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An old mer wasn’t what Arthas had planned to discover when he went out foraging, but that’s what he found. He was hunched, cloak draped over his thin frame and a gnarled hand holding his staff like a lifeline. For a moment, he thought to just leave him be–after all, he wasn’t the only scrounger who hung around the coast, and Azura knew he preferred being left alone when he dug through the ash.
But there was something obviously confused in the mer’s air, and without a bit of hesitation, he started tottering out into the ocean.
“Hey, hey!” he called, running after him. “Hey! G…Gahata!”
He didn’t know why calling him grandfather was the first thing that sprung to mind, but it seemed to do the trick. The mer paused, knee-deep in the water, then turned to look at him. Deep lines carved into his gray face, past frowns hanging around his mouth and brow, and laugh lines around his eyes–one of which was curiously golden. He looked over Arthas silently, then looked down at the sea as it lapped around his legs.
“Oh,” he said, voice airy and vague. “I traversed the seas once. It’s not so hard when you recall we’re the same.”
Arthas stared, finally pulling down his scarf and shoving his helmet up to make sure the old man–Gahata, was all he could think to call him–saw exactly how baffled he was by that. He shook his head, debating. On one hand, life on Vvardenfell was an every-mer-for-themselves kind of existence. Extra mouths were nuisances at best and deadly at worst. On the other… come on. Arthas wasn’t cruel, and this fellow was likely to get himself killed if he doddered around alone for too long.
With a huff, he went over, stomping through the dark sea water to grab the mer’s thin arm. The contact seemed to pull him back to the present, and he nearly seemed like he’d been awoken as he looked up at Arthas. He looked about.
“Ah,” he said. “I’ve been dreaming again.” This time, his odd-colored eyes were clear as he looked up at Arthas. “My thanks, sera. I forget my limits these days.”
“Uh, no problem.”
The mer nodded. He pulled his arm out of Arthas’ grip, using both hands to lean against his cane, still unbothered at being knee deep in the water. “Indulge an old fool, will you? What year is it?”
“It’s 199.”
“Mm. Which era?”
“The…Fourth.”
“Ah, yes, that makes sense. Thank you.” The mer gave a deep nod in gratitude.
Arthas finally broke his stare, reaching up to rub the back of his head. “You, ah, you got any family around, sera?”
“Oh, no. No, not for a very, very long time.” The mer gave a very long sigh. “They’re all long buried, far from here.”
Arthas grimaced. Great. He’d hoped he’d be able to foist him off to some worried daughter somewhere, maybe get a handful of gold or a meal as thanks. But now, it seemed, he was stuck. Yes, he could just say goodbye to the mer…but his conscience would eat him alive. Anyway, Azura rewarded those who did good deeds, that’s what his mother always said…maybe this would pay off down the road.
He took the mer’s arm again, gently guiding him out of the water. “Here, come on, Gahata,” he said. “Let’s get you dried off and fed, at least. What’s your name?”
The mer sighed. “I had many, not terribly long ago. None of them fit me these days, all too unwieldy for my state, so I answer to nothing. Less disappointment for others that way.”
By Azura , this mer was going to get irritating. Arthas sighed as he released him, getting his scarf and helmet back in place. “...right. Okay. Well, uh, I’m–”
“Arthas.”
Arthas froze, and he turned to look back at the mer, eyes wide beneath his helmet’s lenses. “How did you know that?”
The old mer cracked a smile, very wide and sparking a light in his odd eyes. In better circumstances, it would have been electric. “I’m not always right when I guess these days. It’s always nice when I am.” His head bowed, and he picked his way up the path. Arthas stared after him for a moment, baffled.
Yes, certainly not what he expected to find today.
His hut wasn’t anything special, but it was sturdy, and warm, and it kept the ash out. Gahata (he really had meant the name thing, and it felt rude to just think of him as ‘old man’) had eased himself down onto a stool by the cooking fire, wasting no time in coaxing the flames up himself.
“...make yourself at home,” Arthas said dryly, pulling off his helmet and shaking out his dark hair. “I’m afraid I don’t have very much here. But I don’t think anyone else does, either.”
Gahata gave a long sigh. “Yes. I’m very, very sorry about that.”
Arthas waved his hand. “Nah, I manage all right. Still better than dealing with the cutthroats over in Blacklight.” He went to a small cupboard, pulling out a few ash yams.
“You’re a House mer, then?”
Arthas glanced over his shoulder as he pulled a pot down. “You know my name, but not that?”
Gahata chuckled, tapping his bald head. “Like I said, I’m not always right. This doesn’t work nearly as well as it used to.”
“Well, I was. House Dres, actually. Couldn’t get into the family business, so I thought I’d try my luck out in Vvardenfell.” He gestured around them with his knife before he resumed cutting the ash yams. “Didn’t exactly find my fortune, but it’s not so bad out here.”
Gahata hummed in agreement. “I grew up along the Bitter Coast,” he murmured. “Among the netchimen. I resented the simplicity of my life at the time, but now I wonder how things might have been different if I’d been content.”
Arthas looked over his shoulder. “You’d’ve probably been a netchiman.”
Gahata was silent, then let out a bright laugh at that, the fire seeming to sputter along with it. “Ah, I should have guessed you had no poetry in you,” he said, shaking his head. “Seht keep you, Arthas; that sort of clarity is rare.”
Arthas looked back again, eyebrows raising. “Seht? Be careful not to say that too loud, Gahata–even Vvardenfell’s not kind to blasphemy.”
“It’s not? It was, once,” Gahata said, not correcting the familiarity. “I suppose that was a very, very long time ago, though.”
He was quiet through dinner, outside of expressing his gratitude for the meal, and he seemed to fall into a trance afterward, eyes fixed on the fire. Arthas had never been the chatty sort, and–since it seemed like Gahata was quite content as he was–he let the silence hang between them. He settled into his seat with a boot that needed repairing, periodically glancing up to make sure Gahata didn’t fall asleep and fall into the fire.
“I have a cot you can stay on,” he said. “For the night. We can get you back home tomorrow.”
Gahata’s gaze broke from the fire, and he looked up at Arthas. “Overlooked kindness is the greatest sin one can commit,” he said. “I shall have to find a way to thank you properly.”
Arthas shook his head. “Don’t even mention it. I’m glad to help.”
Gahata looked over him for a moment, silently. After a moment, he smiled and nodded. “Then how very, very lucky I am.”
“I used to be everything, once. All in equal parts.”
Arthas glanced up from where he sat on the floor, sharpening a long spear–it was the only way to really get a netch, he’d been told recently.
“What was that, Gahata?”
“I…I think Gahalma suits me better today.”
Arthas nodded, returning to his sharpening. This wasn’t unusual; Gahalma often started mornings with some odd phrase, followed by what she wanted to be called–often, it was Gahata, some days Gahalma, and on occasion, she preferred to be called nothing at all. Arthas was always happy to oblige, and he’d learned early on to not probe too deeply into whatever nonsense came from her mouth first.
He really had tried to find her family, but it seemed that she had been right, and there was none in the area. He still hadn’t been able to turn her out–his conscience couldn’t abide it–and to her credit, she did her best to keep from being deadweight. Her hands, gnarled as they were, could mend a net neatly and quickly, and she was the one who told him to invest in a spear. Remnants of her youth in the Bitter Coast, she said. And, in her clearer moments, she was sharp –she told jokes as she worked, and often goaded Arthas into discussing all manner of philosophy. With the latter, he would inevitably throw up his hands and give the most basic answer he could; without fail, she would laugh and tell him how he reminded her of her brother, back when they spoke regularly. He died quite some time ago, she’d said, and she missed him very, very much.
And then there were the stories. Constant stories, from historical epics to folktales to fun little stories about her own life. On her less lucid days, her own were much more rambling, but always entertaining.
“And is that one true?” Arthas would ask when she finished.
And regardless of where her mind was, her odd-colored eyes would sparkle, and that electric smile would cross her face. “Well. It’s true to me, and that’s all that really matters, sera,” she would say.
Today, though, it seemed that Gahalma had drawn inward, her melancholy managing to permeate the whole hut. She pulled on her cloak, then stared down at her hands in silence. Arthas didn’t break it; he’d never been particularly eloquent, and he couldn’t even begin to think of what to say. He studiously continued to sharpen his spear.
“Arthas,” she said after a moment. “How greedy must one be to become a god?”
Arthas looked up, eyebrows raising. Surely she was speaking nonsense again, but her eyes were fixed on him, very serious.
“I…well. I couldn’t tell you, Gahalma,” he said, sitting back. “It seems like a lot of thankless fuss to me.”
“Thankless?”
Arthas nodded. “I mean, I guess there’s the worship and things like that. But everyone expects gods to take care of their problems.” He shrugged. “And there isn’t a guarantee that anyone will actually respect you. So you’ve got all these problems, and at the end of the day, you probably don’t have much actually worth having. Look at the Tribunal, after all.”
Gahalma stared at him, and after a moment, she smiled–a thin, rueful thing. “Look at the Tribunal,” she repeated quietly. “Three fools who built an empire only to make it their tomb.” She pushed herself to her feet. “I’m going to watch the waves, Arthas. I won’t try to walk to Solstheim this time.”
Arthas watched her for a moment, then pushed himself up. “I’ll come with you,” he said. There was work to do, of course, but this was the sort of day where he didn’t trust Gahalma one bit to keep herself safe. “I don’t have much to do today, and you did say you’d tell me a story about some snake people?”
Gahalma stared at him, but then suddenly the light came back to her eyes. “The Tsaesci,” she said with a nod and a smile. “Yes, let me tell you about how I went to learn their ways of fighting, and how they believe that all waters lead to the gates of life and death.”
“But did you actually go to meet them, or are you making that up?” Arthas asked dryly, taking Gahalma’s staff and passing it to her. She smiled at him.
“Arthas, let me assure you: the answer to both of your questions is one and the same.”
An ashstorm came through shortly after, lasting several days, and Gahata’s melancholy worsened with it. He began saying the oddest things, when he did speak. More often, he sat and stared at nothing in particular, unable to be roused from his reveries until Arthas shook him to at least get him to eat. Over his meal, Arthas asked the same question each time: what was he thinking about? The answer was always the same.
“I’ve never written an ending I liked. I must remedy that very quickly.”
He never elaborated, often falling back into silence that lasted for hours. Arthas finally just let him be; he ensured he was fed, and warm, and that the door was locked well enough to prevent any wanderings.
The ashstorm cleared, after a few days, and with it, so did Gahata’s mind. He was chatty again, though there was an undeniable edge to it now. He spoke rapidly and constantly, with pleas for Arthas to please listen, because he had so very, very much to say and he wasn’t sure which stories would stick. Arthas didn’t mind; truthfully, he’d missed Gahata’s stories during the ashstorm.
These stories weren’t as grand as some of the others. He spoke of his brother, the one that Arthas reminded him of; how he was clever, wickedly clever, and very placid until he wasn’t. How they walked in step through their youth, of how Gahata tried and tried to ease the grief that stayed so heavy on his brother’s shoulders, and yet it only seemed to grow with time. Of how they withdrew from each other as they grew older–they made the same mistakes, walking in step as they always had, only to suddenly find they’d gone in opposite directions. Gahata wished he had tried harder to reach him. The second-to-last time he’d seen him, it was out of necessity. The final time, it was to wrap his body–well, what was left of it after years of chipping away at his imperfections–for his final rest.
Then he spoke of a lover, a warrior that blazed across Nirn like a fallen star. Yes, she had been beautiful, but beauty was common and fleeting. What drew him to her was her fire, passion that could be rejuvenating one moment and devastating the next. She loved so much, and so deeply, and she craved it in return. But her appetite was insatiable, and there never seemed to be enough–not from her husband, not from Gahata, not from the throngs of admirers that filled the streets just for a glimpse of her. It drove her mad, in the end; he’d always feared she’d burn too brightly to last, and against every wish and every precaution, she had done just that. Did her death hurt him as much as his brother’s? It was hard to say. He grieved her, certainly, every day. He missed the way she had been. But the death she met was a mercy; she wouldn’t have been able to abide growing as feeble as he was now. In a way, he was glad for it.
Finally, with difficulty, he spoke of earlier days. Of his youth in the Bitter Coast–he’d been a sickly child, often sitting with the mothers of the village as they worked. That was where he’d learned the power of stories, and reached the horrifying realization that if he stayed where he was, he’d never have any worth telling. When he outgrew his childhood maladies, he left; he had no skills worth having, but he survived by coaxing roadside lovers with one hand while holding a dagger in the other. And then, miraculously, he made a friend–his first and last true friend, who had nothing to gain but Gahata’s companionship. And Gahata loved him. He loved him so dearly, so much that he had no choice but to hurt him, again and again, until there was nothing left. He had a chance, briefly, to see him again years and years later. His face was different, and he didn’t know Gahata, but there was no denying the fire in his eyes. Did he ask forgiveness? No, no, what would the point of that be? But he wept so bitterly once he was alone; he didn’t remember Gahata’s love or his sins, and somehow, the latter was worse. It was a fitting punishment.
It was there that Gahata finally seemed satisfied, his thin shoulders sagging from the effort of recounting days long gone. Arthas had listened attentively throughout, and Gahata thanked him for it before he took to bed. The story wasn’t finished, he said as he got into his cot, but the climax had past, and they were reaching the end.
This time, Arthas knew what he meant.
It was, rarely for Vvardenfell, a clear and sunny day. The recent storm had cleared the ash from the air, and while Arthas knew there were plenty of things he should do on a clear day like this, Gahalma insisted it was a terrible thing to waste a nice day with anything besides leisure. Who was he to argue with his elders?
He settled on a sun-warmed rock, a small knife in hand to work at some idle whittling. He wasn’t particularly good at it, but it gave his hands something to do while his mind was quiet. He worked for a while in silence, then looked up as he saw Gahalma digging in the ash.
“Gahalma? What are you doing?” he called.
She looked up at him, then smiled. “My art was always best served by words,” she said, somewhat sheepishly. She came back to sit by Arthas, carrying handfuls of ash. “Did you know the children of Veloth didn’t always burn their dead?”
“I didn’t.” Arthas watched as she set the ash on the ground before them, carefully smoothing the edges into a large circle.
“Mm. Early on, very early, we buried our dead. And–listen, Arthas, this is important–for warriors, it was imperative that we had two masks: one we wore to frighten off our death, and one we wore to greet it.” Gahalma pressed her thumbs into the circle of ash, creating two eyes. “I lost the first some time ago, and like a fool, I believed that I would never need the second.”
Arthas stopped his whittling, frowning. “Why are you telling me this?” he asked quietly. The look Gahalma gave him said enough: You already know the answer.
Instead of replying, she carefully gathered the ash into a nose. “My first mask was made from the ash, during one of the many times I successfully scared off my death. But I always believed that a death mask should show the soul of the wearer–one last reminder of what had resided in the empty body. My brother’s mask is made of brass, my lover’s star-studded obsidian, my dear friend’s bright gold.” Her thumb swiped at the bottom of the ash circle, making a thin mouth. “But mine, I think, should be ash again.”
Arthas watched her work, then glanced up. “Why is that, Gahalma?”
She smiled, pleased that he asked. “For three reasons. First, because Vvardenfell was always my first love, and all my failures, all my triumphs, everything I did for Resdayn–for Morrowind–I did for her first. Secondly, words are powerful, but in the end, they fall like ash, unheeded and unwanted. I wanted my words to live forever, and perhaps they shall, but they will mean very little once I’m ash–well, metaphorically ash–myself.” She went quiet, focusing hard on the face she’d drawn in the ash.
Arthas waited for a moment, watching her. When it was clear she wasn’t about to speak, he prompted, “And the third reason?”
Gahalma looked up. The lashes around her golden eye seemed a bit darker than they had a moment ago, and she smiled as she reached down to the ash pile. But now, a mask–sturdy, plain, and gray–was beneath her fingertips. She picked it up, holding it in front of her face.
“Third, I think my death will find it very funny.” She laughed behind her mask, then sighed as she turned it around to look over it. She glanced over to Arthas, face growing serious.
“Arthas,” she said.
“Yes, Gahalma?”
“I am about to ask much of you. You can do it, or not. It will not matter to me soon enough. Will you do it?”
Arthas shifted, frowning slightly. “Well, I…I suppose it depends on what you ask of me.”
Gahalma looked over him. There was a strange depth in her expression, something reluctantly desperate and almost cold–like something that wasn’t quite natural, sizing him up for something much bigger than he was. He couldn’t say where the thought came from, but he wondered if this was what it felt like for the daedra to choose a champion.
Suddenly, the expression broke, and Gahalma was back to herself. “Most of it can wait. For now, I’m humbly asking you to use that knife I saw you so cleverly carving with on my mask.”
“Oh, I’m not…I can’t decorate, Gahalma. I can find you a much better carver for that.”
She smiled. “Yes, but they wouldn’t have been my friend. That’s very important.”
Arthas’s eyebrows rose. “Is that part of the tradition?”
“No, but I suspect my death will be very cruel in her joking if she thinks I died without a single one.” She passed the mask over to him. “I don’t need much. An identifier will be enough.”
Arthas looked over the mask, running his thumbs over the smooth surface. It seemed odd, leaving this blank face as a substitute for Gahalma’s soul. It wouldn’t show her smile, or her stories, or anything that made her…well, her. Even in the short time Arthas had known her, he knew she was more than a simple old mer, and he wished there was more to do to show that to others. He swallowed, surprised to find his throat tight as he did.
“And what should I use as an identifier?” he croaked out, rubbing his face to try to resume looking unaffected.
Gahalma simply smiled, a quietly grateful one as she looked him over. “I think a vehk will do the trick.”
Gahata wasn’t doing well.
He hadn’t risen from his cot in two days, and it was difficult to get him to speak coherently. When he was lucid, he had requested just a few things: a cup of water, a bite of yam, and a long, clean sheet of white cloth. The first two were for present needs, the second for a future one.
When he wasn’t lucid, he wept and laughed, and spoke to people who weren’t there. Arthas didn’t recognize most names, but a few were repeated several times. “Alandro” was chided for his pessimism. Gahata called “Voryn” selfish several times, and assured that he was serious, and he was ready for this, in spite of his youth. “Neht” was always said gently, deferentially. “I worry,” Gahata had whispered to Arthas, when he was stuck between past and present, “that Neht will find out I don’t know what I’m doing.”
Two names he did recognize. Gahata called out to Sotha Sil and Almalexia–initially, that hadn’t surprised Arthas; while the Temple deemed it heretical, the older generation had several mer who still worshiped the Tribunal out of habit. But the pleas that followed their names weren’t prayers. To Ayem, Arthas heard murmurs of poetry; it was mostly gibberish, really, but the bits that weren’t were soft and adoring, worshipful in a way that would certainly have been frowned upon by both the old and new Temples. To Seht, Gahata alternated between laughing and speaking very seriously about tools and plans and assurances that he knew he wasn’t heartless.
Once, as Arthas leaned down to lay a cool cloth on his forehead, Gahata caught his face with surprisingly strong hands. His odd colored eyes were wide as they stared up at him. “I’ll keep you safe,” he whispered. “And this will never, ever happen again.” Arthas knew he must be seeing a different face than his, but he wasn’t sure whose it was. He hoped it had comforted them, whenever it was said.
Finally, Gahata went quiet for several hours, save for his labored breathing. Arthas sat by, simply waiting. Death wasn’t frightening for the Dunmer; it was no more than a journey to another place. Even so, it wasn’t one that should be taken alone. Gahata should have had his whole family here, generations of children and grand-children and great-grandchildren, all waiting to see him off. But there was none, so Arthas would have to do.
He heard Gahata let out a rattling breath, and then he went very still beneath his sheets. Arthas shut his eyes for a moment, then got up to go over to him. He knelt down, preparing to ask Azura to grant Gahata passage to his loved ones in Oblivion. Just as he bowed his head, he let out a cry of alarm as Gahata’s hand shot forward, grabbing his arm. Well . The old mer wasn’t quite done, it seemed.
Arthas looked down, surprised by the fierce look on Gahata’s face. His eyes–one red, one gold–fixed hard on his face.
“I am about to ask much of you,” he rasped. “You can do it, or you can not. But I’ll give you all you need to complete this task.”
Arthas swallowed, and he nodded. “I will,” he said quietly. “I’ll do whatever you need me to.”
Gahata stared at him, labored breaths rattling in his chest. He reached up, setting his hands on either side of Arthas’ face.
“Soon, you’ll know when, you’ll wrap me in the sheet I asked for,” he said. “Then, I ask that you carry me to the place my brother and my lover rest. It will be a long journey, but you’ll come to no harm–I will ensure that.”
Arthas swallowed. “Where…where is that?”
Gahata shook his head feebly, in contrast to the strong grip he held on Arthas’ face. “It’s not a place easily found. With luck, you’ll be the last person to see it.” One thumb moved, pressing to Arthas’ forehead. Warmth spread from it, and an odd sort of certainty filled him. “You know the way, and you will be able to enter. There, you’ll find a place for me. Lay me there, and put my mask on. You will have done what I’ve asked, then, and you’ll be released.” Gahata gave a weak smile. “But first. ‘Gratitude before service.’”
Gahata’s thumb moved down, and it pressed to Arthas’ lips. The same warmth from his forehead spread from the touch, flowing comfortingly through his body.
“Your path will be fair and just–your feet shall never falter, and your words will move mountains. Fortune will find you, and you shall find reward to match the amount of kindness you’ve shown. That is my blessing for you, Arthas Dres–as my light fades, yours shall shine ever-bright.” As he spoke, voice clear and strong, his golden eye blazed brightly before it faded, darkening to match the scarlet of its twin. He gave a wide, electric smile, patting Arthas’ cheek before his arms dropped back to his sides. “And thank you, for giving an old mer like me some company. It was something I…sorely missed.”
His eyes fixed on something just over Arthas’ shoulder, and his smile softened. “Ah. Finally,” he whispered, “an ending I like.”
Gahata stilled, and this time, it truly was over.
Arthas surprised himself by how bitterly he wept, his wailing keen reverberating off the stone walls of his hut. For a few hours, he simply sat and mourned, a grief that felt beyond his own pouring out of him.
And, once the initial wave of his grief subsided, he did as he had been told. He washed Gahata’s body, then wrapped him in the white sheet he’d prepared just the day before, though it felt so much longer. The shroud, he bound with a net–it seemed fitting, all things considered. Once finished, he gathered up what he would need: candles, incense, and a match, as well as the ashen mask.
He knew it would be an arduous journey to finish his task, but he wasn’t intimidated. His feet knew the way he must go, and he would come to no harm. So he gathered up the body in his arms, and he exited his hut without any bit of hesitation.
After all, he had Gahata’s blessing.
His destination was far from his home, near the ruins of the old capital city. Baar Dau was still embedded in the earth, and the rubble of buildings surrounded it. For a moment, Arthas wondered if the tomb had been destroyed as well, and if his journey had been for nothing. But his feet continued when his head doubted, guiding him away from the city.
He was exhausted. His arms ached from carrying the body, and the muscles in his legs burned from the long journey. But still he pressed on, determined to finish what he’d said he would. He knew he could abandon it, but it felt wrong to do so–like abandoning a pilgrimage.
Finally, he came to a stop in front of a cave, a large stone covering the entrance. Gently, he set the body down, but then despaired. He couldn’t move something like this, especially not now. His arms and legs shook, strength spent, and he went up to lean heavily against the stone. All this way, just to fail at the end. Arthas grit his teeth, and he opened his mouth to let out a frustrated yell. What came out instead was a phrase he hadn’t even considered, one that had never crossed his thoughts until now.
At his words, the stone trembled, and it rolled of its own volition, leaving the dark maw of the cave open. Arthas stared, just for a moment, then once again gathered up the body in his arms before he made his descent.
There was just one chamber in the tomb. There were no waiting doors, no ash gardens, no grave goods–just candles, freshly lit somehow, and three catafalques were in the center of the room. On two of them, a shrouded body lay on each, as if just placed–one with a mask of brass, the other with a mask of obsidian. The third was empty, but it wouldn’t be for long.
Arthas carefully laid Gahata’s body on the final catafalque, as gently as a mother putting her child to bed. Then, once he was laid flat, he carefully set the ashen mask over his face. He’d carved the vehk in it, as he’d been told to, and then, on his journey here, he’d carved another beneath it.
Because, of course, he knew who it was that he had carried all this way.
Arthas set the candles around his body, and he lit them silently. From one of the flames, he lit three sticks of incense. Each catafalque had a notch at the feet of its corpse, and each received a lit stick–first for the brother, then for the lover, then for Gahata. Once finished Arthas knelt his head and recited the prayer he’d started for Gahata before he’d received his task; he asked Azura, more humbly now, to guide their souls together, and to grant them the peace he suspected they hadn’t had in life.
His task was finished. He gave Gahata’s body one last look, with a silent goodbye, then he made his way back out. His life would continue, in his little hut by the sea; he’d been granted fortune, but he was wiser now. The life he’d made had been enough to share; that was fortunate in and of itself.
He took a breath of ashen air as he stepped out from the cave, and he turned to look back to the stone. All that was left was to seal it up. Arthas was no storyteller, but he knew an ending when he saw one. So he went to the stone, and repeated the phrase he’d said to open it; it was the last time, he knew deep in his bones as the stone began to roll forward, that these words would be said.
“The ending of the words is ALMSIVI.”