn't there a hidden room just there...

Mustering the last dregs of my shadows, I grabbed Bastian's hand and dove for the crumbling stone walls. Which, thankfully, were still good and crumbly right where we needed them to be.

"All right, what's the ruckus, you louts?"

The lantern's glow swept past us, barely brushing the edge of our cover. I watched, keen and poised, until the lamp's cruel periphery had passed. And then we were off. My shadows had nothing left, but we didn't need them. One last stretch of hallway, and there was the door, and there was Fa'ren-dar. The gate shut behind us, and we collapsed into breathless heaps, plenty of time to spare.

We just looked at each other, flushed with adrenaline and panting for breath, and as I finally let myself start to relax, I found something infectious in my partner's smile.

"That... was... exhilarating!" Bastian exclaimed as soon as he had enough wind back.

I grinned. "Careful, Stendarr might hear you."

He cleared his throat. "Yes. Well. These things are best left to the professionals. And I don't expect to be joining their ranks any time soon."

I just shook my head. Yeah, that wasn't happening.

"But... you do good work. And I'm glad I got the chance to see it."

There was something sincerely appreciative in his eyes, and the flush on my cheeks might have gotten a little warmer. But, we were still on the job, and Fa'ren-dar was ready to move out. In the spirit of the occasion, I told him to pass my cut on to anyone in the Guild who might be having a tough time and could use it, which he was happy to do.

Back at Justice Central, the Gryphon and the Fox had had some time to catch up, and had come up with a final trial for us that was both clever and productive. Safeguarding the general populace was great, but the Scholarium needed to shore up its own defenses now that it wasn't hidden away within Ulfsild's wards. And what better way to fortify the premises than to steal some creatia from Daedric Princes and use it to whip up a cadre of animated armored sentinels?

I think the Fox was more excited about sneaking into Oblivion than I was, given that none of our target realms were new to me (and none of them were the Colored Rooms, although it was probably just as well not to have that distraction). Apocrypha and the Deadlands were old hat for Bastian too, but I think it was his first trip to Evergloam. He seemed especially vigilant there, and I'm not sure if it was a relief or a disappointment that the trip was so uneventful.

So now the Scholarium has elemental armor guys standing around ready to pounce on any troublemakers, which they hopefully won't decide includes us. And we secured the blessing of our third Luminary, along with a bonus endorsement from a little Daedric fox.

That left one more Luminary to meet and impress. A dragon who loved riddles more than treasure, and wanted to know the machinations of our minds. Fortunately Bastian and I both have a decent noggin for puzzles, and even more fortunately we had some advance coaching from one of Ulfsild's projections.

No matter what, we were instructed, we were not to say anything about whether we were or were not Ulfsild's inheritors. We were just supposed to march in and demand to take the Dragon's trial. So that's what we did, and with a certain amount of consternation about our reticence, she agreed.

The challenges, of course, started with riddles. Between the two of us we figured them out fairly readily, although we still went around to see what our colleagues thought because we could, and when will I turn down an opportunity to see what people have to say?

And then, with the requisite flowers picked, safeboxes cracked, and beasts hunted, we returned for the Dragon's final contest of wits: the production of an unsolvable riddle. It's an irony in itself, probably, that even with all the chasing around we did, it was really Ulfsild who did all the work to make that riddle happen. All we had to do was follow her instructions and spring the trap that she had laid all those centuries ago.

The Dragon might still be debating with herself whether we really are Ulfsild's inheritors. But either way, she found us worthy of her sigil, and so the full power of the Luminaries was restored to the Scribing altar.

Well, almost the full power. There was one last wing to be explored, and one last Luminary's blessing to win. The Crow was more than just a caretaker and supervisor. She was a Luminary herself, created by Ulfsild in the last days of the Scholarium's sovereignty, bearing an imprint of the Archmage herself.

She told me to gather any allies I wanted before embarking on this final trial. Bastian was a given, as both my partner and my fellow inheritor, but Nahlia was also happy to see our journey of exploration to its final chapter. And so the three of us set out together, just as we'd traversed that first set of keyholes. (But with less piggybacking. Thankfully that buddy system thing turned out to be a one-time entrance requirement.)

The Crow's domain was a place of pure magic. I could tell that Bastian was overwhelmed just being there, so this time it was me sticking close and being vigilant while Nahlia scouted for dangers ahead.

The ensuing process of vow-making, brazier-lighting, labyrinth-traversing, and guardian-fighting not only proved our worthiness once and for all, but completed painting the picture of Ulfsild's experiences and goals as she watched her life's work slip out of her grasp.

Most people probably don't build things with the intention of losing them. When Ulfsild settled into her life with Shalidor, and the two of them built Eyevea into their own magical utopia, she couldn't have imagined that both her marriage and her work would be undone by one thoughtless bargain that she had nothing to do with.

It says a lot about her, then, that her efforts at damage control were so successful, especially considering how little time she had before Sheogorath claimed Eyevea. Letting the Mad God run roughshod over the Scholarium would have been disastrous, spelling the end of Scribing and likely doom for the Luminaries. Trying to spirit the contents of the Scholarium out of Eyevea would only have drawn attention, and as sorry as Shalidor was for having gotten them all into this mess, Ulfsild couldn't really trust him not to botch things even further if he tried to help.

And so the only way to protect the Luminaries and preserve any glimmer of hope for the survival of Scribing was to hide the whole shebang away and lay the groundwork for some future successor to pick up where Ulfsild left off. And she had to do it all on her own.

Isolation was a recurring theme for both Ulfsild and the Luminaries, I noticed. As much as they considered themselves a family, and even when Ulfsild's marriage was intact, in many ways she felt alone as she walked her life's path. Her ability to see magic set her apart from her peers back in the Reach, and I wouldn't be surprised if she felt relegated to Shalidor's shadow despite being his match in both magic and temperament. And when she embarked on her journey to bring Scribing into the world, she chose to do it without leaning on her husband or friends. Well, aside from the friends made of magic that she made along the way.

It's entirely possible that the power of friendship was one of the lessons Bastian and I were meant to learn as we tag-teamed our way to inheritorhood. The Indrik could have instructed us to do our tasks independently, or made us compete against each other, or just appointed one of us the inheritor and had the other one sit it out. But he wanted us to experience the journey and overcome the challenges as a team, and looking back it's clear to see how we were stronger together than we would have been apart. I don't doubt that we each could have handled our trials just fine solo (maybe with some different task choices in certain cases...), but we had a much more effective and enjoyable time of it working together.

Maybe that's an advantage we have that Ulfsild didn't. I don't know if she would rethink her aloofness if she could see us in action now, but I think Crow-Ulfsild has come to appreciate the vitality that our motley crew brings to the Scholarium. Just as we can - and should - appreciate our friends and allies while we have them, even if we someday have to say goodbye to what we've built together.

Which leads me back around to what happened right after we completed the Crow's trial and the Luminaries gathered to congratulate us on bringing Ulfsild's master plan to a successful conclusion. The inheritors were crowned, Scribing was saved, and everyone was happy. But the story wasn't over yet.

The Crow let the celebration settle before getting back to business. "We have many reasons to rejoice," she said. "But there are two matters we must attend to before our work is truly done. A final sigil to be acquired and added to the Scribing altar, and a question to be answered about the future of the Scholarium. Namely, who will tend to it now that my role as provisional caretaker is complete?"

Bastian and I exchanged glances while the Crow fluttered to a closer perch to address us.

"The two of you took up the mantle of inheritor together, like a cloak wrapped around your shoulders as you walked side by side. Different as you are, you have both proven yourselves in your own ways. Now that your trials have ended, and you no longer need to bear that mantle as one, I wonder where your respective paths might lead you."

She looked at me and tipped her head thoughtfully. "You, I sense, are not one to be tied to any particular place. Many adventures await you, and you will want the freedom to fly wherever you are needed. I expect that Scribing will find a great deal of practical use as you continue to make your way through the world. And that confining you here would do both you and the world a disservice. Would you agree?"

"I'd say that's a pretty fair assessment," I said, already picturing Nirn self-destructing while its customary savior had her nose obliviously stuck in a book.

The Crow nodded, and then she looked at Bastian. "So then, I turn to you, mage. This place was created as a sanctum for those who love magic with every fiber of their being, a place where their skills could be honed and their dreams would know no bounds. Can you see yourself making a nest here? Would you take up a new mantle, as guardian and master of the Scholarium?"

It shouldn't have hit me so hard to realize what she was asking. Of course, if it wasn't going to be me, then...

Bastian seemed similarly blindsided. "You... you want me to be its master?"

"Your love of magic has been well noted. The joy and reverence you exude as you walk these halls. Your devotion and determination to protect and nurture. All of us believe that this place would be in good hands if those hands were yours. Should you be willing to accept the duty and the gift we would entrust to you."

I watched him as he grappled with the question. Everything the Crow said was true, but...

"If I did... that would mean staying here, wouldn't it?" he asked.

"That's right," the Crow replied. "This place would not be a prison, of course, but a home. Just as it was for Ulfsild and is for us Luminaries. A home that you could shape to your liking. Within reason, of course."

He was silent, and seemed to draw into himself to consider the matter. It was a lot to think about, especially with everybody staring at him waiting for a response. I realized that it wouldn't help to have me staring at him too, and looked away so I wouldn't unduly influence him. It needed to be his decision. If it was something he wanted for himself, then how could I be anything but happy for him? It was a perfect setup, really, one inheritor to go out into the world, and one to hold down the fort at home. And I mean it's not like I would never see him again, I could always come and visit whenever I needed to scribe a new spell...

"Ilsabet..." he said quietly, without looking up.

"Mmm." I didn't move either.

"Would you be angry with me... if I gave up this opportunity?"

It took me a moment, but then I looked at him, not sure I was hearing him right. "Gave it up? You mean..."

"This is the perfect place for me, isn't it?" he murmured, almost to himself. "A haven filled with books and magic, the most incredible mentors I could ask for, no limits on what I could accomplish... It should be my dream, shouldn't it?"

"Of course," I said, hoping I sounded suitably encouraging. "How could I possibly blame you if you wanted to stay here?"

"That's why I'm asking what I'm asking. What if..." He finally looked up at me. "What if I said I'd rather stay with you?"

So I hadn't heard him wrong. He was actually considering giving all this up?

"The Scholarium will always be here, right?" he said, as if to convince me of his thought process. "If one day we go our separate ways, the books and magic and mentors will be here waiting for me. But the time I could spend with you, the things we could do together, whatever I miss out on now, there's no getting it back. Right?"

I didn't know what to say. I could see what he was getting at, but was he really sure...

"If I'm being stupid, feel free to tell me," he said. "I know this isn't a decision to make lightly, and maybe I should give it more time to think it through. But the more I think about thinking about it, the tighter my gut clenches up. So... would you hold it against me if I went with my gut, whether it's rational or not?"

In that moment it was like we were the only two people in the room. I couldn't tell if he was waiting for me to validate his foolhardiness or talk some sense into him. He was worried that I'd be upset with him if he didn't make the obvious sensible choice. But if that wasn't what he really wanted...

I shook my head. Of course I wouldn't hold it against him.

He let out a relieved breath and turned back to the patiently expectant crow. "I'm sorry, Crow. All of you, I -" He looked around at the assembled Luminaries. "I know what this responsibility means, and what an honor it would be to accept it. But if you want an honest answer, I don't think this is something I can do. Please, forgive me for letting you down."

The Crow chuckled in a way that I might have called tension-defusing. "Do not let your feathers be ruffled, inheritor. I posed the question, already suspecting I knew the answer. But it was right that the offer should be made, and that you should have the chance to consider it and make the choice for yourself. If you feel the winds beneath your wings lifting you aloft, you need not hesitate to soar wherever they take you. Nor do you need to fear that the Scholarium will be left forsaken without your commitment."

The Crow turned her attention to Nahlia. "As it happens, I have spied another with the potential to be just what the Scholarium needs."

Nahlia started at the realization that everyone was now looking at her, and pointed to herself apprehensively.

"Yes, you, Knight of the Lamp. Though you do not claim the title of inheritor, you have overcome your own challenges and proven your own strength of mind and heart. That you stand here alongside the inheritors, those who call you ally and friend, is a testament to your dedication and loyalty. I am even willing to look past that little mishap with the altar crystal in consideration of your subsequent reliability."

Nahlia flinched but tried not to look too guilty.

"You have served as a protector and pathfinder, and shown your love for this place and its inhabitants," the Crow continued. "And so I ask you: Will you serve as librarian and custodian as well? Will you take your place as the Scholarium's master?"

"M-me? I, um..." Nahlia nervously looked to me and Bastian, and something occurred to her. "Maybe... we should see about that last sigil while I take some time to think things over. Oh, what will the Votary Commander say..."

One last portal-hopping trip brought us to a little cottage in Eastmarch, where Ulfsild's final projection awaited us. As her life drew to a close, she looked back fondly on her time in the Scholarium and the luminous friends she'd left behind. But she'd made a new life for herself, a happy life, as a simple but respected hedge wizard no longer overshadowed by a larger-than-life husband.

She couldn't know for sure if her message would ever be viewed, but I think she rested well in the knowledge that she'd done all she could to preserve Scribing, and in the hope that it wasn't all in vain. And as we carried the Crow's sigil back with us to complete the altar's restoration, I could imagine that somewhere in Aetherius a wandering soul felt just a little lighter.

Nahlia was feeling better about the whole master of the Scholarium thing, too, knowing that even the great Archmage had struggled and sacrificed and that it had all been worth it in the end. She's been settling into her new role quite well since convincing her commander to approve her new assignment, and the cohort from the Mages Guild has been busily preparing to open the Scholarium to a wider array of eager students. So I'd say Scribing has a bright future, even if its official inheritors are off doing their own things.

We do stop in fairly frequently, though, to try out new spell combinations and satisfy Bastian's insatiable hankering for more books. I'm still not sure I would call myself a mage, but I suppose I get a little closer every time I craft a spell that doesn't blow up in my face. And it's nice to have a quiet retreat where I can just wander around and focus on the little things, like where the Fox might have hidden his latest stash and that torchbug floating above a certain table that I swear changes colors each time I pass by.

And of course it's always nice to chat with our friends. Nahlia mentioned meeting a flirty Covenant knight once, which made me wonder... but no, I'm probably reaching for that one.

Anyway, that was a whole adventure, and I'm not sure if it was more or less tiring than chasing after Daedric Princes. It was something different, at least, and we got through it just fine.

I might leave the reading to Bastian for a while, though.

I wouldn't be surprised if the Gold Road is one of those places that just always feels like autumn, but we realized the other day that it's actually Witches Festival season again. (Seriously, I've heard the phrase "golden hour," but I never knew it could be quite so literal.) With Leramil and Beragon still hunkered down studying artifacts and tracking fate threads, Bastian and I figured it wouldn't hurt to get in some festive downtime while we can.

On the way out of town we crossed paths with a Wood Elf who looked like she might have come straight out of a tree herself. She was dancing with some wisps, and offered to pass along their impressions of my fortune. Before I could remind myself of my track record with itinerant clairvoyants, I'd said sure, and she consulted her wispy friends for their insight.

The tidings were grim. "A darkness stalks you, and no matter how far and how fast you run, it will overtake you. Better to face it."

Well then. Nothing like an ominous portent to kick off your spooky holiday.

The old Witchmothers' haunt was as bustling as ever, but there was a new face taking advantage of the festivities to call out to passing adventurers: an anxious-looking priest looking for brave heroes to face down none other than the dread Lord Hollowjack.

I might have thought he was just a busker setting us up for a new spooky attraction, but his concerns were real enough. Turns out Hollowjack isn't just a boogeyman you'd meet on the road or find under your bed. He's an actual Daedric Lord who draws power from mortals' fear, and if those mortals are drawn in far enough, their very lives will be forfeit unless some brave soul can bring them back.

Sounds like a job for the Vestige and her trusty sidekick.

Priest Maxien was relieved when I took him up on his offer, and explained that three of Hollowjack's victims - the Haunted, as they're known - were even now in the throes of the dread lord's horrors. He gave me an amulet that was supposed to help me navigate Hollowjack's demiplane of Detritus, and would also allow him to speak to me while we were out and about. The creepy aura it gave off was probably to be expected, but there was one other thing I figured I'd better ask about this time.

I held up the amulet and directed a side-nod toward my sidekick. "Will this cover both of us?"

"You mean will its effects apply to both of you?" Priest Maxien clarified. "No, unfortunately. The connection only works with the one who physically bears the amulet."

"Then do you have another one for him?"

The priest glanced uncertainly at Bastian. "I'm... afraid I can only spare the one. But you seem strong enough to face Detritus on your own. I'm certain you'll be able to handle Lord Hollowjack's horrors while your friend waits for you in the real world."

Ah yes, the old "you seem strong" buttering-up. Well, I couldn't really argue with that, could I?

"We'll be fine," I told Bastian, and we headed out.

The first Haunted we found, a Bosmer woman in Grahtwood, was afraid of fire. And by afraid I mean terrified, certain that the flames surrounding her would engulf her at any moment. There were no flames, of course, at least not in the real world. But that was the power of Detritus, as long as a trace of the woman's consciousness remained there in the midst of Lord Hollowjack's horror show. Vaermina would have been proud.

"You're going to be okay?" Bastian asked as I prepared to step through the portal. The question was a formality, as was my return nod. A little fire wouldn't stop me from saving someone who needed help.

On the other side of the portal, everything was indeed on fire. It reminded me of that Bosmer grove that Dagon had been so interested in. And there was the woman's spirit, running like hell from the pumpkin-headed specters that wanted to set her alight too.

The heat here certainly felt real. And the ash fluttering into my eyes, and the billows of smoke searing my throat as I tried to breathe in as little as possible. But I only needed to keep moving forward, follow the path, until I found the prize that would allow Hollowjack's victim to quench the flames for good.

The Lord of Detritus had taken notice of me, and appeared to mock me personally for going to such extremes to save one little Wood Elf. Aside from the momentary splitting headache, I didn't need to pay him any mind. This was all in a day's work for the Vestige.

Back on Nirn, the woman had come to her senses and was grateful not to be burning to a crisp anymore. Bastian was of course relieved to see me return unscathed, but it's not like he had any real reason to doubt that I would.

The Haunted we found in Deshaan was a Dunmer man who had horribly disappointed his ancestors. Or at least that's what he believed. Fear of failure is certainly something I can empathize with, and this time there was just enough of a twinge in my chest to make me hesitate before stepping through the portal. But there was still a job to be done, and I wasn't going to worry Bastian unnecessarily. So in I went.

This corner of Detritus was a crumbling Dunmeri tomb. The ghosts of the man's ancestors crowded around his spirit, battering him with reproach and derision. He cried out in contrition, but the only penance they offered him was death.

The twinge in my chest intensified. You know how that feels, don't you? To never be good enough, no matter how hard you try.

Was that a voice? No, just a sentiment echoing from the back of my mind. Of course I knew that fear, of letting down all the people counting on me. I'd overcome it, many times.

You learned to ignore it, you mean. So you could pretend all the people you did let down didn't matter.

Okay, so it was going to be actual mind games. I probably should have seen this coming. I was on the Lord of Fear's home turf, after all. And if there was a hint of tasty fear to stir up, he was going to be right there with the mixing spoon ready to scoop it up. Or something.

You do love your stupid analogies. Almost as much as you love playing the hero and then letting people die.

The twinge was turning into a clenching in my gut, but that didn't mean I needed to take the obvious bait. I knew I couldn't do anything about the failures of the past. I'd already come to terms with that and laid those regrets to rest. But here and now, there was one person that I could save. One person counting on me, whose life was hanging in the balance. And if I just kept moving forward, I could prove myself worthy of his trust.

Sure, because one Dunmer you'll never see again totally outweighs failing to save the man you love.

That one actually stopped me in my tracks. But it also pissed me off, and that's a good way to get me moving again.

Past the tomb's treasure stash I found my true prize: a letter from the man's mother expressing her pride and love for her son. His parents didn't consider him a failure after all, despite his father's huffing and puffing about upholding the family legacy. They were proud of him, and he could be too.

That realization kindled the hope he needed to draw his spirit out of Detritus, despite Lord Hollowjack's assurances that his fears would bring him crawling back. He was looking forward to resuming his travels seeking out knowledge, hopefully a little more cautiously from now on.

Tiring as this jaunt through Detritus had been, Bastian and I needed to move on too. There was one more Haunted waiting for me to do what I do.

We found him in Stormhaven, an older Orc man frantically scrubbing his hands in a stream. At first he made it sound like he was injured and trying desperately to clean his wounds. But no, the blood on his hands wasn't his own. Lord Hollowjack had shown him the fruits of his axe's labors, and now all he could see was the river of blood surging around him.

As the nature of his fear sank in, I couldn't help glancing down at my own hands, as my mind drifted back to an outlaws refuge in Mournhold and a woman with an eyepatch coming toward me with an approving smile.

This time Bastian caught me before I could put my game face back on. "Are you sure you're up for this?" he asked. "I could be the one to take the amulet this time."

I shook my head. "I can do it." I needed to do it. I was the damn Vestige. I wasn't about to let a little irrational fear hold me back.

"All right, but... while you're in there, whatever happens, don't forget who you are."

It wasn't the admonition I would have expected, but maybe he'd already run through the obvious motivational lines and figured it was time for something new.

The portal deposited me in a battle-ruined Orcish fortress. Two bloodied figures confronted the man's spirit, and once again he was forced to cut them down, even though he'd never wanted to hurt them at all.

Looks familiar, doesn't it? Reminds me of that day in Orsinium...

Of course, more unsolicited commentary. The sentiment was stronger now, almost as if it had an actual voice. One that sounded a bit like... mine.

Let's get a move on, shall we? I'm sure we'll find something here for you to kill.

The pumpkin specters huddling amidst the rubble were too busy carving each other up to trifle with me. Surprising, in this place dedicated to death, that the realm's lord didn't have me hacking through hordes of faceless minions just to prove a point.

But... no, none of this was about me. I was just here to help an old man reclaim the peace that fear had stolen from him. All I needed to do was keep moving, keep pushing forward, until I found what he needed me to find.

So it's running away again, is it? Because it's easier to pretend you don't have anything to atone for? Heh. You never change.

Now you might think I'd spent enough time hashing over these old crises of conscience. That day in Orsinium, and how many days before or after... But I'd long since pulled myself out of those doldrums. These days I hardly even spared a thought for all the lives I'd callously cut short.

I wonder how many there would be, if they could all appear before us now? Really you're lucky this place wasn't designed for you. We'd need a much bigger fortress, that's for sure.

I'd made my peace with those lives. That time at New Life, hadn't I told them how sorry I was? Hadn't I been granted their forgiveness? Why did this need to be an issue now?

Of course, one dramatic show of tears and it's all wiped away. Just keep telling yourself that's all it takes to be the perfect snow-white hero.

I didn't need to be perfect. I just needed to do the best I could.

Well sure, if that's the best you can do. Of course an actually good person never would have let it get that far. But it's okay, you just weren't strong enough to stop yourself from being the killer you are.

An actually good person... I started to glance behind me, before remembering that it was only me this time.

Heh. You want to reach for him. Hands covered in blood, and you would grasp at him for the sake of your own comfort. How selfish.

It was true. I wanted Bastian to be there. I wanted to feel his hand on my shoulder and hear his voice telling me we would get through this together. But there was no one behind me, no reassuring smile, no hand for me to hold.

He can't save you from yourself, you know. That which is clean cannot cleanse that which is defiled. It'll only become defiled itself. Is that what you want for him? To be covered in blood just like you?

Of course I didn't expect him to share my iniquity. The blood on my hands was mine alone to bear. Someone so idealistic, so honorable, so intrinsically good, should never bear the burden of someone like me.

And yet you cling to him, as if you can no longer remember what it was like to take care of your own damn self. You know you'll only drag him into the viscera along with you. But that would suit you just fine, wouldn't it? As long as you don't have to drown alone.

That wasn't what I wanted for him. That was never what I wanted. I don't need anyone to take care of me. Not if it means losing him too...

Then maybe this is for the best. You can accept the weight of the blood you've been carrying all this time, and he'll be free to live his life unburdened. You're already moving in the right direction. The pool of absolution is waiting...

As I stumbled forward - it was still forward, wasn't it? - the melting snow on the ground began to run red and the corpses of fallen warriors kept vigil over the path. Absolution... it was just beyond that breach in the wall...

The gathering streams of blood ran past cairns adorned with scattered weaponry to meet in a ruddy pool in the center of the cavern. But before I could get there, an altar presented itself, the sharp edge of a mighty battleaxe barely visible amidst a spurting gout of blood.

That's right, the Orcish warrior. The man I came here to save. But how could I save him, when my hands were stained even darker red than his?

The axe beckoned. There was a reason it was here. Of course. I could bring forth my own blood, before taking my place in the depths. It would be a fitting offering. The best I could do.

The weapon was sturdy, heavier than my greatsword. Designed to be swung outward, so it might take some mulling to figure out the best way to aim it inward.

I balanced it in my hands, contemplating it, and absentmindedly swiped my sleeve over the flat side of the axe head. There were some interesting designs engraved into it, once you got past all the blood.

Wait, didn't that priest say something about cleansing the Orc's weapon, back when he was still trying to tell me what to do? Silly to think someone like me capable of cleansing anything, but if all it took was taking the defilement onto myself, then it's not like a little more blood would hurt me. Maybe it would even make a difference, somehow, and I could get in one last heroic hurrah while I was here.

My sleeves and pant legs took care of most of the gore, but those nice intricate etchings were their own problem. I didn't see a whole lot of water sitting around (that wasn't already contaminated, anyway), but there was just enough snow on the ground that could still pass for white, so I knelt down and scooped some up and got to scrubbing. The white turned red, just as you'd expect, and slowly but surely the weapon's mottled surface started to look like steel again.

This is stupid. Why are you wasting your time when you know it doesn't matter?

Maybe for the same reason a disembodied voice was wasting its time nagging me when it was already getting what it wanted. And who knows, maybe this extra busy work actually was going to matter. Even if it was just one life, even if one life could never make up for all those countless bloodied corpses in my wake, maybe it was worth saving a person who could still be saved.

A sudden pang of memory. A farmhouse, the Gold Coast, a man and a woman staring me down waiting to see what choice I would make. Three lives in the balance. If I took one, the other two would...

I spared one to save two others. If I hadn't, if I'd killed her, how many things would have happened differently? But I didn't, because I was someone who chose to save people who could be saved.

That's what I was doing now, wasn't it? I was going to save this man. Because I was someone who chose to save people who could be saved.

Sigh. Still so determined to play the hero, even when there's nobody here to fool.

I was here. I knew what I was saying. I knew... who I was.

Who you want to be, maybe. But the reality is right in front of you. Stop pretending you don't see it.

I looked at my hands. Of course they were covered in blood, rivulets running down my wrists and dripping onto the blade in my lap. It didn't matter if it was an illusion or not. I couldn't deny my past. I couldn't run from the darkness overtaking me. I had... to turn and face it.

I let out a breath, and reached for another handful of snow. The crimson on my hand seeped through the icy crystals, but if I worked fast enough I could still wipe down one little spot on the axe before my frozen swab was soaked through and I had to cast it aside. And then another handful, another spot cleaned, and then another, and then another.

What the hell are you even doing? Just stop already. Stop!

I wasn't going to stop. Not until this axe was clean. Not until this man was saved.

You don't need to do this. Don't you care about your absolution? The pool is right there!

Not until I'm done. Not until this axe is clean and this man is saved.

Stop it! You're ruining everything! Dammit, I had you!

I am someone who saves people who can be saved. If you don't like it, you can shove right off.

The last of the bloodstains gave way, and immediately my head started pounding again as the master of Detritus appeared once more to decry my apparent victory. But there was more anger than mockery as he screeched his "BEGONE!"

And then, thus rejected by Detritus' master, I was spat back out into the sunny Stormhaven countryside.

Laid out on my backside, my head still spinning, the last thing I was going to do was convince Bastian he didn't need to be looking at me with that worried face.

"What did you see in there?" he asked, kneeling beside me as he'd done so many times before.

That was an excellent question, and I wasn't sure I had an answer. As my senses started to come back to me, I looked down at my hands. They should have been stained crimson, but... they weren't. Because maybe... maybe I was still that person who would choose to save people when I had a choice. I just needed not to forget who I was.

I looked back up at Bastian. "How the hell do you always know exactly what to say?"

He gave me a smile tempered with a sigh, and held out a hand to help me up.

Once I was on my feet, though, he didn't let go. "Your hands are freezing."

"There was... snow..." It wasn't real, though, was it? But I couldn't deny that my hands felt a lot warmer with Bastian holding them.

"After this is all settled, and we've reported back to the priest, I'll treat you to a nice mug of hot cider. It sounds like you could use it."

That did sound awfully nice. But... oh yeah, we weren't done with Priest Maxien's little boogeyman-hunting expedition just yet.

The Orc felt a lot better now that he wasn't swimming in blood anymore. He too had realized that he couldn't just proclaim his fears conquered and move on, and absolution wasn't something you could just waltz into a Daedric realm and claim. He had wanted to leave his life of warfare behind, but discovered that violence is pretty much just a thing wherever you go. And then a holy man told him there was a way out, and where to find it, and that little plan backfired spectacularly.

A holy man, eh? Surely it couldn't be...

But it was. Our good old priest of Stendarr was none other than Hollowjack's very first Haunted. And after noshing on the same old fears for who knows how long, Lord Pumpkinhead had decided it was time for some new taste sensations, and tasked his servant with sending him some robust new adventurers to corrupt. In return, Maxien would at last be freed from his terrifying torment, a deal he couldn't bring himself to pass up.

Maxien was surprised that I'd been able to free the three Haunted, and even more surprised that I hadn't been consumed by Detritus' overwhelming aura of fear. It's a good thing I turned out to be more of a badass than he expected, because his boogeyman-hunting expedition was about to get a lot more literal.

Lord Hollowjack wasn't happy about his chosen one failing him, or about being deprived of the snackies he'd been so looking forward to. And having had some time to consider the situation, he'd decided that having hope rekindled in his Haunted wasn't such a terrible thing, since it would only make their rekindled fear more delectable when he inevitably dragged their souls back to Detritus.

Unless, of course, a group of robust adventurers could stomp into Detritus and give him a stern talking-to. Which, it turned out, was exactly what Maxien was secretly hoping for all along.

Fortunately there were enough Undaunted types hanging around the coven who were either sufficiently naturally foolhardy or drunk on witches' brew to leap through an Oblivion portal. (The power of friendship is great and all, but even I know when to call in backup that isn't just Bastian.)

Detritus' master seemed to expect our incursion, and was ready with a grandiose display of executing the very three souls I'd just gotten done saving. "My Haunted can never escape. You have failed them!" he exulted, but of course it was all fake. And I mean, even if it wasn't, was that somehow supposed to make me not want to kick his ass even harder?

The fight was tricky, although the trickiest part was the one that involved the least fighting. My powers of stealth pulled through well enough, even though I had to force myself not to run toward - or away from - the cries of comrades being ambushed all around me.

Hollowjack kept up his taunts as we whittled him down. "It would be awful to fail now, having come so far." It sure would, if we had any intention of failing.

And then, somehow, we vanquished yet another Daedric Lord in his own realm. Well, I guess this one wasn't a full-fledged Prince, but I'll still savor the win. As always he can't be killed for good, but the Undaunted should be able to keep his physical form dispersed until the Witches Festival has ended and the veil between Nirn and Detritus has regained its strength. And that's good news for Maxien and all of the other Tamriel-dwellers who find themselves a little more susceptible to spooking this time of year.

I decided not to give Maxien too hard of a time about the whole deceiving us and tossing me like a hunk of sirloin to a Daedric Lord thing. The man's got his own demons to sort out, and he probably just needs some time to not be in his own tormented head. And it did work out for the best in the end, after all.

And now Bastian and I are back to what we would have been doing anyway. I haven't told him too much about the struggles with my own inner demon (seriously, was that really supposed to be me talking to myself? am I really that annoying?), but he knows me well enough to get where I'm coming from with the failure thing and the being-too-much-of-a-murderhobo thing.

And now, mellowed out by that mug of hot cider (which I absolutely did deserve), I've had some time to myself to think through the things I probably wouldn't say to him or anyone else out loud.

It may be true that I've become a little too dependent on Bastian over the course of our recent adventures. Not that I've become incapable of taking care of myself, but it is a comfortable feeling knowing he's there, and it's easy to take for granted that he always will be. And maybe that's not fair, to him or to myself.

The fact is that Bastian won't always be there to pull me from the depths or offer just the right words of comfort. But he doesn't need to be. And not just because I'm supposed to push him away so he won't be contaminated by my badness. He's just his own person, just like I am, and our paths down the river may not always flow side by side. I'd be lying if I said the thought didn't make me a little sad, especially after our little brush with separation back at the Scholarium, but I'll try not to miss him too much too prematurely. I am after all the damn Vestige, and I can in fact take care of my own damn self when I really need to. Even if it is awfully nice not to strictly speaking need to. For as long as it lasts, anyway.

...Dang it, I missed the opportunity to ask Lord Scarypants what the flavor of fear is. I guess I'll just have to assume it really is sublime.

sans-culottes wrote: »

Gold Road really shows how TES lore can serve equally well as a mythic structure and as a kind of introspective mirror for some players. Fascinating dual function.

Yep. The Gold Road finale entry coming up will really highlight that. (We're not quite done with Gold Road yet, this was just a good spot to stick in the Hollowjack entry.)

Author's Note:

Okay one more thing to show off.

So among other things, I am something of a crafter, working primarily with beads, chainmaille, and wire. I've been wanting to make a Dawnbreaker pendant for like years, and finally got off my duff to work out a prototype design using copper wire and maille. And it actually turned out pretty great.



For anyone who cares about specs, that's a single piece of 18g copper wire forming the blade frame, hoop, and hilt, with 20g wire for the wrapping on the blade. The "Dawnstar Gem" is a jonquil Swarovski crystal in a 22awg 3/32" Romanov (Byzantine) maille setting.

(Also please forgive the fuzzy pics, photography is not one of my fortes. )

So many paths, so many possibilities. And yet we mere mortals will only ever see one of them. But what if it didn't have to be that way...

It is that way, of course. It might not have been, if the Prince of Paths had had her way, if she were still among us and able to wield her power. If she had been able to offer the gift of unconstrained choice, the way she said she wanted to.

Was I right, in the end, to work against her? To be the champion of the status quo? Is it my fault that we're not all basking in our own perfect, individually-tailored realities right now?

Maybe it is. Maybe this is just the inevitable result of fulfilling my duties as fate's chosen. But I still made the choices that led us here. And now I have the luxury and the weight of wondering what might have been, what I might have sacrificed for the sake of preserving the only path we'll ever know.

The deliberations of our brain trust and the guidance of our Daedric artifacts led us to the ruins of ancient Miscarcand, once a seat of Ithelia's power and the home of an Ayleid well that had reawakened upon its master's return. We took down Nantharion, but we couldn't stop Ithelia from drawing enough energy from the well to completely regain her true Princely form. And then she was gone again, off with her remaining servant to reclaim her home in Mirrormoor and some kind of loom that would help her restore what had been lost.

Ithelia never acknowledged me during that whole encounter, and it's hard to tell if our previous interactions meant nothing to her at that point or if she just didn't notice me as she was powering up. But as we followed her trail into the next set of Ayleid ruins, it was harder to hold out hope that the power of friendship would avert further conflict.

The portal we found in Wendir led us to a long-abandoned quarter of Fargrave. Perhaps a waypoint in Ithelia's realm-hopping? But Leramil had a thought that was just crazy enough to make sense: What if this masterless demiplane of Oblivion had once had a master? One that had been forgotten, leaving it to drift untethered in a sea of endless possibilities?

If all that sand was ground-down glass, if all those possibilities were paths untrod... Suddenly that feeling of drifting in a boundless expanse had a much more profound meaning.

But if this really was Ithelia's home, then her homecoming meant that she was moving ever closer to bending our reality to her will. Leramil had already tried to explain how reality would be compelled to accommodate Ithelia's wishes, and would break under the strain. Apparently my actions were the only reason that hadn't happened yet. And so presumably it continued to be up to me to keep it from happening at all.

This loom Ithelia had mentioned, the Loom of the Untraveled Road, was the key to realizing Ithelia's vision. With it, she could find and reweave threads of fate from different paths, splicing the ones she liked into the tapestry of our reality. She could remake history, writing a past, present and future where she was never in conflict with her fellow Princes. Never imprisoned. Never forgotten. Where nothing bad would ever happen to her. It would have been perfect for her, and maybe for those who served her. But what would it have meant for everyone else? What would our present look like if it had flowed from her perfect past?

I had very little time to mull over the implications as we charged in to make our heroic stand. Ithelia was in the process of reshaping reality, and the only way to stop her was to destroy the Loom. To destroy the only means of changing what is into what could be.

Ithelia couldn't understand why we would oppose her. She was doing this for us, she said. To give us the gift of unconstrained choice. Once her existence was secured, she could turn her attention to our desires. Our regrets. Our perfect past, present, and future. She could give us what we could never have if we remained shackled to the inevitabilities of our fate.

I found myself going through the motions fighting Vargas as Ithelia frantically worked the Loom. I had to stop them. I had to... right? This was my job as fate's chosen. If Ithelia changed everything, we might not even exist anymore. Right? Or could she just pull all the necessary strings to create a perfect world for each of us, where we could have everything we ever wanted...

Even as Vargas lay defeated before us, Ithelia sought to call upon the Loom's power to undo her scion's demise. To set things right. She could undo anything we did, as long as the Loom answered to her.

The moment of truth arrived, and none of my dissociated musing had prepared me to face it. I stood before the Loom, gripping Abolisher, one strike away from ending it all. My duty was clear. But what if I had a choice, that didn't have to be dictated by duty...

"Now, proxy!" Leramil cried, noticing my hesitation. "You must use Abolisher to destroy the Loom!"

I must... of course I must. If I didn't, our reality would never be secure. My hand clenched around Abolisher's hilt, and I forced myself to smash the blade into the sigil powering the Loom. The device exploded in a shower of shattered crystals, and Ithelia shrieked as its unbridled power surged into her.

Bastian pulled me back into a barrier as the Prince of Paths reeled above us and the light surrounding her turned orange and then red. And then she burst forth as if from a cocoon of light, her wings of shattered glass unfurled in newfound crimson glory.

"I am the Last Tomorrow, the Unweaver! I am filled with the power of the Many Paths!"

Thus did Hermaeus Mora's predicted calamity come to pass. This time it wasn't rage that turned Ithelia into the inexorable apocalypse monster. It was the overwhelming influx of her own power, released from the Many Paths when fate's chosen destroyed her Loom.

Sigh.

If I hadn't... but no, I had to. If I hadn't, our reality would have been subjugated by her whims, torn apart by volatility that it couldn't possibly bear. That's what Leramil said. That's what the One Who Knows foresaw. That's what I have to believe would have happened if I had faltered when fate needed me to be strong.

There was really no good choice here. But the choice had been made. And now we had an apocalypse monster to deal with, who had fled with her one surviving attendant to plot her next move. In her current state, her presence was creating instabilities that were shredding the very fabric of fate, consuming possibilities before they even had a chance to come to be. And in some cases, consuming people and erasing them from existence completely.

Our three Ithelia-hunting artifacts had been depleted during our foray, but a visit to some relevant Daedric hotspots conveniently rejuvenated them. At the last one, Torvesard made an appearance. This time he was the one who wanted to talk, to entreat me to stand aside and let his Prince have her way with fate. He still thought Mora was a lying liar and I was a gullible fool, but he respected me enough to give me the chance to excuse myself from the coming conflict. An offer that I, of course, respectfully declined.

Even with our anti-Ithelia arsenal restored, the question remained of what to actually do with her. A trip back to the demolished Loom with the Echonir revealed that Ithelia planned to raise up a new improved Mirrormoor on the smoldering remains of a conquered Apocrypha, which at least told us where to find her. But forcing her back into containment would be no easy feat with her power flaring out of control. And Leramil feared that fate might be spiraling toward a doom that we couldn't hope to change.

I might have expected that level of pessimism from Scruut, but coming from Leramil it just annoyed me. The only reason I was here was because I was supposed to be able to change the doomed fate that Hermaeus Mora had envisioned. If everything was immutable, and we were only following some sort of script from here on out, then what was even the point? No, there had to still be something I could do. Some way to change the script, to adapt to the flow of the river rather than just passively letting it carry us downstream and fling us off the looming waterfall into the rocks below.

Or, hear me out, what if we could get the river to adapt? What if we could say, hey river, how about not having a waterfall crashing into rocks and instead having a nice gradual slope toward a nice placid lake? You'll still end up in the same place, down below there, but with way less screaming and death along the way.

...I guess I really do like my stupid analogies. But it made sense to me, kind of. Apocalypse Monster Ithelia didn't seem like the kind of person you could really reason with, but if we could come up with a way to show her that it didn't need to be this way, that she didn't need to be this way, then maybe she would find her own incentive to change. After all, we'd already seen multiple versions of perfectly valid Ithelias, proving that there wasn't just one way she had to be. And if she'd changed once, into the monster she currently was, who's to say she couldn't change back?

Leramil was skeptical, and Scruut was even more skeptical. Daedra don't change, they insisted, and if they do then it's because of undeniable forces outside their control, like being imbued with an overwhelming dose of power. It was never their choice, and the idea of just choosing to change for the hell of it was completely foreign to them, a curious quirk of mortals. Ironic, it seemed to me, for a Prince who was all about granting choice to her subjects.

I wasn't convinced that my idea was a lost cause, though. I'd traveled those roads with Ithelia back at the inn, and she seemed open to learning from her alternate selves. I also didn't think she truly wanted to be an apocalypse monster, so I was willing to bet that if she had the option she'd go for something less likely to tear everything to shreds.

So, how to convince the Unweaver that she had other options? How to show her that she could be better than she was?

For all the skepticism and pessimism, Scruut ended up being the one to make the breakthrough we needed. She had heard of a magic mirror that would show the viewer their deepest thoughts and dreams, a vision of their truest self. And she thought that if we could make one of our own, and show Ithelia her true self, it might just snap her out of her madness.

So, our next mission was to obtain a piece of Ithelia's very first Shardborn creation to use in the mirror-making ritual. Simple enough, until Torvesard arrived and decided he'd finally had enough of my meddling. A convenient reality tear sent in my direction would have been enough to swallow me up, but Gadayn flung himself into the void in my stead.

Gadayn... one moment he was there, and the next he just... wasn't. No wound to treat, no last words to exchange, not even a body to send back to the Necropolis.

It's probably a good thing Leramil wasn't there to see it, but that didn't make it any easier to give her the news when we returned to Skingrad and she immediately noticed that Gadayn wasn't with us. Her mind raced with all the reasons it shouldn't have happened and couldn't be true. But all I could tell her was that I was sorry.

To lose someone and not be able to do anything about it, when you've never even told him how you feel... I can't claim to know how Leramil felt in those moments, but I sure as hell knew how I felt when it happened to me. She needed a few minutes to process the shock, but there was work to be done that only she and I could do. And I recognized the resolve hardening her face against the grief when she returned to us to begin the mirror ritual.

I reminded her, when we were done and had our newly minted Mirror of Truth in hand, that Gadayn would want us to see our reality-saving mission to its end. She already knew that, of course, but hopefully the affirmation helped.

And so Apocrypha, and the Mythos, beckoned once again. I'm not sure how Ithelia bypassed the rule about not entering other Princes' realms without an invitation or a meatsuit, but maybe that's just a thing you can do when you're overflowing with the power of the Many Paths.

We didn't have time to swing by and pick up Azandar this time, but Leramil, Bastian and I made it into the inner sanctum where Ithelia had bound Hermaeus Mora and was already overlaying the acrid green sky and pools of ink with Fargrave's sea of stars and crystal formations.

She left the task of draining Mora's energy to Torvesard and came down to face us herself. The fury in her eyes burned red and she held nothing back as she lashed out at us. But I didn't need to destroy her, or even defeat her. We just needed to wear her down, to keep her busy long enough for me to find a moment to brandish our magic mirror in her face.

That moment came, and whatever Ithelia saw stunned her and made her recoil. When she came back to herself, the fury in her eyes was gone, and she entreated me for an explanation. So, we might be able to talk things out after all.

The truth she saw in the mirror was the truth of Mora's prediction come true. She recognized the monster she had become. But more than that, a memory had come back to her, of her final moments of freedom all those eons ago. She had realized then, at the last, that Mora had been right all along. She would be the undoing of reality. And the fate he had foreseen would not be denied.

It was too late at that point to accept his judgment and let that be the end of it, though. She had already laid the groundwork for her scions to someday engineer her freedom. And in the turmoil of her return, the memory of her revelation had eluded her until just now, when the maddening rush of power churning within and around her would not be so easily quelled.

Dispersing some of that power alleviated the burden somewhat. And she could divest more of it by returning to Mora what was rightfully his. But Torvesard could not accept surrender. His nature had been imbued with an insatiable need to restore his Prince to her rightful place. And so if she would not see their fight to its glorious end, he would finish it for her.

This was a fight I had to see to the end too. Whatever common ground Torvesard and I might have had, we both recognized that the time for talking was over. And there would be no resolution until one of us was defeated for good.

Against a foe imbued with the power of two Princes, my team needed to even the playing field, and Leramil summoned our other allies to join the fight. When the glass shards settled we stood victorious, and Torvesard was consigned to whatever plane of Oblivion he now called his own, leaving only an echo behind.

He promised to reform and continue his Prince's crusade, but she was ready to be done. Ithelia regretted burdening her scion with his irresistible imperative, but now she could free him from his eternal duty by granting him the eternal peace of nonexistence. And then, with her contingency plan thus annulled, and with Mora's power returned to him and the bulk of her own sent into the Void, Ithelia was ready to follow Mora back to her prison.

I came too, along with Leramil and Bastian, hoping that we were nearing the end of my tenure as fate's chosen. If all we needed to do was pop Ithelia back into her glass cage, and make everyone forget again, and she was actually cool with it this time, then everything would be fine, right?

But of course it wasn't going to be that simple. The power that Ithelia had cast off wanted to return to her, and she was sure that it would eventually find its way to her and blind her with madness again. Even without Torvesard, we couldn't guarantee that this whole cycle wouldn't just repeat.

The Princes agreed that something needed to be done to definitively protect our reality from Ithelia's power. But the best either of them could come up with was still the temporary reprieve of imprisonment. And so they turned to me, the mere mortal, for a different perspective that might be able to see a solution that they could not.

Was this it, then? The moment I'd been chosen for? The one where I was supposed to follow my heart and I'd know what to do?

Ithelia had been intrigued by my earlier overtures, and she wanted to hear more about change. I started by talking up how great it was that mortals can change, and reminded her of all the different Ithelias we saw during our field trip at the inn. But she too was not convinced that any of this was proof that Daedra such as herself could change. It was consequence, not choice, she said, that governed the nature of her counterparts on the Many Paths, as they simply reacted to the circumstances of their own realities.

"Do the Many Paths only lead to alternate realities?" I asked, looking for another angle to try.

"The Many Paths lead everywhere," Ithelia replied. "Other places, other possibilities, parallel realities. You can go anywhere, if you can just find the path."

I know I was supposed to be focusing on her, on the situation at hand, but my mind couldn't help wandering toward the questions that had been nagging me since our first encounter with the Loom. If I could just find the path... could I find one that would lead me to him...

Ithelia sensed that my ruminations had taken a turn. "Is there something you wish to ask me, mortal? A personal concern, perhaps? We have little time, but I believe you have earned this much."

All right then. If this was my chance, and I could make it about me for just a moment, I had nothing to lose by forging boldly onward.

"There is something, actually," I said. "I understand that you can't use your power to just give us the reality we might want. But, if you can still see the Many Paths, can you tell me... Is there a reality where I - where the Ilsabet of that path is able to be with a man named Darien Gautier?"

She regarded me curiously, and I tried not to look as nervous as I felt.

"Tell me truly, would it bring you comfort or distress to know the answer to that question?"

The way she asked made it seem like something I should put some thought into, even if the response seemed obvious. It should be good to know, right? When this was probably the only opportunity I'd ever have to find out?

If the answer was yes, that should be a comfort. At least one of us gets to be happy. But... it wouldn't take long for the distress to creep in, would it. Why her and not me? Was she more deserving of happiness, more willing to sacrifice, more dedicated to her love? And... if the answer was no, that means there was never any hope...

Ithelia could see the conflict brewing on my face. "Mortals often misjudge the value of knowing. Even the All-Knowing Eye knows better than to reveal more than would serve you well."

I was suddenly frustrated that I might be talking myself out of something I had every reason to want. "Yes, I know. But this is something important to me."

"Yes, I see that. This man you mentioned... he is important to you, desperately so." She tipped her head inquisitively. "And yet, when you had the choice..."

She trailed off, inspecting me. I blinked at her, and she seemed to realize something.

"I see... you don't remember..."

I just looked at her. Was she referring to something I should know about, or just being cryptic?

She seemed to settle something in her mind, and drew herself up for her pronouncement. "If the nature of my power were different, if that power itself were not to be your undoing, I would have been pleased to give you the reality you desire. But you have already grasped that this is not to be.

"And so the gift I will give you is the answer that will serve you best: You are on this path because it is the path you have chosen. Every choice you have made has led you here. Large or small, whether you recognized its import or not. You may now view some of those choices with regret, but where you find yourself is where you have chosen to be."

"It's not like I had a whole lot of control over what happened along the way," I grumbled.

"Of course not. No mortal does. But you do what you can. Is that not what you say? And what you do makes a difference. It always does."

"Then are there choices I could have made differently, that would have let us be together?"

"Of course. You don't need me to tell you that. And it may be that other versions of you made those choices. But you are you, and you are here. And it is the path before you that is yet to be written."

I felt tears welling up. Was it grief for possibilities lost, or hope for possibilities to come?

"Then... do you think there's a chance I'll find him again? From where I am now... is there a path that leads to him?"

She smiled serenely. "That, mortal... is for you to discover."

A more petulant Ilsabet might have wanted to object to the non-answer, but before I could say anything more, Ithelia shuddered. "And now, I fear, we have lingered too long. I feel the tendrils of my discarded power searching, reaching toward me. We must hurry, mortal. If you can see a solution that Mora and I have overlooked, we must have it now."

Of course. Right now my personal desires didn't matter. We needed a solution, a better one than imprisonment. A way to neutralize the threat of Ithelia's power. A way that Ithelia might change? A way that her power might lose its power...

"Your power... that's where the threat to reality comes from, right?" I said, and Ithelia nodded. "Then what if your power had no power?"

"Explain," she demanded.

"If you could go to a place, a path, where your power was powerless, where even if you wanted to, it couldn't actually do anything..."

"A path where Daedra and magicka do not exist?" Ithelia mused, picking up my train of thought. "It would need to be a place where my Daedric power held no sway and could gain no foothold."

"Is there a place like that? Could we make that happen?"

"I believe it may be possible," Ithelia said, a glimmer of hope appearing in her eyes. "Hermaeus Mora can find an acceptable path and I can show him how to open the way. And then we would need you to use Abolisher. To destroy the path so that I could never return to this reality. Ask Mora if this will suffice."

Mora needed some convincing, but it would suffice. He found a path that suited our purposes, and together the Princes created the portal that would lead Ithelia into exile.

But before Ithelia could walk through that portal, Leramil called out to her. "Wait! We lost a... good friend to one of the reality tears. Is there anything..."

"The tears were not my creation, only an effect of my passing," Ithelia told her. "All I can offer is this wisdom to ease your mind."

Ithelia held out her hand, and some kind of energy passed between her and Leramil. And then, as Leramil grappled with the effects of the spell, Ithelia turned back to me.

"Now, you have shown we who are called Daedric Princes that there are always possibilities. Even for us. Farewell, mortal."

And with that, Ithelia took the shape of the simple woman I had met in the Outcast Inn, and stepped through the portal, never again to be seen in our plane. Abolisher destroyed the path behind her, and fate's chosen successfully saved reality.

Huzzah, right? Another job well done?

It was an unusually subdued merry band that stepped out of the apocryphal portal into Beragon's townhouse, and I don't think it was just because we were all tired. Leramil verified that Ithelia had been banished to a place where she would cause no harm, but she was more preoccupied with the ramifications of Ithelia's parting gift. The Prince had granted her a momentary connection to the Many Paths, the briefest glimpse into the myriad possibilities. And somewhere among those possibilities, Leramil was sure that she had glimpsed Gadayn alive and well.

So instead of all the cryptic hinting, Ithelia could have just shown me where he was...

But this was Leramil's moment, and she was choosing to cling to the belief that as long as Gadayn existed somewhere, in some path, there remained some chance that she would see him again. Can't blame a girl for hoping, can we.

But there weren't going to be any interplanar rescue missions as long as any threat to our reality remained, which it did. Those reality tears didn't go away when Ithelia did, so while there weren't any new ones forming, we needed a cleanup crew to coax reality back to its unshredded state.

Mora had a plan for that, fortunately, and sent Scruut with a specially-prepared spell scroll that even a spellcasting neophyte like me could handle. (I would like to think that my experience with Scribing helped.) The three Daedric artifacts found new homes at three nexus points in the fabric of reality, and lent the last of their energy to begin healing fate's frayed threads. And then, at last, reality was officially saved. For now.

Bastian accompanied me on the tear-repairing trek, of course, and while he'd been generally quiet since our run-in with Ithelia, there were times when it seemed to me that he was more absorbed in thought than usual, and a couple of those times he caught me watching him and tried a little too hard to play it casual.

And then, as we were heading back to Skingrad after the last artifact was in place, and I was wondering if I should ask if everything was okay, he saved me the trouble.

"Hey, Ilsabet..." he said, with that tentative tone that usually meant something was on his mind.

"Yeah?"

"I don't know if this is a good idea or not, but while we have a moment to ourselves... may I say something selfish?"

I gave him a wry grin, maybe to counteract his somber mood. "Selfish? You?"

He gave me one of those sigh-tempered smiles. "It happens more often than you'd think."

I smiled back, and waited while he took his requisite deep breath.

"I heard what you said to Ithelia," he began. "And I know how important that conversation was to you. Where it might have led. To whom it might have led. And I hope you know, if it's true that we can find a path that leads you to him... I'll do everything I can to help you see it through."

I gave him an appreciative nod.

"But... if I'm being honest, and for some fool reason I feel compelled to be... I was dreading that she'd offer you a way to rewind history, or go back to find a different path... and I can't help being glad that she didn't. Even if that's what you might have been hoping for."

"It was... a possibility on my mind."

"Of course. How could it not be, when you have the Prince of Paths right in front of you? And if she had given you that chance, if that was the only way... I don't know if I could have told you not to take it. Even though I would have mightily wanted to."

"You think it would have been a bad idea?"

"I think..." He let out a breath. "I couldn't help but think..." He hesitated, and then set his jaw and looked up at me. "What if that new path you found yourself on never intersected with mine? What if starting over in Summerset, or Coldharbour, or Glenumbra, finding a new way forward with him by your side... What if you never made your way to Blackwood, just as a gullible traveler was coming around from a blow to the head? What if... we never had the chance to become what we are to each other now?"

My eyes widened as I realized what he was saying, and he continued hurriedly. "And this is where it's selfish, I know. I know I would have no right to ask you, but... knowing how good my life is with you in it... I couldn't bear the thought of going back to being a version of myself who never even had the chance to know what he's missing out on."

He was keeping his emotions in check, but it was taking effort.

I was having less success. "You really want to make me cry that badly?"

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry if it's too much to unload on you. I know you already have a lot to think about. But the longer I went not saying anything, the harder it got to keep it all inside. There's... a lot I have to keep inside, and... Well, I guess I mostly want to make sure you know how much you mean to me. How much it means for me to be your friend. I hope it goes without saying I wouldn't give that up for anything."

"And you hope I wouldn't either?" I said quietly.

He caught himself. "I would never ask you..."

"I know. And... I'm glad too, in a way, that I don't have to make that choice. Even if it might have seemed like an easy way out. In some ways it's easier not to even have a choice."

"It does take a certain weight off, doesn't it. When you know things have to be the way they are."

There was maybe something a little wistful in his eyes, and I have to imagine he saw something similar in mine. Thinking about what we might have to lose, to get what we want...

He shrugged the tension off. "Anyway, I hope I haven't been too weird about this. I just felt like I needed to get some things off my chest, I guess."

Something occurred to me, about something he'd mentioned. "You know, just in case it needs to be said, if there's ever anything you want to talk about, don't feel like you need to keep it all to yourself."

He kind of looked like he'd been caught at something, and tried to cover it with a cagey grin. "A man needs to have a few secrets, doesn't he?"

"I promise not to giggle too hard if it's something embarrassing."

He had to stop himself from rolling his eyes, but I think he appreciated the thought behind the cheekiness. "I'll keep that in mind."

We smiled at each other, the mood lightened just enough, and then I felt compelled to go to him and give him a hug. After a moment his arms settled around my waist, and we just stood there sharing a quiet togetherness.

"We're doing okay, aren't we." It was for my own confirmation, more than a question.

"Yeah. I'd say we are."

As I drew back, and we shared affirming nods, I felt like there was something more I should say. "Thank you for being here. I don't know if I say that enough. But... it means a lot to me too. Having you as a friend."

He relaxed a little. "I'm glad to hear that. Truly."

I let the sentiment settle, and then took a cleansing breath. "Now should we get back to town? Just in case someone's come up with a new crisis for us?"

He smiled and nodded. "Let's go."

We both had our game faces back on by the time we got back to Beragon's, which was good because there were a whole lot of people there that we might not have wanted to be all schmoopy in front of. But if I expected the celebratory party to mean the saga was officially over, I was corrected in the form of yet another summons to come before the Great Eye.

It wasn't anything super urgent, or so Scruut said, so I took my time making the rounds checking in with our assembled friends and associates. But eventually curiosity got the better of me, and I headed for the portal. This audience was meant only for fate's chosen, so Bastian stayed behind, but Leramil insisted on joining me so that she could ask about Gadayn.

Hermaeus Mora wasn't entirely pleased to see her tagging along, but he was willing to hear her request. He understood the wisdom that Ithelia had imparted, and agreed to return Gadayn to our reality, but at the cost of locking Leramil into some unspecified future recompense. She gladly agreed, and the bargain was made.

As Leramil departed, the thought flickered through my mind - could Mora do the same for Darien? Could he perceive him, in our path or in another, and pull him from that place and time to stand before me? But what would my cost be... and how could I make the decision without knowing what I'd have to give up? And would it be the same Darien, my Darien, one who would be pleased with the choice I was making for him...

Mora cut my musings short to get down to business. He was more than satisfied with my performance as fate's chosen. But before my contract was formally concluded and we put the whole matter behind us, he intended to once again erase Ithelia from memory - everyone's memory, except his own and mine. It was his gift to me, he said, to allow me to remember while the world forgot.

I had concerns about the gaping hole this would leave in everyone's perception of what we've been doing for the past several months, but Mora didn't intend to just hand out a case of mass amnesia. They would still be aware of the dangers we'd faced and the battles we'd fought, but with pertinent details replaced with generic alternatives. Like if you buy a dress from a famous designer and then rip the label off and now it's just a regular dress, or something.

I had no real grounds to object to his intentions, and I doubt he would have listened to me even if I'd tried to argue. It was more important that the threat posed by Ithelia's existence was truly gone, and if this would serve to definitively close the book on that threat, then so be it.

With our conversation concluded, Mora set about purging the Prince of Paths from the universe's collective memory, leaving the two of us bound by one final secret. And then he bid me farewell and withdrew into an inky void, as I opened my mouth and took an impotent step forward.

But... wait... Darien...

But the One Who Knows was gone, and the longer I stood there thinking it over, the less sure I was that I wanted to raise a fuss to call him back. Maybe it was just as well, with so many uncertainties, and with so much I'd rather not lose in the bargain, to hold my peace until the path before me revealed its secrets. Maybe there was a reason Ithelia didn't grant me the same wisdom she gave to Leramil. Maybe finding Darien, my Darien, wasn't meant to be that easy. And maybe it would be okay, one way or another, if I just waited a little longer to see what the future would bring.

I wasn't sure what I'd find when I returned to the party, but the same people were still there, and they were still suitably excited about celebrating our victory over the rogue Dremora and that Ayleid-obsessed Wood Elf cult. I tried name-dropping Ithelia to a few people to test the waters, but they just thought I was making up nonsense words to mess with them. And they had more important things to think about, especially with Gadayn miraculously returned to us.

Leramil remembered her deal with Mora, at least, so she'll have that to look forward to. But nothing else really mattered compared to the relief and joy she felt at having Gadayn back. They didn't quite rush into each other's arms, but they did find a quiet place to retreat together to talk, and I suspect they'll both be taking their time together more seriously from now on.

I did ask Leramil what she thought about the possibility that this was a different Gadayn from a different path, but she chose to believe that Mora had respected her wishes to return her Gadayn. And even if it wasn't, she said, would it really matter?

It might, I might have said, if I'd felt like harshing her bliss with practicality. But I didn't, so I guess we'll all just hope for the best. And this Gadayn didn't seem to have any issues with being where he was, so it'll probably be fine.

As the party wound down, Bastian found a moment to pull me aside for a quiet conversation of our own.

"Hey, I need to apologize. I think."

"Hmm? For what?"

He rubbed the back of his neck. "I know I kind of unloaded on you before we got here. At this point I can't even remember everything I said, or why I said it. But I feel like I might have gone a little overboard, and that might not have been fair to you with everything else you have on your mind. So if I said too much, or made you feel uncomfortable, I'm sorry."

He didn't remember? Of course, because it was about Ithelia, and her ability to rewrite our pasts...

"No, you didn't do anything wrong. I appreciated what you said, actually."

"That's good." He shifted uneasily. "I didn't say anything... untoward, did I?"

He was trying not to look worried, but he was worried. What did he think he might have said?

"No, you just wanted me to know how much it means to you to be my friend."

"That's it? I mean, that's good. That's true, of course. And that's right, it must have been on my mind after we lost Gadayn, seeing how hard it hit Leramil... I probably just wanted to get a few things off my chest just in case you or I ever..."

He cleared his throat. "Well, as long as I wasn't weird about it or anything. I... wasn't, was I?"

I smiled and shook my head. "I think we're good."

"Okay. Good. Thanks. It's strange, though, I don't know why I can't remember..."

There's going to be a lot of that going around, I think, as people look back on this whole ordeal with the Daedra from... somewhere, invading West Weald for... something, and they realize there are gaps in their recollection that they can't quite explain. But maybe they'll just make stuff up to fill in those gaps, like how it was totally Leramil being sad about Gadayn that made Bastian worry that I'd be sad about him if he fell into a hole and hadn't made super sure I knew how much he valued our friendship.

Maybe it's tragically fitting that a story that was so much about trying to reclaim what was lost gets one more loss to cap things off. Torvesard's lost memories, Ithelia's lost freedom, the lost glory of Mirrormoor. Even the Bosmer of the Recollection were convinced that they could reclaim their lost Ayleid heritage, which I guess they thought was enough of an upgrade to be worth throwing away their identity as Bosmer. Which... is kind of sad, actually, that they thought who they are wasn't good enough to be worth preserving.

And that's kind of the moral of Ithelia's story, isn't it. Her power was all about replacing what is with what could be. Throwing away what we have in order to grasp at what we want. Assuming we even know what our perfect reality would look like and then forcing everything into place to make it so.

I'd still like to know how that was supposed to work, especially in cases where people's desires might conflict. If someone wanted to marry me, but I didn't want to marry them, would their perfect reality involve a version of me that magically acquiesced to their proposal? And would that version of me really be me, if it completely disregarded my preferences and values? Would all the people currently vying for the Ruby Throne get their own personal realities where they get to be Emperor of Cyrodiil? Would every land war or trade disagreement or squabble between neighbors result in a collection of branching paths where each party gets their way?

And, to recall Leramil's lesson about causality back at the Outcast Inn, would our choices even matter anymore if their effects could just be erased and rewritten? If we didn't even have to bother thinking anymore, because anything that didn't work out could just be replaced with something we liked better?

Maybe that was the true threat to the fabric of reality. The way it works now, we can expect that causes will have effects, actions will have reactions, choices will have consequences. All creating threads that can be traced as they weave together into the grand tapestry. But if you can just go snipping those threads willy-nilly, and those connections get interrupted and you can never be sure what leads to what, then yeah I could see reality not being able to handle that for very long.

So... I don't know. I'm probably not qualified enough as a philosopher to determine if we're all better off just accepting the way things have to be. And the only other person who could give an analysis at this point is Mora, and we all know he's perfectly happy going back to his nice predictable thread-tracing.

Either way, as long as we don't have the luxury of magical do-overs, accepting our reality and trying to make the most of our fleeting existences is probably the best we're gonna do. Maybe that's why the best gift Ithelia could offer me was the suggestion that I have more control over my reality than I thought. I can still make choices, and they will still mean something. I'm not just a helpless pawn of fate. And y'know, that actually does make me feel better, even if my reality is far from what I'd call perfect.

It's also worth keeping in mind that in the cosmic scheme of things, the way things are for me isn't the only way things are. "Things can be real in the Many Paths that are not real here," Leramil said once. So maybe I should choose to find it reassuring that those other possibilities are still possible, somewhere, for someone. Maybe I'll imagine the Ilsabet who gets to fall asleep in Darien's arms tonight, and choose to be a little happier on her account.

And hey, maybe the path before me won't turn out so bad, even if I'm stuck writing it one choice at a time. You never know what fate may have in store, right?

Just once, I'd love an excuse to get the old gang back together that didn't involve an imminent threat to everything we hold dear. Maybe to just see someone on the street and be like "hey, Prince Azah, how's it going?" and not have him be like "well since you asked, the Fighters Guild is in the process of being annihilated and Guildmaster Merric is missing and don't look now but there's a Worm Cultist right behind you, but hey at least you'll get to see Skordo and Gabrielle again!"

Okay so Azah didn't say all that. And if I'm being honest I didn't even recognize him until he called out to me. It's been a while, okay? And I'm pretty sure he has a new hairstyle now. I wasn't even aware he'd joined the Fighters Guild, but it's probably a good thing he did considering what we're dealing with now. But I'm getting ahead of myself.

Azah and Merric had been looking into a recent spate of ambushes on Fighters Guild halls, trying to figure out who was behind them and how they were getting in and out so easily. When Merric went missing, Azah needed someone to follow up on scouting reports he'd received about the guildmaster's possible whereabouts.

The scout who had spotted maybe-Merric near Sentinel turned out to be none other than Skordo the Knife. He's been making himself useful with the guild, and appreciating all the resulting opportunities to punch people. We should have plenty more of those after finding out the Worm Cult has decided to make themselves everybody's problem again, starting with taking revenge on the Fighters and Mages Guilds for ruining their Planemeld party all those years ago.

Wiping out four Fighters Guild halls was a pretty effective start. And when we found out that they were targeting a Mages Guild meeting in Shornhelm next, and had a shapeshifter involved, that got us on the trail of both our missing guildmaster and the baddies he was chasing.

As we approached the Mages Guild in Shornhelm, we spotted Azah talking to someone in mage robes - a Breton woman with long blonde hair, who sounded like she was thanking the prince for the Fighters Guild's aid. I caught Bastian in my peripheral vision, and in the split-second it took for the relevant mental connections to snap into place, I grabbed his arm and dragged him around the corner of the adjacent building.

Just ahead, Skordo stopped short and looked at us like I'd suddenly gone off the deep end. "Hey, what's gotten into you? You got cold feet all of a sudden? You know that's just Ga-"

"Skordo, could you go check in?" I interrupted. "We'll be right behind you."

"Yeah, sure. You're not gonna leave me to do all the work while you're off canoodling though, are you?"

Sigh. It's not like... "We'll be right there."

With another skeptical look, Skordo shrugged and took off jogging toward our contacts. "Hey you two, I got bad news. The Worm Cult is..."

Bastian looked slightly weirded out as I turned my attention back to him. "Is something wrong?"

It occurred to me that I might have overreacted just a little. Now... how to approach this...

"How calm do you feel?" I asked.

He looked confused. "I'm... calm?"

"Okay. How restrained do you feel?"

The confusion deepened. These were probably strange questions coming from someone who had just shoved him against a wall. "What are you getting at?"

I glanced over his shoulder toward the blonde mage. "If I told you that you're about to meet Gabrielle Benele..." Bastian's eyes widened in gradual realization. "How calm would you be able to stay?"

"Gab - Gabrielle Benele? The Gabrielle Benele?"

"Yes, that Gabrielle Benele. Do you see why I'm asking now?"

He at least had enough self-awareness to register his rising excitement, and tried to cover it with a pout. "Don't tell me you're worried I might embarrass you?"

"She's pretty much your hero, isn't she? Are you at all concerned about embarrassing yourself?"

The self-awareness deepened. "Oh. Well. You may have a point."

"I just wanted to give you fair warning before you strolled on up. So you know what you're getting into."

"Right. I... appreciate that, actually. The last thing I'd want to do is start babbling without thinking..."

He trailed off into a nervous chuckle, and I tried not to look too vindicated as I nodded along. As enjoyable as it might be to see him in full fanboy mode, this wasn't really the time.

Something else occurred to me. "Oh, and - I think it would be best not to mention Darien. Not unless she does."

"Really? You don't want to check on her progress?"

"It's kind of a sensitive subject. Considering how long it's been... I wouldn't want her to feel like I'm pushing."

"Right. I see. I think."

"Just let me handle the topic if it comes up. And don't bring it up if it doesn't."

"Understood. It is your conversation to have. And if you need me to step away, of course, I will."

I nodded again. "Thanks. We good to go?"

"Yeah. Of course." I released him from his impromptu time-out, and as we headed toward our colleagues, I heard quiet mumbling. "Now where did I leave my copy of Schools of Magic..."

Skordo had started giving our report to Azah and Gabrielle, but some of the news had already beaten us there - in the form of a sudden attack on the mages' meeting, and Merric arriving shortly afterward and racing in to try to stop it while Gabrielle stayed topside to flag down anyone else who might be able to help.

We didn't waste any time heading in ourselves, and found the place in complete disarray. At the end of a trail of cultists and their summoned Daedra and undead (some of whom I'm pretty sure had until very recently been not-dead mages), we finally caught up to our guildmaster confronting a Daedric harvester and her lieutenants.

Merric was outnumbered, and a wide chasm in the floor prevented us from rushing to his aid. I could still shoot, though. But as I took aim, trying to account for Merric's movements as he lashed out at the Daedra's lackeys, he suddenly bolted for a large and ghastly-looking device farther across the room.

"Stop, mortal! The soul reaper is not yet stable!" the harvester cried, and I paused as I recalled the name of the superweapon the Worm Cult had supposedly been developing. If it was already unstable, and an errant arrow hit it...

But Merric paid no heed to his enemy's admonition, and threw his whole weight into a shield bash against the heart of the contraption. It overloaded and exploded, throwing him to the ground.

By the time we found an alternate path around the chasm, the harvester was gone... and Merric was beyond our help. Gabrielle arrived via portal and could only take stock of the aftermath as I did my best to salvage clues and comfort Azah as he grappled with his mentor's loss.

Skordo took the news hard too, but while it didn't take long for his grief to be channeled into a drive for action, Azah found himself overwhelmed by guilt and uncertainty. What was he supposed to do, what was the guild supposed to do, now that someone he considered a father figure as well as a friend and leader was gone?

He wasn't completely on his own, I reminded him. He still had his mentor's teachings to guide him. And we were all still in this together, with a trail to follow and a war to win.

That was enough to clear the stormclouds from his heart, and get us on track to consider our next move. And then Gabrielle arrived with the news that Vanus Galerion was waiting to speak with us. It seemed we would be getting some even more powerful backup.

As Azah and Skordo followed Gabrielle out of the room, Bastian looked like he'd been hit with a blizzard spell.

I raised an inquisitive eyebrow, and he did his best to thaw himself out. "Good. I'm good. Everything's good."

I might have believed him if his voice weren't about two notches higher than usual, but we'd just have to hope for the best.

Vanus was as enamored of his own superiority as ever, although I only had to be a little pert when he disparaged Merric's recklessness in not leaving him an intact soul reaper to study. He'd had his own reasons to suspect that the Worm Cult was up to something, and he was not pleased to learn just what that something was.

The ill-fated magisters, too, had seen ominous portents tinged with the stench of Coldharbour. They had asked Gabrielle to advise them, based on her experience with the Planemeld, and if she hadn't been late to the meeting and run into Merric on the way in, she might have been among the shattered soul reaper's many victims.

There was plenty to be somber about. But there was also work to be done, and forces to muster. Prince Azah took the interim reins of the Fighters Guild, now feeling more confident in his leadership abilities and training, and we prepared to storm the Worm Cult nest we'd discovered on the coast.

The crags of northern Rivenspire brought back memories, especially with Skordo along. Back then he and Darien were pretty much their own comedy duo, even as they were the first to rush into any fight. But I couldn't let nostalgia distract me. We had a new job to do, and new people to do it with.

Inside the cult hideout, Skordo took his fellow fighters one way while Vanus accompanied me and Bastian. (Of course I'm sure he would have said we were accompanying him.) It was pretty funny watching Bastian trying not to be obvious about obviously trying to impress the Great Mage with his spellcasting, while he might have been invisible as far as Vanus and his flashy spells were concerned.

Vanus was a dab hand at dispelling illusions, which led us to a wealth of information about the soul reapers and the cult's plot. The machines are designed not just to autonomously harvest souls, but to funnel them to some kind of remote collection facility. And whatever this faction of the cult hopes to accomplish, the real goal is to curry favor with Molag Bal for something even bigger. Peachy.

We also found instructions for deactivating the soul reapers without having them blow the hell up. It did require a certain amount of trust in the cult's engineering and documentation, but thankfully the process worked. Because there were a lot of reapers to deactivate before the day was done.

When we found the remains of the ambushed Fighters Guild contingent, but no sign of Skordo aside from his dropped sword, Vanus declared that it was time to split up so we might more quickly find and rescue our comrade.

"Be careful," he warned, after doling out his instructions. "Illusions abound in this place."

"I think I've got someone who can handle them," I replied, figuring it was about time I vouched for my partner's magical prowess.

Vanus glanced at Bastian, and his unimpressed frown gave way to a perfunctory nod before he headed in his assigned direction.

We'd barely traversed two hallways before Skordo called to us from across a shattered walkway, looking pretty rough after being ambushed. We caught up to him just as he collapsed in a pained heap, and I instinctively started to move toward him.

"Wait," Bastian said quietly but sharply. "There's something not quite -"

"Skordo! You're injured!" From the adjacent hallway, Vanus rushed in and knelt down to aid our friend.

"No, Vanus! I'm over here! That's not me!" shouted... our friend?

Skordo - the real Skordo - appeared next to us, as his not-so-injured doppelganger chortled and levitated to its feet. The Orc's form dispersed to reveal the harvester mastermind, who activated the magic sigil on the ground that Vanus had somehow failed to notice. The mage found himself trapped in a barrier and being sucked into a portal, and not even Gabrielle's sudden intervention could free him. With one last desperate lunge, Vanus threw his staff toward us, ordering us to protect it before disappearing completely.

"First the Mages' head, next the Fighters' heart," cackled the harvester, resuming Skordo's form before portaling away.

Well. It's a good thing Bastian's knack for pep talks seems to be rubbing off on me. I couldn't blame Gabrielle or Skordo for getting down on themselves for failing to protect our friends, but seeing Skordo so despondent was just unsettling. He wasn't quite feeling like himself, after the shapechanger's spell had knocked him out, but with a little bit of encouragement he was back to fighting form.

Our next stop, after returning to Shornhelm and updating Prince Azah, was the "Fighters' heart" - the Earth Forge, where Merric once forged the weapon that destroyed the Mortuum Vivicus. Skordo needed more pep talking after seeing all of the fighters cut down by the villain wearing his face, but soon we confronted the harvester and made her pay for all of those stolen lives. Along the way, after we got a closer look at the soul reapers in action, Bastian and Skordo drew the attention of the cultists guarding the devices so I could sneak by and deactivate them without feeding them yet more souls.

The worm's - snake's? - head was cut off, but there were plenty more crawling out of the ground. In the time it took Gabrielle and Azah to arrange another meeting of alliance representatives to address the growing threat, reports of soul reapers and Worm Cult attack squads began cropping up all over Tamriel. It seemed that we really were facing a crisis to rival the Planemeld.

Being back on Stirk for another alliance meeting sure was a blast from the past, right down to the prissy diplomats with very little interest in taking the negotiations seriously. I'm not sure if Lady Arabelle still has the alliance leaders locked in a broom closet somewhere, but the best we could get on short notice were some low-ranking ambassadors who looked like they'd only shown up to get a free island vacation.

They certainly didn't put much stock in fanciful stories of reanimated cults and stolen souls, which clearly were some sort of trick to distract them and divert resources from their precious war in Cyrodiil. Merric and Vanus having fallen victim did get their attention, but it was a projected message from Vanus himself that finally got all the way through to them.

Vanus was still imprisoned, someplace that felt like Coldharbour but probably wasn't, and he'd overheard some salient details about the cult's plot. As we had feared, the deployment of the soul reapers across Tamriel was only the first stage of a much bigger operation. There's a massive force coming together, on some out-of-the-way island called Solstice, and once they're ready to go it's going to be bad news for pretty much everyone.

Suddenly our good friends from the alliances were very enthusiastic about banding together to save the world again. Just like they totally did last time, which was news to me. I had to bite my tongue through all the back-patting, particularly when the Pact ambassador said something about Jorunn "setting aside hostilities to defeat the Worm Cult." Either the alliance PR departments put out some very effective post-Planemeld propaganda, or we've all just tacitly decided to take a very rosy view of history.

Either way, this isn't the first time a bunch of plucky do-gooders have stopped a catastrophic Worm Cult plot, with or without the alliances' full support. As Gabrielle said, we did it before, and we'll do it again. I won't turn down the help if the alliances want to make good on more than a token morale boost, though.

And hey, we even have a suitably plucky name for our merry band, courtesy of Skordo and his knack for monikery. "Stirk Fellowship" is kind of tame compared to Doomsmasher or a reference to cutlery, but it'll probably look better on recruitment posters.

We'll have to wait for the recruitment efforts and brain trust strategizing to do their jobs before we can move forward, especially since nobody knows where this Solstice is supposed to be. I hope Skordo is right about it being an island paradise. It's been a while since our relaxing tour of High Isle.

As the meeting wound down, and I made my final rounds with our various delegates, I caught Bastian passing a book and quill pen to Gabrielle in the midst of what seemed to be a remarkably restrained expression of admiration. With the way he was beaming afterward clutching that book to his chest, it looks like he'll have a new treasured possession to cherish for the rest of his life.

My own wrap-up conversation with Gabrielle was pretty much all business, as she fretted about Vanus and looked ahead to all the research in store. I spent the entire time wondering if she would bring up Darien, now that things had settled down, and then just as I was wondering if she was waiting for me to bring up Darien, and wondering if I should, and what I should say if I did, Prince Azah called her over to answer some question for one of the ambassadors, and that was the end of that.

Is there a reason she didn't say anything? Did it even occur to her to want to talk to me about Darien? Did she think I wouldn't want to hear about her efforts to find him, or was there just nothing new to report? Or... has she managed to find a way to move on, just as I should probably...

"Are you sure you don't want to ask her? While we're here?" Bastian said quietly beside me. I'm not sure if he'd been close enough to hear our conversation, or if he could just see the lack of resolution on my face, but I probably shouldn't be surprised that he knew.

Gabrielle and Azah were already deep into their discussion, and Skordo was heading their way too. If any time was not the time...

"She has a lot on her mind right now. I doubt she needs another distraction with so much work to do." I put on a smile that, in retrospect, was way too pleasant to be convincing. "If there was something to report she would have said so, right? No point pushing for something that's not happening."

"If you're sure."

I nodded, very pleasantly. "Yeah. We can go."

I did take some time, before we left Stirk, to just wander around and take in the scenery. The alliance camps were right where we'd left them, and there were plenty of new faces hanging around the guild encampments. My mind wanted to drift back to the old faces, the ones who did the actual work, the one who would never be there again...

But... no. I'm not going to give in to moping. The world doesn't stop just because someone we respected and cared about is no longer with us. We just have to keep moving forward and get crap done, with or without them, just as they'd want us to do.

Hey, saying that didn't even make my gut tighten up. I might be getting the hang of this moving on thing. Well then, onward we go to fight the good fight. Again.