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When it grows dark on the way to Tel Fyr, you make a careful camp, check all your limbs for any signs that the corprus has progressed today, and fall into an uneasy, shallow sleep.
You dream:
This is a dream you have seen before, though you couldn't remember the ending. The figure in the golden mask speaks to you, smiling – you cannot see it, but you can hear it in the senseless words he speaks. He reaches for you. You try with all your might to pull away, but you are helpless. Your limbs remain locked in place, and your tongue will not move to cry out. Even your lungs are still, showing no sign of your terror.
Dread weighs down your stiff body as you see him raise his hand in what is unmistakably a spell gesture. There is nothing to do but watch, breath held for you, as light sparkles from his fingertips, and—
The magic that rushes over you is calming, refreshing, like the first sip of a fatigue potion or the soothing balm of a spell that heals wounds. Save for the fact that you are still paralyzed.
You strain against your body again to no avail. Even your eyes will not allow you to look away from the figure upon which they are fixed. He seems oblivious to your anxiety. The tone of his words turns pleased; he thinks he has helped you.
He takes a step toward you – despite knowing how useless the attempt will be, you try again to move away – and tucks his arm around yours, close against your side. Tiny red stars begin to glint in the darkness.
When you awaken, you hasten to add the new details of the dream to your journal. Then you sort through your bag and pull out a message that is already well-worn, though you received it just days ago and though the corprus is making it increasingly hard to focus on any words.
Friend, companion, brother, servant. It's such an obvious trap that any sensible person would see it for what it is. What better way, in fact, to tempt an unwelcome, lonely newcomer to Vvardenfell than to offer friendship and power instead of insults or cold disdain?
Surely they should all be lies. And yet what you add to your journal, this time in neater letters than the hasty scrawl you put down on waking, is The dream felt too sincere.
---
It is long past Azura's dusk hour at Holamayan, and you are still in the library, studying the books you have been given and trying to puzzle out the contradictions between the stories to glimpse the real Nerevar. Eventually, you slump over your work, and exhaustion takes you.
You dream:
The ground on which you are laying is painfully hot, and the air smells of sulfur and blood and burnt perfume. Three blurred faces hover over you, ghost-like, but though this time you can call to them, they do not hear you. When you try to raise your arm to reach out to them, your hand barely lifts, too weak to move.
Around you there are whispers, faint and hard to make out. You beg the faces for help and comfort, knowing they should give it to you.
One of the figures touches your cheek, nails digging in and ripping. One touches your chest, fingers lingering over the hole where your heart should be. One touches your ankles, but when the figures vanish and you try to rise, you find your feet are gone.
You scramble, panicked at what has happened to you. In the midst of your alarm and confusion, you do not notice the golden-masked figure approaching until he gently lifts your shoulders from behind, holding your torso upright. The scent of blood is even stronger on him; his touch itself hurts, and you are too weak to effectively push him away.
Before you can see if he attempts to aid you or attempts to maim you further, everything goes dark.
You awaken in tears. Three belied you, three betrayed you and your head and heart both ache, unsure what here is truth and what is a lie. What is the real story of what happened under Red Mountain? you ask your journal, wondering if you will ever find an answer about this old history you have found yourself a part of.
---
You walk away from the Cavern of the Incarnate staring at your newfound ring rather than watching for cliff racers in the darkening sky. In an enclosed spot near the sea, you settle for the night, holding your ring up against the moons and stars above until you are too tired to enjoy the sight any longer.
You dream:
The room is dark and lit only by dim red candles, and standing with you is a tall figure who, for once, wears no mask but golden skin. You have never seen his face before, and yet it is deeply familiar.
He takes your hand. You try to take it back, and your arm obeys you, but his gentle-looking grip is deceptively strong, and you have no choice but to let him raise your hand. He bends his head and presses his lips to your sparkling ring.
Your heart beats, once, strong enough to echo through your whole body.
"Nerevar," he murmurs. "Is it truly you again, Moon-and-Star?"
His eyelashes brush your skin before he glances up at you over your arm. You know his eyes were once another color, and that they should be only two; but red and three they are as he gazes at you.
This time, you can see his smile. It is not unpleasant.
Your lips shape a name of their own volition – a name that you have never heard aloud, a name that even the Dissident Priests' texts do not contain, a name that only this man has shared with you.
You blink awake to the pale blue of early dawn, pink edging the sky to the east. Sitting on a rock and watching the sea turn rosy, you record the dream, and write, This dream felt less frightening, but more sad.
Because the man who dreams beneath Red Mountain begs your companionship, and yet his house attacks you like he can't make up his mind; he sends you sweet words and smiles and nightmares all at once as if he doesn't understand the difference. He speaks to the you-that-was as though you are not also the you-that-is. Pity the Sixth House, Peakstar urged you yesterday evening, and you do.
You close your journal and rise to your feet. Under Azura's star, you continue the journey that, you know, will inevitably lead you to finally meet him in your waking hours. And you will write what happened, if not to Nerevar, then to Nerevarine under the mountain.