Balefire was dying.  The grim satisfaction of knowing that Veer'Shule
was also near his end was a poor sort of consolation, but offered a
bleak edge of comfort to the Dark Elf.  The mad, self-styled "Master" in
this bone-built abomination of a hall would accompany him, maybe even
precede him to whatever awaited beyond this life, but Balefire had no
illusions about his own chances of surviving.

Even as the scarred mercenary mage painfully dredged his last reserves
of energy for one more bit of will, he knew his end was nigh.  In a
state beyond pain, beyond fear, he poured his will and his Art into
this, his last battle.  It  almost seemed the world had receded from his
ken, leaving only the struggle.  The struggle, and the knowledge that it
was his last battle.  Somewhere in the depths of his mind, memories
surfaced, blown across his perception like autumn leaves before the
storms of early winter, illuminated it seemed by the lightnings and the
flamebursts that raged around the two antagonists.  He struggled to
ignore them, to concentrate on crushing his opponent in the maelstrom of
magical force of which he was a part, now, but the memories, though
fleeting, would not be denied, or ignored.

As from far off, he heard a weak, pitiful groan, and dimly realized it
was his own.  Unable to stand, or even move, he thrust and slashed with
his will, artifice and subtlety abandoned, a thing of sheer will and
power, but weakenening, and plagued by memories.

His first sword, and its first blood-letting.  The look of utter
astonishment on the face of that long-ago foe.  Dawn over the
battlements of Castle Ebonheart, and the proud banner of his House
flying and snapping in the breeze.  That same banner, lit sullenly by
the flames of war, obscured by smoke.  The joy in the eyes of...what was
her name?...too long ago...when he'd filled their forest bower with
sparkling colored lights and the scent of wildflowers.  The shock of
pain and dread as an enemy's blade slid into his flesh, and the horrid
grating when it slid along a bone.  The wild abandon of a headlong
charge against superior numbers, in his youth when he did not really
believe he could die.  The feeling of power when he had engaged in his
first wizardly duel, and the stench and horror of  blasted battlefields
without number.  The pride when he had overheard the first of many
bards' songs about Balefire, the Warmage.  Archmage of the Guild.
Balefire, the Implacable, the Relentless.  Balefire Demonbane, they'd
named him, in a long-ago campaign, and later they had whispered
"Balefire Bloodmage", and "Balefire Deathdealer".  Ah, Death!  Old
companion.  Saddlepartner.  Long had Death walked and ridden at his
side.  How many foes had his old companion taken, and left Balefire
alive.  Life.  It had been good, at times...the wines...the cool
tankards of ale...how good an ale would be now, in this flaming vortex
of forces that were taking his life.  Ale, and friends.  Many gone now.
And the women...he recalled their faces, and their forms, their voices
in joy and in passion, and the sound of their laughter.  Many, but it
had been many years, years of living as if there might not be a
tomorrow.  Most recently, Mea...he wished he had had more time to get to
know her better.  And Twilight.  Ah, Twilight...he wished he could have
seen her one more time before it came to this, the day when the
tomorrows ran out at last.  Memory haunted him, and the scarred dark elf
groaned, and tilted his head back to howl.  And he saw the Eye, and the
face of the Terror, solidifying like a congealing mist.

Banishing memory, Balefire focused what will he had left and used the
channel of his once-familiar ring to maintain the outpouring of magic,
assaulting the crumbling Veer'Shule as he, too, crumbled.  He felt his
life ebbing, draining away, and a part of him mourned the world, for
if...when...the Terror entered fully into Tamriel, Balefire would no
longer be alive to dispute its dark reign.  At the corners of his
dimming vision, he saw movement, and realized bitterly that Denigroth
walked again, and there was nothing...absolutely nothing...that he could
do about it.  He mustered his failing will, jaws clenched and shoulders
trembling, and flailed at Veer'Shule anew with his last shards of
energy.

Balefire was dying.