skyrimkinkmeme | Meme Announcements!

Meme Announcements!

ANNOUNCEMENTS: UPDATED 12/16/2017

Happy Holidays, fellow Kinkmemers! I have returned and have no reasonable excuse for my absence except LIFE. I will be working on updating the archives. If anyone sees anything amiss, please let me know.

I am also hoping to find another Mod and an Archivist.

The more dedicated people we have in this Meme the less chance of it dying. I admit that being the sole keeper of the Meme is not great for the fandom. If something were to happen to me, for good, this place would go the way of the Fallout Kink Meme. Let's not let that happen! If anyone would be interested in Modding/Archiving, please drop me a line. Thanks! <3

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When they get moving at last, Freyja drops back to walk beside Eitri. A wire-thin line of blood is beading along the side of his throat, just below his left ear. “Are you all right?” she asks.

“Fine.”

“You’re bleeding,” she says, reaching for the livid graze on his neck. He jerks fiercely away from her hand.

Freyja stiffens. “Are we going to do this all the way back to Ivarstead?”

The name of his hometown does not seem to soothe his temper; he bristles like a wolf at bay, mouth set in tight line. “I can find my own way back to Ivarstead.”

“And I never leave a job half-done.”

“It’s not a job,” he says, through gritted teeth. “I’m not paying you.”

“I promised to bring you home.”

“Home.” He snorts bitterly through his nose.

“Look, I am sorry about your cousin. And as for the other fellow, I don’t like it any more than you do, but that’s just how it is.”

“A man is dead and that’s all you have to say?”

“Yes,” Freyja snarls. “Sorry to disappoint you. I’m not a hero. I’m just a sellsword, and I can’t save the whole world.”

“We could have tried.”

“Go to Oblivion. I would have tried if there had been any chance at all, but there wasn’t, and I’m not going to weep and wail over something that couldn’t be helped. I am a killer,” she says, frank and fierce. “Look at me and tell me that that isn’t what you see. Look at every scratch on my armor. Look at every notch in my shield.You think the jarl hires me to walk into a bandit camp alone and talk the bastards down? You think men pay me just to crawl through some damp cavern after trinkets like an alchemist’s assistant after mushrooms? Men pay me to kill. If you want a woman with a soft heart for a hopeless cause, find a pretty tavern bard without scars on her face.”

“You made it very clear that it doesn’t matter what kind of woman I want.”

“That’s not what I meant!”

Even as she says it Freyja wonders if it’s true. She steadies her voice with an effort. “What is it that you want from me? Because if it’s an apology for doing what any warrior would have known needed doing, you aren’t going to get it.”

“I want you to let me be.” He slings his pack over his shoulder, striding brusquely ahead.

Ungrateful bastard. Freyja watches him stalk away, the carriage of his shoulders high and stiff. Calls after him. Her voice is clear on the cold air. “I could’ve, you know,” she says. “Let you be. There on the road, with the Thalmor.”

He pauses, one knee bent, foot not quite fully placed back down in the snow. He does not look around. Freyja watches the back of his head while wind ruffles his tawny hair, the fur of his cloak. When his voice comes it is quiet. “Maybe you should’ve,” he says, and strides off along the beach.

After that Freyja stops trying. The coast grows rockier, pierced through like an archer’s dummy with jagged clefts and coves. With each passing day her apprehension about approaching the capital grows. When the Solitude Lighthouse looms before them as they round a steep little bluff, she pauses.

Thorald glances at her. “What’s wrong?”

“We’ll strike the road in a couple miles,” says Freyja. “I won’t feel safe until we’re off it, and well out of this hold.”

“It’s been days since we had sight of anyone,” Thorald says. “We had a good headstart – I know I’ve slowed you down, but do you really think they can catch us? They’d have done it by now.”

“They don’t need to catch us. They only need to guess which way we’ve gone. There’s a good reason folk in Dragonbridge fear the war. Without that bridge you’ve got to go twenty miles upstream to cross the Karth; downriver there is no crossing, short of a boat or a swim. And I wouldn’t swim that river with a full pack, not for a hundred septims. It’s not very wide there, but it’s deep and rocky, and damned fast. If they’ve any sense for the lay of the country they can cut over the mountains and get there first – and that’s if they haven’t blocked the roads past Solitude. Short of a few mountain passes into the Reach, there’s only one way out of Haafingar by land.”

“They won’t know for sure we’ve gone that way.”

“They can make a guess,” Freyja says. “You don’t go over the mountains with an injured man, and you don’t head for Markarth when you’re running from the Thalmor.”

He shakes his head, seeing the sense of it. “I know what the salmon feel like, watching the net close in.”

“I’m hoping we can find a fisherman at the Solitude docks to ferry us over the river, funny enough.”

“Freyja,” warns Eitri, as they crest another broken rise.

Below them, so well hidden that it appears as if by magic, looms a great sea-going ship, with the curved prow and shielded sides so favored by Nordic shipwrights. Freyja is no sailor, but she spent enough time in the ports of Hammerfell to see that it has nimble lines, and that the men bustling about the deck are preparing to cast off. She spots a crateful of furs, and another of jumbled weapons. It doesn’t take much to see that her crew is up to no good, moored in a hidden cove when the Solitude harbor is so close. A sudden idea strikes her. “That could work,” Freyja muses, almost to herself.

Thorald looks at her, brow furrowed. “What – oh. No. They’re pirates, Freyja!”

“They look more like smugglers to me.”

“What’s the difference? They’re as likely to sell us to the Thalmor as smuggle us to safety.”

“Oh, they’ll sell us out in an instant, but hopefully by then we’ll be halfway across Skyrim.” Freyja strides forward, determined, and hops down a short ledge. Eitri follows, and Thorald shakes his head, bringing up the rear. “We’re bandits, by the way,” she says, as they clamber down the rocks. “If they think we’re on the right side of the law, they won’t give us the time of day.”

“We certainly look the part,” says Thorald, running a hand through his stringy hair. All three of them are grimy and worn from a week on the run.

A sharp-eyed scout spots them as they reach the bottom of the hill. “Grushnag,” mutters the sailor, over his shoulder.

Immediately an orc, dressed like a dandy but painted like a warrior, comes stalking down the gangplank. “Enough! We’re headed for Dawnstar. You can tell Erikur he’ll see his shipment when we see his coin, and not bef- who in the name of Malacath are you?”

“Not who you were expecting, I take it.”

His hand drifts to the mace at his hip. “If you’re smart, you’ll turn around and forget you were ever here.”

Freyja lifts her hands, empty palms outward. “We’re not looking for trouble.”

“I don’t care if you’re looking for it – you’ve found it if you don’t walk away. Sayed,” he growls, and a wiry Redguard on deck nocks an arrow.

“Even if you stand to make some coin? We only want passage to Dawnstar. That’s where you’re going, isn’t it?.”

“This ain’t a passenger vessel for noblemen, sweetie,” he sneers.

Freyja gives him her fiercest stare. “Then it’s a good thing I’m not a noble, isn’t it?”

He’s quiet for a long, tense moment. Freyja continues to stare him down; orcs in general respond well to bravado. Out of the corner of her eye she watches the smuggler on deck, waiting with his half-drawn bow.

“Go get the captain,” the orc finally barks, to one of his crew.

The captain turns out to be an old Nord named Volf, with a long grey beard and a wicked scar just beneath his left eye, red and raised and curved like a fishhook. He takes one look at them and steeples his fingers under his grizzled chin. “What are you running from?”

“The double-crossing son of a whore who took over my gang,” Freyja says, without missing a breath. “We had a good operation going before he staged his mutiny.” The captain just smiles at her.

“I’ve got a sense for people,” he says. “You’re no common bandit, lovely - I can see that just by looking at you. Why are you really in such a hurry?”

Freyja pauses for only a beat; men like him can scent weakness. “Got me,” she shrugs, and then winks at him. “I’m a jailbreaker - someone hired me to pull these sorry louts out of a cell.”

“Who?”

She scoffs. “A moment ago you were telling me I looked like a professional.”

His grin shows a gold tooth. “Fair enough. You any good?”

“I got them out of Castle Dour, didn’t I?”

“Maybe you did and maybe you didn’t. Where else you work?”

Careful, Freyja thinks. She’s willing to bet he’s familiar with the inside of several prisons, and ready to grill her on what they look like. “Markarth,” she says.

He laughs. “Now I know you’re lying. No one escapes Cidhna Mine.”

“I did. Or didn’t you hear? I’d have thought a man like you would know the latest rumors.”

The captain regards her with new respect. “I did hear about a breakout, a few months ago,” he says. Then he smiles again, slyly. “If you’re so good, you must have plenty of coin.”

Damn.

“Aye,” she says, “and I’m not in a hurry to donate it to the jarl’s coffers. You think I carry a load of gold on me when I’m aiming to get myself jailed, you’re a much bigger fool than I took you for.”

He smiles again. “How much do you have?”

In the end he takes every coin they have between them. Later, below deck, Freyja shrugs, settling into a pile of straw between crates in the hold. There are no empty berths for them, so it will have to do. “I’ve been poor more than once, but I’ve never been to Thalmor prison. And having seen one, I don’t intend to start.”

They can’t really argue with that. “Cidhna Mine, though,” Thorald says. “Where did you come up with that story?”

“It wasn’t a story.”

“You didn’t really break out of Cidhna Mine!”

"No, I did.” He raises an eyebrow. “What? I hadn’t done anything - it was a cover-up, some arrangement between one of the Silver-Bloods and the leader of the Forsworn. I had to go through him to get out, actually."

“The Forsworn are magic users, and dangerous ones. How in Oblivion did you manage that?”

“With a small, sharp blade between the ribs,” Freyja says, dryly - though she thinks better of it, when Thorald makes a choking noise and she recalls that he remembers her when she was six. “He had it coming, believe me.”

It’s at that moment that Eitri stands, wordless, and walks out. The door shudders in its frame when it slams behind him.

The ship shifts and groans, a small puddle at the bottom of the hold sloshing. Freyja glares at the low tarred beams above them. Thorald shifts awkwardly. “Like I said, he’ll come ‘round,” he says. For a moment it’s silent. “Someone ought to bring him back,” he adds. “I don’t trust these pirates worth a Riften dice game.”

“I don’t think he wants to talk to me.”

“I’ll go.”

“Thanks.”

“I owe him that,” Thorald says, voice low. “His brother—”

“Cousin.”

“Whatever.” His voice is rough. “He was in the cell next to mine. I could see him walk by when they took him for interrogation, the red hair was easy to spot. When they dragged him back I’d knock on the wall, and he’d knock back, on the other side, let me know he was alive – he did the same when it was my turn. I waited – gods know how long, once, before I heard from him, I think he was unconscious, or maybe he just didn’t have the strength. But eventually he always knocked back. They wouldn’t let any of us talk, but we had our little code. It made you want to stay alive. You didn’t like to think of the other fellow knocking and knocking, and not getting an answer.” Thorald swallows. “Well, the guards caught us at it. They chained us up in the interrogation room and left us, and he was already bad, he was dying, but for two days I sat across the room and watched it happen. That’s the only reason I knew his name – that’s the first time we ever spoke. Funny, right? That you can make friends with a man, and never speak to him.”

Freyja stares at him, feeling winded. Thorald just plunges on, as though he cannot stop the words now that they’ve begun to tumble out. “Like I said – he was dying. But they wouldn’t have done that to him, if not for me.”

Freyja finds her voice. “You don’t know that.”

“Of course I do,” he growls. “I told you – they wanted to break me. They would have killed him anyway, I know that. But they strung him up by the wrists and let him die in his chains because they wanted me to watch him sweat and shake and rave with fever from fifteen feet away, and not even be able to give him a sip of water. And then they just left him there to rot. Because they wanted that corpse staring back at me every time they brought me in for another torture session.”

“Divines,” Freyja breathes, dry-mouthed. “Whatever you do, don’t tell him that story.”

“Do you think I’m thick? I just—” Thorald swallows again. “He shouldn’t be alone.”

Imagining him shackled to the wall, left alone with the decaying body of a friend and a festering guilt over the manner of his death, Freyja concludes that Thorald is probably an authority on that subject.

A party of three, and every one of us alone, she thinks, as she settles back against the groaning hull of the ship. Divines, what a fucking mess we’re in.

I don't mind cryptic, it makes it interesting to read. Can't wait for more

Yes! Yes! I do so adore your little story you've got going here, A!A. I'll cry a little when it's finally over, but until then, I'll be reading this like a fiend. Keep it up!

“So Ariella knows about the Beastblood?” Kodlak sat back in his chair with a smile. “Then there’s no reason not to induct her into the circle.”

Vilkas frowned, “She might know about it but I don’t want her getting involved, with anything.” Vilkas and Kodlak were speaking privately, Ariella being sent on a small job with Farkas.

“Vilkas, that is not your decision to make.”

“I won’t have her being forced into this like we were.”

“No one will be forcing her, it will be her choice to make.”

“Why not just not offer the blood at all?” Kodlak raised an eyebrow.

“You think she would accept it?” Vilkas didn’t answer; her concerns would be different from his, she was not a Nord. “I think Ariella places many values above power and strength and it is because of the values that she should be inducted into the circle.”

“What do you mean?”

“Being a warrior that is strong and powerful are certainly important yet they’re not the only important things. The others need to be shown that skill in battle needs to be matched with wisdom and intelligence outside of it. While Ariella is certainly still learning when it comes to battle, her wisdom, intellect and understanding surpasses that of even my own.” Vilkas smiled,

“I wouldn’t say that perhaps she’s on par with you.” Kodlak laughed and clapped Vilkas on his shoulder.

“Vilkas, she will be introduced into this circle, best you accept that now.”

“Of course.”

“I feel she’ll aid us greatly. She brings honour to the Companions as Dragonborn enough as it is and she’ll only do more for us in the future. You can tell her when she comes back or I can, that part can be up to you.”

---

Ariella looked at Farkas with an expression of absolute disbelief, “You want me to do what?”

“We need to avenge Skjor.” Farkas said, Ariella had a strong feeling they weren’t Farkas’ words.

“You never struck me as the type to seek vengeance, Farkas.” His weight shifted, looking uncertain for just a moment. Ariella sighed, reaching for charcoal and paper. “I heard Kodlak talking about this place, might have a fragment of Wuuthrad as well.”

She held the small piece of paper out to him and he grabbed it. When she didn’t let go he looked up at her.

“Both of you better come home safe, I mean it. Look out for her, Farkas.”

“I will. Thank you, Ariella.” She let him leave and suddenly felt anxious. She couldn’t tell Vilkas about this, not yet, not until they came back.

A/N: This is the one in which I wrap up the Dark Brotherhood and Nightingale plotlines, as Delphine and Brynjolf lead the assault on Falkreath Sanctuary, and then it's time to return the Key. I warn you in advance, the Dark Brotherhood half's got an awful lot of blood in it, and while Astrid's death happens offpage, it is long, drawn-out and painful. OTOH, hardly anyone likes Astrid anyway, but there's always someone...

Summary: It's time for the Blades to do their job and protect their Dragonborn, and that involves striking at the heart of her most dangerous enemies, and while Cicero appreciates the chance for revenge, that doesn't mean he's not grieving. Meanwhile Karliah's finally able to let her grief go as the Nightingales visit the Twilight Sepulchre...

Silence in Falkreath. In the town, nothing. In the cemetery, just the wind in the leaves. And down the road, where a Black Door looked out over a black pond... silence too, but of a very different kind, as noiseless shadows flitted down.

“What is the music of life?”

“Silence, my brother.”

“Welcome home.”

“Thank you, lad.”

One grey figure remained outside, keeping watch, while the others moved noiselessly inside, bows nocked, weapons drawn, one with magic ready to go.

Astrid heard the door open, and counted the number of assassins she had in Sanctuary. Not many, not since Gabriella and Arnbjorn had disappeared, and Veezara she knew hadn't made it. Killed by his quarry in Solitude, and at least she knew he was gone. Gabriella vanished in Markarth while on the Muiri contract, the very day before the big Forsworn jailbreak, and Astrid had a feeling she'd gone the same way Veezara had. And as for Arnbjorn...

She should have killed Cicero on the quiet, slipped into his bedroom and poisoned him, no one would have cared. As it is, he was out there somewhere and she knew he'd killed her husband. Arnbjorn would have calmed down eventually and come back or sent word if he was still alive to send it.

As it was, she had Festus, Babette and Nazir left to her, and they always called to her when coming in or out. They were all in tonight.

“Show yourself,” Astrid snapped, drawing the Blade of Woe. “I don't know who you are or how you got in here, but you won't...”

A grey-armoured figure stepped into the light, pulling his cowl back to reveal a face Astrid knew, and she only relaxed her guard a little.

“Brynjolf,” Astrid said coldly. “What are you doing here. Did Delvin tell you how to get in?”

“Not exactly,” Brynjolf said calmly, too calmly. “You know, this is a very nice Sanctuary you have here. I love what you've done with the place. Be a shame if anything were to happen to it, wouldn't it, lass?”

The traditional words used to open up a protection scam or Guild debt collection. Astrid had to wonder what on earth Brynjolf was thinking. Were the Guild really so desperate as to run one on the Dark Brotherhood??

“Brynjolf, I hope this isn't a protection scam. I really don't need protecting from you. You want the Brotherhood's coin, you slit a few throats for me like everyone else. I know you've killed before.”

“Aye, but only on my own terms, Astrid,” said Brynjolf calmly. “No, it's not work I'm after. Only you see, a recent betrayal from inside has forced a necessary relocation on the Guild's part. We've had to move out of Riften for a while. We were hoping to get established in Solitude instead, even found a patron... only it appears you people have taken a contract against her. We're not exactly pleased about that.”

A patron... female... in Solitude... with a contract against them. Astrid could only think of one person who that might be.

“Brynjolf, you don't mean to tell me you've asked Jarl Elisif to be your patron!” Astrid laughed. “The shining light of all that is good and pure, she who wields a holy sword of fire to burn out corruption – she's letting you operate in her city?? Come on, Brynjolf, do you think me a fool?”

“No, lass,” Brynjolf said, his voice strangely gentle, almost like he felt sorry for her. “You're a businesswoman, I know. Only this contract on Elisif, this is very bad for my business, you see. So what can we do to resolve this, hmm?”

“You want me to drop the contract,” Astrid said, realising where this was going. “Brynjolf, what sort of message is that going to send out, hmm? The Brotherhood's reputation relies on being able to take down anyone, anywhere, no one being above our grasp. If we tell our client we're not killing her... what does that say about us, hmm? I'm sorry, Brynjolf, but the contract stays. It's a matter of honour, you see. You can find another patron, surely. I can even put you in touch with my client, once the job's done, I'm sure he'll be able to help you out.”

“Honour,” Brynjolf said, nodding in understanding. “Of course. I understand. Some things are about more than the coin. I get it.”

A bowstring twanged and Astrid gasped as something thudded into her chest. She looked down to see the back of a Daedric arrow sticking out from just under her sternum, and she felt her vision start to blur. Legs giving away, she collapsed to the floor, unable to move.

“It was about honour for me too, lass,” Brynjolf said softly as he knelt next to her. “All the coin in the world's no good if the dragons kill us all. For what it's worth, I'm sorry.”

Astrid tried to scream, tried to move, tried to fight, but to no avail. Behind Brynjolf she could see a blonde Breton in grey armour that looked a bit like Guild armour except not quite (it had once belonged to Linwe of the Summerset Shadows, but Astrid wasn't to know that) patting a Dunmer in the same gear Brynjolf had on.

“Good shot, Karliah. Hope that potion works.”

“It will,” Karliah replied. “I intended it for Mercer – I just never got a chance to use it.”

“Well, you have now,” the Breton replied, drawing two slender curved swords. “Come on, let's get the other three – you with us, Bryn?”

“Coming,” Brynjolf said, pulling his cowl back on and drawing his glass sword and matching dagger. “Let's do this.”

He and the Breton ran off, with the Dunmer and a red-haired woman in strange steel armour that looked a cut above the usual mercenary fare in close pursuit, both with bows in hand, and behind them, a Forsworn woman casting mage armour and chasing after with fire blazing in her hands. And in their wake, another figure crept into view, slinking out of the shadows, an all too familiar face in a jester's motley.

“Hello defiler,” Cicero cooed, vicious grin of triumph curving on his lips as he picked up the Blade of Woe and produced a long length of rope and a gag. “Cicero came back for Mother, look! Along with his lovely new friends who are going to carry out a much-needed Purification for him.” He leaned closer, voice dropping to a whisper as his lips ghosted above her cheek. “But not you, oh no. You're Cicero's. Cicero will deal with you personally.” With practised efficiency, Cicero secured the gag around her face and secured her wrists and ankles before taking her shoulders and hauling her off into the bedroom. Astrid tried to resist, tried to fight the paralytic poison... but it was no use. Cicero had her... and Astrid, for the first time in a long time, realised what it was to be truly afraid.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

In the end, the job went without a hitch. The Redguard gave them some trouble, being able to fend off Delphine and Brynjolf simultaneously – but avoiding Karliah and Aela's arrows as well proved beyond even him.

The child vampire was actually a tougher prospect than any of them had thought – she'd pleaded for her life most convincingly, so convincingly even Brynjolf had almost believed her truly a Dark Brotherhood hostage. Right up until Eola, pre-warned by Cicero and able to cast Detect Life to verify this, had lobbed a fireball at her and shouted for them to move on to the others, she'd deal with this one. She had too, Babette wailing as she died as she realised too late that a childish form was only really effective on people with functioning consciences and parental instincts, and not Forsworn cannibal nightblades who knew a vampire when they saw one.

The old man had been last to die, his Destruction magic proving a bit of a problem and sending Brynjolf staggering back – but Delphine had all the magic resistance of her kind and had powered through to finish him off, Karliah and Aela pinning him down with their arrows, and then Eola had caught up from dealing with Babette and shocked him to death with her lightning spells.

It had all been commendably quick in the end, and Delphine had claimed the Brotherhood's ledgers, intending to find out who the client for the Elisif job had been, while Aela and Karliah had copied down the glyphs on the Word Wall to send to Elisif later. Eola had trotted off to give Cicero a hand with Astrid, and everyone else had agreed the pair of them were best left to it. So it was Delphine and Aela were making for Riverwood, Cicero and Eola had been left in the Sanctuary to loot the place, do whatever Cicero wanted doing with the Night Mother's coffin (left unharmed, the sole condition Cicero had insisted on, even being allowed to kill Astrid had only been a polite request), and Brynjolf and Karliah had met up with Sapphire and retreated. The Twilight Sepulchre wasn't far from here, and they did have a job to do.

“It's done then,” Sapphire said, no emotion showing. Brynjolf nodded.

“Aye. It's done. I'm sorry, lass. Astrid wouldn't back down.”

“No. She wouldn't,” Sapphire said quietly, wiping a tear away. “But it's done now, I guess. No sense getting upset, not like I'd seen any of them in years. Not like any of them ever bothered getting in touch to see if I was all right after she kicked me out, eh?”

Brynjolf put an arm around Sapphire, and then Karliah was on her other side, arms around her waist.

“You've got us,” Karliah said quietly. “I'll always be here if you need me, I promise.”

“I know. Thanks,” Sapphire whispered, glad of her Nightingales being there. Just business, that was all the Dark Brotherhood job had been, just removing something that was in the way. Except Sapphire still missed them all. But she'd never been the sentimental type and she preferred to focus on the future, not the past. “So where's this Sepulchre then?”

It wasn't far away, hidden up against the mountains at the end of a simple forest trail. Not much to look at from the outside, but the best treasure stores never were. Brynjolf and Sapphire headed for the entrance... only to stop on seeing Karliah hang back.

“You're not coming?” Sapphire asked, surprised.

“This whole thing was your idea, lass,” Brynjolf pointed out. “You're the one who insisted the Key had to go back to Nocturnal, and now you're dropping out?”

“I can't do it, Bryn,” Karliah said, shaking her head. “After what I've done... I can't face Nocturnal again, I just can't.”

“Why, what did you do?” Sapphire asked, alarmed. “Karliah, if there's something else you haven't told us...”

“No, there isn't, at least I don't think so. But I broke my oath, Sapphire! I failed as a Nightingale! Gallus and I were so wrapped up in each other, we let Mercer destroy what we should have been protecting! How am I supposed to face Nocturnal after that?” Karliah cried.

Brynjolf looked at Sapphire. Sapphire looked at Brynjolf. It was said women were the naturally more empathetic ones – well, whoever said that had clearly never met Sapphire. All the same, Sapphire could be kind to people she trusted and cared about, and apparently Karliah was now one of them.

“Karliah, sweetie, it wasn't your fault,” Sapphire sighed. “Mercer was cunning, Mercer was good at covering his tracks, we know that. And Gallus wasn't so in love with you he hadn't noticed anything – he was on to Mercer. He was this close to exposing him when Mercer killed him and framed you. None of it was your fault, honey.”

“But I should have noticed, should have realised, Mercer was my friend!” Karliah cried. “And I never noticed a thing.”

Brynjolf came to stand on Karliah's other side, an arm around her. “Lass, he was my Guild Master for twenty-five years, I was his second for a good seven years, and I never noticed a thing either. Mercer fooled the both of us. Don't blame yourself. The only one responsible for all this was Mercer himself. Now come on, lass, we're all Nightingales now. All in this together, right? We've come this far, don't think you're running out on us now.”

Karliah hesitated then smiled, squeezing Sapphire's hand then Brynjolf's as he placed his hand over both of theirs.

“All right then. If you two come with me.”

“We're with you,” Sapphire promised. “Nightingales together.”

“That we are,” Brynjolf said quietly as the three of them approached the Sepulchre's entrance. “Shadows guide us.”

~~~~~~~~~~~

The Sepulchre was as dark and dank as any Nord tomb – bones scattered around but the place was quiet.

“No one about,” Brynjolf whispered. “Karliah, was it always like this?”

“I don't know,” Karliah whispered back. “I never used to come this way. There was another portal in Nightingale Hall that took us straight to the conduit. We never needed to come this way. This was the Pilgrim's Path, a route devised by a cult to Nocturnal that used to operate out of here. They weren't Nightingales but they weren't doing any harm either so we let them stay. They're gone now, but their path remains. It was an ordeal, designed to test the faith of those who wished to commune with her.”

“Ordeal?” Sapphire hissed. “You never said anything about an ordeal! What in Oblivion are we facing down here?”

“I don't know!” Karliah sighed. “I never used this path before. But the other ways in are shut and this is our only option. Come on, if I have to do this, so do you.”

Sapphire didn't look happy but she followed anyway. The stone entrance appeared sealed... but there was a ghostly figure in Nightingale gear on guard outside.

“Who's that?” Sapphire asked. “He doesn't look familiar.”

“I could swear I've seen him before,” Brynjolf murmured as he emerged from the shadows, but it was Karliah who named him.

“Gallus,” she whispered. “By the Shadows, Gallus!” She turned to run, only Brynjolf's timely intervention stopping her.

“I can't do this,” she whispered. “I can't! What if he blames me, what if...”

“Karliah!” Brynjolf snapped, holding her as she fought to get free. “Karliah, he won't blame you, he loved you, come on. We're here, we won't let him hurt you.”

“Yeah, if he blames you, he answers to me,” Sapphire said firmly. “Come on, sweetie, let's go meet your ex.”

Karliah let out a sob but calmed down, clutching Sapphire's arm as she let herself be led over to where Gallus was waiting.

“I don't recognise you, but I sense you're one of us. You all are – and Brynjolf, yes, I know you now. Karliah and I always thought you might be a good future prospect as a Nightingale. Glad to see you here. And... Shadows help me, Karliah, is that really you?”

Karliah pulled her cowl off, tears streaming down her cheeks as she nodded, hardly daring to look up at Gallus.

“It's me,” she whispered. “Gallus, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry...”

“Karliah,” he whispered, pulling off his own cowl to reveal Imperial features, all the same ghostly pallor but Brynjolf remembered red hair and dark eyes from when Gallus had lived. Gallus had smiled a lot in life and he was smiling now, amazement and joy all over his face as spectral fingers traced Karliah's cheek. “You're alive! Thank the Shadows, I was so afraid Mercer had got you too.”

Karliah shook her head. “I escaped. I've been in hiding all this time, waiting for the right moment to avenge you. I never got a chance until now. Gallus, I'm so sorry...”

“Not this again,” Sapphire sighed. “Karliah, sweetie, it wasn't your fault. In fact if not for you, we'd never have found out what Mercer had done, we'd have assumed the Thalmor had taken the loot. He'd have got away with it.”

“It's true,” Brynjolf confirmed, patting Karliah on the back. “We'd never have done all this without her. As it is, while we've got a lot to do, we've got hope.”

Gallus never took his eyes off Karliah, smiling proudly at her. “That's my girl,” he whispered. “That's my little Nightingale. Saving the Guild. I'm so proud of you.”

“It was Sapphire killed Mercer,” Karliah said softly. “And I don't think we'd have got very far without Brynjolf either. As it is, we've got coin coming our way now. I just don't think it'll be enough.”

“It's not,” Gallus said, face turning serious. “Karliah, I need help. Mercer took the Key. The Ebonmere's shut off, our connection to Nocturnal is gone. The other Nightingales who guard this place, they've forgotten who they are. They're mindless ghosts, they'll kill anyone they encounter, Nightingale or not. And... if the conduit's not opened soon, I'll be sharing their fate. Karliah, please, you need to find the Key and return it.”

Karliah reached into her pocket and produced the Key, her hands trembling. Gallus's face lit up as he saw it, the pride back.

“You got it back. Of course you did. Karliah my love, you're amazing.”

“I'm bringing it back, Gallus,” Karliah whispered. “For – for Nocturnal. And the Shadows. And the Guild.”

“Karliah. You always did have such a noble heart for someone in our business. Thank you. I – suppose I'd better let you get on with it, hadn't I?” He stepped aside, the entrance opening as he did so.

“Do you know what we'll be facing?” Brynjolf asked. If anyone knew, Gallus might.

“No,” Gallus admitted. “I've been trapped in here for twenty-five years myself. Every time I tried to go inside, the others attacked me. I didn't want to hurt my brothers and sisters so I've stayed out here. But there was a thief who tried, many years ago. His journal's over there, it might help.”

Sapphire retrieved the journal and Karliah had fallen silent. Brynjolf edged closer to his former Guild Master, feeling his own guilt prick at him.

“I lost the Guild, Gallus,” he admitted. “The Thalmor killed them all, and it was my fault for robbing their Embassy. The three of us are all that's left – Delvin made it too, but he was badly hurt. I don't know if he'll want to join us. I'm sorry, Gallus.”

“Don't be,” Gallus said gently. “We all know the risks. Brave of you to try robbing the Thalmor. Did it work? Well, you're not dead and they were angry enough to want retaliation so I assume so.”

“I got in and out with what I was after,” Brynjolf said, shrugging. “I'd say it went all right.”

To his surprise, Gallus actually laughed. “Now that's a feat of thievery worth celebrating. Well done, Brynjolf! I have a feeling the Guild's in good hands. Don't waste time mourning the past. We're thieves, we work with what we've got. Do what we've always done, Brynjolf. Go to ground, rebuild in the shadows. It's what we do. Survive.”

Brynjolf nodded, getting it. Gallus had always been like this, kind but not sentimental. He'd never been one to waste time brooding, just learning and moving on. One reason why everyone had liked him.

Sapphire returned with the journal and a nice looking ebony sword which she gave to Karliah.

“Are we ready then?” Sapphire said. “I have to tell you, this journal's not terribly helpful. It's very cryptic. Just a bunch of clues from some old mystic.”

Of course it was. The whole thing had been that way from the outset. At least after this was done, they could all get back to thieving.

“Come on,” Brynjolf sighed, taking the journal and replacing his cowl. “Let's get on with it. Nocturnal wants her Key back.”

~~~~~~~~~~~

Gallus hadn't lied – the Nightingale guardians inside hadn't known friend from foe. There'd been sneaking when they could, fighting when they couldn't, and then there'd been the traps. First the room with light that burned. Then the shrine where they'd had to put the torches out to progress. Then the passage full of traps, avoided when Sapphire had spotted the alternative route and they'd used the Key to go that way.

And finally a black pit which Karliah thought led straight to the Ebonmere – but which had just led to the remains of the last one to end up here.

“You said this was the gateway to Nocturnal!” Sapphire shouted.

“I thought it was!” Karliah cried, near tears.

“Well, I don't see her!” Sapphire snapped. “And now we're stuck here, no one knows we're here, and we're all going to die. Thanks for nothing, Karliah.”

“Lass, don't shout, she didn't know,” Brynjolf sighed wearily. The last thing he needed was a fight on his hands. Karliah was stressed enough as it was. “What was in that journal again?”

“The journey is complete, the Empress's embrace awaits the fallen. Hesitate not if you wish to gift her your eternal devotion,” Sapphire sighed, slumping to the floor. “So we jumped in and here we are, no Nocturnal.”

“Did we hesitate too long?” Karliah whispered. “Was our faith not strong enough? Didn't we keep her terms?”

“If the portal's shut, maybe she can't,” Brynjolf said broodily. “Dammit, we brought the Key all this way and it hasn't worked.”

“The Key.” Karliah sat up, realisation dawning. “Brynjolf, the Key, we have to use the Key!”

“Not stopping you,” Sapphire shrugged. Karliah produced the Key and held it out and somehow it turned in her hands, reaching down to the floor which opened beneath them and they were falling, falling...

Brynjolf opened his eyes, looking about to see a dark chamber, empty portals on the various sides and in the middle, a dais with a lock in the middle.

“Is that it?” he whispered. “The Ebonmere?”

“That's it,” Karliah breathed, Key in her hands as she approached. “Shall we?”

“Go on,” Sapphire told her, getting to her feet on the other side of the room. “I don't see any other way out of here.”

Karliah inserted the Key into the lock and turned it. There was a click and then the Key sank into the dais as it fell open. A whole flock of nightingale birds fluttered out and in the purple half-light, a dark-haired woman in very revealing black robes rose out of it, languid smile on her face.

“My my,” Nocturnal drawled. “What do we have here? My champions three, my dark Trinity. It's about time. Or was it moments? One tends to lose track. So here you are, awaiting your rewards like good little thieves. A pat on the head, a kiss on the cheek? Except you fail to realise your actions were expected and represent nothing more than the fulfilment of your agreement.”

“Does this mean we're not getting paid?” Sapphire muttered, only to have Nocturnal turn viciously on her.

“Oh don't worry, thief, you'll have your accolades. Your trinkets, your wealth,” Nocturnal snapped. “You have after all performed your duties to the letter. Drink from the Ebonmere, and you will have your powers. You are my Nightingales now, after all, my Agents in the world. The Oath has been struck, the die cast and your fate lies in Evergloam now. Even you, Karliah, came good in the end.”

Karliah actually did sob a little on hearing that. Nocturnal folded her arms and began to sink back into the Ebonmere.

“Farewell, my Nightingales. See to it the Key stays this time, won't you?”

The light faded and she was gone, but the swirling black lake remained. Sapphire was first to approach, staring into its depths.

“That it?” she asked. “We can go now?” All around them, the three portal arches flared into life, leading to who knew where. Karliah had taken her cowl off, drying her eyes.

“We can go,” Karliah said quietly. “That portal takes you to the Sepulchre, that one to Nightingale Hall... and that one is only for the souls of the dead.”

Brynjolf studiously avoided looking at the last one, moving nearer Karliah.

“So that was Nocturnal,” he said, shivering at the memory. “She didn't sound pleased.”

“She sounded indifferent at best,” Sapphire snapped. “Is that seriously who we've sworn our souls to?”

“Yes,” said Karliah, straightening up and pulling herself together. “Don't worry, she was pleased. That's just how she is. A scolding mother, pushing us to do our best, pushy on the outside but inside, content. I assure you, if she'd been angry, we wouldn't be having this conversation.”

“About these powers then,” Brynjolf said, deciding to change the topic onto something less contentious. “If we're going to spend eternity in Evergloam, I want compensating.”

Karliah rolled her eyes and explained about the three powers, of Shadow, Subterfuge and Strife and how by standing on the relevant moon symbol, you could choose one.

“Traditionally, we'd have a different one each for balance, but we can have the same one as another if we want. But we only get one each. That was what Mercer stole – with the Key, he had all three for himself and the rest of us were locked out. But now we can have them back if we want.” So saying, she stepped on the symbol for the power of Shadow.

Sapphire wasted no time but selected the power of Strife. Leaving Brynjolf with Subterfuge. It would do, he supposed. He'd always been good at influencing people.

“Back to the Sepulchre then,” Sapphire said, looking at Brynjolf.

“Back home,” Brynjolf confirmed, but before he could head over to the portal, someone emerged out of it. Gallus strode into the Ebonmere, holding his arms out to Karliah, who went to him joyfully.

“Gallus, we did it!” Karliah cried. “We took the Key back!”

“So I see,” Gallus laughed. “I knew you could do it. Well done, my love.”

“Thank you,” Karliah whispered. “Nocturnal forgave me! She said I came good in the end.”

“Of course you did, I'd expect nothing less,” Gallus said with a smile. “And now you've restored the conduit, I can finally move on. Nocturnal said my contract's been fulfilled. I can go to the Evergloam, be one with the Shadows at last.”

Karliah looked proud, but also more than a little bit sad.

“Will I ever see you again?” she asked. Gallus nodded.

“Yes. Yes of course. When your count of days is done and your Oath fulfilled, you'll join me in the Evergloam and we'll embrace again. But in the mean time... Karliah, you mustn't mourn me any more. Don't blame yourself for anything that happened, I walked into that trap with my eyes open. None of it was your fault – in fact if you'd not followed in secret and seen the whole thing, been able to retrieve my journal and get it translated, no one would ever have known the truth. You avenged me and you've helped make it possible for the Guild and the Nightingales to rise again. So don't wallow in guilt any more.”

“I won't,” Karliah whispered, tears rolling down her cheeks but she was smiling through them. “I love you, Gallus.”

“I love you too,” Gallus murmured back. “And if loving you was a mistake, I'd make it again and again a thousand times over. But Karliah... you are young and your life will last centuries, Shadows willing. Don't mourn me all that time. Don't save yourself for me. Time has little meaning in Evergloam, but it will seem an eternity in Mundus. I don't want you to be lonely. You get out there and you let yourself love again. Maybe not just yet... but in time, you'll meet someone and I don't want you holding back on my account.”

“Gallus!” Karliah cried, but he just smiled and kissed her on the forehead.

“Live your life, Karliah. Walk with the Shadows... and good luck. I'll be watching over you.”

“Gallus,” Karliah whispered... but he was gone, fading into the portal to Evergloam. Silence and then Sapphire was there, holding on to Karliah as she sagged in her arms.

“Are you alright?” Sapphire whispered. Karliah nodded, clinging on to Sapphire.

“I don't know. I can hardly believe it's all over,” Karliah whispered. “The Key, Mercer, all of it. Now what?”

“Now,” said Brynjolf, coming to put an arm around them both, “now we go home.”

Back in the Reach after a long journey hauling all the Dark Brotherhood's loot back home. There'd been coin split between all of them, various alchemical and enchanting paraphernalia, even the smithing gear uprooted and now all installed at Sky Haven Temple. Eola could only be grateful Kaie had sorted out carriages and Forsworn to help out transporting it all. But perhaps the most important thing hadn't gone to Sky Haven Temple. No, the Night Mother's coffin was presently set up in Reachcliff Cave, a makeshift shrine created in the small room at the other end of the tunnel leading to the feasting area.

Cicero was on his knees before the coffin, sniffling quietly at the foot of the mummified corpse that was the Dark Brotherhood's patron goddess.

“Cicero is sorry, sweet Mother,” he whispered. “Cicero failed you, sweet Mother! Oh but it had to be done, it had to be! They had strayed! No longer believed! Abandoned the old ways, abandoned you! They had to be purified! But now... but now Cicero will never find a Listener!”

The heartbreak in his voice tore at Eola's heart, not least because it had the potential to destroy him completely, and she wasn't having that.

“Cariad,” she whispered. “Cicero cariad, come here.” She knelt at his side, taking him in her arms, holding his hand and rubbing her fingers over Namira's Ring.

“You did what you had to do,” she whispered. “There was no other way. She understands, honey.”

“Then why won't she speak to me,” Cicero snarled. “Why, when I have been a devoted son, a good boy, taken care of her, loved her, given up everything for her, why won't she speak to me?? Namira spoke to me after one kill and what does my own Mother give me, hmm? Nothing!!!”

He gasped, shuddering in her arms as he clung on to her, breathing heavily. It was some minutes before he got himself under control.

“Cicero is sorry,” he whispered. “Cicero didn't mean... Cicero isn't angry! Cicero is just... tired. So very tired. He's tried, he has! But he just can't find the Listener!”

Eola held on to him, feeling helpless as she tried to comfort him. But what could she say? There was very little she could say to make it all right. Only the Binding Words. But she didn't know what they were. The Night Mother wasn't saying them to her. If only she could find a Listener.

Well, maybe. If she kept an ear out for likely recruits. Kaie might know of a few devoutly murderous types in the Forsworn. She could bring them here, see if the Night Mother took a liking to anyone. Maybe her father could provide a few full-time priests to help maintain the place, welcome pilgrims, see if a Listener turned up from among any of them.

“Cicero,” she whispered. “Cicero, maybe it wasn't all for nothing. I mean, maybe she kept quiet all this time because she needed to come to the Reach. Maybe one of the Forsworn is going to be your Listener, or perhaps it'll be one of Namira's faithful. After all, where else are you going to find a Listener, if there's no Sanctuaries left? Somewhere with lots of true-born murderers, that's where. If this plan of Da's goes without a hitch, he's going to end up with quite a few demobbed Forsworn tribesfolk who miss the fighting. Why wouldn't the Listener be one of them? We venerate Sithis too, don't forget. I imagine we could set up a little Shrine here, get Da to give us some priests, have the Night Mother available for Forsworn warriors to pray to. She might easily find one of them worthy.”

Cicero perked up for the first time since they'd finished with Astrid.

“Really?” he whispered, drying his eyes. “You think the Forsworn might have a Listener in their ranks?”

“Quite possibly,” Eola said, ruffling his hair, pleased to finally see a smile again. “Either way, they'll help keep her safe until she chooses someone. Don't worry, Cicero. We'll help you take care of her. It's not all down to you.”

Cicero looked as if he was about to cry again, from happiness this time and then he was kissing her fiercely, pouring all of himself into it, and Eola wondered just how far he was going to go with this. She didn't have many limits but the Night Mother watching them during sex was a bit too far even for her. Fortunately it seemed Cicero was of the same mind.

“Cicero does not... there are not words... thank you!” he breathed as he broke off. “Cicero never thought... it never occurred to him there would be... another! He never thought he'd have help!”

“Anything you need, honey,” Eola promised. “I'm sure Da will help.”

Cicero clung on to her, lost for words. Eola stroked his hair and held him. Poor boy. Poor, damaged, broken boy. He'd lost his entire family, even if they'd mocked and abused him. Well didn't she know how that felt. But she'd got her father back and her sister, and her people had welcomed her home. She might even see her father King again in truth. Maybe Cicero would one day have a Dark Brotherhood again. But until that day came, she would do her best to make sure he was looked after and safe. Maybe Cicero was a psychotic murderer, a madman and a fool. But he was her madman and she'd love him until the end.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

A/N: OK, Dark Brotherhood and Nightingale subplots largely done, although the characters will still make appearances, particularly if I need anything covert and subtle doing, or someone needs a good stabbing. I'm not planning to have the Night Mother call a Listener, certainly not in this fic, but I wanted to leave open the possibility of it happening eventually so as to keep Cicero reasonably stable and happy. And if anyone will happily collude in building a secret shrine to the Night Mother and keeping it open as a centre of pilgrimage, it's the Forsworn.

Next chapter, Elisif sets out in search of the Elder Scroll and Delphine moves on to the next stage of Operation Overthrow Ulfric. As an advance warning, I'm not going to cover Blackreach in a lot of detail so please don't expect me to linger on that. If you really love Blackreach and this is going to be disappointing, your best bet is to fire up the game and have your Dovahkiin take a wander through the place instead, it'll be a lot more satisfying...

Thank you very much! I'm having fun writing it, so I'm glad somebody is having fun reading. :)

I've got a bad feeling about this. Love the update, I'll stalk thus story forever.

This is such a great story so far!

And I thought I hated the Thalmor in the game...

Here worry! Farkas wants revenge for Aela!

Thanks! I'm glad you think my Thalmor live up to the standard of shiver-inducing loathsomeness set by the game, which is a pretty high one.

Aela tried to gather her frantic thoughts as she left Jarvaskar and headed for the underforge. She had lost herself, immersed in the most erotic kiss she could remember. That kiss left her feeling bombarded by unrepentant urges and hot desires. She was troubled, her wolf spirit had somehow gained control, urging her to acknowledge and mate with Reljir.

If he hadn’t broken the kiss, most likely she would have tried to bed him. Her beast spirit had no inhibitions. It would have happened right there for all to see. Even now, she felt an almost irresistible desire to return and finish what she had started. Her lips still felt the taste of his, she could still feel his body heat, and smell his scent.

It was like she was in another realm, an illogical place where passion ruled. Meanwhile, she was keeping her beast contained by sheer will. It was demanding release, to hunt, frolic and yes mate. Aela was badly shaken. She had never before lost control of her wolf spirit.

That she had liked it, made it even worse. She had experienced all the heightened senses of the beast, while maintaining the mental clarity of her human form. It had been heady stuff indeed. Then her beast had tried to shift heedless of its surroundings.

Just outside the underforge, she vaguely heard Skjor calling her name. She realized she would have to present herself to the alpha, and probably the circle for judgment. She was an experienced werewolf, and any lost of control was unacceptable. The lycanthropes would be aware she almost changed in a room full of people. She just couldn’t accept what had just happened. Was she turning feral?.

She wished Skjor would allow her time to compose herself. She was using all of her energy to keep from shifting. With a great effort she managed to focus on him. He was watching her intently and seemed to realize reason had returned to her eyes.

He breathed deeply, “Aela are you ok?”. He searched her face “You don‘t realize what‘s happening do you?”. He made it sound like an accusation. He seemed to come to a decision and opened the underforge “come Aela we hunt“ was all he said.

Thank you! It makes my day to know folks are reading and enjoying this.

Audric stared blankly at the letter he’d written. It did not look like his handwriting – too neat, too careful – nor did it read like something he’d write. It was his first report, detailing the state of the city, the policy that remained intact – due in large part to apathy, he suspected. It was an impersonal letter. The only thing that had kept him on task was a glance at the other letter he ought to have written...ought to have written at least a week ago. The untouched parchment seemed to mock him from where it lay. It was his not knowing what to say to Brynjolf that had inspired his detached account for Tullius.

Outside, the world was still dark. It seemed that night consumed most of the hours, and Audric began counting the days until they grew lighter again. Abandoning his work, he folded up the letter and sealed it sloppily. He donned his coat and tucked the letter away in an inside pocket. Strapping his knives to his belt, he then hoisted his quiver over his shoulder, securing his bow. He had put this off for far too long.

The cobbled streets were icy and he slipped on every other step. Snow was heaped on either side of the avenue and he anticipated a fresh fall, if the taste on the air was any indication.

He was not a religious man, and yet his feet guided him to the temple in the center of town. Restoring it had been one of Ulfric’s first acts in power, and it stood mightier than it ever had. He hoped that should any Thalmor come by, they might be struck dead from angry shock.

The door was open.

A rich, inviting glow suffused the air, emanating from the shrine. Incense and candle smoke amassed in a wispy fog overhead. The hall was empty, but for a single parishioner, who sat still in the front pew. Audric hesitated, uncertain if he wanted to share this space with this man, or for that matter, if he would be welcome.

If Ulfric knew he was there, he said nothing.

The sound of Audric’s footsteps was swallowed up by the rug as he walked the aisle. Keeping a polite distance, he asked, “May I?”

“Please.”

The two of them sat, swathed in warm light. Ulfric looked tired, the sleeplessness in his eyes extending into the lines on his face. His shoulders hunched, as though strained by an unseen weight. Unseen, perhaps, but understood, between them.

“I did not expect to cross paths with you here,” Ulfric finally murmured.

With a shrug, Audric turned his face to the great stone effigy. “Sometimes, I have questions.”

“Don’t we all.” Ulfric remained, his head bowed in prayer and fatigue, both of which he bore in silence. In his hand, he clasped a familiar amulet, the diminutive blade of an axe rugged under his fingers.

Audric realized, belatedly, that he was staring.

Putting the cord back round his neck, Ulfric tucked the amulet out of sight. “What sort of questions?” he asked slowly. “What sort of questions could you have?”

Standing, Audric approached the altar. He suspended a hand in the warmth, inches from the statue. Looking up, he met gazes with unfaltering stone. Unfaltering, unseeing, unburdened… His hand balled into an angry fist, and he tucked it against his side.

“A blackly funny thing, isn’t it,” Ulfric said gently, “‘Why me?’ we ask ourselves, as the whole world wonders, why not them?” He kept his voice soft, and tried to ignore the ache in his chest. “It is a cruel predicament the Gods put us in.”

“Some more cruel than others,” Audric pointed out.

Nodding, he said, “Yes. The cruelty of war, in point of fact. I might suggest you take a drink with my soldiers sometime, before you go floundering in self-pity.” He readied himself to leave, though with no intention of returning to sleep. There were papers that needed writing and stratagem that needed planning.

“I’ve taken more than drink with your soldiers,” Audric hissed. “I know the horrors that haunt them – horrors they carried in your name.” He remembered then, that he was in a temple – a temple to the God of War, no less. “They have seen atrocities the likes of which none of us deserve. But do not deign to use their suffering to take away from the weight in my heart.”

“I did not mean...I'm sorry.”

“Don't be sorry for my hardship, but for that of your own people,” he spat, contemptuous.

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