“By the way, Sees-All-Colors is here and wants to see us,” Eran says.

“Valaste is also here,” Merry says. “However, I would imagine that whatever the Fighters Guild is doing is probably more pressing than whatever mad nonsense the Mages Guild will want you to do today.”

“Right,” I say. “Fighters Guild first, then. Let’s see, which building is it…”

Eran points. “The one over there that’s got a tavern under it.”

“The Fighters Guild has their own tavern here?” I say. “Nice.”

The guildhall itself is up the stairs, with the tavern area underneath. Eran and I head in, and find Sees-All-Colors inside, looking weary.

“Thank you for clearing my name and exposing that necromancer,” Colors says, giving me an expression that I have not consumed enough Hist sap to parse.

“Of course,” I say. “I would hate for anyone to get the wrong idea.”

“Also, Aelif tortured a ghost,” Eran adds. “It’s difficult to support that sort of thing.”

“Aelif never returned to the guild after you parted ways with her in Ragnthar,” Colors says. “The council has ordered her death. I fear what she might be doing in the meantime. I know where to find the Mortuum Vivicus. First, though, we’ll need to visit the Earth Forge and meet with Merric. He’s almost done with work on the Prismatic Weapon.”

Colors opens a portal back to the Dwemer ruin Merric was working in, but before we head inside, she holds up a hand.

“We must take a moment to speak in private,” Colors says. “There is something I must confess to you.”

“That you murdered Jofnir Iceblade?” I say. “Yeah, we know.”

Colors blinks. “You do not seem particularly alarmed about that, comrade.”

I shrug. “I’m sure you had a good reason for it.”

“Also, did we mention the necromantic torture bit?” Eran puts in. “Aelif did a very good job of looking obviously evil.”

“Yes,” Colors says. “I’ve discovered that she’s a follower of the God of Schemes.”

“Oh, good,” I say.

“Good?” Colors blinks in confusion again.

“I mean, now I don’t need to feel bad about betraying her to cover up your murderousness,” I say. “Not that she was doing a terribly good job of being sympathetic, but it’s good to know that she’s actually bad and not that she was just a grumpy, short-tempered necromancer who was having a bad day.”

“Why would you betray her to cover up murder?” Colors wonders.

“Because I was afraid if Aelif got her way, people would stop fighting the Dark Anchors,” I say.

“That’s exactly why I killed him, actually,” Colors says. “Not that you’re even demanding answers about that. Jofnir Iceblade refused to listen to me about the threat posed by the Planemeld. I had to act, or the world was doomed.”

“So you took an Orc promotion,” I say.

Colors chuckles. “I suppose that’s one way of looking at it.”

“Where is the gold for that coming from, anyway?” I ask. “Who’s contract is it?”

“Meridia,” Colors explains. “I’m actually a follower of Meridia, and the contract is hers. I fear some of them, like Merric, are devout Aedra worshippers and might be offended if they knew the truth.”

“Well, my patron is Malacath, and I don’t especially care where the gold is coming from, although I’m guessing the Colored Rooms has a lot of gold? I mean, I guess gold is technically a color.”

Eran chuckles. “I suppose that’s one way to take care of something, if you have enough gold. Also, I don’t care one way or another about Meridia. I’ve had more brushes with Daedra than I’d ever imagined I would in the past few months. This certainly beats that time Neri had to tell me not to look directly at Hermaeus Mora for too long.”

We head down into the ruin. The Redguard is busily at work in the forge, and apparently is the sort of person who sings when he works. Loudly. His voice echoes through the halls to the point where my own music rises up to accompany his song. He beams at us when we approach and stops singing, the music dying down.

“Did you hear that?” Merric says. “I believe the Dwemer music devices must have caught on to my song.”

“Fascinating,” Colors says, giving me a sidelong look and knowing where the music actually came from, but doesn’t mention it. “The Dwarves were certainly an ingenious people.”

If I can cover up her murdering, she can cover up my Daedra trafficking. Heh.

The Prismatic Weapon is nearly ready, by which Merric means that he’s about to actually forge it into something and wants to know what sort of weapon I want. “A sword? A staff? A bow?”

“I was unaware that bows are typically forged, but then I was also unaware that crystals are typically forged,” I comment. “In any case, can you do a battle axe? That’s just a curved sword attached to a staff, right?”

Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

“A battle axe!” Merric exclaims. “Of course. I should have noticed what I always see you wielding. This will be just a moment.”

For all that it has taken… what, weeks? to get to this part of the crafting, the final stage takes almost no time at all. Far be it from me to tell a master weird-magic-crystal-smith how to do his thing.

I take the finished axe and hold it aloft. “I hereby dub this weapon, Shiny!”

“An excellent name,” Eran says flatly into the speechless silence Merric and Colors are giving.

“That will give us the edge we need in this fight,” Colors says. “I’ve located the Mortuum Vivicus in the Halls of Submission. And I have a feeling we might well find Aelif there. I’ll open a portal.”

Colors is a surprisingly good portal mage for being a fighter. I wonder how far off I am from actually being able to do that. Wayshrines seem to be everywhere as it is, but if I could get to places I haven’t been before, it would be even more convenient. Admittedly, this would probably require scrying magic of some sort and I don’t know the first thing about that. Eh, wayshrine teleportation is honestly more than I’d ever hoped for anyway.

I’m very much not looking forward to an inevitable return to Coldharbour, but at least I’m feeling better about my prospects with Malacath’s blessing upon me. I suppose this will be a good test of whether Molag Bal will notice me or not.

The four of us step through Colors’ portal and into the Halls of Submission. We come out not far from the shadowy swirling sphere that must be the… M.V. that we need to destroy. And Aelif is here.

“So, you found Aelif out,” the Khajiit says. “No matter. You will all die here. You may have exposed this one to the Fighters Guild and prevented her from putting an end to the destruction of the Master’s Anchors, but you will not stop the Mortuum Vivicus!”

Molag Bal’s voice rings out through the Halls of Submission, and Aelif’s body warps and grows. Where a Khajiit had stood before, a massive Daedric Titan now stands. I liked to call them “fool’s drakes” (because they’re imitation dragons) but nobody but me ever thought it was funny. One of these days, I kind of hope to find an actual dragon to see how fun fighting them is comparatively. In any case, fighting someone I know personally is another matter. Usually, stuff doesn’t piss me off before I fight it.

“I didn’t actually know you were a cultist,” I say, dodging a swipe and bringing Shiny to bear. “But thanks so much for confirming it.”

“I’ve found it a good rule of thumb that people who do bad things for no good reason are typically bad,” Eran says calmly as he blocks an attack with his shield. “And there’s rarely much excuse for torture.”

Between the four of us, we eventually shut down the things that made her stronger and defeat Aelif. The titan falls, and Molag Bal expresses his disappointment. I restrain the urge to yell at him not to be an asshole to his followers. Aelif did bad things, yes, but she was loyal to him.

But, the Orc King wouldn’t say that. He would know it was Nerevar’s taunting because that’s the same shit I always taunted him with. So I keep quiet, and just make a mental note that if I ever somehow wind up becoming a god, not to be an asshole to my followers. It seems terribly unlikely, but if Manny thought he had a chance, who’s to say? At the very least, I can make sure not to be an asshole as a king, either.

(I am so fucking glad that my wives aren’t complete raging bitches. I have hazy memories of having to stand by while Ayem was a raging bitch and just letting her do it. She was so self-absorbed that I bet the whole godhood schtick was her idea. Seht was probably the one to figure out how to do it, but he wouldn’t have demanded to be venerated for it. He’d just have used it to become extremely powerful and then go off somewhere people wouldn’t bother him in order to experiment with it.)

“Neri? Neri, are you listening?”

“Apparently not,” I say, glancing about to see everyone trying to get my attention. “How do we destroy this thing?”

“That’s what I was trying to tell you,” Colors says. “You’ll need to use the Prismatic Weapon on it!”

“Right!”

I swing Shiny through the swirling shadowy globe. It falters but doesn’t fade.

“Throw it in!” the ghost of Jofnir Iceblade yells. (No idea what he’s doing here but I guess he wanted to see this thing through before moving on to Sovngarde finally?)

“But I just got this weapon!” I grouse briefly before chucking the brilliant weapon into the evil orb, which finally dissipates. “Alas, poor Shiny, its life was brief and heroic. You shall not be forgotten, noble axe.”

The ghost groans. “I can pull it back out for you. It’s done its job and it would be a shame to leave it here.”

“Really?” I brighten.

“Was throwing it in really necessary?” Eran asks.

“Maybe not, but it did get it done quickly,” Colors says.

The ghost fishes out the shiny thing, no longer shaped like an axe. “I assume you want it axe shaped again?”

“Shiny!” I exclaim. “Yes!”

Apparently forging a weapon doesn’t require a lot of time or even a forge, as the ghost bends light and color into a a blade again and returns it to me. “Here you go. May it slay many more foul beings that would threaten innocents.”

“Jofnir Iceblade, it is good to see you free of that necromancer’s chains,” Eran says, looking between the ghost and Colors in silent question.

“Yes. I am glad you did not fall for her trickery,” Jofnir says. “And… Colors. Before I seek out my ancestors in Sovngarde, I must speak with you in private.”

“Of course,” Colors says. “Let us return to Nirn first. This place dries my scales.”

A portal is opened, and we waste no time in getting the hell out of hell. I’m not feeling too down about that visit, though. The God of Brutality did not recognize me. He didn’t get into my head. And we won. Also I got to fight a cool monster. Aelif might have been a scheming fetcher, but at least she gave me a good fight.

“How are you doing?” Eran asks me quietly.

“Good,” I say, grinning. “I think we might actually be able to do this.”

“Oh, yes,” Eran says. “I’m totally looking forward to my next trip to Coldharbour.” He almost even manages to say it convincingly.

I snicker softly. “I wouldn’t say I’m looking forward to Coldharbour but I’m definitely looking forward to hitting shit and making an asshole god quit throwing fishhooks into my backyard. I’d like my hypothetical children to be able to play on the beach without having gates to hell open overhead. And I’ll have them fight Scamps before Ogrims.”

“Have you already named your hypothetical children?” Eran wonders.

“A mer can dream, right?” I say with a chuckle. “I never… had children, before. Which might be sadly ironic given how my ex projects herself in a ‘motherly’ sort of way. By Malacath’s sweaty loincloth, I really don’t want to have to deal with her again. It seems like Molag Bal is a much easier individual to deal with than my ex-wife.”

“Could you please not make me imagine Malacath’s sweaty loincloth?” Eran says.

Colors approaches me and Eran. Merric has already gone on to report to the Fighters Guild council what happened. The ghost of Jofnir Iceblade (okay, you know what, Nords just have cool names) is nowhere in sight.

“You look pensive,” I say. “So, who apologized to who there?”

Colors gives a soft snort that might be half-amused. “Both of us, really. I’m glad we had a chance to talk it out, after all was said in done.”

“Are you going to remain Guildmaster?” Eran asks.

“Of course,” Colors says. “We’ve won one battle, but the war is still on. I considered confessing, before, but it’s likely to do more harm than good at this point. Jofnir agreed that we might as well just let Aelif take the blame for everything. He was considerably more upset at her for binding and torturing him than him being killed in the first place.”

“Understandably,” I say.