Shadowwyn Moor o, then I see Queen Mab hath been with you

After a life of travel, she really ought to settle down.

The ache in her bones is a constant reminder that time goes inexorably on, yet her spirit seems to defy her age, young as ever. Sure, by logic, she should be exhausted by now, ready to rest on her laurels. She has done great things, and brought life into the world. The Night Mother is pleased with her, and rightfully so.

But a wanderer's paws are not satisfied so easily, and so the dark lady--teetering on that terrifying verge of becoming a crone--wanders into the moor, a shadow against the bleak landscape. Her indigo eyes drift across the torn fields, the fallen trees and patches of disturbed snow. It is not much to her liking. She prefers the mountains, though her body is not fit enough to scale the winter peaks. A pity, that.

She has no idea she enters the same world in which her sister and brother once resided--but when she does discover it, it won't be a surprise. There are Meloniis in every corner of the earth; her dozen-odd relatives here are just part and parcel. No, not a surprise, but a blessing. It has been so dreadfully long since she has seen them, and she misses Miraak especially, his quiet strength and wisdom.

Megara sighs, breath fogging on the cold, and moves on. She thinks that if she stops to rest now, she'll freeze and never rise again. A lonely statue on the moor.

And that is not the ending that she wants to write.