Mortanne's hands are like stone. She is a living statue, a granite angel in the cemetery, watching over the quiet dead. Her grip, which pins Fever's soul to her body, denies it the ability to die, not yet--- it is immovable. Even if Bhaal could physically manifest to try and rip Mortanne's hands from Fever, he would find both his fingers and his will quicker to shatter than Mortanne's. She is patience. She is steadfastness. She is eternity. How could something as fragile and ephemeral as hatred ever stand a chance?

He can do little more but squirm under her hands as he is pried loose and wormed out. Not a trace remains. Mortanne can feel what Sheogorath feels--- Bhaal's removal is not Sheogorath's doing. Nor Mortanne's. She is the simply the levee used to keep the wastewater out, and him, a tool for killing weeds by eating away their roots. But in changing her mind, her heart, Fever has freed herself.

Mortanne feels Bhaal's grip fall away. His struggling ceases and his willpower dies like a shriveled plant in a cold snap. She lingers a moment more, to ensure that Fever's body is stable enough with Sheogorath's restructuring to hold her soul unaided. Her face remains unchanged, candle light still in her eyes, but her heart swells with pride.