The first few years were scary and strange, but ripe with new death and the luxurious promises of immortality. They spent too many starry evenings chasing each other through Dawnstar’s pine woods and collapsing by daylight with their eyes heavy and amber. Sometimes, when Saali giggled her way through piles of leaves in the Hearthfire, or whispered little secrets in her ear, Nara swore she felt her heartbeat again, briefly enchanted with vampirism, enamored with the fantasy of forever growing old with this precious girl who had become, magically and inadvertently, her daughter.  And then Saali never grew.  She cuts a few thin slices of elk blood pudding, having made it just the night before, and plates it for her girl, who is sitting on the porch steps and watching the dawn crest the Pale mountains. There's an empty space beside her where her little shadow ought to be. Watching through the window, she reminds herself of a better time, early mornings when they’d dance to the sound of the floorboards creaking and bask in the little sunlight they could, and Saali’s caramel skin would glow, and her dark ringlets would gleam and bounce with every step. When the mourning doves began to croon, Saali would curl up in her arms, and Nara would rock her to sleep.

“I don’t mean to be offensive,” Nara murmurs. “But the stitching on your hood is just awful!” He bites back a laugh - typical Nord decorum. “I did it myself. You don’t like it?” “Not at all, Oh Gods!” She exclaims, beckoning with her left hand and shifting through her bag with the right. “You poor thing. Hand it over, I’ll fix it for you.”  Amused, he removes the hood and hands it over for examination. It really is terrible, no more than a rag, really, and the criticized stitching had taken him nearly two hours and plenty of poked fingers. Nara makes a strangled noise, and fidgets with a spool of golden thread. “Who taught you to stitch?” She asks in a strained whisper, holding the pathetic fabric to the light.  “My mother. Though she’d be the first to tell you I didn’t inherit her talent.”  “Well, that much is obvious.” Nara sighs. “Don’t worry. I’ll sort this out.”

Nestled in the thread a heartbeat over, strung taught about the loom, tonight these two lay somewhere far away from here and heavy-wet with snow, and perhaps they have just now finished kissing in the drift, and perhaps they have just now started laughing like boys in love while watching the skies come down in flurries.  “Mika, do you believe in fate?” Loukas asks; he’s caught the tiniest crystalline portrait upon his fingertip, a prism capped artistically at either end. Mika’s dark hair is decorated with the little snowy gems.  “I do.” His lover props himself upon an elbow and steals another smooch. “And I believe you are fated to kiss me again.” Loukas smiles - knowing this is true - but cannot pull his eyes from the snow. “But it’s sad, isn’t it?” “Kissing me is sad? You devastate me,” He teases. He falls back in the drift bank with a whump and clasps a wounded hand over heart. “Ouch.” “You poseur.” Loukas elbows him gently. “No. Fate, yes? Consider the snowflake.” Another one lands squarely in his hand, and he holds it out for observation. “No matter how intricate, how delicate, how immaculately designed, it’s only water in the end. And nothing it can do about that, not really.” To illustrate his point, he closes his fist and reveals the resulting puddle-once-snowflake. It rivers through the lines in his palm and down the veins in his wrists, tribuating and coming together as if seeking itself again. Mika turns his hand over, clasps and kisses it. His lips are warm against his freezing skin - they have both allowed the night to get away from them.  “It was briefly beautiful,” He responds, and kisses another off the bridge of his nose. “Let that be enough.” Loukas lays Mika’s head against his chest and traces the curve of his soft jaw; feels the syncing of his breath as it sits against his gentile heart. “Do not leave me.” “Loukas.” Hand-in-hand, bodies entwined, he kisses the top of his head. Even in the chill of winter, they cannot help but to keep one another warm. His breathing has evened, slowed. Have you fallen asleep, my love? “Loukas.” “Do you want me to carry you in?” He soothes. He brushes a loose strand of hair behind his ear. It’s the strangest thing; when his hand comes away, his fingertips are wet and sticky with blood. When he wipes them in the fresh snow, they leave behind a rusty stain. In this moment of confusion, he notices the quiet. The silence. And Mika’s sudden lack of breathing.

Sujamma orps off to the Earth Stone. One time Mean Friend tried to use the Earth Stone to leave Squid Friend's home, which wasn't very nice. Squid Friend can be a little weird, but Sujamma would never leave him, not ever ever! He thinks Squid Friend must get really lonely in his big green house - the color of Sujamma! So he hopes Mean Friend and Rotation stay with Squid Friend.  He sinks into the gloop beneath the Earth Stone and finds himself in the strange and mysterious library belonging to Squid Friend. Most of the books here are not very good, but Sujamma also can't read, so he isn't really sure. His favorite book ever is a book that Best Friend sometimes reads him which is called Ner-e-var Moon-and-Star which is a good book about a guy named Nerevar and moons and also stars and Star Friend!  Oh good! Justin is here! “Hi hi.” Sujamma orps to Justin. “HAAAAGHHHHGHHAARRRRGHHHAGHHHGHHRRAHH,” Justin greets. “WAAAAHHHHARRHEHEHAHHHAAAAH.” So true! Justin is his fourth very best friend here after Squid Friend, Mean Friend, and Rotation. Usually Justin asks politely for Rotation to come and pick him up and bring him to mean friend.  “HAAAAAAAAAREEEEEEREEEEEEGGGGGGUUURRRRRWAAAAAAA,” Justin whispers softly. Sujamma hears the familiar sound of Rotation's wings flapping through the skies. Soon enough he lands in front of Sujamma. Yay!

Nara can tell she’s dreaming from her eyes; in the waking world, they’re that frightening deep amber typical of a Vampiress, her pupils fossilized like crystals behind their unnatural glow. Her eyes are a stain on her beauty, and she loathes to see them — though it’s not as if she usually can. Only sun-lit waters show her reflection. In mirrors, she’s little but an absence, the empty effect of hunger, something more impermeable than a ghost.

But in dreams she’s briefly allowed to savor who or what she was, letting herself swim in the sunny-sky eyes that used to belong to her. When her red lips part into a smile, her reflection smiles back at her, and the harmony of it both brings her to lucidity and drives in a deeper desire to never wake up.

This dream is familiar; she’s seated at a vanity in the Hall of the Vigilant, and there’s a pretty young woman with curled and piled dark brown hair carefully brushing crushed red mountain flowers onto her lips. All Nara can tell is she knows her, or knew her, anyway. There’s a bond between them, but it’s faded and worn now. She can’t recall her name, but she’s her bridesmaid, she’s sure of that.

When the woman sets the brush and bowl of makeup away, her hands cover her mouth, delighted with her work. “Oh, Miss Nara-Jane. You’ve never looked more beautiful.”

She’s teary eyed already, and Nara takes a thin hand to comfort her. When she speaks, her words are scripted from memory; they come from her mouth, but not from her mind. “Lovey, save your tears for the ceremony. You’ll ruin your makeup.”

“Oh Gods.” She nearly sobs and wipes away the droplets with a little lace hankie. “I just can’t believe you’re really off the market for good. Are you sure you don’t want to run away with me?”

“Are you trying to die?” Another voice interrupts. Without turning, Nara knows it belongs to a Breton man garbed in traditional wedding attire, one hand over his eyes, glimmering golden fabric draped over an arm outstretched. “Because ▇▇ would kill you if he knew you were even thinking about stealing Nara.”

Her Maid of Honor skips over to him and collects his offering with a grin. “Don’t pretend you’ve never considered it. She’s the prettiest girl in Tamriel.”

“Whether or not I have, I wouldn’t be stupid enough to say it out loud.”

While they chatter and bicker like siblings, Nara examines the man. These waking dreams frustrate her endlessly; while she recognizes the strong eyebrows, the well-kept beard, the long brown hair, it’s simply as if his face and name blur at the edge of recognition. No matter how hard she tries, no matter how many restless nights she spends seeking, she can’t answer the critical question: who were you, Nara-Jane?

“Nara? My beautiful, beautiful bride? Are you there?”

She blinks herself back into lucidity; she needs to hang on to the dream as long as possible. She’ll never know if she doesn’t keep trying. “Sorry. Wedding nerves.”

Hands still over his eyes, the man smiles. “Who are you tossing the bouquet to? ▇▇ or Keeper ▇▇?”

Keeper, Keeper, Keeper. She remembers this from the last time she dreamed it — the man has an affliction for the Vigilant Keeper. It had been a breakthrough in her memory. She’d never been capable of placing a title before. “I suspect no matter where I throw it you two will take to hand-to-hand combat over it. Perhaps I should have gotten two.”

Then a huff from both parties and an eventual shoo from her bridesmaid. “Go. Attend to your friend. Gods know he’s having one of his anxiety attacks.”

“The kind where he sits blankly and silently in a corner with a thousand yard stare?” Nara asks. The man clicks his tongue approvingly.

“Exactly that, so I will be going, before your attack dog bites my head off.” He says, but not before bending down to kiss her cheek. “Knock ‘em dead, Nara.”

Finally left in peace, the two women unfurl his delivery; this time, it’s Nara’s turn to succumb to tears. The veil is a spectacular work of art, and she recollects the distant memory that her betrothed’s mother had sewn it for her. It’s constructed of fine Rihadian lace, intricately beaded, the purest yellow sapphires dripping down the fabric and about her shoulders like rain. The train is a masterpiece on its own; three women had worked on the beading for seven days and seven nights, four-hundred and twenty seven diamonds and yellow sapphires carefully stitched to form a sunburst. When it’s draped over her head, obscuring her eyes, it frightens her; for a moment, the yellow caught the light like amber.

“Nara-Jane. When you die, Dibella will step down.” Her friend coos, adjusting her blonde hair beneath the veil. “And Stendarr will sing.”

“How I wish to hear that song.” Nara whispers, her delicate hands reaching up to touch the sunburst tiara draped about her forehead. Her words come to her, this time unscripted. “But the cool touch of death will never be for me.”

At the first stirrings of flute and harmony from the great hall, the two women rise, and Nara refocuses her efforts on another breakthrough. The song. What is that song? From the way her heart swells and murmurs along with it, it’s something dear to her — probably something she chose. She tunes into her senses; the striking smell of snow on a winter evening, the slight lean and scratch of a rooftop on her back. A smoking stick of incense, with a scent so specific, she can’t help but think of —

“Stros M’kai. A Song for Lovers.” She realizes out loud. Her bridesmaid gives her a strange glance as she adjusts the position of her bouquet, so that it might cascade naturally down her dress. “▇▇ sang it to me on the rooftop the day my daddy passed away. He’s a terrible singer.”

“Oh, my poor love, you’re nervous.” Her friend whispers. Carefully, so as not to disturb her, she wraps her in a hug. “This is all ceremony, darling.”

For the first time since these dreams began, Nara hears his voice. It’s low, gruff, but warm in a way that seems to be for her and her alone. “Nara-Jane, Stendarr save me, I’m going to marry you.”

Nara’s head swims and the music grows louder, the time approaching for her grand entrance. When her bridesmaid pulls away, the veil hides the terror in her eyes, but can’t hide the way the bouquet shakes in her hands. Her concern is evident, and her voice is suddenly laced with something that sounds like empty, unfamiliar grief.

“Nara…?”

“I think something terrible happened to—”

The final word never leaves her tongue — the glimmering sunburst on her veil immolates, and in seconds her body is aflame, the sapphires that had once decorated her shoulders now boiling holes into her burning flesh. The pain is unspeakable, and she flails, trying to throw the heavy fabric from her shoulders. Her skin is bubbling, her body is melting, and in her scramble she finds herself leaning over a basin of crystalline water. Between screams and gurgles of pain, she sees her eyes rippling in the blue.

Amber.