From: Balefire Balefire had once remarked to Twilight that the time he loved best is that just before dawn, when it often seems as if the world is holding its breath in anticipation of another dawn. The Dark Elf warmage had spent a sleepless night, brooding over the previous night's events and remembering. He had walked through the castle of his mind, opening this and that half-forgotten door, examining items from the past like dusty relics. Some were like shards of a cherished, broken vase, incomplete but too beautiful to throw away. Others had grown dusty from disuse, but now stood out brightly, polished by the winds of the night's phantom battle. Many were fragments like a disassembled mosaic from some temple so unspeakable that it had been taken to pieces bit by bit, each of no apparent meaning when considered separately, but -- with knowledge of theme and context -- clear and ominous in their import, slyly but silently asking to be reunited with their fellows in the original eldritch design. Some memories were timid mice, hiding and scurrying in dim corners, having to be chivvied out into the light, where they crouched, trembling. Still he paced through the halls of past study and conversation, reaping memories amid echoes, with cobwebs for companions. The mercenary Archmage glowered at his signet ring throughout, his usual dusky, stern visage gone determined and hard with unwanted knowledge. When all the bits and pieces had been examined and fit together, and the once-prince knew what he must do, he continued to gaze at the carved stone as at a friend or lover found suddenly to be a traitor. He had spent his whole life wearing and using the ring; it had become so much a part of him that he hardly thought of it. Now he knew what it really was...not just a bloodstone, semi-opaque green of dark forest fastnesses wound through with vein-like streaks of bloodred, but The Bloodstone, a vital piece of a legend even many scholars thought merely a myth. As Balefire brooded, a small part of his consciousness noted the drop in the wind's force, until the only sund was the half-inaudible whisper of trickling sand. At last, he knew what he must do and the knowledge made his great muscles tighten as it brought a smile to his face. When he awakened Alduin, the scholar saw that smile, and shuddered as he looked away. Balefire laughed an executioner's laugh, and when he spoke his voice had a joyous tone the old scribe had never before heard from the warmage. "Gather your belongings, good Alduin", Balefire said, grunting as his powerful arms swept away the drift in which they had been near-entombed, "and let us join the others as quickly as may be. I have a new quest in addition to the one which brought us here, and you shall hear -- and write, doubtless -- about it when we have rejoined our companions." ******** And so it was that the party was awakened by a strangely exhuberent red-mailed giant, flinging sand away from them with wild abandon, crimson eyes glowing fiercely as he sang in the waning dimness of pre-dawn. J'layah whispered to Twilight as the ebony-armored mercenary sponged out her mount Evensong's mouth. "I have never heard Balefire sing. Does he do it often? And what could he possibly have to sing about now? I cannot understand the lyrics, either, do some sound strangely familiar." Twilight laughed shortly. "No, he rarely sings, for all that he has a good voice, if somewhat over-deep for a bard. I think he may feel that it would damage his image to be seen mirthful." J'layah snorted, a delicate sound coming from her, and retorted, "It would do him good to smile more and frown a good deal less. I rather think that is the reason Mea seems to have shifted her attention to Tabanallis...Balefire is always so...well...grim." The raven-haired hybrid Elf started combing out her gelding's grey mane, and barked a laugh again. "He is grim enough now, in a way. He sings in Old High Elvish, or Elven, if you will. 'Tis rarely heard outside of Morrowind these days, except in some of the High Elf courts. Or in very old songs. He sings one of the ancient songs of his House, the ruling House of Ebonheart, of which, for all that he spurns the role, he is a Prince. I have heard that song many times erenow. 'Tis grim enough." Twilight continued her work on the horse, while watching the rest of the party at their cleaning and gear-gathering, and darting frequent glances at her surroundings. "But", J'layah persisted, "it has such a cheerful ring to it, his song. I will admit that his expression is a bit...ah...odd..." "'Tis the nature of Dark Elf warriors, J'layah, and especially those of Ebonheart, to go with apparent joy into battle. Perhaps it is a conceit, perhaps it heartens them. If nothing else, it discomfits their foes. He sings a warsong, my young friend. The primary warsong of his House. The song his ancestors have sung for ages. The song from which his warcry comes. Have you heard Balefire's warcry, J'layah?" J'layah shuddered slightly. "I once heard him shouting 'Blood and Souls', or something like it, but he told me that it was the warcry of another, not even of this world." Twilight nodded. "Aye, I know the world, and the man of whom he speaks...another prince, with a strange doom upon him. I think Lord Balefire feels some affinity for him, mayhap because their swords have some superficial resemblance. No, Balefire's -- and Ebonheart's -- warcry is 'Black and Red'. 'Tis the name of the song he sings so lustily even now. Shall I translate for you?" At J'layah's wary nod, Twilight listened a moment and then sang softly the words of the song the Dark Elf was booming across the cleft from them. "Black the rock that spawned it, Red the flame that weaned it. Black the hammer striking, Red the sparks a'flying. Make the sword a strong one. Red and Black! Black the mountain shoulders, Red the lava smoulders, Black the ashes crumbling, Red the campfires gleaming. Make the heart a brave one. Red and Black! Black the night enfolds them, Red the spells engulf them, Black the corpses falling, Red their lifeblood flowing. Make the blow a true one. Red and Black!" Twilight chuckled evilly as she stopped. "There is more, but I believe you understand...we used to sing it in harmony in the old days, when we rode to war together. He was a veteran, covered in glory, and I was a green mercenary. He took it upon himself to train me. I believe he wanted to protect me, although he would never admit such a thing. We had some good times, and some very bad ones. Mayhap I'll tell you about some of them, some day." J'layah pulled her sword half out of its scabbard and inspected the edge, her gaze purposely avoiding both Twilight and the big Dark Elf on the other side of the camp. "Ah...yes...maybe...sometime..." "Look!" Twilight suddenly spoke. "Something is happening." The big warmage had suddenly stopped singing and throwing gear together. He did not crouch, exactly, but his whole stance had subty shifted to one of watchful readiness. He seemed, though, to be looking only at his companions. Something in the way he stood and moved denied that, though. He raised his voice, and it might have been heard across a clamorous battlefield as he shouted. "You must make a decision, comrades. Our quest has changed, and it may be time for rethinking. I have made my decision, for I see that I have little choice. The gods or my fate seem to have selected me to be the owner of this ancient artifact I thought only an heirloom. I have decided to bear it to where it must be borne, and to put a final end to the story we saw played out here last night. I would have dared yon citadel in any case, for that the Art has been used perversely to entrap the soul of the living. Now I have al the more reason. I have remembered much that I once read without understanding. Now I know that the Bloodstone must be used, not to feed the Heartstone, but to destroy it, along with its fell master. "I will not deny that I would value your help. I would also not deny that any who enter that pile of evil-soaked rock have small chance of returning alive. Twilight, I renounce any debt of loyalty or affection you may think you owe me. J'layah, I shall strive to liberate your sister's soul to the last breath in my lungs and the last drop of blood in my veins, but the foe I go to face is not some Dark Brotherhood scum. Indeed, it is likely that the whole war with the assassins was manipulated by that fell monster yonder. You would not please your sister if you died for her. You two must do what you decide best. "K'tarin, I believe I detect the approach of some of your bretheren. Perhaps your place is with them. Perhaps they come to dissuade me; if so, it would be best for you to speak with them, for I will not brook interfernece, be it ever so well-meant. "You others must decide, given this new information. 'Tis my birthright, this Bloodstone, and that makes it my responsibility. I go to cleanse that citadel of its festering evil at last. Those who come with me will be welcome. Those who stay have my gratitude for their help so far, and my sincere wishes for good fortune. I shall think none the worse of you, nor should it matter what I think. What say you?" Twilight's clear voice rang out like a temple bell. "I should miss you, Lord Balefire, swordbrother, should you not return. I should wonder, too, if my presence at your back might not have changed the odds. Not for you, Warmage, but for myself, I shall go with you." J'layah squared her shoulders and spoke flatly, "It is my sister. And somebody owes me for a great deal of hardship and unhappiness. Of course, I shall go."She turned to her horse. The big Dark Elf nodded acknowledgement, his scarred visage expressionless as he looked from one to the other of the rest of the party. The rising sun painted the sky in colors of spilt blood.