Chapter Text
It had been by accident that Jon found the glade.
At three and ten, he’d gone hunting with Rob and Theon in the woods outside of Winterfell. He still remembered the crisp scent of the trees they passed through, falling snow muffling the other riders as he left the path, and then there it was; two weirwoods and their branches curled into a shape not unlike a doorway. He had dismounted his horse and stepped closer, feeling a thrill at the prospect of telling the rest of the Starks about this place.
When he passed under the bough of the intertwined weirwoods, however, all thought of that had halted. Jon shuddered, a chill pressing into his skin as he looked back and found his horse gone. Breath catching in his throat, he searched for his tracks out of the glade, back toward the familiar parts of the forest—but there were none.
The boy was seized by panic, and he rushed from the weirwoods without ensuring he remembered his way back. Eight years later, Jon still cursed this decision.
He had escaped the woods, and he had found a keep, but it hadn’t been his home. No one in Riften had ever heard of Winterfell. Not even up in Winterhold; the name similar enough that he’d made the desperate trip north just to make sure people weren’t simply mistaken.
Over half a decade after that strange morning in the woods, Jon Snow knew better. This place wasn’t in Westeros but somewhere far, far away, a land filled with monsters and magic out of Old Nan’s stories.
And he had become accustomed to it, he mused one morning, as he stared out over the canyon. Dawn was breaking, scattering fragments of light across the trees. He wasn’t the only one awake; he heard the door creak and then footsteps as they came to a stop behind him.
“I see you’re up here brooding again.”
“I’m not brooding,” Jon said, not turning to greet the visitor. “I’m thinking.”
A snort. “It’s the same thing with you.”
“Is there something you wanted?”
“There’s been an attack in Morthal,” Isran stated. “Bodies drained, people missing. I’d send Durak, but he’s already away on a job.”
Jon exhaled and turned to face the man. “It’s been quiet for a while.”
“It’s never forever,” Isran told him grimly, “you know that.”
“Aye,” Jon said simply. “I do.”
There was silence for a beat. “Why don’t you take the leech with you—”
“You would like that, wouldn’t you,” Jon countered, “It’d be getting her out of your fort.”
The man scowled. “Out with it, Snow. What’s wrong?”
Jon smothered his laughter at the man’s bluntness, though the feeling faded as he thought about how to answer. “I’ve been thinking about home. I was just a boy when I came here. My family—we were all so young then.”
“You never talk about your family.” The man’s voice was tinged with suspicion.
“Because it hurts, not because they’re vampires,” Jon said, exasperated. He was fast remembering why he rarely returned to Fort Dawnguard.
“That’s not what I meant,” Isran said and paused. “Most of us haven’t seen our families in years either."
That was because most of them were dead, Jon knew, though speaking the truth out loud would be tasteless.
“It’s hard, grieving, but I’ve always found a good fight is enough to knock sense into even the most stubborn hunter,” Isran continued, and the mystery of his words was solved—it was a statement meant to encourage Jon to accept the job. Though the realization irked him, it wasn’t as though Jon would ignore the people of Morthal’s plight out of spite.
“I’ll head out in a few hours.”
“Good man,” said Isran as he began back toward the staircase. He paused at the door. “Take her with you. I don’t like her skulking about in my keep.”
“Skulking—” Jon bit back the retort. “Fine.”
For all that the man complained about the vampire, Isran had yet to permanently banish her from Fort Dawnguard since her father’s death. Still, if he wanted Serana gone for a few weeks, Jon would oblige him.
“The only good thing about this place is how rarely the sun shines.”
Her voice was tinged with distaste, though it only served to make Jon chuckle. “Aye.”
From atop her horse, Serana pulled at her hood, revealing glossy dark hair held in a braid. When they traveled together, most thought them to be travelers hailing from Cyrodiil.
“I don’t smell them yet,” she said, tilting her nose to the sky. “All the usual things for this swamp; the dead decomposing underwater, wood burning to chase the cold away—there’s a smell of some kind of dark magic, but I believe it’s those necromancers in that fort on the hill again.”
Jon sighed, rubbing a hand over his chin. “Perhaps it isn’t a vampire attack then but those fools taking victims for their experiments.”
“They didn’t seem interested in the recently dead the last time we visited.”
“No, they did not,” Jon muttered, thinking of the skeletons that had risen to fight them. “We’ll ask the Jarl when we arrive what she believes is hunting her city.”
Jarl Idgrod was entertaining a mob when they arrived in Morthal. Jon and Serana dismounted from their horses and left them in the stables to walk toward Highmoon Hall. From the heated voices rising from the crowd, it was clear that something had the people up in arms.
“She cannot ignore this any longer,” a man shouted as his fist pounded the air. “My niece was taken just last night, and my cousin, Jorn, just the week before. Morthal is under attack by a dark power!”
“I thought she had visions,” another man cried. “Why doesn’t she see what is happening to us? Why doesn’t she do something?”
“Jarl Idgord is doing everything she can. Return to your homes. It is dangerous to be out in the dark,” a guard said firmly.
Jon could tell that only the threat of the coming night had the group disbanding, though the muttering from the people suggested that it was temporary.
They approached the hall. “I’m here to speak to the Jarl,” Jon called, and when the guard didn’t react he added, “I’m with the Dawnguard. I believe she sent for us.”
The relief on the man’s face was evident as he led them inside. Though it was late, Idgrod still sat upon her throne.
“Ah, yes, I was beginning to wonder when you’d arrive,” she said, leaning forward when they entered her sight.
“Jarl Idgrod,” Jon said with a tilt of his head. “I understand you have a situation in your city that needs taking care of.”
She didn’t reply immediately, staring at him with an inscrutable expression. “You know we’ve met once, Jon Snow, very briefly.”
“I must admit I do not remember.”
Amusem*nt pulled at her features. “It was during Elenwen’s party years ago. I did not think much of you then, but you were doing your best to remain unnoticeable, weren’t you?”
Jon winced. “I see.”
“But never mind all that,” the Jarl said, waving her hand away. “I have a problem in Morthal that needs to be settled through the Dawnguard’s expertise.”
“I was told it is vampires.”
She nodded slowly. “I believed otherwise at first. Did you pass by Hroggar’s house on your ride here? It burned down to nearly nothing a few years ago with his wife and daughter inside. My people believed it to be a curse, but they are a superstitious bunch. At the time I believed it to be nothing more than a cruel accident, or perhaps the selfish actions of a single man, but the events in recent months have changed my mind. That’s why I called for you.”
“I remember the event.” He had passed through Morthal several years before on his way to Solitude. It had been months after it had burned but the inn was still alive with rumors about it.
“Good,” she said. “Then you might know that Hroggar immediately moved in with a woman named Alva only days after the death of his family. That had gotten people talking, but I had no proof that he had done it, and neither did anyone else. For a time, things were quiet again despite my people’s suspicions, but then the wife of a man said to have run off to the rebellion returned. She was…hungry.”
“She was a vampire.”
“Indeed,” Idgrod confirmed. “Her husband Thonnir was found dead the next morning. He had been overjoyed at her return but evidently Laelette’s new instincts overtook any love she had left for him. She was still inside the house asleep for the day, so my men slayed her before she could hurt anyone else. I wish I could say that was the end of it, but it wasn’t.”
It was a story he had heard many times while in the Dawnguard. “What happened?”
“Alva and Hroggar disappeared soon after,” she continued grimly. “It was only in the wake of their disappearance that I realized how bewitched many of this city had become with Alva. Many of my people refused to believe she could have any involvement in the deaths despite mounting evidence and her connection to Laelette’s initial disappearance. Now they are disappearing one by one, Jon Snow. I do not know what the vampires are doing to them, whether they are being turned or abducted to become thralls, and I do not care. I want this situation to end and I want my people safe again. Can you do that?”
“It shall be done,” Jon said resolutely. He started back toward the doors. “In the meantime, please be careful.”
“I’ll be fine,” the Jarl said, waving him away. “Good hunting, Dragonborn.”
Outside, the brisk air nipped at his skin. They walked a little ways away and were suitably alone when he turned his attention to Serana. “What do you think?”
“I think we have an actual coven on our hands.”
“That’s what I was afraid of,” he muttered under his breath. “It doesn’t sound like Alva has been a vampire long enough to be acting on her own, so there must be a master vampire above her.”
“Would you rather it be necromancers?”
“At least with the necromancers we’d know where they are,” Jon said with an attempt at humor. He exhaled, looking up at where he knew the graveyard to rest. “We’ll start up there,” he said, sticking his thumb in its direction. “I doubt there’s any asleep up there but you never know with newly turned.”
“I am aware,” Serana said dryly, though she followed when he began the trek up to the cemetery. Their arrival was marked by the sun beginning to fall behind the trees. Deathbells sprouted up around the stones, though nothing appeared to be recently dug up.
“I don’t sense anything here. Do you?”
“No,” Serana confirmed, hand trailing over one of the stones. “There is something about this story that feels off to me.”
“In what way?”
“If we agree that Alva was under the direction of a more powerful vampire, what was she supposed to be doing here? She made the people of this city more lax in their suspicion, yes, but burning a house down with her thrall’s family inside? Turning a man’s wife? It’s sloppy work.”
“But the fact that they are able to make people continuously disappear suggests otherwise,” Jon continued.
She nodded. “Right. If I had to guess they wanted to enthrall this entire town. It’s the only reason Alva would have stayed after Hroggar’s house burnt down. Sometimes covens get silly ideas like that—creating their own paradise. Laelette likely missed her husband but she wasn’t mature enough to resist her desire to feed and Alva was forced to leave before all eyes turned back to her.”
“Surely they knew that they would be hunted down after attracting this much attention,” said Jon, thinking out loud. “They must feel confident. Do you think—”
“That it’s a vampire lord?” Serana finished, cutting him off. “No. But you know as well as I do that an ancient vampire is a danger in and of itself. With my clan no longer holding dominion over Skyrim some of them have become rather bold.”
Jon sighed. Vampire politics exhausted him. “They must be close enough to Morthal to come and go with their victims in tow.”
“Let’s start hunting then,” Serana decided. “Out toward Solitude it’s mostly flat, so I suspect we should begin our search toward the mountain range.”
Jon agreed, though by the time they reached the opposite side of the city it had grown dark. He unsheathed Dawnbreaker, casting the surrounding area in a bright glow. Before he had been rewarded with the sword, he would have had to use a torch; he had yet to find the time to learn Alteration magic on top of everything else.
“I really do hate that sword,” Serana said, eyeing it in his grasp. “When you start swinging it around keep it away from me.”
It was a familiar argument. The sword of Meridia didn’t discriminate between his enemies and his allies—Serana burned as all undead did. “You know I will.”
She muttered something unsavory under her breath and then her eyes gleamed in a way Jon didn’t like. “Who’s Elenwen?”
“Must we do this now?”
“Must we wander around in the dark in complete silence?”
Jon knew the vampire simply wanted to hear another tale of him embarrassing himself. “She’s the ambassador of the Thalmor in Skyrim.”
“And you went to her party?”
“I was—snooping,” Jon decided. “Undercover,” he added because he knew the detail would amuse her.
Serana clucked her tongue. “I bet that went spectacularly.”
Jon shrugged his shoulders. She wasn’t wrong. That night was the reason encountering Thalmor on the road meant half the time there would be bloodshed. Before he could continue, however, something in the air made the hairs on his neck stand on end.
“Do you feel that?” Serana said, halting beside him.
“Aye,” Jon said, his voice turning grim. He held up the sword to spread the light farther and found a cave upon turning.
Inside there were massive cobwebs covering the walls. In unspoken agreement, they killed the two frostbite spiders and continued down a narrow tunnel carved out of the stone. Jon stopped before the exit, finding a man sitting at a small table humming a nonsensical tune. Beyond him was a tunnel that would take them further inside to where the vampires no doubt resided.
It was nearly impossible to tell a loyal man from a thrall. Serana was already behind him, slitting the man’s throat before Jon could blink. The vampire lingered at her kill as Jon passed by her. “When was the last time you fed?” He murmured.
Serana ripped her gaze away. “It’s fine,” she said shortly. “Let’s keep going.”
Beyond the second tunnel was a series of ramps leading into a cavern with a large table arranged for a macabre meal. There were three vampires already seated and two more up a ramp further in. At the head of the table sat a man with pale features and the kind of presence that made it clear that he was the master vampire.
Jon and Serana crept back down the ramp until they were far enough away not to be overheard.
“There were other tunnels leading around,” he whispered as he pointed back to the area with the dead thrall. “Let’s pick off as many as we can. I don’t like our odds fighting him, the other vampires, and their thralls all at once.”
“Agreed.”
There was a chamber filled with corpses piled upon corpses, stripped of any of their valuables. Many of them were likely Morthal’s missing citizens. Jon slipped a sword through a thrall’s back and then a vampire they found halfway down a tunnel. They continued into another chamber with beds, finding a vampire asleep in one of them, while another sat on a rickety chair cleaning a knife. Neither Jon nor Serana had a way inside without alerting them. The vampire would hear the sound of a bowstring being drawn and Jon wouldn’t be able to kill them with a single arrow—he wasn’t that good of a shot.
His companion caught his eye and when he nodded she disappeared back down the tunnel. A shuffling sound returned with her as a corpse stumbled to a halt beside him. He held his breath as she silently commanded the corpse to stumble inside the chamber, groaning as if it were in pain. The sound made his fingers clench; he hated necromancy even when she used it.
The vampire sprung up from her seat immediately, letting out a sound of disgust. “Gods, can’t they practice somewhere else?” She turned away to kick the corpse, sending it tumbling down one of the other tunnels. Jon didn’t hesitate to dive forward, slicing off her head with a single blow—but the sword hit the side of the stone wall with a dull clang. Serana leaped toward the occupied bed but they were already waking, eyes burning yellow. The vampire hissed as Serana’s dagger went cleanly through her heart, cutting the sound short.
“Look at what she’s wearing.” Unlike the rest of the vampires they had come across, she was wearing something closer to tavern clothes and not the armor most vampires chose to wear.
“She was young,” Serana stated, cleaning the blood off her knife with one of the furs on the bed. “Perhaps it was Alva.”
It was a relief if it was; the Jarl would be pleased to hear she was no longer a threat.
They killed another vampire and two thralls before they looped back to the opening into the main chamber. “Three left,” Jon said grimly. From the looks of things, they were well-fed. “I’ll call the master’s attention to me so you can kill the other two.”
He unsheathed Dawnbreaker, having used another sword to ensure the glow would not alert their enemies. That no longer mattered, and Jon welcomed the power the sword would bring to a fight with the undead.
Serana was to the table in a flash, lightning flickering from her palms. Before the master vampire could engage in the fight, Jon cut him off with a swing of his blade. The vampire laughed.
“I see,” he said, his grin flashing blood-coated teeth. “This will be a fight to remember!”
One of the realities of hunting vampires was that often the hunter would eventually become a vampire themselves. One slip was all it took—maybe not immediately, maybe they would even kill the vampire who infected them, but if they had no way of curing themselves quickly, they would wake up a few days later hungry.
As Jon fought the vampire, it was clear that this was likely what had happened. Most vampires, even the older ones, tended to use blood magic. This man had been a fighter in life and he was even stronger in death.
“You’ve very good,” the vampire called as Jon narrowly missed his attack. The man was without a blade, but he didn’t need one—a single hit would shatter his bones instantly.
“You must have considered becoming one of us. You are, after all, allied with a vampire yourself,” the vampire continued and then chuckled. “We would be unstoppable together.”
“Not interested,” Jon said curtly, ducking away from a punch and then sending Dawnbreaker piercing through the vampire’s abdomen. It wouldn’t kill him, but it would slow him down.
Serana had dispatched one of the other vampires already and was working on the second, but Jon couldn’t afford to be distracted. The older the vampire was, the faster it became and this master vampire was no exception. But Jon had experience, Dawnbreaker, and one other advantage. “Rii-Vaaz-Zol!”
The shout hit the vampire square in the chest, causing him to stumble. His expression abruptly twisted from one of sly humor to shock. “Dragonbor—!”
Dawnbreaker was already halfway through the vampire’s chest and he fell silent as his body toppled over.
Across the cavern, Serana let out a dry laugh, her own fight already over. “You know, if he had been just slightly more wounded, you would have your very own newly reanimated corpse.”
Jon merely grunted, rubbing at his neck with his free hand. She wandered toward him, eyes lingering over the uneaten meal still set on the tables. “Usually you use that fire breath shout.”
“It wouldn’t have been enough,” Jon said. He stared down at the vampire’s body. “He was a good fighter.” When he looked up again, her eyes were still caught upon the table. Jon sighed. “Just drink it. Now it’s just going to go to waste.”
“I don’t need it.”
“Serana—” Jon said in exasperation. “I don’t mind. We’ve spent weeks on the road and unless you’ve snuck off to bleed a bandit, you haven’t fed once.”
“How is that any of your business? Are you worried I’ll snap on the trip back and attack you?”
“I’m worried about you.”
“Don’t be.”
“Fine.”
A moment later, Serana exhaled loudly. “You’re infuriating sometimes.”
“I’d say the same to you,” Jon said flatly.
She punched him in the arm and Jon fell back in jest, familiar with her silent apologies. “Let’s just get back to Morthal to tell the good Jarl her vampire menace is at its end.”
Jarl Idgrod paid them handsomely. They could have stayed in the inn that night, but a celebration had already begun in the streets upon the announcement. Even after years, Jon still felt uncomfortable hearing them sing his name and Serana preferred to travel at night anyway. They stopped by an inn just before dawn near the road to Whiterun from Hjaalmarch, and Jon caught up on sleep for a few hours before they continued their travels.
It was unusually quiet when they reached Whiterun’s tundras a few days later. They quickly uncovered the source, however, when a great roar shook the tundra as they were crossing. Jon reached for his sword, but the dragon only circled once before continuing its journey north.
“I must say it’s nice having them no longer attack us on sight,” Serana remarked as they watched it go. Slowly the tension left Jon’s muscles, and he shook his head. “Not all of them.” With Alduin’s death and Paarthurnax’s involvement, many of the resurrected dragons no longer had a reason to fight, but some enjoyed the hunt too much to stop. Still, it was better than it had been. Jon beckoned his horse forward and they continued down the road in mostly silence.
“I don’t hate being a vampire.”
“I know,” he said.
“It can be difficult, though, reconciling what I am with the people I consort with.”
“Do you not want to go on hunts like this?”
“That’s not it and you know better than to voice it,” Serana replied, sending him an annoyed look. “The vampires we hunt are hurting the innocent. They aren’t feeding to survive, they’re killing because they enjoy it. It’s the same as when you get sent to take out a group of bandits.”
Jon exhaled. “That’s rarely as simple as they make it out either. Most of them are just trying to survive in this war-torn land.”
“The point I’m trying to make here, Jon,” continued Serana as though he hadn’t spoken, “is that you don’t need to worry about me. This is just a period of me figuring things out, but I’ll be fine. I’m not going to starve myself out of some moral self-righteousness. That’s more your style.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” Jon said, ignoring her dig. He looked across the tundra up to where Whiterun stood. It would still be hours before they arrived. “Would you like to stop at Whiterun?”
“No, let’s just get back. My mother sent me a letter telling me to return to the castle when I had time, so I’ll likely be leaving afterward.”
Jon looked at her pointedly. “We’re heading in the opposite direction.”
“I’m putting it off,” she admitted. “You know how it is with her and me.”
“Things are tense?”
“How could they not?”
“But you do wish to still try,” Jon said slowly, and the vampire groaned.
“I know what you’re trying to do,” Serana said accusingly, and then her voice puttered out and she sighed.
“I can go with you,” Jon offered. “It’s not as though Isran needs me back immediately.”
She shook her head. “No, I need to face her on my own.” She closed her eyes for a moment, as though rallying herself.
They were on the road that would take her straight to Dragon Bridge and then up into the mountains that would eventually lead to the coast. Jon chuckled.
“I’ll tell Isran that you send your apologies for not returning.”
“It would be your greatest gift to that man,” she replied dryly. Her gaze lingered on him before Serana turned her horse. “I’ll check back in a few weeks. Goodbye, Jon.”
Her departure was abrupt, though at this point it seemed to be a habit. “Goodbye, Serana.”
The two split apart as his horse plodded up the road toward the city, and hers down the path they had already traveled. Their relationship had always been a series of comings and goings. It was no different now.
Jon stayed the night at Whiterun before setting out again. Besides the occasional wolf sighting or lone bandit, his journey back to the Rift was uneventful, but he was relieved when he reached the hold. Riften was a corrupt mess of a city, but it had been the first city in Skyrim he had known. It was his mess.
It was beautiful too, he thought, as his horse moved through the wood. It was nearing the end of Frost Fall, and the changing leaves had turned the forest gold. His attention wandered as he took in the sights.
They weren’t far from Fort Dawnguard when it began to snow. His horse shook its head in irritation as it began to gather atop its body. “We’ll be out of it soon,” Jon murmured, patting the horse’s neck. “Just a few more hours and…”
But his voice trailed off. They had reached a clearing without him noticing, and there was something familiar about it.
“Oh,” Jon said quietly, as he took in the two weirwood trees, their leaves a vibrant red. He hadn’t seen one in nearly a decade and he suddenly felt that absence keenly as he took them in.
His horse snorted wearily and began to shuffle out of the clearing. His heart felt as though it had leaped into his throat.
“Woah,” Jon ordered and then dismounted when his horse came to a halt. He took a step forward, and then another until he stood in front of the intertwined weirwoods. It had been so long, but something like hope was fluttering in his chest.
He almost crushed it. What would happen if it did work? It had been nearly ten years. He had made a life here—but he couldn’t help it. His legs carried him through the doorway before he could stop himself.
His horse was gone when he turned back.
