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It was brutally cold in the Jerall mountains, wind whipping ice into An'tajhor's face as he struggled over the rocky slopes. He had been walking in circles here for two days, lost among the stone and clouds but determined to go on, only because he knew that if he stopped the memories would come flooding back, and he feared that more than death itself. Every ridge he crested was the same ridge, every stand of trees the same trees, following some circuitous pattern that threatened to swallow him in its forgotten crevices.

Atop a lonely peak again, An'tajhor's legs gave out from exhaustion and he fell face-first into the snow, lying there a moment before he turned over and stared at the featureless white sky. He was still and silent for what seemed like an eternity, until some remaining spark of consciousness told him to stand up before he froze and was lost to all thought. Slowly, so slowly, he rose up against the uncaring rock of the mountain, gazing into the veil which hemmed in around him, an untouchable border of clouds and wind and void.

As he stood there he struggled with a writhing demon of awareness until, despite his best efforts, his thoughts began to return, filling the darkness of his mind with the memories of what had happened two days before. He remembered first Ja'rasaar, by his side as he always was, warming the cold miles with his presence. They were walking somewhere, somewhere safe, a place they had built to be their home. He felt peace, and safety, and happiness, but without warning his mind skipped to the ambush. His vision turned red and he could feel the hilt of his sword again, singing in his hands as it cut through the Thalmor soldiers. He and Ja'rasaar stood back-to-back, leaving no weak spots in their bladed fury. The soldiers were skilled though, and separated the pair, until each fought against several elven swords without the help of the other. Clearly this had been arranged to end the two Jin'po, but they had not lived so long for nothing. Gradually An'tajhor overcame his attackers, taking them down one by one, making his way slowly back to Ja'rasaar.

Now the elves were at a disadvantage, trapped between two master swordsmen, until there was but one. This one fought in a spinning, dangerously unpredictable style, parrying sword-thrusts at his front and back, causing the trio to gradually move across the loose rocky slope until they stood at the edge of a dropoff, its bottom shrouded in mist. The soldier's sword caught An'tajhor across the arm, cutting through the leather and silk between his pauldron and elbow, causing a momentary drawback which was what he had waited for. His attack on Ja'rasaar increased in speed and ferocity until the white tiger was on the defense only, blocking the ringing elven sword to the best of his abilities.

At last An'tajhor rejoined the fray but it was too late, as the elf struck Ja'rasaar's sword at a strange angle and shattered the wildly vibrating steel, then swung in a stroke which tore through the tiger's middle, causing him to drop his blade and double over in pain. An'tajhor cried out, seeing his partner of centuries lying in shock among the gravel, then dove at the elf in a blind rage. The sword of his grandfather became a fluid thing in his hands, countering the unfamiliar blows of the soldier until, with a thrust faster than sight could register, the elf was impaled through the chest and sunk down, the blade still dripping where it was sheathed.

An'tajhor knelt by his friend, the only person in all of Tamriel he knew and loved so deeply, and cradled his head as he tried to heal the gash across his torso. It was deep, but with enough skill it would not be fatal. Blood stained Ja'rasaar's white fur, soaking into the gravel and steaming in the cold. Having at least sealed the wound An'tajhor was bent over his friend, tears still running down his chin though he knew he would be alright.

The memories were fading, as though vainly trying to ignore what happened next, but before they left completely An'tajhor felt his friend sliding, pulled by something, then gone...

Shocked into being, An'tajhor stood once again on that lonely, windy peak, eyes dark with wrath and sorrow. He yelled at the heavens, an inarticulate cry that rang back from distant valleys, until his voice was broken from the pain of it. He drew the riven blade from its sheath, a sword he knew so well, crafted in forges a world away and wielded by his only companion. For a tense moment he turned the shattered point inward, still deadly sharp, until it rested on the leather of his cuirass, but he could not push it further. Face clouded, he sheathed it again and stared out over the mountainous expanse, suddenly cold and sore and so tired. His arm ached where it had been cut, and his armor weighed on his frame. As he was about to turn around and find his way out of the snow, he thought he saw familiar eyes in the whiteness. He stared as the eyes became a face, and the face became Ja'rasaar, who held out a steady hand as if to embrace his friend. An'tajhor put out his own hand and tried to grasp his partner, but with a gust of wind the apparition was gone. He stared at that spot for a long time, trying to conjure the vision again by force of will, but nothing appeared save ice and snow and stone.