The place called Darkfall was nothing if not that – dark. As with many of the deep crevices in the mountains, water from above had infiltrated through cracks in the rocks over time, had hollowed spaces out, and in this place was roaring down falls and along in a substantial stream beneath them. He crept along the narrow tunnel, sword raised high, feeling his way by instinct even though he might just as easily have used his abilities as a vampire to sense the walls and the life around him. But it didn’t matter. His mind was elsewhere.
Vitus. I know that’s my name. It feels right. But where am I from? Cyrodiil, yes, that much is obvious; but what part of Cyrodiil? Who sent me to Skyrim? What did I do before that day when the Thalmor took me down?
Who am I?
It was maddening. He finally knew his name; he knew how he had been captured and that he’d been tortured. The details of that were fuzzy; he remembered seeing tools, he remembered pain, and beatings, but mercifully he didn’t remember specific moments of the torture. The important details, though, the facts he most wanted to know, those still eluded him. Only two things were certain. One was that he felt cold inside, and hard, and angry; but mostly cold — and empty. The good humor and warmth he’d known for as long as he’d been aware of himself seemed to have vanished. That was the first thing.
The second thing was that he could hear Brynjolf breathing quietly as he moved along behind him; and that thing put a fierce, possessive, fiery joy in him. It was the one thing he was certain of.
I don’t know you, Vitus, not any more. All I know is Andante and I don’t know where he has gone. But I do know that Brynjolf is with me and that’s enough for now.
I sound crazy. There’s only one of me; I just haven’t sorted it all out yet.
He was so preoccupied with these thoughts that he wasn’t paying attention to the condition of the plank-and-rope bridge he had just crossed to check the small encampment on its far side. It stretched high above the rushing water, drenched in the constant, fine mist that rose from the base of the waterfall. Over time it had absorbed that moisture, and begun to rot; and it was not prepared to hold the combined weight of three people moving across it simultaneously. Andante shrugged when he found nothing interesting in the encampment, and turned back for the entrance; and as he reached the midpoint of the bridge its ropes gave way, dumping them all down into the rushing waters below.
All thoughts he might have been having vanished as the icy water sucked the air from his lungs. He fought to hold on as the force washed him into and under the stream, to the brink of another drop. He had just a moment to gasp for air, to realize that he wouldn’t die, there was water at the bottom of the drop, and to see frostbite spiders dropping from the ceiling as they passed. He heard Brynjolf and Serana splash down into the pool behind him as the torrent washed him farther down, over a short lip of rock and onto the rocky floor of the cavern. It had also washed the spiders along with them, so for several minutes there was nothing but fighting for survival. Andante wasn’t very skilled with a greatsword, but somehow it felt good to take his frustrations out in a single, powerful down stroke that sliced a spider in two. Some of the spiders took two or three hits to slay. It didn’t matter. He was angry, and he wanted to kill things, and the spiders made excellent targets.
The path wound its way alongside the stream and across it, where it was blocked by a mass of spider egg sacs and webbing. Andante peered through the webs and listened closely, and saw the outlines of an enormous spider brood mother. It was time to stop experimenting with a new weapon. He drew his bow and fired an ebony arrow at her to draw her out, then froze her with a Shout. Brynjolf and Serana took care of the rest.
Andante stumbled ahead through a damp passage lit only by a few patches of glowing mushrooms clinging to its sides, and then emerged into a tunnel that, strangely enough, had glowing braziers and torches mounted high up along its walls.
“People?” he whispered back to Brynjolf and Serana.
“Looks like it,” Serana agreed.
Indeed, the tunnel ended at a clearing that held, in this most unlikely of places, a campsite. There was a substantial fire, a bedroll, a lean-to set up against what looked as though it might be another drop, and a chest. There was also a dead woman, clutching a note about trolls.
“Trolls ahead,” he whispered.
Brynjolf stood over the dead woman for a few moments, staring down at her.
“By the Eight, I hate to do this,” he murmured. “But there’s no help for it.”
He knelt and drained what blood was left in the woman, then stood making a face.
“Shor’s bones but that is awful,” he said, shaking his head.
“You have to do what you have to do,” Andante said. “She didn’t need the blood any longer. You did. I told you it would come in handy some day.”
“I know, but…”
“We’ve all been there, Brynjolf,” Serana murmured. “There’s no shame in keeping yourself alive.”
The tunnel finally emerged into what otherwise might have been a lovely scene if not for the danger they knew was ahead. The water that had carried them all down into this place spread out into a lake in a large cavern, its roof upheld by a number of massive stone pillars that had somehow outlasted the water flowing around them. A few torches were mounted on those pillars near the center of the cavern, keeping it from being completely dark. And on one of the dirt bridges that crisscrossed the area, Andante could make out the familiar shape of a troll patrolling its territory. He pulled his bow and fitted an arrow to it.
“I think we need to prepare for the worst,” Brynjolf said quietly, his blade scraping against its sheath as he drew it.
“Aye, lad,” Andante murmured, earning himself a snicker from Serana.
“Are you making fun of me?” Brynjolf muttered.
“Yes, of course I am.” Maybe if I keep pretending, my humor will return to me. Maybe I will return to me.
Even as he let loose the arrow, Andante saw that it was not just one but at least two trolls barreling toward them as fast as they could lurch along. He swapped his bow out in favor of his axe, and conjured a Dremora churl once more, backing up from the oncoming trolls as he did so. The Dremora attacked, but so did Brynjolf; one powerful blow from his sword took out the first troll, and Andante ran forward to hack the other apart with a backhanded swipe.
There was clear evidence that the rest of the unfortunate woman’s party had been here, probably searching for ore to mine. Chests placed around the cavern had skeletons nearby them, partial or complete, dry or still bloody. It was a grisly place even to someone used to feasting on human blood, and Andante was not sorry to see a bright light coming from the far side of the cavern. He made for it, eagerly.
What he was not prepared to see, however, was what they encountered. The light had been emanating from brightly-glowing candle stands in a small side cavern. There were ruins there, that much he could tell, and in the center of them a short, oddly-shaped dome with what appeared to be an altar nearby. Most surprising, though, was that a person stood at the altar, his arms upraised in a gesture of supplication. Andante stopped short and stared for a moment, wondering how it was that there was a live person here when all others in the larger cavern had been killed and consumed.
He approached, slowly, and realized that the person he was looking at was unlike anyone he had ever seen before. Judging by the long ears, it was a Mer, an elf of some sort, but of which race Andante could not tell. His hair and brows were white, his eyes nearly so, he wore white and grey armor, and his skin was paler than that of any vampire Andante had ever met.
“Come forward,” he said, turning to face them. “You have nothing to fear here. I am Knight-Paladin Gelebor. Welcome to the Great Chantry of Auri-El.” His voice was smooth, cultured, with accents Andante did not recognize but which seemed ancient.
Auriel. The Bow. Is this the place?
“This place is a temple to Auriel?”
“Auriel, Auri-El, Alkosh, Akatosh. So many names for the sovereign of the Snow Elves.”
“Snow Elves? You’re… a Falmer?”
Behind him, Andante heard Brynjolf snort, and mumble “Does that look like any Falmer you’ve ever seen, lad? Doesn’t to me.”
“Pardon me, sir,” Andante said. “I meant no offense. I’m just very surprised.”
Gelebor shook his head and smiled, a small smile, clearly meant to signify that he was not offended. “I prefer snow elf. The name Falmer usually carries such negative connotations for most travelers. Those twisted creatures you call Falmer, I prefer to call the Betrayed.” He put his hands on his hips and shifted his weight onto one leg. “Now then. You’re undoubtedly here for the Bow. I can help you get it, but first I must have your assistance. For all the thousands of years I have served as this Chantry’s sentinel there hasn’t been another reason for anyone to visit. I can’t imagine this occasion is any different.”
“Hmm. Do we have any other choice?”
Gelebor smiled, grimly. “Certainly. You may choose to return from whence you came, empty-handed.”
Andante turned to share a wordless discussion with his companions. They both nodded at him.
“Alright,” he said, facing Gelebor again, “what is it that you’d like us to do?”
“I need you to kill Arch-Curate Vyrthur – my brother.”
There was a moment of utter silence in the space as all of them digested Gelebor’s words. Finally, Andante cleared his throat and spoke.
“You want us to… kill your brother.”
“Yes.”
“That’s a bit harsh, even for me. And I have no siblings, so far as I am aware.”
Gelebor went on to explain the situation to them. His brother, he said, had changed somehow, into something that he did not understand. There was no more kinship between them. He feared that the Betrayed, of whom, he warned, there were a great many in this place, had done something to Vyrthur to change him. A long while ago they had swept into the Chantry and begun killing people; and the small number of otherwise peaceful paladins Gelebor had led against them had been no match for their numbers. Vyrthur was still alive, that much Gelebor knew for a fact. He’d seen his brother from a distance, not in any apparent distress. But he merely stood, and stared, as if waiting for something to happen.
Andante tried to take it all in, but it made no sense to him. I have never had a family that I am aware of, but those families I have seen don’t let their members go missing without at least trying to do something about it.
“Haven’t you tried going to the Inner Sanctum yourself? To find out what’s wrong with him?”
Gelebor shook his head. “Leaving the Wayshrines unguarded would be violating my sacred duty as a Knight-Paladin of Auri-El. And an assault on the Betrayed guarding the inner sanctum would only result in my death.”
“Mmm,” Brynjolf murmured. “Only one of you. What’s a Wayshrine?”
“Yes, exactly. There is only one of me. As to what a Wayshrine is, let me show you.” Gelebor turned to face the odd dome, raised one hand, and cast a spell.
The dome began to hum, almost to ring; and then, grinding and shuddering, it rose from the ground to reveal a structure the interior of which was twice their height, open only on the side facing them. In the center, on a raised platform, was an ornate basin.
“So this is Snow Elf magic,” Serana said, walking up the steps toward the opening. “Amazing.”
“This structure is called a Wayshrine,” Gelebor told her. “They were used for meditation, and for transport, when the Chantry was a place of enlightenment. Prelates of these shrines were charged with teaching the mantras of Auri-El to our initiates.”
“What’s the basin for?” Serana asked.
“Well, once the initiate completed his mantras, he’d dip a ceremonial ewer in the basin at the Wayshrine’s center and proceed to the next Wayshrine.”
Serana snorted. “So they had to lug around a heavy pitcher of water. Lovely. How long did this last?”
Andante was concerned that Serana might be annoying the one person who could help them get where they needed to go; but rather than being upset with her Gelebor looked merely amused. I suppose if I spent all my time alone, even Serana might seem a welcome diversion. Briefly.
“Well, once the initiate’s enlightenment was complete, he’d bring the ewer to the Chantry’s inner sanctum. Pouring the contents of the ewer into the sacred basin of the Sanctum would allow him to enter for an audience with the Arch-Curate himself.”
“Your brother,” Brynjolf said.
“All that just to end up dumping it out?” Serana blurted. “It makes no sense to me.”
“Yes. It’s all very symbolic. I wouldn’t expect you to understand.”
Serana made an impatient sound and frowned. “So let me get this straight. We have to do all this nonsense to get into the temple, so that we can kill your brother and claim the bow?”
Gelebor sighed. “Yes. I know how it sounds. But if there were another way, I would have done it long ago. Now let me explain…”
And he did explain, at some length. It had been so very long since the Falmer had slaughtered his people that only he of the Prelates remained. All the others were spirits, specters, and were capable only of performing their duties to protect the Wayshrines. They all believed the Chantry to still be a place of active worship.
“Like the Nightingale Sentinels,” Brynjolf murmured.
Andante peered at him. “The what?”
“I never saw them, but Dagnell told me about them. My… the Guildmaster. She had to get past them to open the portal, where you saw… Never mind, lad. I’ll tell you about it later. It’s the same kind of thing as this, though.”
Andante fought to keep his expression neutral.
Ah yes. Not only are you a Nightingale yourself but you’re married to another of the three. My, my, Brynjolf. And what of her? I want to meet this woman. If it is in fact Sayma, then… what a concentration of power. Guildmaster, Nightingale, and Listener as well?
But here you are, Brynjolf, with me, and I want to keep it that way as long as I can. The only real power I have is that of the vampire. Yet another reason to take the castle, for you. I don’t like being in competition with dead men and absent wives.
Gelebor told them more; about the history of his people, how they had once occupied a good portion of Skyrim but, with the arrival of the Nords, had feared extinction and had turned in part to the dwarves for help. How the dwarves had blinded them with a toxin as part of the process that created what were now known as Falmer. Gelebor’s people, a tiny group living as they had been in a remote area, had been spared that fate, but had met their own much later at the Falmer’s hands. He and his brother were, in fact, the last of the snow elves.
There were five Wayshrines in total, Gelebor told them, spread across the Chantry. They would need to visit each of the others in turn, and they should be prepared for it to take some time.
“The Chantry encompasses far more than a few caverns,” he said. “You’ll discover this for yourselves shortly. But before you leave I must give you the Initiate’s Ewer. Once you’ve discovered a Wayshrine, there will be a spectral Prelate tending to it. They will allow you to draw the waters from the shrine’s basin.” He paused, and an odd look passed across his face. “As if you’d been enlightened.”
Do I look that obviously a heathen? An apostate? How droll. I suppose I’m not surprised.
Andante found himself holding the ewer. It was large, and heavy, and awkward, and he knew he was going to hate every moment of dragging it about.
“I don’t know how I’m supposed to do anything else with my hands if I’m carrying this, Bryn,” he grumbled.
“That would definitely be tragic,” Brynjolf said quietly, the corner of his mouth twitching upward just a bit.
“Are you making fun of me, sir?”
“Of course I am,” Brynjolf chuckled. “We’ll figure something out, lad. Maybe we can make some sort of harness for it. Don’t worry about it. Let’s just get going.”
“Right.” He stepped up to Gelebor and nodded. “Thank you for your help. I hope we’ll see you once we’ve recovered the Bow.”
Gelebor smiled. “All I can do now is grant you my hopes for a safe journey. May Auri-El keep you free from harm.”
Andante bowed, his customary half-bow, and then smiled internally. I guess Andante isn’t completely gone after all, is he. That’s become like breathing to me.
He stepped into the shrine and found that the back wall of it, opposite the opening where they had stood speaking with Gelebor, was shimmering. He sighed, and looked back at Brynjolf and Serana.
“Another portal. Well, let’s see where it leads.” He stepped through the darkened, shimmering surface.
The portal opened into another very dark passage. This one, though, contained glowing, purplish plants spaced apart just enough to give him a sense of direction. As he approached each of them, the purple flowers dimmed and retreated into thick stalks, plunging the immediate area into darkness made even more complete by the eye’s delayed reaction to a change in light levels.
“Ok. Bryn, can you help me with this ewer? I don’t want to be wandering around in the dark trying not to spill it.”
Between the three of them, they managed enough fabric and leather ties to create a back sling for the ewer. It now hung between Andante’s shoulder blades in an awkward position, but upright and at least partially protected from battle damage. He would have to leave the greatsword undrawn for the foreseeable future, but at least now his hands would be free.
“It’s uncomfortable as Oblivion. But better there than in my hands, I suppose.”
“Aye. Let’s get going.”
Farther along the tunnel he began to encounter patches of glowing mushrooms on the walls, and in one of these spots a chaurus hunter – the winged, adult version of the enormous crawling insects prized by the Falmer for their tough shells – burst from its cocoon.
Brynjolf rushed past Andante to attack.
“Bryn- “
But the fight was on. Serana joined the fray with her lightning bolt spell. There was no room for Andante to do anything. He was loath to use his axe in such close quarters, unwilling to risk the grave harm even the slightest slip might cause. The best he could do was to conjure a Dremora churl once again and hope that it might help with its magic and its knife.
After what felt like an eternity Serana said “Done, and done.” He moved forward up the tunnel and tripped over not only the chaurus’ carcass but two Falmer.
“Is everyone alright?”
“Yes, no problem here, lad. But it looks like we’ll be playing with Falmer for a bit. Prepare yourself. It won’t be as bad as Durnheviir but the stench of their living places is a powerful thing.”
He moved past Serana, and caught up with Brynjolf. “Do me a favor, loverboy. Don’t rush past me like that again. This is my battle to fight. You’re still in charge of the Guild.”
Brynjolf grimaced at him. “Don’t remind me.”
“I will remind you, and I’ll keep reminding you. I’m glad you’re with me, Brynjolf, but you know as well as I do that you’re the only one that rabble will listen to. Who will take over if you’re harmed? Me? Don’t make me laugh.”
“There is a Guildmaster,” Brynjolf grumbled.
“And if anyone knew where she was you wouldn’t be here. You know that’s the truth. So just pretend I’m the one in charge for this, yes?”
He couldn’t see Brynjolf’s eyes, but he knew his words must have stung. I’m sorry, Bryn. It has to be hard. You’re trying so hard to be good to me while everything reminds you of the two people you have loved. Even I, your temporary diversion, won’t let you forget. But you have to survive. Nocturnal won’t take me.
“Alright.”
He took point again, moving along the dimly-lit passageways, pondering Nocturnal’s thorough rejection of him. He’d belonged to Sithis for most of his life, she had told him. What did that mean, exactly? Sithis was associated with the Dark Brotherhood; and while he hadn’t taken any particular vow when joining the group he knew that they, Cicero, in particular, were devoted to Night Mother and Sithis. What about before? Was Vitus in the Dark Brotherhood?
He laughed to himself. Vitus. Like he is someone different. Was I in the Brotherhood, before? Would that make sense? He cast his mind backward, focusing hard. I don’t remember. I know I was an assassin. I know that. I remember… notes. Like what Roggi was talking about. But I might have been a solo assassin. Right? Maybe?
He had the sensation that he was about to remember something, a tickling in the back of his brain. He was so focused on the idea that the light ahead of him, with a figure standing in it, barely registered in time for him to stop moving. He blinked, and peered ahead once again. It was a woman in mage’s robes, holding a lighted torch aloft, scanning the spaces ahead of her.
Behind him, one of the others scuffed a foot against the path and a pebble went skittering away.
The figure turned. “Ha! I found you!”
The next moments were a complete blur of flashing spells, blades, shouts, and pain. The woman was a Vigilant of Stendarr, and her weapons were those silver-coated blades favored by the Vigilants and the Dawnguard. They hurt. Andante found himself hampered by those and by the heavy ewer strapped to his back, but he fought as best he could and tried to stay out of the others’ way. When the woman finally fell, Andante ran to her body and stared.
“How did she get ahead of us?” Serana asked.
“No idea at all,” Andante said. “I didn’t see any other way to get past the portal, which means she must have come through after Gelebor opened it for us. Maybe she slipped past while we were fighting the chaurus?”
“I don’t know how she would have fit through. Or why she didn’t take us on during that battle,” Brynjolf replied. “It would have been the perfect time.”
“A renegade looking for the bow herself?”
Andante stared at Serana. “Maybe. I don’t know. Maybe she was afraid to take us on with the chaurus and the Falmer because there was too much going on. Maybe she was looking for a good ambush point. It’s all done now, though.”
“Aye, but keep an eye out for others,” Brynjolf said. “From your spot in the lead.”
Andante laughed. “Don’t be bitter, loverboy. It doesn’t suit you.”
“I’m always bitter. You’ve just never seen me any other way.”
Andante snickered, but as he moved forward he realized the truth of it. He’d seen brief glimpses of Brynjolf excited by battle, moved to real laughter, and even a few moments of what had felt like genuine tenderness on his part; but in general he truly was a dry, bitter, angry man. No wonder he suits me so well.
The path emptied onto another large chamber with a substantial waterfall in its center, this one full of conical structures and dirt pathways with dimly-backlit figures moving about.
“More Falmer,” Brynjolf whispered.
“Yes and it looks like they’ve set up to stay,” Serana agreed.
Andante sighed and pulled out his bow. The first two were quick and easy shots for him; they had neither heard nor scented them, and were not expecting an attack. The third, though, was a spellcaster. Just as Andante froze it with a Shout, another chaurus hunter burst from its cocoon to attack him. He slashed at it, dodging Serana’s lightning bolts, and took it down just as Brynjolf started laughing maniacally. He had run ahead and begun slashing the spellcaster. Andante’s temper flared, and he was about to Shout again when he saw the creature fly backwards, sliced nearly in two by a backhanded swipe from Brynjolf’s sword.
“And that’s that,” he said, as Serana muttered “Disgusting creatures. That’ll teach you.”
Andante lowered his axe back into position and sighed. “I guess there’s no keeping you two from doing what you’re going to do, is there.”
“None,” Brynjolf said, proudly it seemed to him. Andante grinned at him and pressed forward.
The Falmer chambers seemed to go on forever. The path wound past a waterfall, beneath a trap featuring two gigantic claws that would, if triggered, drop down and rip an unsuspecting victim to shreds, and through the middle of several circular clusters of Falmer tents. There weren’t many of the beasts to dispose of, a fact that Andante found odd until they reached a larger cluster of dwellings that was clearly the center of power. A huge, spellcasting Falmer in heavy armor rose to face them, snarling and firing frost spells at them from a seemingly bottomless reservoir of power. It was joined in battle by two chaurus, whose poisons would not harm vampires but whose pincers would. The three of them, along with Andante’s dremora, fought long and hard in the confusion of the dark to take down first the spellcaster and then the two chaurus.
Movement stopped; he heard Brynjolf and Serana panting, trying to recover. He took a deep breath. “Finally. Let’s go.”
No sooner had the words left his mouth when a glancing blow struck him from behind, sending him stumbling forward. Two more Falmer had emerged from the darkness to attack them. Andante regained his balance, turned, and ended one of the creatures with a solid, angry, diagonal chop through its torso. It dropped like a stone just as the others finished with the second Falmer.
“There. I was useful rather than merely ornamental,” he said.
He heard Serana chuckle, and couldn’t prevent himself from grinning, in the dark where she couldn’t see it.
Beyond the waterfall were two passages, one of which had a nicely backlit tripwire stretched across it. He could see more Falmer dwellings beyond it. He shook his head and pointed to his left, toward the darker of the two paths, and slipped along its narrow, dark length as silently as they could.
They came to a well-lighted corner with two odd pulleys suspended from wall mounts. Each of them was more a pole than a chain, with the three torchbug lights on each adding to the illumination of the glowing mushrooms growing just above them.
“Hmm. Pull chains and traps,” Serana said quietly. “Be careful. Whatever’s on the other side of this, the Falmer wanted to keep there.”
“Which shall I pull?”
“I say the one on the left,” Brynjolf offered. “It would be too obvious to have the one closer to the door do the job.”
Andante nodded and selected the pulley nearer them in the hallway. A stone slab rasped its way into the ground, revealing a beautiful but clearly very hungry saber cat of a variety he had never seen. It leapt at him; he barely had time to pull his axe and fend off the enormous fangs. After whirling out of the way he caught it a solid blow to the back of the neck just as Serana struck it with an ice spike. It rolled to its side, dead.
And they emerged from the passage into a place unlike anything Andante had ever encountered.
Phosphorescent rocks and floating, glowing mushrooms gave the cavern an eerie but utterly beautiful light. Odd plants with brilliantly glowing purple leaves and bell-like flowers growing from tall stalks flanked the trail, which wound its way around the edges of the cavern and down, across the shallow lake formed by yet another waterfall. The lake itself was aquamarine, clear, and radiating warmth. Deer with vivid markings danced along the various pathways surrounding it.
“This is beautiful,” he breathed. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”
Serana harrumphed. Andante turned to smile at her, then caught Brynjolf’s gaze and held it even while he addressed her.
“You are surprised, Serana? Don’t be. I can appreciate beauty as much as the next fellow,” he said, smiling the whole time. A slow, answering smile broke across Brynjolf’s face. Good. You understand. Andante didn’t check to see whether Serana saw what was passing between her companions; he merely smiled again and turned back to the task at hand.
They made their way through the cavern, across the pool and up a ramp at its far side. There at the top was another Wayshrine. Standing before it, as Gelebor had told them, was a spectral figure.
“Welcome, Initiate,” it greeted Andante. “This is the Wayshrine of Illumination. Are you prepared to honor the mantras of Auri-El and fill your vessel with his enlightenment?”
If it will get me out of this cave I’ll honor any of the gods you care to name.
“Yes.”
“Then behold Auri-El’s gift, my child,” the ghostly Prelate said. “May it light your path as you seek tranquility within the Inner Sanctum.”
The Prelate turned and cast his spell. The Wayshrine rose, a tiny, ornate cathedral set in the eerie glow of phosphorescent plants and rocks. Andante stepped into the center, motioned for Brynjolf to help him wrestle the Ewer off his back, and then dipped it into the water.
They stepped through the Wayshrine’s portal. Although they were still surrounded by stones, both normal and phosphorescent, the light was intense and Andante winced at its first touch. He heard birds twittering just past an opening in the rocks. He turned to find Brynjolf and Serana both shielding their eyes as well.
“I do believe we’re here,” he said.
“Wherever ‘here’ may be,” Serana agreed.