I suddenly find myself somewhere strange, rather than crashing into the ashen wastes of Coldharbour or being torn apart by Daedra and respawning who-knows-where. The sky is weird, so it’s probably still Oblivion, but definitely not anywhere in Coldharbour. The stars are clear and very bright, and the sky is streaked with colorful auroras. A coral-lined stone pathway floats upon ripples of light.


    Definitely not a plane I have seen before, but I have a suspicion about where I am.


    I walk along the path of floating rocks, as there is nowhere else to go, and spot a shimmering form of light that seems achingly familiar to me and resonates in a way I’d never expected.


    My soul.


    I pause, and walk slowly toward it. A mer’s face I almost don’t recognize as myself, reaching out toward me. Is this truly who I am? I’ve gotten used to not having it. What difference will it make? What have I been missing?


    I reach out and grasp my own hand. Light pours into me, and warmth floods my body. Like after an era of cold have I finally learned what warmth is again. Like a tooth that has been sore for years finally being removed and regrown. Having a good night’s rest after a long period of sleep deprivation. I feel whole.


    I stop and check to make sure I’m still me and that this isn’t some sort of trick, because I’m still me and still a paranoid fetcher sometimes. I still love Roku and Grishka. I still hate Vehk, Seht, and Ayem. I feel pretty damn good about punching Molag Bal in the face and watching him explode. Yep, still me.


    (I wonder if I’ll respawn on Nirn when I die next, or in the Ashpit? Something to check later.)


    A translucent blue image of Molag Bal appears.


    “Did I kill you?” I ask. “Can Daedric Princes even discorporate?”


    Molag Bal gives a low chuckle. He does not say, “Damn, son, you got me good,” but that’s basically what the flowery rambling he gives me translates to. He’s got a pretentious streak sometimes. And he still thinks I’d have been better off as his servant, because there are vague machinations afoot and he’s totally scheming about shit.


    Why did he even make me that offer? (Because it cost him nothing and it had a non-zero chance of working.)


    “If I were ever actually your worshipper, you probably shouldn’t have made me forget it,” I say. “Things would have gone better for you.”


    Molag Bal seems quite amused. And less annoyed than I would have expected. It’s like that loud, blustering face he puts on is just an act for the audience, and the Lord of Coldharbour is actually much more chill. He wouldn’t be very good at scheming if he were actually that angry all the time.


    “In any case, thanks for the fight,” I say. “It was fun.”


    Before we can speak further, the glowing form of Meridia stands before me. By which I mean she hovers two feet above the floating rocks in front of me, and tells Molag Bal to go away.


    “See you later,” I tell him cheerfully as he’s vanishing.


    Meridia is just as pretentious and just as vague about what the Daedric Princes are scheming about. She makes it sound serious and something to worry about. Sure, maybe it is, but I can’t help but be excited. I’m alive and whole and there will be so much stuff to hit! The world is awesome.


    (I feel that perhaps reclaiming my soul has short-circuited my emotional processing. I’ll worry about it later if symptoms persist. This is probably normal for me, though.)


    Meridia returns me to Vastarie’s Tower, where everyone is waiting for me. Upon seeing the faces of my faithful friends and trusted associates, a surge of emotion staggers me.


    “Neri, are you alright?” Eran asks.


    “Yeah,” I say, sitting down in a chair quickly. “I just… I just got my soul back, and it feels weird.”


    “I’m amazed that you were as stable as you were, being separated from it for so long,” Vastarie says.


    “I’ve gotten some theories about that in light of recent events, but it’s something to think about later,” I say. “One of which is that I’m pretty sure I was insane to begin with. Where’s Abnur?”


    “He took the Amulet of Kings and ran off back to Cyrodiil,” Lyris says.


    “Ah, good,” I say. “I’m going to the Imperial City and will have to deal with his daughter, Clivia. Having him on hand will be useful when I need to obligatorily apologize to him when I inevitably have to kill her.”


    “I’m going to run some diagnosis spells on you to make sure you’re alright,” Gelur says.


    “Good precaution,” I say. “I’ve been trying to pay attention but it’s hard for me to tell when I’m acting strangely.”


    The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.


    “Hmm, let’s see,” Gelur trails off. “A severe case of potion poisoning which is being suppressed for the moment by a lingering trace of divine energy. Once that wears off, you are probably going to spend the rest of the night vomiting.”


    “Ugh, potion hangovers are the worst,” I gripe. “Had to be done, though. Even with all the preparation we could put into everything, it still feels like we only won by accident.”


    “I mean…” Eran says. “On the one hand, I say you shouldn’t discount all the efforts you made. And on the other… yeah, there was a lot of shit going on there that we could not conceivably have been prepared for. It was a game between gods and we were nothing more than pieces.”


    My axe is lost. My latest axe. I have reverse-souvenirs, stories of objects I’ve lost doing ridiculous things. My ring came back to me, though. Either a feature I didn’t realize it had, or another power nudged it in order to return its protection to me at the moment I needed it most. Had it not, my mind might have melted under Molag Bal’s mindfuckery.


    I make some notes on getting a new axe, a backup or two, and looking into the possibility of an enchantment that makes items return to you when dropped into deep waters (of Oblivion or the regular sort), off of cliffs, or into infinite abysses. I don’t even remember what I named the last one.


    There’s so many things I want to say, but I’m still processing everything, and my body has decided that now is the time for the potion sickness to hit. I excuse myself politely and meditate peacefully until that passes. By which I mean completely not that. It’s miserable, sure, but that’s counterpointed by the euphoria of victory and the reclamation of my soul. It’s weird feeling extremely cheerful to be sick as fuck.


    (I don’t know whether to be glad or not to have discovered powerful alchemical concoctions with massive drawbacks that no sane person would find acceptable.)


    Eventually, I’m feeling fine again and I go to spend some time with my wives. And that’s such an incredible thing and that’s private and I’m not telling anything more about it.


    With the insane Vestiges gone from the Imperial City, it’s considerably easier to deal with the Dark Anchor there. We take care of it in an afternoon and call it a day. At some point, it just feels like cleanup. I’m ready for some new, world-threatening threats.


    Then it’s back to the Hollow City to debrief and tie up some more loose ends. And also to tell Estre how I punched Molag Bal in the face and that I’m clearly a better person to get behind than a Daedric Prince. Appealing to her better nature wouldn’t work because she doesn’t have one.


    I pull Colors and Dynar aside for a slightly more private meeting than “literally everyone whose name I can remember in the Hollow City” that we’d had before we left. They should know what I saw. (This is really just me describing the Colored Rooms for them and them gushing, honestly.)


    “The Planemeld is over and you’re free,” I say. “Where are you two planning on going from here?”


    “We’ll stay in the Hollow City, for now,” Sees-All-Colors says. “I feel like this is where I belong, and where the river has always been taking me.”


    I’ve also just gotten a brilliant idea. In trying to mindfuck me, Molag Bal did technically declare me his champion. I could take over any surviving Molag Bal cults and force them to stop doing things I find annoying.


    … actually, he probably wouldn’t mind that terribly much. Hm. Also, I probably killed off most of them.


    Okay, new plan. Start a Molag Bal cult under a secret identity, gather in anyone so inclined to be worshipping Molag Bal to begin with, and then make sure they don’t do anything I find annoying. Maybe give them something useful to devote their energy to. This could not conceivably backfire in any way whatsoever.


    (Especially considering someone would probably expect me to summon him at some point. But it’s funny to think about.)


    And so, I rejoin my friends. We’re at Brackenleaf Village at the moment, catching the spinner up on one hell of a story and just taking a well-earned break. I’ve kind of missed the place. There hasn’t been much time to spend back here, especially after I moved into Dra’bul.


    “Let’s play a rousing game of ‘Which Daedric Prince is going to try fucking with the world next?’” I say. “I’ll open this round with Boethiah.”


    “Mehrunes Dagon,” Merry says.


    “Nocturnal,” Ilara says. “She’s so spooky.”


    “Sanguine,” Gelur says, then grins. “Well, one can hope, right? He’d be more fun than most of the other options, at least.”


    “Can’t we just hope for none of them?” Eran says.


    “Sooner or later, another Daedric Prince will try to fuck with the world,” I say. “The question isn’t if, just who and when. That would be true even if it weren’t for the ominous vague warnings people keep giving us.”


    Eran grunts. “I suppose. Fine, I’ll bite. Put me down for Clavicus Vile. If there’s going to be a crisis, though, can we at least hope for one that doesn’t involve any Daedra next?”


    “As for me, I ought to stay in Brackenleaf Village for now,” Gelur says. “It’s been the adventure of a lifetime and I’d like to spend some time with my husband before the next crisis inevitably hits.”


    “I… true, I should probably at least check in on my sister and father,” Eran says.


    “Don’t worry,” I say. “I can manage to avoid falling off of too many cliffs in the interim.”


    “You’re doing a lot better than you were back then,” Eran says. “Especially now that you’ve got your soul back. When I met you, you barely seemed there half the time.”


    “When you met me, I still wasn’t a hundred percent certain anything was real,” I say. “But if this has been a dream, it’s a very persistent one. And the things he tried to trick me with… ah, it doesn’t matter now. It’s over with.”


    “What are your next plans?” Merry asks. “The world is open to us and it is one as full of chaos as ever.”


    “I’m thinking I might not be the King of the Wood Orcs for a little bit,” I say. “I have a need to establish another identity or I’m not going to be able to see half that world.”


    “The group you surround yourself with is also somewhat conspicuous,” Merry says. “I do not know what else I might be. I suppose I must assist in the war effort, if nothing else, although there are a few things I wish to research when I get the opportunity.”


    “What do you think of turning an entire army to stone then dumping them through a portal into their capital city?” I say.


    Merry gives a longsuffering sigh. “Time-consuming, impractical, liable to backfire, and you would probably find it hilarious.”


    “Somebody forced me to poke at Cyrodiil recently. I say it’s a good opportunity to let the Orc King be seen quite publicly while I establish another identity with the perfect alibi.”


    “Provided that nobody guesses teleportation or disguises,” Merry says dryly.


    “People really don’t seem to take them into account even when they should,” I say. “The most annoying thing about Cyrodiil, even now that the mad Vestiges aren’t messing around making a mess of things anymore, is that everyone is doing war wrong.”


    “By all the gods, Neri,” Eran says. “If I were with the Pact or Covenant, I’d be surrendering about now…”