Archive of Our Own ^beta

The Vestige sits down with a bit of a groan, leather armor causing her to not quite fit in the chair. She has checked the coin purses at her hips thrice over, but she’ll be damned if she lets the meager leather pouch dangling from her neck be snatched up by a lucky pickpocket (it would be fitting though… very fitting if a pickpocket whisked that particular treasure into the shadows). Ashur’s already departed to his room for the evening, figuring he’ll check in with the local safehouse about future contracts before the duo finally depart from the Telvanni Peninsula. They did what they set out to accomplish, after all. No… no reason to stay.

Naryu doesn’t say anything as The Vestige sits down. She’s on her fourth drink by now, or is it the fifth? She consumes enough alcohol to be ordained as a priest of Sanguine, at any rate, if not given an honorary front door key to the Hall of Valor in Sovngarde. The Vestige lightly pushes the plate of appetizers, candied insects away from herself and closer to Naryu.

They’ve… had the conversation. The words that The Vestige has had to sit on for years now. Four years since she was forced to kill a desperate cultist of Nocturnal, forced to fight without choice. Without parlay.

Do you want to talk about Veya?

All this crap about fate. Fate this and fate that. It was meant to be! She’s sick of wandering Apocrypha listening to crazy buffoons chatter about paths and threads. For all their harping about fate, none of them have actually had to end someone’s. 

Naryu picks up an insect, studies it for a moment, and takes a bite, giving The Vestige a smirk as she chews. Mouth open and bug legs everywhere, blech!

“I’m surprised I haven’t chased you off by now. Are my knife threats getting dull with age?”

“It’s been five years, Naryu. I want to know what you’ve been up to. I told you my story. What… what have you done?”

The question causes the assassin’s smirk to falter, becoming almost an emotionless statue. At first, The Vestige worries that she’s overstepped, perhaps asked too many questions of a professional killer in a public setting. But she notices Naryu’s fingers dejectedly pick at the thorax of a candied scrib.

“Same old,” the Dunmer sighs. “I just… ignored what I had done and soldiered on. Like a good little Morag Tong. Even when Raz sent the letter… I had a good long cry about it for a week or two, and picked up another piece of paper telling me to slit a throat. It’s who I am.”

“I know.”

“I still have her letter. I keep it with me. It serves as a good reminder.”

The Vestige feels one of her eyebrows raise, senses the curious tilt of her head, “Of what?”

Not to push people away? Not to shrug people off? Not to leave the ones she loved alone? The Vestige can’t help but replay the conversation they’d had about Veya earlier… how many times had Naryu practiced saying that before she she got to the bar? Between the Telvanni assignment and reaching Necrom?

How many times had Naryu prepared for that conversation in the past four years?

She got the feeling the Dunmer woman wanted to get that out, like a dragon’s fiery breath, and run away. Off the Telvanni Peninsula and back to some secret hideout where The Vestige would never request that Naryu confront complicated feelings. And yet, here she is, again and again, showing up in Naryu’s business and forcing her to remember that she has a single person she loves outside of an organization of business and shadow. Maybe the only person she really loves. But does Naryu even realize it?

“It serves as a reminder of who I am, hero. But I don’t know if I’m ready to give you that definition. I might have to kill you to keep the world from finding out.”

“You might,” the Vestige nods. They’ve had this dance before, half a dozen times. It’s a familiar tempo, and yet for a woman as deadly as Naryu, not once has she ever truly felt threatened.

They share a few more drinks, with plenty of gold to spare between either woman’s profession, and The Vestige remembers how much she misses this. Yes, she missed Naryu, but it equally feels as though she’s always asked to run around, to prevent the world from ending, to fight and fight, and fight some more. When did sitting down and resting become a luxury? 

Ashur holds the secrets of the Morag Tong a little closer to his chest, but she’s only really met him one or two times before. Naryu… by the Gods they’ve known each other long enough. The assassin jokes about kills, ignoring the occasional stare from a passerby bar patron, and recalls enough anecdotes that the familiar levity of Naryu Virian briefly surfaces as a possibility.

On the seventh drink, though, the levity falls once more.

Naryu has gone quiet, just as The Vestige finally feels tipsy enough to try a candied scrib.

Odd taste, but meat is meat, she supposes. The crunch, well, she was expecting it but it really is a shocking snap against your teeth! And… the candied state of the appetizers doesn’t really negate the presence of bug hairs. But the spices are quite nice! She… she probably won’t reach for another. Perhaps she’ll order something to go.

“I… I hate to ask this… seeing as you’ve already helped me.”

“What is it? Anything for you, you know.”

Naryu gives her this forlorn stare, bags under her pitch black eyes, and suddenly The Vestige realizes that one of the deadliest elves she’s ever met is about to burst into tears.

“I… I want to make something for Veya. A shrine, or perhaps a marker of some kind. We’re in Necrom, the City of the Dead, after all. It feels appropriate. If not now, when? Will you help me with this?”

The Vestige nods, sitting up in her chair and setting the remains of the candied scrib back on the plate (hastily). She wants to take Naryu’s hand and immediately lead her out to the rows and rows of peddlers with their carts full of urns, incense, headstones― all manner of macabre necessities to honor the departed Dunmer. If she’s honest, she doesn’t know that much about the traditional practices; and Naryu Virian isn’t exactly a traditional-ancestors-honoring Mer. 

“What did you have in mind?”

Naryu pulls out a crumbled up piece of paper, an old map of the Peninsula, and starts making x’s in various locations. 

“I’d like to buy her some urns, maybe we’ll do half a dozen, since… since we don’t have her body with us. We can fill them with volcanic ash. There’s pyroclastic flow near Tel Dreloth, to the south― mind the shalk, it’s breeding season and they tend to be territorial. I’ve heard it’s a good luck charm to mix volcanic glass and obsidian pieces with the remains… and I owe Veya quite a bit of luck for the afterlife. As I understand it, they’ve recently reopened Alavelis mine, so perhaps you can procure a bag or two of shards for us.”

“That sounds simple enough.”

Naryu shakes her head, “One more thing. Veya was a fighter. A killer. And she worked damn hard to be one, ever since she was a young girl. I’d like to find some weapons and armor for her. She hated mercenaries just as much as Ashur and myself, maybe more after those awful Warclaws started snooping around Balmora. I saw some Dusksaber mercenaries on my recent… errand to Ald Isra. Take as many down as you feel would make Veya proud, and then grab a set of armor and some axes of a few of their bodies.”

The Vestige chuckles, “That’s the spirit. Alright, I’ll head out.”

“Ashur and I will look for a place to build Veya’s shrine,” Naryu says, lifting her mug in a salute. “He was never a fan of her antics, but it only takes four threats of execution to persuade him to help with a favor. Keep that in mind for future reference.”

The Vestige slings her backpack around her shoulder, gathering her weapons of choice and checking to make sure her potions are ready (goodness knows far too many times she’s reached for the bottles during combat only to find they’ve slipped out of her belts). She picks up her mug, never one to waste a perfectly good drink, and turns back to the moody assassin.

“How do you know so much about funeral rites? Were you raised with the knowledge?”

Naryu chuckles, “Hardly. I’ve had to pretend I’m every profession in order to make kills, hero. You should have guessed that by now. Baker, painter, priest, and yes, I’ve been a mortician once or twice. Thank the ancestors I haven’t had to do that here. I’d probably die of boredom. No disrespect to the entire city, of course.”

The Vestige tightens a strap at her chest, making sure she’s ready for a ride on a rather… haphazard mount.

“Does Veya have any surviving family?”

Naryu shakes her head, “Her mother is still in Balmora. Still grief stricken after all these years. She thinks Veya passed away at the Redoran Garrison. And that’s the story High Councilor Meriath went with, sold to every citizen in Vvardenfell that asked about Councilor Eris’ murder. Of course, there wasn’t a body, so there wasn’t much of a funeral. But… I’ll make sure to bring everything we gather back to Balmora. I just wasn’t sure when I would see you again, so I wanted to do this while I still have you. And I figure Necrom merchants will sell urns at a cheaper price. Go on, now, hero.”

The Vestige gives Naryu a grin, a shrug of her shoulders, and turns to leave the Mourner’s Solace Inn. It’s going to be a long night, but it will feel good to finally close this chapter.

Her horse is tied up at the Spirited Mounts Stable, and the Gods themselves know this city is a nightmare to navigate, odd tunnels and corners and far too easy to become lost in the beautiful white stone walls that tower above her. By Oblivion, she nearly crashes into a young merchant when she finally reaches the main plaza! The Vestige keeps her head down as she moves through the crowds, the mourners and priests and handful of stallkeepers eager to peddle cheap goods to the grieving at exorbitant rates. 

Above her, beady-eyed crows perch on the sleek balconies and ornate tapestries. Their airborne siblings dance throughout the skies, their ebon glides ignoring the coastal winds as they practically show off their ability to escape the woes of the world beneath. The Vestige does not fault them for what they are, despite her pain. In the corner of her eyes, she can feel cold shadows slither amidst the urns of countless Dunmeri civilians, weaving between the feet of the Keepers who console sobbing mothers. Those shadows do not attack. They do not endanger the Hero. She feels no threat at their presence; perhaps the brief favor in Blackwood was enough of a truce. The shadows merely observe. With a bite of her lip, feeling as though she has a blessing from someone who watches up above, the Vestige ascends the stairs of a general goods emporium for her supplies. 

Perhaps not an approval, and certainly no sense of kinship between the Vestige and the Mistress of Shadows . Not after what she did to Veya. But it would seem Nocturnal permits them to continue nonetheless. 

“Have you gotten all of the items Naryu requested,” Ashur asks the next morning, sighing as he struggles with the bag of urns, incense, and food offerings he’s been forced to handle.

The Vestige nods, “Yes. Took me all night, but I knew I wasn’t going to rest until I completed my task.”

“You’re a real sucker, you know that?”

“What, you don’t think we should be doing this?”

Ashur sets down the items and timidly rubs his neck, “Look, I didn’t say that. I just… I don’t like seeing Naryu get hurt. Yes, she’s my partner-in-crime, although will once again remind you that Morag Tong activities are strictly legal―”

“Yes. I know.”

“― but she’s also my friend. She was a mess when the news from Summerset arrived. I just want her to put this to rest after all these years. I never approved of the apprenticeship, and I wish Naryu had done the smart thing and immediately isolated Veya on the other side of the country while training her. Our methods strictly involve a psychology of detachment… Naryu got attached, and she allowed Veya’s attachment to nearly kill us, too.”

The ash… it falls from the sky so silently, like warm snow. The Vestige takes a moment, breathing in the smell of spices, incense, and letting the heat of the region warm her bones. She never thought she’d be back in Morrowind, but stranger things have happened to her.

“You don’t have to come.”

Ashur chuckles, “Virian would murder me if I skipped. Besides, I have an offering of my own. A few coins. Veya was never one for gold, even being the daughter of a pompous noble family, but maybe she’ll find some use for them in the afterlife.”

“Did Naryu find a place to make the shrine?”

“That she did. A little cliff near where they keep the silt-strider caravans. Overlooks the sea, has a lovely view of the sunrise, and a cluster of giant mushrooms that always make me sneeze. There’s a dock just down the trail, I’ll probably fish while the two of you set up. Mudcrab anatomy has very useful alchemical potential, and I can use the leftover pyre wood to make us some breakfast.”

They pack the items onto a cart, leading the Vestige’s horse down the various trails and pathways that diverge from the main roads. Carved into the mountain landscape, The Vestige notes various tombs, honoring ancestors of forgotten eras, woven between the mushrooms iconic to the topography. The rocky landscape of Necrom is equally adorned with ancient paintings, symbols she can only assume depict religious iconography. 

She hopes Veya will be okay with this. Her final moments followed a very different religion than that of a traditional Morrowind citizen. 

Naryu is already sitting when they arrive at the cliff, with a prayer shawl laid out on the moss covered stones. The assassin’s legs are crossed and she’s silently facing the sunrise. Her eyes are closed, in some sort of meditation that’s deeply unlike the flirtatious, charismatic killer.

“Oh, so we were doing the work while you slept?” Ashur grunts, pulling the horse up to a tree and tying it off.

“If you must know,” Naryu says, eyes closed and clearly annoyed, “I was contemplating mortality. Not that you’ve ever exercised your mind in your life, you oaf.”

A safe enough location. If there were any local wildlife or onlookers, clearly Naryu has already scared them off. The Vestige decides to set her weapons off to the side and begins unloading the cargo, but Naryu stands and places a hand on the Vestige’s shoulder.

“There’s one more thing. We should light some candles. I think there’s some merchants down the road. Here’s some gold. I… I just want everything to be perfect. Ashur and I will go ahead and put everything in place while you’re gone.”

The Vestige smiles, covering Naryu’s hand with her own for a brief moment, “Of course.”

It takes her a few minutes to climb up the hill, back towards Anchre Mine. Sure enough, a group of merchants has made a temporary camp. Ashlanders, by the look of it. And the thought saddens the Vestige. Yes… candles from a tribe of Ashlanders, it would be a good way to honor Veya, and Ulran. 

Before she can approach, she finds her face at the sharper end of a sword. Ah, she was quick to forget the tragic politics of the region, and her status as a foreigner. The caravan guard clears his throat;

“Halt. State your business. We have no quarrel with outlanders, but we will defend ourselves if you choose the path of hostility.”

“Oh,” the Vestige says, holding up her hands to indicate peace, “I actually need supplies. I wanted to know if you sell any candles.”

The warrior, donning a helm that shrouds his face completely, sheathes his sword and beckons her to follow.

“Another outlander, just like yourself, came by to purchase the candles we had, but I think we have one left. Ah, here it is. Made of the wax we harvest from dreugh’s near Kemel-Ze, used in sacred prayers to Azura, Boethiah, and Mephala. But.. if you’re just using it to light a kitchen, at least place it somewhere the bantam won’t knock it over.”

The Vestige shakes her head, “It’s for a friend who passed. I promise it will see good use.”

The Ashlander’s helmet turns ever so slightly, and he gives a small nod.

“Oh. Well. I’m sorry for your loss, outlander. No matter what people any of us belong to, it seems all mortals of Tamriel have grown accustomed to death as the ‘Era’ marches on, hmm?”

She pays not only with gold but barters with other useful items for the candle. Ashlanders only have so much use for currencies utilized in the cities they cannot enter, and it seems they appreciate the potions, trinkets, and certainly the parcel of candied scrib The Vestige is eager to be rid of. Kind, older folk give her soft eyes with crow’s feet smiles, while the younger hunters and guards remain wary, watching her every move as The Vestige returns down the path towards the shoreline.

Naryu and Ashur are almost done setting up when she arrives; funny how funerals are easier to get over with when you don’t have a body.

“Just one candle, hmm? Well, Veya probably won’t mind. As far as ‘honoring the ancestors’ goes, she’ll probably understand. At least, I hope she understands. You would think it would be a bit of a buzzkill to complain about your own funeral, but it’s actually a time honored tradition of Dunmer ghosts. Come on, then.”

The shrine is simple, but lovely. A collection of weapons, urns, and offerings lay at the cliffside. The wind wafts incense towards the mourners, a powerful scent that reminds The Vestige of Balmora, and perhaps even a hint of Ald’ruhn. All that can be heard are the waves, perhaps a ship’s bell or two in the distance. In this moment, the city has not yet readied itself for the day of pomp and ceremony and song and prayer. In this moment, there is no ritual or tradition that the three mortals adhere to, save for the moment of respect all cultures have for those that have died. 

At first, she wonders.

She wonders if a ghost will appear. Or perhaps the flames will turn purple, the skies will go gray, and rage and pain and abandonment itself shall burst forth from the altar. Perhaps that is the quickened heart rate of the Vestige, traumatized after the years she spent fighting the Dark Anchors. Perhaps she’s seen enough to know there’s always a trick; a catch and a twist that bring nothing but pain and loss. Hasn’t she seen it again and again? How many people has she failed to save?

“I failed you,” she whispers. The Vestige pushes past Naryu and Ashur, who had been observing a silent vigil, and she rests a hand on the altar, “I tried so hard to save everyone. To save the world and save you. And in that sense of glorious quest, I didn’t think about the fact you weren’t lost. ”

“Hero…”

She ignores the concern in Naryu’s uncharacteristically soft voice and continues, looking out at the sunrise and steeling herself.

“I shouldn’t have tried to save you by stopping you. I could have captured you, or found your hiding place and worked something out. Or I could have just… let you destroy the world, and spent those last moments giving you a friend you never really had. I wonder if that was a bitterness you held in your heart, that so many friends in Balmora were your friends of convenience, and that Naryu and Ashur were never quite close enough for you. Always authority rather than affection. And I was just some stranger who knew Naryu but didn’t really know you. Your only friend was Ulran, and we didn’t let you avenge him properly. Maybe if I’d… just had the opportunity to be your friend, I could have gone to Summerset with you, rather than chasing fate and doom and finding you at its heart.

“Maybe I should have bartered with Nocturnal. I should have tried so many other things, but I rushed to stop the world from ending instead of contemplating my options. I didn’t even try reasoning with you, Vey. I just… I wish I’d had a choice. Another way out. If you would have given me a chance I would have put your life over mine in a heartbeat. I should have… and I should have… and if I could have… I feel like a broken Dwemer construct, or else plagued by the Prince of Madness. I’ve felt this way for years now, Veya.

“Maybe you were right, and that was your purpose. Maybe your purpose was to be an assassin in Vvardenfell. Or maybe a Redoran politician. Maybe none of these things. No amount of years will pass that I’ll feel… at peace with this. And I think the worst part is I’m here now. I’m at your funeral, Veya. It’s the end of the road. No necromancy, no ghosts, no bargaining with Princes for your return. Naryu and I have finally talked about it, after so much anxiety on both of our ends. I’ve tied up the loose threads of so many other fates, including yours, right? I’m supposed to just accept that this happened. And usually I have. I’ve killed a lot of people, even people who I didn’t want to fight, in order to ‘save’ a society or a country. Countless times. You were the only one that broke me, and I think it’s because some part of my brain has always whispered that it didn’t have to end like that, or it whispers that there’s something I could do to bring you back.

“Now I’m here. At your funeral. Silencing that voice by saying goodbye. I really, really don’t want to say goodbye. And… and I know there are others in your life who already have. Friends and family from Balmora. The two beside me, who you maybe loved more than you loved me. I… and I suppose even Nocturnal said a goodbye, in her own way. And I’ve never been able to. But… yeah. Hard to even say it right now, you know?”

“You don’t have to,” Naryu finally whispers. 

Their eyes do not meet. The Vestige reaches up to the drawstring pouch dangling from her neck and pulls it off, scattering its contents into her hand. Soil, from the base of the Crystal Tower. Taken the moment Valsirenn’s portal had safely whisked her away from the corpse of her friend, ferrying her to safety as they attempted to restore the defenses of reality itself. She scatters a thin layer of dirt on the empty pyre, and casts a basic flame spell in her palm. 

“Goodbye, my friend.”

She’s surprised when Naryu knocks on her inn room, dead of night. She’s awake, of course. Doing taxes of all things. Her little farm in Rivenspire is doing well, and despite the cordial nature of King Dorrell and his eternal gratitude towards her for saving the literal mortal kingdom from a vampire plague… the local government in Fell’s Run really needs the income to help shore up defenses in case of an attack from bandits or stray bloodfiends. She’s been able to put off doing this for years, now, but there’s only so many harvest seasons she can go without reporting her crop bounty, employee wages, and livestock to the Shornhelm clerks. 

“I didn’t take you for a farmer. I mean, I knew, of course. I’ve kept tabs on you, Hero. But I didn’t think you actually used the business. Always assumed it was some sort of front.”

“The Eldrad nobles technically own the land. I merely own the business it rests on. Their daughter and her wife see to a lot of the operations while I’m away.”

“Still… sunflowers and pumpkins? I’d expect you to run some sort of pawn shop or museum hawking Daedric curious from your travels.”

The Vestige smiles, not looking up from her paperwork, “I keep longing for a simple life. And people keep calling me away from it. Ironically, I think the farm does better when I’m away. But sometimes I think I’m grounded when I sit out there, at the bottom of those flowers, and pretend that the field is endless.”

“You’re soft and sentimental. It’s the sort of thing that kills a warrior.”

“It’s the sort of thing you’ll never be, Naryu.”

Finally their eyes meet, and everything unspoken yanks at their wrists, their hearts, their lips. Desperate to tug them together. Refutal, again and again. Here she is, once more, offering another life to a woman who won’t purchase that particular vintage. 

Thin gray fingers slowly rest on the back of the Vestige’s neck, the assassin standing just behind her chair as their eyes gaze into each other. A hint of a smile― is this the moment? All those jokes about stabbing the Vestige, or warning her not to end up on a Morag Tong writ. Well… if anyone in the world could kill the hero without pissing her off, it’d be Naryu. In fact, she’d be insulted if Naryu Virian allowed another assassin to get close. Those fingers curl the short hairs at the base of her head, giving and affectionate scratch.

Perhaps she’d been right, so many years ago. That it was only ever “one kiss per customer”. Perhaps they would never reunite, and find comfort in each other. And perhaps that’s only one fate, one thread, and one ending of the story. 

“I lied to you.”

“Naryu?”

The assassin bites her lip, shaking her head as though she’s slightly embarrassed, “Let me clarify, I’ve lied to you a handful of times. I lie to people in general. It is a fundamental part of my life. But I lied to you during the ceremony, when they honored you for saving Necrom. I told you I wanted to sleep with someone, you offered, and I turned you down. Told you that I just wanted to find a stranger to sleep with. And I lied.”

A moment. She can hear the chatter of Tribute players just outside her inn room’s door. The bustle of barkeeps and bards. The bells in the distance, and even further out the gentle rumble of volcanos gently erupting and seismic activity shifting the Telvanni Coast. But perhaps she can hear Naryu’s heartbeat beneath all that useless cacophony.

“I lied,” the assassin softly repeats. “I just want to be with you, Hero. I want to be on that silly little pumpkin farm that you’ve purchased in the ugliest country in Tamriel, hunkering down on rainy nights and enjoying watered down ale from that drab local inn. Fighting off Nord and Orc invaders on occasion, a chance to keep my skills up to Morag standards. Do you know how many times I’ve been there, checking up on you, watching you from across the field and begging myself to just enter your home and tell you that I love you? But… am I really going to keep doing this? Am I just going to keep dancing around you, Hero?”

The fingers slowly trail the Vestige’s jaw, and as though they’ve already spent decades in partnership, she finder herself lightly holding Naryu’s hand to her face. As though it’s natural. As though there have been no other adventures and stories in the Second Era but Naryu and her Hero. 

A thumb grazes her bottom lip. 

“I keep telling you that ‘it’s who I am’ , but I think that I’m only truly telling myself that. I… who am I without the wall? Without the armor and knives? There’s at least one young woman who would be alive and well if I’d just given up on it all years ago and said no to the trainings, history, and the identity that makes me Naryu fucking Virian. Would you love me if I were just some Dunmeri farmer in Rivenspire, instead?”

The Vestige finds herself smiling, “I think I would. But I also just want you to be happy. I don’t think you’re happy right now. And I don’t have an answer for you, because I… I don’t feel like you’ve wanted me to get to know you.”

Naryu traces an earring. Her face is an expression that the Vestige has never seen before. Soft and longing. Sorrowful and pained. 

Sometimes the Vestige feels a lot older than she actually is. Naryu’s other hand mirrors the one on her jaw, and for a moment she allows herself to be held. It’s been so long, but there’s never really been anyone else, has there? She’s made flirtatious jokes with Naryu over the years, but always respected the distance the assassin purposefully set. And yet… never touched another soul. 

Is the moment destined to happen? Does someone will it so? Or are they merely pieces of dead and broken Gods, desperately pushing and pulling together as Nirn floats throughout the Mundus? No goal, no story, no end in sight? The Vestige… she feels so scattered. All of this, and something else will come and destroy the progress she’s made and the societies she’s saved. Why fight the immortal puppetmasters if she has to slaughter the Veyas to reach them?

Her ribs are broken, having been slammed into a bookcase during the fight with Vaermina a few nights prior. Yet another Prince. And another. And another. Do they lick their wounds? Why are the Gods so desperate to protect the mortals? Why didn’t they just let Nocturnal remake reality?

“I like this world, I don’t want it to end.”

 

“As good a reason as any. There are many who feel as you do, although not all. Some would say that all things must end, so that the next can come to pass. Would you stop the next world from being born?”

 

“The next world will have to take care of itself.”

 

“A fair answer… maybe you only balance the forces that work to quicken the end of this world. Even we who ride the currents of Time cannot see past Time's end… those who try to hasten the end, may delay it. Those who work to delay the end, may bring it closer..”

A fate. Not hers, but a fate nonetheless, dancing in the back of her head and whispering what has been, what is now, and what is to come. Her thoughts have been scatterbrained, ever since she learned of Ithelia. She… dammit. Damn the fucking Divines, the Daedra, and their fucking messengers and champions. She just wants to finish her taxes and return to her farm. 

Naryu’s, again, uncharacteristic. Silently observing the Hero lost in her thoughts. Eventually, the assassin lets out a huff of frustration;

“I’m so good at not breaking rules, Hero. I quite literally kill people for a living, but I do not break rules. And… if I do this… I break rules no one has set but myself. I’m not scared of my story changing; I’m petrified . Fates aren’t meant to be so easily swayed, but you come into Tamriel and you do this… and you’ve started to alter mine, do you know?”

She thinks about the missing Prince. What it could all mean for the denizens of Mundus (and whatever lies beyond that existence). Where could Ithelia have been all this time? Does the Prince sleep now, or is she imprisoned, awaiting the chance to unleash havoc in revenge? The Vestige could unravel the mystery, chasing shadows across planes of existence that have not seen a mortal’s heartbeat in eons and eras… or she could stay behind. Let the journey end. Allow Leramill and Hermaeus Mora and dozens of other intrepid adventurers the grand legacy of a finished story. 

The Vestige could save the world. Or she could just save Naryu. And maybe it’s the lingering tears from the funeral, or the lingering alcohol from the night before, or the lingering wistfulness and innuendos of Deshaan, Eastmarch, the Gold Coast, and Vvardenfell.

She cannot save Naryu. She couldn’t save Veya, after all. Some part of her clings to the hope that in Veya's final moments, she saw the tears running down her enemy's cheeks... and perhaps in that moment Veya realized that the Vestige cared for her enough to cry. She cannot save Naryu. She can only cling to the hope that after all this, perhaps Naryu is ready to try. The Vestige can only tilt her chin up with a knowing smile, welcoming the gentle kiss that meets her lips, and marveling in the fact that Naryu’s kisses taste so amazingly different when they have little to do with sex, and everything to do with love.

Better to tug at the webs of fate, even if only a little, than to save.