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Chapter Text

The first day of the new year was an important time for the noble families of Morrowind. Gwynileth Nerussa knew that well. She also knew that her parents would flay her alive should she not make an appearance at the festivities; she could practically hear their scolding now.

As the heiress of the Estate, you must adhere to Dunmeri tradition!

And so she stood at the top of the grand spiral staircase, dressed in the most divine dress of ruby and silver that money could buy. Her ebony hair was pinned in delicate swirls that seemed to float over the back of her neck, her hands were perfectly manicured, her ashen face had been washed and primed with fine cosmetics—and she hated every bit of it.

Gwynileth sighed and placed one of her pristine hands to her forehead. None of her pleads and explanations had garnered even an ounce of sympathy from her dear parents before. There was no reason to expect compassion from them now. All they cared about was their legacy, their reputation: it was a hard pill for Gwynileth to swallow, but one that she needed to anyway.

Knowing that if she dallied much longer she would be shot a sharp glare from both mother and father, she took a deep breath and began her descent.

As expected, a number of eyes met her as she approached the grand ballroom. Gwynileth was no stranger to admiration or astonishment or lust. Twenty-five years of being paraded about like a golden trophy provided some degree of loftiness to it all.

Her heart began to race as her eyes transcended all of the faces within the ballroom. There was no mistaking the Telvannis, dressed in robes of velvet that showcased their magical aptitudes and accomplishments. They were all congregated in one corner of the ballroom, holding glasses full of imported wine.

Close by was the Dres family, although their general importance had lessened over the last twenty years. Their invite to the party had been more of a formality than anything; a strict adherence to tradition.

The same could not be said of those in House Redoran. They were one of the Three Great Families, whose values and influence were aspired to all across Morrowind. They respected Azura—as was expected by all—and held great respect for the virtues of duty, piety, and honor.

It’s no wonder who inspires Mother and Father, thought Gwynileth with a sour twist of her lips.

And then of course, there were the Hlaalus. The family of which Gwynileth was most acquainted, the family of which her mother and father were desperately trying to get in the good graces of: the family of which she was the most afraid. Her eyes darted across them all with barely restrained panic, hoping beyond hope that he would not be there—

If only she were so lucky. Standing beside the beverage table in the company of her esteemed mother and father, Nihali and Lorth Nerussa, he was there. Smiles were upon all three of their faces, signifying that he had already been hard at work in charming Gwynileth’s parents.

A lump appeared in her throat. She knew that her duty was to approach her parents and kiss the knuckles of her father’s hand, and so that was what she did despite the pounding in her head, the ice coursing her veins, her every instinct telling her to get away from him.  

“There you are, darling girl,” said her mother, Nihali. There was a soft look upon her face, one of few in Gwynileth’s recent memory. “I see you found the circlet I left for you. How do you like it?”     

In truth, Gwynileth didn’t like it much at all. It was slightly too big for her head and the metal was still cold, which was the last thing she wanted to feel in the dead of winter. But she knew that to say as much would be to invite a verbal lashing later in the evening. So she contented herself with, “It’s beautiful. Thank you.”

Her mother beamed, satisfied with this response.

“Jenithar was just telling us of Great House Hlaalu’s preparations for the First Seed celebration,” said Lorth, casting his daughter an indulgent smile. He reached behind him and pressed a glass of wine into Gwynileth’s hands.

It took every piece of strength she possessed to not drop the glass. The last time she had had wine, she had been in Jenithar’s company—          

“You are as radiant as Azura’s blessed twilight, my lady,” he said. Gwynileth had once liked the sound of his voice, strong and commandeering but soft at the same time.

Now, she could barely stand it.

“Thank you,” she replied. She allowed her crimson eyes to drift just to the side of his smiling face, not daring to truly gaze upon him. “I pray you and your family are well, and shall be safe in Azura’s benevolence.”

She could feel his smile upon her, just as she could with her parents’. It was easy to please them, at least. If Gwynileth performed her mindless day-to-day activities, said the proper greetings and farewells with a pretty smile upon her face, they would be satisfied. Everyone who watched her would be.

Jenithar reached out to place a hand upon her shoulder—she flinched away.

Their smiles disappeared.

“Would you be willing to save me a dance this evening, Lady Nerussa?” asked Jenithar, who had retracted his hand upon seeing her recoil.

Gwynileth took another deep breath, unable to stomach the thought of him touching her again. She spared a desperate look towards her mother, hoping that for once, her mother would take her side.

She didn’t know why she bothered. Nihali was staring at Gwynileth with pursed lips; her grip was tight around the stem of the crystal glass, which was nearly empty. Upon catching her daughter’s eye, she snipped, “Well, go on, dear. There’s only time for one dance before Lorth and I must make our announcements.”

“Right,” said Gwynileth. Her voice and heart both were hollow. “Of course, mother.”

Left with no other choice, Gwynileth turned back to Jenithar. He might have been handsome, dressed in fine clothing the colors of sapphire and silver, the colors of which complimented the darker shade of his skin. His usual smile was waiting for her, the one that she had thought charming only four short months ago.

He extended a hand.

Gwynileth swallowed the bile rising in her throat and was grateful she had not taken a sip of the wine her father had given her, for surely if she had, it would’ve reemerged onto the ballroom floor. But she took his hand and prayed to Azura or Mara or Kynareth—even though she was not supposed to worship those latter two deities—that the following dance would be a short one.

Jenithar’s hand was warm within her own, but Gwynileth could take no comfort from it. She was silent as they approached the dancing floor, silent as the musicians began to play a popular waltz.

Her silence was duly noted. Taking care to keep his voice low, Jenithar said, “Gwynileth. I’ve wished to speak with you the last number of months, but—I have been unable to, to my great regret. There are many things running through my mind now that you are here… I have little idea where to—”

“If you have something to say, Jenithar, please say it,” interrupted Gwynileth. Even though the grand ballroom was stifling, filled with numerous bodies of pompous lords and ladies of various Great Houses, there were prickles upon her skin from the chill in her bones.

Jenithar eyed her; he lowered his head in what was supposed to be shame. “I’m sorry.”

Silence again. Gwynileth thought back to the last evening that she had been alone with him and instantly regretted doing so. She could not escape the feeling of his lips forced upon her own, his hands prodding her breasts, pushing her legs apart—

The nightmares had only been growing worse.

“Sorry will not be enough for me to forgive you,” she stated, and the jagged edge of anger and desperation was the proof of her words. Her blood-red eyes stared daggers into his own. “You stole from me that day. My maidenhood. My trust. My dignity. None of those are things you can give back with an apology.”

They danced in between other couples, all of whom had joyous smiles upon their faces. Noblemen and women were laughing, under the influence of fine wine from Cyrodiil’s Empire, completely oblivious to the shadows that lined the face of the Nerussa heiress.

For the first time that evening, Gwynileth stared at her suitor head-on. Those shadows had not been restricted to her own face; they decorated his, too. It seemed as though Jenithar was, for once in his life, at a loss for words. What he could not say was present in his eyes—there was regret within him.

And yet… there was also longing. Whether that longing was for the relationship they once had or the feeling of laying with her, she could not tell.

“What must I do?” he asked, and the way that his voice cracked shocked her.

Gwynileth took a deep breath. Her thoughts whirled: what could he do for her to forgive him?

They had been close once. Jenithar had been a friend even before he had become a suitor, one of seven that were vying for her hand in marriage. As a member of the Great House Hlaalu, he had always been her parents’ favorite candidate. They adored him, just as Gwynileth used to.

The dance was finished, and all of the party’s attendees were applauding the musicians that were crammed in the corner balcony of the ballroom. Each person was the same—dressed in ridiculously expensive garments, puffed up and prodded until they could barely breathe, spouting the same half-assed well-wishes and pleasantries to each other in the room.

“Gwynileth?”

She blinked and glanced back to Jenithar. The disgust that had been harboring in her heart for the nobles surrounding her was now turned towards him; the answer to his earlier question suddenly rushed forth, and she knew she had to say it, expectancies be damned.

“Leave my life and never speak to me again,” she said. She swiftly removed her hands from within his own. “There are certain lines that are never to be crossed, and you crossed all of mine on that day. I will never forgive you for what you did to me, Jenithar.”

Before he could utter another word, she turned on her heels and pushed her way through the crowd. No one knew how to escape a gathering like Gwynileth did, and she used that to her advantage as she snuck towards the kitchens.

The moment the door closed behind her, she exhaled harshly and slumped against it. All of the servants within the kitchens stared at her for the briefest of moments before returning to their tasks, knowing that to be caught ‘slacking’ would invite derision from the Lord and Lady of the House.

Despite knowing this, Anya still rushed forth, sliding to her knees next to her mistress. She did not speak, but she did hold out a butter-bun filled with fresh raspberry jam for Gwynileth to eat.

“You always know what I need,” murmured Gwynileth. She took the treat with shaking hands and nibbled into it, taking the time to savor its sweet taste.

Anya raised a hand towards Gwynileth’s hair as if to run her fingers through it, before realizing that it would be unwise to undo the style that her mistress’s hair had been so meticulously placed in. Her voice bitter, the handmaiden asked, “He went to you, didn’t he?”

Gwynileth sighed and swallowed her miniscule bite of pastry. “He was already with my parents when I arrived, schmoozing his way into their good graces as he does. I didn’t have any other choice, and he knew it…”

“Bastard,” said Anya.

A number of the other servants gasped and stared at Anya with wide eyes. They knew how dangerous it was to speak poorly of a member of one of the Great Houses—the very walls sometimes had ears.

But Gwynileth just smiled. “I both share and appreciate the sentiment, Anya, but you must be careful. Should my mother or father catch you talking like that, your pay will be docked again.”

“My pay is the least of my concerns,” said Anya, who was not bothering to conceal the blatant scowl that had overtaken her lips. “You are my friend of twenty years, Gwynileth. I will not see you married to a rapist if I have any say in it.”

As much as Gwynileth wished that Anya could have a say in it, the possibility of her handmaiden’s words having any effect on her parents’ desires was less than zero. Anya’s entire family had dedicated their lives to serving the Nerussa Estate, over fifty combined years of unwavering loyalty.

Even that wouldn’t be enough to warrant Anya’s opinion.

"I don’t want to talk about him,” said Gwynileth. She finished off the last of the butter-bun and rose to her feet, smoothing out the wrinkles that had formed in her dress. “Show me what else you’re baking. I haven’t been able to visit the dessert tables yet.”

And so Anya obliged, directing Gwynileth towards the stoves and ovens within which some ash yam dumplings were baking, as well as snowberry crostatas and lavender cakes. The other servants happily showed their lady the baking process for those cakes, as Gwynileth was the most fascinated by those and expressed her desire to eat at least three of them before the night was up.

Gwynileth had always preferred the company of the working men and women of the estate to that of the other nobles. The servants of Nerussa Estate simply seemed more… real. More genuine.

They looked out for one another as well—something the nobles rarely did.

Right as she was about to ask whether there were any extra snowberries that she could steal, the door to the kitchens slammed open. Standing in the doorway, looking both exasperated and angry, was Nihali Nerussa.

“What are you doing in the kitchens?” she hissed, storming inside and grabbing at Gwynileth’s arm with fingernails that should’ve been classified as talons. “Get back into the ballroom! We cannot make our announcement without you!”

“You didn’t say that,” Gwynileth replied.

Her mother seethed and continued dragging her away from the servants.

The moment they were back in view of the other guests, however, Gwynileth’s mother had released her arm and was all smiles again. She quickly said hello to a few party guests lingering about the entrance to the kitchens but excused herself from conversation before it could get too deep.

Gwynileth trailed after her mother, knowing that it would be unwise to do anything else. While she had long since learned the rules of the upper-class, she had not mastered the art of interacting with the nobility. It was fascinating—in a somewhat revolting sort of way—to watch her mother deftly navigate each situation, each person, with grace and dignity.

It only took a minute or two for them to reach the head of the ballroom, where her father was already waiting with a refreshed wine glass in hand. He handed another to Gwynileth, who grimaced at the appearance of the drink.

“Don’t like this one?” asked Lorth. He waved a hand to the table behind him, upon which a number of other drinks were in a neat line. “Take your pick.”

This was a small freedom, but better than not having one at all. Gwynileth set the wine upon the table and opted for a simple glass of water, which she knew would be safe.

Once she held it in her hands, her father raised his own glass and tapped on it with a clean silver spoon. At once the conversations in the ballroom were halted; each guest was staring expectantly at the House of Nerussa, the up and coming family that was whispered to be the future of Morrowind, should their legacy continue to spread.

“Good evening, my esteemed friends, and welcome to our abode. On this night of all nights, at the beginning of another promising year for all of us gathered today, we of House Nerussa are beyond honored to host you, my dear Redorans, Telvannis, Hlaalus, and Dres.”

There was a polite round of applause after each Great House was listed. Based on the smug smiles upon many faces, Gwynileth figured her father was at least amusing them, if not stroking their already inflated egos.   

The muted claps died down before long, signaling her father to resume with his speech. “In times such as these, we are reminded of the importance of unity and cooperation. It is vital that we continue to foster goodwill amongst ourselves not only for us, but for the benefit of all Morrowind. The common-folk look to us upon the Grand Council to lead the political ramifications of this country, which is not a duty that should ever be taken lightly.”

A few nods met the Nerussas from the crowd, which seemed to reinvigorate Gwynileth’s father. He raised his wine glass in preemptive cheers and declared, a smile upon his face, “Just as all of you understand this responsibility and have accepted it with open arms, so House Nerussa strives to follow in your lead. To that end, we are pleased and humbled to announce the engagement of our heiress and beloved daughter to the honorable Jenithar Hlaalu, as a gesture of unity—a binding of kin—for the good of all Morrowind!”

The approving roars of the crowd were drowned out by the rush of blood that had just appeared in Gwynileth’s head. Everything had grown weak and numb and now it was so hard to breathe, just to breathe—                 

Her glass of water fell from her hands and spilled onto the floor, but no one even seemed to notice. The members of Houses Redoran, Telvanni, and Dres were already busy congratulating those of House Hlaalu and Lorth and Nihali. Their attentions were not on Gwynileth at all; she could’ve fainted upon the lifted pavilion of the ballroom and no one would’ve uttered a sound.

In the middle of the crowd, she saw him surrounded by a crowd of noblemen, all of whom were slapping a hand upon his back or shaking his hand with excess vigor. A large smile was upon his face, as though he were happily in love, as though this was the best news that he could’ve received all night.

Gwynileth spared a glance back to her parents. Both of them were already deep in conversation with the heads of House Hlaalu, speaking of the future preparations that would need to be addressed…

She took a deep breath and removed herself from the pavilion, from the ballroom, and walked through the hallways. Her normally grey skin was so pale she was almost white, like one of those Imperials or Nords—it was like she was a ghost, floating upon the plush carpets of the Nerussa Estate and back to her own room.

Seeing as she wasn’t followed, Gwynileth entered her bedroom, closed the door behind her, and locked it. She took out the pins from within her hair, wiped the powders off of her face with a warm towel, stripped off the gown that her mother had spent thousands of septims on.

And then she extinguished the lights of the candles, climbed underneath the covers of her bed, and sobbed.

Chapter Text

It was hard to eat. It was hard to drink water. It was hard to sleep, or do anything else at all.

Ever since the announcement of her arranged marriage had been made, Gwynileth was little more than a walking husk of a woman. She could hardly stand to think of it: she would be married to Jenithar Hlaalu, the man who raped her, on the 29^th of Second Seed, 4E 201.

Her birthday.

The date of the wedding was an insult to an already grievous injury, one that only Anya’s company could soothe. Her handmaiden was as loyal as ever, taking care of her by forcing spoonfuls of stew into her mouth, by bringing her large glasses of water every single hour, by gifting Gwynileth a notebook within which she could write her innermost thoughts.

“You must run away,” Anya insisted, day after day. “I can’t stand the thought of you chained to a life of fear and misery, Gwynileth. You need to go.”

But where could Gwynileth go? There was nowhere she could run, no friends to assist her. Anya could hardly go herself, as she had very little money to help her restart a new life, not to mention she had her brother, his wife, and two young nephews to take care of and look after.

Soon, there was one more reason why Anya could not also flee Morrowind.

Illness of some sort always found its way into the Nerussa Estate during the winter months. The other Great Houses weren’t exempt from this; there was some cold, some flu, that made its way through the servant’s quarters. But this year’s plague was brutal and unlike anything Gwynileth had ever seen before—and it had taken Anya as one of its hostages.

It seemed that this disease affected one’s ability to breathe. When Anya attempted to take a deep breath, she began to cough, as though there were cobwebs in her lungs. On days when the cough became particularly powerful, her saliva was tinged with the red of blood.

Gwynileth was able to shrug off the gloom that her engagement had wrought in order to take care of her handmaiden. She quickly began making stews and other easy to eat foods for Anya—she traipsed into the ash fields of Morrowind for what little healing herbs the country sported, and began boiling the roots and tubers together for medicinal pastes and syrups. On days when Anya was frightfully hot to the touch, Gwynileth prepared hot baths in an attempt to sweat out the fever; she would bathe Anya as gently as she could, while taking care to avoid contracting the same disease herself.

Even though Gwynileth was glad to do all of these things for her best and only friend, her parents were not as enamored with her activities and behavior. Now that she was to marry into the Hlaalu family, she was expected to begin learning the traditions of the Hlaalu house, as well as attend many soirees with the ladies of her future in-laws.

But she could not be bothered with such useless frivolity, hence her parents’ ire.

"You must attend Lady Briala’s tea-time tomorrow!” exclaimed Nihali, tugging at Gwynileth’s arm. “She is expecting you!”

“I will not. Anya needs me.”

Her mother’s nostrils flared, but Gwynileth did not shy away. It was much easier for her to make small stands of defiance when they were for the benefit of someone other than herself. The two women ended up glaring at one another for a long while.

“Your handmaiden will survive two or three hours without your presence,” said Nihali at last, a cold steel lacing her tone. It was a stark contrast from the hot anger that had been occupying it only seconds ago. “This is expected of you.”

Gwynileth stood up straight, crimson eyes blazing. “I have lived all of my life doing what was expected of me. I will not be convinced to do so when my best friend is grievously ill, and may need my help at any time.”

She did not add that she would sooner eat ash than attend Lady Briala’s tea party, for that was one of the women who, when rumors that Jenithar had ‘slept with’ Gwynileth began circulating about, declared that Gwynileth had been lucky.

So it was that Gwynileth remained at home for the day of the tea party, but her luck was not to last. Only three days afterward, her fiancé came to visit.

There was no escaping that time. Both her mother and father approached to say that Gwynileth was expected to remain in the lounge with her betrothed while they and his parents began discussing the upcoming celebrations and the matter of her dowry.

There were snacks and drinks prepared for them all: cheeses and wines, grapes and sausages. Such fare was rare for most in Morrowind, considering all the farmland was tinted with ash—but when one lived at the height of luxury and could summon anything with but a snap of their fingers, that was not an issue.

Gwynileth’s head was ringing as the heads of the Great Houses spoke about the upcoming bridal shower, the matter of a dowry, a potential honeymoon to Elsewyr, which was supposedly warm deserts and oasis… each of them had such joy upon their faces. He was at ease, too. Everyone was smiling and laughing save for Gwynileth, who felt as though strangers were talking about her as though she were not there at all.

Then, her mother said the dreaded words.

“Why don’t we take a stroll around the gardens and leave the couple to discuss the finer details of the wedding?” asked Nihali, with a smile so thick and sweet it could’ve been mistaken for that Nordic jazbay syrup.

Everything in Gwynileth’s chest was screaming at her to beg her parents not to leave her—to just stay, for once in their lives, to stay.

She already knew it wouldn’t work. They had never listened.

“That sounds like a splendid idea,” replied Lady Varanya Hlaalu. “I’ve heard many lovely things about the winter-roses you’ve had planted in the windowsills, and I must see them for myself…”

Without further ado, the two sets of parents were off. And for the first time since the first day of Sun’s Dusk, Gwynileth was alone with him.

The door clicked shut softly, but due to the utter silence of the room, the sound was near deafening. She sat still, her hands folded in her lap the way her mother had consistently taught her, and waited.

After a long and uncomfortable moment—during which Gwynileth absolutely refused to meet his eyes—he cleared his throat and said, “It would seem we are to be married.”

Gwynileth kept her gaze fixed upon her hands.

“I think that means we need to discuss who will receive invitations to the wedding, as well as where we shall buy a house and begin our lives and new responsibilities,” he added, apparently encouraged by her silence. “Do you… have any suggestions?”

“Somewhere warm,” she whispered. Gwynileth didn’t want to talk about this. She didn’t even want to think about it, but it simply seemed that everywhere she went nowadays, it was more of this hell. It would be better to play along with it, to just get it over with, instead of fight it. “And… not too crowded. Please.”

She still did not look at him, but Gwynileth could feel rather than see the relieved smile upon her fiancé’s face as he replied, “Yes, of course! My cousin has a summer mansion she has been looking to sell for a while on the Ascadian Isles. I could purchase that from her straightaway.”

Her heartbeat was loud; much too loud. All that was running through her head was how terrified she was.

“Gwynileth? Are you… well?”

Upon hearing that Jenithar sounded worried, some of her fear melted away to make room for anger. Her crimson eyes snapped to his face, which bore signs of unmistakable concern—but no, it couldn’t be concern because he had hurt her, he had hurt her so badly she did not know how to even begin healing from it.

Teeth ground together, she hissed, “Of course not. Do you honestly think I want this?”

Jenithar blinked. “I don’t understand—”

“This… this farce of a marriage!” she cried, and now her hands were no longer in her lap, but thrown to the air in a hopeless gesture. “After what you’ve done to me and what I told you at the New Year Festival, how can you possibly deceive yourself into thinking that we will have a happy life together? We won’t, Jenithar, no matter how hard you try to ignore what happened.”

“It was a mistake,” he retorted, and now his hands were extended in pleading. “I’m sorry! What else am I supposed to say? I made a horrible mistake. I hurt you, the woman I genuinely care about, and I can never take that back. Do you want me to throw myself at your feet and beg? If that’s what you want, then…”

He trailed off, looking as though he was about to leap up from the couch, and Gwynileth couldn’t take it. It would be so much easier to hate him if he had been the ruthless man she had seen that day, the one who had ignored her pleads and told her that no matter what she was saying, her body was responding well and that deep down, she knew she liked it.

This wasn’t the same man—but it was.

Everything hurt. Gwynileth’s head was pounding so fiercely she was afraid she would faint right there; but she couldn’t, not unless she were to put herself at the mercy of Jenithar Hlaalu once more.

The tears spilled from the corner of her eyes. She hid them away and gasped, “I don’t want your apology. You’ve already made it before. I just want this to be over—all of this.”

She began to sob, keeping her face concealed so he wouldn’t see just how deeply affected she was. The only one whom Gwynileth completed confided in was Anya, who was but a few corridors away, resting pale and weak.     

A minute passed, during which time Gwynileth tried to remake her mask of stone. But the truth of the matter was that she hadn’t quite begun to process any of the trauma, any of the emotions that battered at whatever remained of her heart.

“I see,” Jenithar said at long last. His voice was composed again; unreadable. “If that is your wish, then here is my suggestion: once we are married, you will take the left wing of the mansion. I shall live in the right wing. I will not go to see you save for at night on the seventh day of every week.”

Gwynileth took a shaky breath and looked up at him from behind her hands. Her voice trembling, she asked, “E-every… the seventh night of every week?”

Hearing her confusion, he frowned. “Surely you realize the entire purpose of our engagement is to unite our Houses together by means of producing a son?”

Waves roared in Gwynileth’s head—

“You have my word that once we have a son, you will be free of me forever,” he added swiftly, noting the pale hue her face had taken. “You will be unable to annul our marriage, but in every other aspect of the word, you shall have your freedom, and whatever else you desire. Is that acceptable?”

She swallowed past the lump in her throat, unable to stomach the idea. And yet, as twisted of a suggestion as it was… it would be better than sharing a bed with him every night.

Before she could reply, voices began echoing from around the corner. Recognizing them as their parents, Gwynileth swiftly wiped her eyes just as the doors opened, and the four Heads of Houses reentered the room.

“You simply must send me those extra honey-bloom seeds of yours,” Lady Varanya was saying, her face flushed lightly silver from the chill. “They were my favorite—ah, Jenithar! Have you and Gwynileth made any leeway on your celebration or your life afterward?”

“Some,” said Jenithar. His eyes were still glued to Gwynileth, who had fully regained her composure not because she wanted to, but because she had to. “There are still a few decisions that need to be made, and things to be talked over.”

His mother beamed at him and placed a slim hand upon his shoulder. “Of course. Preparations are never easy, but they must be done! We must go, however—if you remember, we have dinner plans with the Telvannis. There seems to be a rogue necromancer we must dispatch the Morag Tong to deal with, and we need the specific details.”

“It was lovely to have you visit,” said Lorth, who crossed the room to stand behind his daughter. Gwynileth shifted upon the sofa, wishing he wouldn’t be so close. “Please feel free to return at any time. We would love to give you a tour of the surrounding farmland next.”

The Hlaalu family began dawdling towards the exit, with Gwynileth’s parents exchanging the same stiff pleasantries and farewells they always did. For a little while, Gwynileth watched them go—but her attention was stolen away by Jenithar, who had approached her spot on the couch.

She tensed as he neared and leaned towards her, his lips unbearably close. Then he said, “I look forward to marrying you, Gwynileth.”

He kissed her temple; she grit her teeth as he rose, his hand brushing the inside of her arm. Then he and his family were gone, to return to their grand estate in Balmora.

Gwynileth sat frozen in outrage. She was not an unintelligent woman: she knew what he meant by his words. They made it easier to hate him again. For that, oddly enough, she was grateful.

“Well, now. That wasn’t so bad, was it?” said Nihali, shooting her daughter an approving smile.

“May I go check on Anya?” Gwynileth asked, ignoring the question.

Her father sighed and pat a hand upon her shoulder. The gesture only made her angry, even though it was meant to be comforting. “Of course. Give Anya our best when you see her.”

Gwynileth rose stiffly to her feet and exited the drawing room. Her father didn’t actually care what would happen to her handmaiden. He wasn’t fooling anyone.

Lifting her skirts, she ran down the hallway, trying to ignore the feeling of dread that pursued her left and right. They were near empty as she went, and so she allowed herself to feel the despair she had pushed away during her terror-filled moments in the drawing room.

The moment she reached Anya’s door, she took a deep breath. Anya had her own problems. The last thing Gwynileth would do would be to bestow her own upon the poor woman as well.

She pushed the door open. Resting inside, even paler than the last two hours, was Anya. Her dark hair was frayed around the pillows; when she turned to face Gwynileth, there was a cloudiness to her scarlet eyes.

Gwynileth smiled and began walking to her handmaiden’s bedside. “How are you feeling? Do you need anything? More blankets? Hot water?”

"Stop your fretting,” murmured Anya. A wan smile took over her face, but her eyes closed. “You sound like my mother.”

"With good reason.” Gwynileth placed her hand upon Anya’s forehead—she was still burning up. Biting the inside of her lip, she said, “Are you… feeling any better?”

Anya’s eyes opened again. As she was now closer than before, Gwynileth could see the light that had been lost, the heavy toll the disease had taken upon her. Before she could respond, Anya burst into a fit of coughing—Gwynileth lunged to the bedside table for a cloth and gently pressed it to her mouth.

When the cloth was removed, there were heavy stains of red.

Both women stared at it for a moment. And then Anya said, “I’m still alive.”

Gwynileth didn’t know what to say. The disease had spread to other corners of the house—a few of the maids who maintained the laundry had already caught it, as well as two of the ushers and server boys. None of them had gotten better yet.

“Something’s wrong,” said Anya with a frown. Sick or not, her death glare was still frightening. “Tell me what happened.”

“You have enough on your mind.”

“My lady, please.”

This last sentence made Gwynileth pause. She had sworn to herself to keep her troubles away from her handmaiden—and yet the tone of voice was firm, decisive. As though Anya would be offended if she didn’t speak her mind, and let her know of all that had occurred.

With a heavy sigh, Gwynileth relayed the events of the meeting between Houses Nerussa and Hlaalu. Throughout it all, Anya listened with a furrowed brow and the utmost concentration on her face… and then, when it was all finished, Anya exclaimed, “I would sooner marry an ash hopper than someone like that. Do you remember what I’ve been telling you?”

You must run away. You need to go.

“Yes,” sighed Gwynileth, rubbing her arm. “But… I do not think I can do it.”

“Why not?”

Gwynileth blinked and stared at her handmaiden, who despite her sickly pallor, had spoken with such ferocity. It was there in her face, too: that determination, and something that almost looked like anger.

“You have nothing waiting for you here, unless you care about your family’s riches so much that you are willing to sacrifice your life, love, and body to that snake,” said Anya.

A greyish flush took over Gwynileth’s face. Hotly, she exclaimed, “I hold no such sentiment for this lifestyle. Had I been born into a farmer’s household, perhaps I would actually be happy at this point in my life.”

Anya’s lips twisted into a macabre grin. “My point exactly. Is happiness not what you want?”

“I…” But Gwynileth stopped speaking. A lump had appeared in her throat; she only barely managed to eke out the words, “I don’t know if it’s even possible…”

“Of course it is,” said Anya. One hand emerged from underneath the blanket and grabbed onto Gwynileth’s sleeve, allowing only her thumb to caress the inside of her lady’s wrist. “All you need to do is pluck up the courage and enough money to get yourself on a boat to Skyrim.”

Gwynileth’s mouth dried. “Skyrim…”

She had read about the Nord’s country bordering Morrowind to the west. The Velothi Mountains all but prevented travel on foot, considering how perilous a journey those snow-ridden peaks was. That meant despite being neighbors, the only feasible ways to reach Skyrim were by boat or on foot through both the Black Marsh and Cyrodiil.

Skyrim would be a hard place for anyone to follow her…

But there was still something stopping her. Gwynileth grasped Anya’s hand tightly and murmured, “I will not and cannot leave you here alone. My family will know that you helped me.”

The smile on Anya’s face both brightened and became a little sad. “Gwynileth… I don’t think you’ll have to worry about that for long.”

She did not have to elaborate. Gwynileth promptly burst into tears, burying her face into the breast of her best friend, perhaps the only person within the entire Nerussa Estate whose loyalties were hers and hers alone. The thought of living without Anya, who had been with her for as long as she could remember—

Slim fingers traipsed through Gwynileth’s dark hair; an attempt to soothe, to calm. Knowing that now was hardly the time to break down, Gwynileth raised her head, forcefully stopping her tears.

“Listen to me,” murmured Anya, her face tired yet hopeful. “Promise me you’ll run away after my funeral. You cannot stay here. Gwynileth… I’ve served you for the last eighteen years, and known you for the last twenty-three. Trust me when I say: I have only ever wanted the best for you. Go to Skyrim, and never come back here. Find a good place to live, and a good man to love. Have the happiness you deserve. Please.”

At the bottom of her heart, Gwynileth knew Anya was right. Here in Morrowind, her choices were to marry the man who betrayed her… and that was it. There was no other choice.

In Skyrim, maybe… maybe she could find something good.

“Consider it my last request, as it were,” said Anya, this time with a cheesy grin.

Gwynileth made an unintelligent noise in the back of her throat—something between a snort and a sob. Either way, it set Anya to laughing, and the fact that she did not start coughing afterward was a minor victory.

After a brief moment of morbid hilarity, Gwynileth sighed and squeezed Anya’s hand. There was something in her chest—a new sort of resolve—as she said, “I hope it does not come to that, Anya, but if it does… then I will do this. I swear to you: I will go to Skyrim.”

Chapter Text

Anya passed away at dawn on the 27^th of Morningstar, 4E 201. Her funeral was planned by Gwynileth, who had become little more than a sad silver shadow presiding around the estate.

The ceremony took place in the gardens: Anya’s favorite place to read a book, with a cup of lavender tea. There were not a lot of attendees, but in truth, Gwynileth preferred it that way. In all, the guests comprised of herself, Anya’s brother, her nephews, and her sister-in-law. Together, they said a few words of love and affection. Gwynileth gave them the knuckle-bone in a small pouch so they might put it within the pillars to guard their house… and then they opened Anya’s final will and testament.

Most of the money was left to Anya’s brother, to use for the family. The rest was given to Gwynileth. A note was written as a postscript: Use this money to get that boat ticket to Skyrim. Good luck, Gwyn. I love you.

Over the following days, Gwynileth led a careful double life. By day, she would accompany her mother around the premier market-stands, purchasing silks and suffering through fittings for the seamstresses that would make her wedding gown. She would attend horribly boring soirees and parties among the nobility, and do everything she could to avert suspicion.

By night, she would disguise herself and begin to visit the flea markets, selling all of her summer gowns and jewelry to accumulate enough money to start a new life in Skyrim. Most of her possessions sold for quite the amount of gold, but there was one amulet that she could not bring herself to sell: a gift from Lady Unara of House Redoran, the only member of the Great Houses who seemed to understand the pressure that Gwynileth was under.

“This is a symbol my House has long used to symbolize courage,” Unara had said, a meaningful gleam in her eye. “I pray to Azura that it keeps you strong in the coming months.”

Gwynileth did not know Lady Unara well, but she would not toss such a sentiment away when she was already giving up everything else.

By the midst of Sun’s Dawn, she had amassed a total of one-thousand eight-hundred and twenty-one septims. Although the vast majority of this money would be dedicated towards the ticket upon the Northern Maiden, the vessel that would transport her to Skyrim, Gwynileth was still pleased by the number. With a little luck and frugality, the money would be enough to support herself for at least a couple of weeks in her new life.

The most difficult part of the process was not the sneaking around or the overwhelming guilt… it was the fact that she knew she would be alone the moment she stepped foot onto the boat. One thing that Gwynileth had never lacked for during her life was company; it would be a strange and daring change to venture off on her own in search of something more.

On the morning of the 16^th of Sun’s Dawn, Gwynileth visited the grave-marker underneath which some of Anya’s ashes were resting. She knelt ahead of the stone and carefully watered the white lilies that had been planted. Her black mourning dress was a stark contrast to the cheery flowers.

“Anya,” she whispered, her fingertips brushing against the engraved name. “Everything is ready. All of my money… my few possessions are packed… I leave tonight, at the highest hour of the moon.”

Of course there was no response, save for the wind passing through Gwynileth’s pitch black hair. The lily petals swayed gently.

“Did you really think I could do this? Or… did you just try to give me a semblance of hope again?”

The sun’s rays were surprisingly warm considering how far away the spring months remained. First Seed would be arriving soon; there was supposed to be a celebration on the seventh day of the month, one that Houses Hlaalu and Nerussa had planned to celebrate together.

Gwynileth’s throat grew tight. Her mother and father had not done her a lot of favors in the last few months—nay, few years. Their expectations had multiplied ever since her twentieth date of birth… and just as their daughter had grown, so had their ambitions.   

But was there not a tiny part of them that still loved her exactly for who she was, deep inside their souls? Surely they had not become so depraved as to only see her as a vessel for personal power. Surely they at least remembered she was their only child…

It was that moment that Gwynileth realized tears were trailing down her cheeks. One of them had fallen from her chin and stained the cover of her notebook, the same one that Anya had gifted to her. She swiftly wiped the blot away. It was a last tangible gift—it would not be soiled.

Gwynileth sighed and focused on taking deep breaths. There was no telling whether she would miss her parents once she was gone… but she would miss Anya.

She wanted to remember what this little enclave in the gardens looked like.

Gwynileth opened her notebook and began to draw, even though it was Anya who had harbored the artistic talent—but that didn’t mean Gwynileth couldn’t try, for her.

Within the next half-hour, the drawing was done. It was not a perfect likeness, but it was enough: Anya’s tombstone, surrounded by her favorite flowers.

“It’s beautiful,” said a voice.

Gwynileth stiffened. Without glancing over her shoulder, she said, “I was unaware that you would be paying our estate a visit today.”

Jenithar chuckled behind her; it was likely that he was shrugging, in a casually hopeless manner. “It is Heart’s Day, is it not? I brought you these.”

He set a bouquet of lilac flowers ahead of the place where Gwynileth was sitting. She blinked and stared at them for a long while—she was startled and pleased despite herself. Lilac flowers such as these were a rare gift in an ash-ridden place such as Morrowind… her fingers reached out to trace their petals, which flowed along the currents of the wind just as the lilies surrounding Anya’s gravestone did.

“And… we never concluded our conversation from the last time that we spoke together.”

Jenithar’s voice brought Gwynileth back to reality. Her hand quickly returned to her side, though her eyes remained locked on the purple flowers. “I do not know what else there is to say.”

The shifting of leaves and dirt told Gwynileth that her fiancé was kneeling beside her—it was hard not to smile, if only because had Anya known that Jenithar Hlaalu was ahead of her grave, she would’ve sworn at him like a Nord sailor.

“I will tell you every day of my life, if I must: I am sorry.” Jenithar took a deep breath; his exhale was shaky. “You are a woman of great worth, Gwynileth. I am not a man of the same quality. If I truly were a great man, I would have heard your pleas the first moment they were uttered. I… am a monster. You have every right to push me away, to ask never to speak to me again. But there is no avoiding what we must do now, for the sake of our people, our families, and our country. And so I must ask you again: is there any point in the future where you might be able to forgive me? Is there anything I can do?”

His voice cracked with this last sentence; his hands had extended in a feeble gesture. The normally sharp lines of his jaw were clenched, as though he was trying to prevent his lips from trembling. For the first time in what felt like years, for the first time since they were children, Gwynileth was able to see Jenithar Hlaalu at his most vulnerable.

They had been friends for a long time. It would be nice to be able to go back to how things had been.

But that was not possible, and Gwynileth knew it.

She also knew that within the next twenty-four hours, she would be gone. Whatever she chose next to say would likely be her last words to him: they needed to be powerful and cathartic not for his sake, but for her own.

Gwynileth took a deep breath and, though she shook as she did so, reached out to take one of his hands. “Jenithar… I appreciate you saying these things. I truly do. You are either incredibly genuine, or an incredible liar—and having known you for longer than most others can guess, I do believe that it is the former.”

His eyes widened, sparking in hope. But Gwynileth was not done speaking. She locked eyes with him, her gaze stern, but not unkind. “I believe that you are sorry. But… my appreciation for your words does not mean I am obligated to forgive you. I told you at the New Year’s Ball that some lines should never be crossed. Our relationship can never truly be mended, but that does not mean everything is beyond hope.”

She squeezed his hand, encouraged by his silence, by the bittersweet acceptance in his face. “Use this as a tool for your future, Jenithar. Do not break trust of the others in your life who love you. I cannot grant you the forgiveness you seek, but perhaps someday… for my own sake, I can find peace with what happened.”

The changes in his face were miniscule: the lines around his mouth softened, and there was sorrowful understanding in his gaze. Jenithar squeezed her hand in return before letting it go. “I will accept this. Thank you, Gwynileth. I am sorry.”

He turned away from her, allowing his eyes to rest upon the gravestone that sat ahead of them both. Upon reading the name engraved on its plaque, he sighed softly. “Ah… Anya. Your handmaiden, was she not?”

A lump appeared in her throat. Gwynileth nodded in lieu of speaking.

“I’m glad you were able to have her in your life, even if it was not for as long as either of you deserved,” said Jenithar. He placed a hand upon her shoulder for only the briefest of moments before rising again. “I will leave you to mourn. I did not mean to intrude.”

Gwynileth did not turn to watch him go; her crimson eyes were locked upon the name sitting plainly ahead. “I appreciate that. Good afternoon, Jenithar.”

The sound of retreating footsteps revealed that once again, Gwynileth was alone. Even though it was mid-winter, and there had never been many birds in Morrowind… she was delighted to hear a sparrow-song from somewhere not too far away. It could’ve been a sign: something from Anya, to say that she was proud of her mistress for standing up for herself for once.

“I made you a promise, Anya,” she murmured, her voice cracking. She sighed and folded the little notebook, now complete with a sketch of the tombstone and its flowers, against her chest. “It will be hard, but… I will see it through.”

The night was cold and dry, and Gwynileth was grateful that she had brought her snow-bear pelt to keep her warm as she waited at the docks for the Northern Maiden.

Stars were visible overhead, as it was thankfully a cloudless sky. Gwynileth decided to pass the time by studying the constellations; she had never paid much attention to the histories painted in the pictures of the sky during her childhood studies. Now, as an adult, she regretted her restless nature.

Just as she was grateful for something to do in her wait, she was also grateful for the relative emptiness of the pier. She had only ever seen the sea-side docks during the day, when it was a-hustle with townsfolk.

Over the edge of the horizon, Gwynileth spotted it: the dark silhouette of a ship. She took a deep breath—everything was so surreal. She had but a small pack of belongings alongside her with sparse possessions: her notebook, what gold still remained, a few unperishable meals, a few sets of traveling clothes… and her own courage.

“Ahoy!” exclaimed a male voice. He was waving from the helm of the ship, navigating its way into the docks. “You must be our passenger?”

Gwynileth waved in response and pulled her hood further over her face. She did not dare to speak until she was onboard; she did not know much about Skyrim’s people or their culture, and would not risk being rejected passage on the base that she was a woman.

“Come aboard, then!” said the man. He leapt off the boat and started walking towards some of the boxes that Gwynileth had been standing beside. “You’ve already paid in advance, so you won’t have any trouble from me.”

She had indeed paid in advance: a hefty sum of one thousand and five-hundred septims. Gwynileth nodded at the man and grasped the handles of her bag before boarding the vessel.

The boat was wobbly—something she had not expected. Gwynileth inhaled sharply through her teeth and lunged out to grab one of the masts nearby.

Upon hearing her distress, the sailor chuckled good-naturedly. “First time aboard a ship? No worries. You’ll get your bearings eventually! And if you happen to get seasick, just let me or one o’ the boys know. We’ve got a few remedies to help you out.”

Before Gwynileth could even think of what to reply, the man hauled a box onto the ship with a grunt. She began to move forward to help, but the sailor held out a hand in protest. “Don’t concern yourself over me. Go ahead and get situated wherever you like. Feel free to look underneath decks if you wish.”

This last sentence did not make any sense at all. Under decks?

Figuring there was nothing better to do, Gwynileth set her small knapsack beside one of the well-guarded railings and stood, overlooking the ocean ahead of her.

It was only another few minutes before the man had finished transporting what goods he was supposed to pick up. He sauntered back behind the wheel and prepared to steer the boat…

Gwynileth’s heartbeat crashed against her skull as each second passed. The man was hauling an anchor from where it had been cast… the ship continued swaying underneath her feet, exacerbating what nausea she felt from her own anxiety. While she struggled to keep her breathing calm because she was actually doing it, she was actually leaving, the happy sailor was whistling a jaunty tune, none the wiser to her predicament.

It was hard to tell whether the rocking of the boat was comforting like an infant’s cradle, or terrifying like an earthquake. All Gwynileth knew was that her homeland was growing further and further away until its shoreline was little more than a sliver over the far distance, and then it was just… gone.

She exhaled sharply and placed both of her hands upon the railings. Her knuckles turned silver from how hard she was grasping them.

“So, eh—you don’t seem to be the chatty type,” said the sailor, who had paused in his whistling. “Would it be all right if I got your name? If you don’t mind me asking, o’ course.” 

There would be no hiding the fact that she was a woman forever. Figuring that it would be best to be honest, Gwynileth turned around to face the man and lowered her hood. “You may call me Anya.”

The man’s jaw dropped upon seeing her face—Gwynileth was just as surprised by his appearance as he was by hers. His face was pale, and his hair the color of a dark brown, much like the hot cocoa she would drink with Anya alongside the fireplace of the lounge. Even more surprising than that was the color of his eyes… blue, like the everlasting sky that reigned above them in daytime.

“Well, it’s a pleasure to meet you, Anya,” the man said with a smile. “I go by Captain Wayfinder. It’ll be my pleasure to escort you to the city of Windhelm.”

His friendly demeanor provided a sense of calm to Gwynileth, but she remembered that he had mentioned others earlier in their voyage. Trying not to sound too concerned, she asked, “My presence will not be a problem to the others upon your ship, will it?”

Captain Wayfinder shook his head. “Never, milady. We’ve escorted plenty of Dunmer back and forth between Morrowind and Skyrim in the past. Men and women alike.”

Gwynileth nodded and faced the sea again, an inky blackness so complete she could not see anything underneath its surface.

“Where are you headed? If again, you don’t mind me asking.”

She bit the inside of her lip and spared a look over her shoulder to Captain Wayfinder. He did not seem overly invested in her answer, at least, as his eyes were locked upon a compass in his hands. Hoping she was not being overly honest, Gwynileth answered, “I do not know. Away from here.”

The Captain’s eyes flickered to hers. Despite the frivolity he’d exhibited previously, there was a seriousness to his gaze now that she found unnerving. “Let me offer you a piece of advice, then, Anya. Get out of Windhelm as soon as you can. That city’s corrupt, and there are plenty of folks who don’t take kindly to foreigners, if you catch my meaning. Take a carriage to the city of Falkreath instead.”

Gwynileth nodded—a gust of wind flew over the ship, causing her to shiver and pull her cloak tighter around her shoulders.

“Falkreath is also warmer than most other provinces in the country,” added Captain Wayfinder. “And Windhelm never stops fuckin’ snowing.”

This last made a small laugh emerge from her mouth; she promptly threw a hand to cover her grin. Never in Morrowind had people cursed in front of simple acquaintances, and even with people they knew well, curses were rare.

Her amusement seemed to transfer to the Captain, because he was smiling when he asked, “Do you think you’ll have enough gold for the journey?”

Gwynileth’s smile faded; her eyes darted to the floor of the deck. “I am unsure. How much do carriage rides cost in Skyrim?”

“Considering the civil war that just started raging, I’d say anywhere from two hundred to three hundred septims, milady.”

“Is it possible to walk?”

The ensuing silence from the talkative man lasted long enough for Gwynileth to grow self-conscious. She glanced up at Captain Wayfinder only to see that it was not pity that was in his face, like she had both expected and feared—it was curiosity. “What is it that you’re runnin’ from exactly?”

Gwynileth smiled wryly. There were so many answers to that question, she could hardly think of where to start. After a few moments of thought, she settled on, “A marriage that would’ve required me to give up life, love, and liberty… and the people who forced it upon me.”

“I see.” The Captain’s gaze finally strayed from her ashen face back towards the ocean. He chewed the inside of his lip… and then started rummaging in his pockets. “Here.”

He tossed something in her direction—Gwynileth surprised herself by catching it. It was a small cloth sack filled with small but heavy metals…

“That should be enough to cover your carriage ride to Falkreath,” said the Captain.

Gwynileth’s mouth dropped open; she stared at the man, this man whom she had just met, with utter incredulity. “Captain, are you… are you certain?”

“I have no use for it, and my men have already been paid,” he said. He shrugged, then offered a hesitant smile. “All my crew-hands were bought by me from Altmer slave-traders. I set them free and offered them a job. They stay with me by choice, not out of obligation or fear. They’re free to leave whenever they wish, and do whatever they want to do. Long story short, Anya: I don’t like seeing people enslaved.”

Gwynileth swallowed hard, clutching the tiny purse to her chest. “Thank you.”

His smile grew larger—he leaned back against the railings, one hand still upon the steering wheel. “It’s no trouble. But you best be ready for the chill of Skyrim. I don’t think you’ll be thanking me for taking you there once you get a taste of those gales.”

“Anywhere, no matter its temperature, is better than where I come from,” said Gwynileth. She glanced back out over the ocean waters… they seemed so tranquil. Unable to resist the temptation, she leaned out slightly over the railings and disturbed their surface with a couple dainty fingers. Ripples appeared in the water behind where they trailed. “And I will remember that you helped me, if ever our paths should cross again.”

Although she was not looking at him, Gwynileth knew that the Captain was smiling.

Chapter Text

The remainder of Captain Wayfinder’s men were just as friendly as their boss. Over the three-day journey that it was to the city of Windhelm, they taught Gwynileth the basics of sailing, a few sea shanties—they even introduced her to some Nordic ale, which she wasn’t particularly fond of but still drank since they were being so kind.

If she were able to say the same about the Nords in the city of Windhelm, Gwynileth would’ve been very pleased with her decision to leave Morrowind indeed. Unfortunately, Captain Wayfinder’s words about the inhospitable nature of the north-easternmost city had some merit. Everywhere she went—the pier, the streets, the inn—Nord men were eyeing her from darkened corners in great disgust. A few of them even spat at her as she walked by, uttering the words, “Damn dark elves,” as though they were a horrid curse.

And yet, as Gwynileth sat quietly by the fireplace of the Candlehearth Inn, trying to enjoy a meal of dried bread and day-old cheese, she could not help noticing something familiar about the way they glared at her.

It took her a few moments to place it, but when she did, all the color vanished from her face. Their looks were similar to the one that Jenithar had given her on that night… a look filled with complacency, a feeling of superiority… and no small amount of lust.

So it was that at the crack of dawn, Gwynileth took the carriage to Falkreath: as far away from Windhelm as she could go.

Within only the first half-hour of the journey, the Dunmer was able to see that everything she had heard of the natural beauty of Skyrim rang true. The countryside was awash in golden lights of the early morn; birds roosting in the trees relayed harmonious songs; the steps of the two horses driving the carriage were little more than soft clops as they traipsed weathered dirt roads. Such peace she had not experienced even upon the three-day journey of the Northern Maiden, surrounded by good men that she would now consider friends.

There was great variety in all of Skyrim’s landscapes. Gone was the tundra of frozen ice and rock—they made way for mountainous cliff-sides, below which lay valleys of hot springs and geysers. Following those were everlasting plains upon which dozens of flowers and weeds grew; Gwynileth could not help smiling as she saw such flora, for such bright petals were a thing unheard of in Morrowind.

Apparently noticing her delight for such pretty flowers, the carriage driver deftly leaned to the side and plucked a particularly tall stem. “For you, milady.”

Gwynileth carefully took the offering. It was a simple thing, all things considered, and yet it was one of the most beautiful things she had ever seen. A grin cracked her lips as she noted a tiny bug with a red back and black spots nesting within the innermost petals. “Thank you, sir.”

After a number of long hours during which Gwynileth’s back and bottom were beginning to grow sore, the plains faded away, and lush forests of pine trees appeared. The color green was so prominent that she could not help but stare—leaning slightly out of the carriage, she asked, “How far do the forests extend?”

“All across the southernmost region of Skyrim!” replied the driver. He chuckled and glanced at her over his shoulder. “Fresh from Morrowind, I take it?”

She swallowed hard and retook her seat, one hand running through her ebony hair. “Was it that obvious?”

“Don’t worry, it’s not a bad thing. Bit of a strange time to be arriving to Skyrim though, considering the war.”

This was the second time that Gwynileth had heard about a war brewing in the country—she had failed to ask Captain Wayfinder about it, seeing as she was so busy learning flash lessons on Skyrim’s geography. “What has happened? Please tell me.”

The driver informed her of the war between the Empire of Cyrodiil and the Stormcloak faction of Ulfric Stormcloak. According to him, it had all been started by Ulfric, who murdered the High King of Skyrim and then made an open challenge against the Empire for bowing to the Thalmor so readily many years before.

“Ah,” said Gwynileth, her lips pursed. “The Thalmor, I am familiar with.”

And she was: the Altmer group was not one that she looked favorably toward. Most of the people in Morrowind were perfectly content to ignore them and focus their support and loyalty towards the Empire; while Gwynileth did not hold many sentiments in common with her fellow aristocrats, her dedication to the Empire was one that she did.

“Aye, hard to ignore them these days,” grumbled the driver. His hair was fair, and it gleamed in the late afternoon sun. “It’s said a lot of Ulfric’s motives were spawned by them starting to patrol the country, looking for Talos worshippers.”

“Are they truly that dedicated to wiping out such worship?”

The driver sighed and nodded. “They are. People have died at his shrines. It’s a gods-damned shame no matter your personal views on Talos.”

Gwynileth folded her hands in her lap. Perhaps it was just the mood of the conversation, but it seemed as though the shadows had stretched towards the cart, and now the plentiful foliage was dark. “Agreed. No one should be persecuted for who they worship, so long as they do not harm anyone in the name of their faith.”

Her driver smiled and nodded curtly before returning his attention to the road.

Within the next hour, they had reached the city of Falkreath. The sun was beginning to set in the far end of the western sky, and Gwynileth was exhausted and ready for a night of good sleep, which she had not received when so many Nord men were leering at her the night before.

Just before she could step off the carriage in the direction of the inn, her day-long companion said, “Good luck, miss. And if you happen to need to travel anywhere else in the country, try not to go alone, eh?”

“Thank you,” she replied, and then she shouldered her bag and stepped into the street.

As they had during the entire carriage ride, trees loomed over the buildings of the hold of Falkreath. Although it was supposed to be a capital city, Gwynileth could not help but think that it was rather… small. There were only a few houses along the main road, accompanying the inn and what looked to be a blacksmith. The hold of the city was easily recognizable, purple banners swaying lightly in the breeze, as it was the biggest structure within sight.

Gwynileth exhaled somewhat and turned towards the inn, within which she could hear drunken laughter and conversation. Before she could lose her nerve, she reached out to the door handle and stepped inside.

There was no question on what the Nords of Skyrim liked to do in the evenings: drink and be merry. A roar of laughter met Gwynileth’s ears; a bard was bowing in the corner, grinning cheekily, as undoubtedly he had just concluded some bawdy tale. Plenty of bodies caused the temperature of the inn to spike—at the far end of the room, a woman’s voice was calling out orders for patrons to pick up.

Figuring the bar was the place to go to pay for a room, Gwynileth approached the counter and took one of the seats. She nodded towards the woman with a smile to signal that she would wait for her to finish serving orders.

Her patience was duly rewarded. When the woman turned to face Gwynileth, there was a smile upon her face as she said, “Welcome to Dead Man’s Drink. Something I can get for you? A meal, a bed?”

“How much would a bed and a meal for a week be?”

“It’ll be a hundred septims for food and lodging over seven days.”

Gwynileth drummed her fingers upon the countertop. After paying for the boat ride and the carriage to Falkreath, she was only down to two hundred septims, and she wanted to purchase a dagger from the blacksmith for self-defense as well. Therefore… there was no doubt that she would need to find work in some capacity.

Still, food and lodging came first. Gwynileth fished the money out of her little coin-purse and placed it on the counter in front of the innkeeper. Biting the inside of her cheek, she asked, “Is there anything I could do to help the inn and earn some coin during my stay?”

The woman’s eyes narrowed somewhat; after only another moment, they softened again. “You could chop some wood for me if you’ve a mind, and I’ll give you a discount. I’m Valga—it’s nice to meet you.”

A relieved sigh escaped Gwynileth’s lips; a silver flush filled her face, but she kept herself composed as she replied, “You can call me Nerussa. It’s nice to meet you as well.”

The remainder of the night passed in general easiness and frivolity. Although Gwynileth couldn’t help noticing that she was the only mer in the tavern—the rest were men, although there was a variety of Redguards, Bretons, Imperials, and Nords—she did not feel excluded or ostracized in any way. Valga did a kind job in making sure that she was never alone and always had a cup of water to drink. She also kept Gwynileth abreast of any gossip, whether it be local or more exotic.

“Any sign of the war here?” asked Gwynileth.

Valga shook her head and placed a hand upon the back of her neck. “Thankfully, no. Although I’m not holding my breath. Sometime or another, they’ll show up. War always does.”

Before she could further explain what was happening, another patron called for an order of ale, and Valga disappeared with an apologetic look.

Gwynileth sat alone for a little while, her drink very close at hand. Everything almost felt like a dream: was she truly sitting in one of Skyrim’s inns? Was she not simply asleep in her bed back in the Nerussa estate?

“Erm, excuse me, madam.”

She blinked and glanced over to see a young man—an Imperial, if she was correct—waving hesitantly in her direction. He was fairly handsome, with hair the color of the sun and a scraggly beard. His robes were of fine make, certainly finer than most in Skyrim, but there was a lack of confidence in his bearing that screamed he was an outsider just as Gwynileth herself was.

“Hello,” she said. She clutched her cup tighter and positioned it closer to her chest, further out of his reach.

Apparently encouraged by her greeting, the man cleared his throat. “I don’t normally do this, but I have a proposition for you.”

Gwynileth’s lips twisted somewhat. He was obviously nervous, and well-off financially based on his manner of dress…

Color drained from her face, and her eyes darted down towards the cup in her hands. Did she truly look so out of place, that he might mistake her for a nightly working woman? Trying in vain not to express such embarrassment, she murmured, “Are you… flirting with me?”

“Flirting? No, no! That’s not what I wanted to—I mean, not that you aren’t—eugh. May I try this again?”

The shock to his voice was enough to convince Gwynileth that he had not meant to come off as someone looking to purchase a night of ‘company.’ She met his eyes again; there was a true apology within them, and so she nodded.

He sighed in relief. “Thank the divines. My name is Lucien Flavius, and I am a scholar from Cyrodiil in search of a traveling companion. I couldn’t help noticing that you seem to be… how do I put this… well-acquainted with hardship and travel?”

“How did you come by that assumption?” asked Gwynileth, cocking her head sideways. He was a strange man, but not unpleasant, at least.

“I’ve been residing in the inn for a couple of nights and noticed you were new to Falkreath! I’m in need of someone to protect me as I travel across Skyrim for my research—I had hoped that perhaps you are an adventurer of some sort?”

A quaint smile traced Gwynileth’s lips. What a change that would be indeed, were his words true: aristocrat to adventurer. “I am a recent arrival, but I am no warrior. I only arrived upon Skyrim’s shores yesterday, and have little knowledge on how to defend myself, much less others.”

“Oh! My apologies, I must have misread the situation,” said Lucien. He cleared his throat once more and shifted his weight. “Well, I won’t keep you from your evening. In case you end up traveling across the country and need someone to keep you company, however, please let me know.”

“Of course. Thank you, Lucien.”

Lucien smiled brightly and began to turn away—but then he stopped and returned to her side. “Erm, if it isn’t too much trouble, may I get your name?”

Gwynileth’s crimson eyes scanned his face, his bearing: for some reason, he reminded her a little of Captain Wayfinder. And so it was that she felt comfortable enough to reply, “You may call me Gwynileth.”

“It’s nice to make your acquaintance, Gwynileth. That’s a nice name! Not very common among Dunmer, though, is it? Except for within the newly risen Great House of Nerussa, of course, seeing as its first matriarch in Year 83 was—”

Gwynileth’s face turned as white as a Nord’s. She leapt to her feet, her water forgotten; the cup landed sideways on the floor, liquid spilling across the wooden panels and Lucien’s shoes alike. Without bothering to say as much as a goodnight or a farewell, she began to rush in the direction of the room that Valga had said was hers—

“Wait!” cried Lucien, a hand extended in her direction. “Gwynileth, I only—”

That would teach her to use her real name in the future. Most fortunately, due to the ruckus throughout the rest of the pub, her absence was unnoticed by everyone else in the inn. Ignoring Lucien’s fervent apologies, Gwynileth was able to retreat to her room and shut the door solidly behind her without anyone else the wiser as to who she was.

Although she wanted to remain at Dead Man’s Drink in relative comfort—even if that comfort was a hard mattress and heavy stews for seven days in a row—Gwynileth no longer thought it safe to remain in the inn. If one man, a stranger nonetheless, was able to connect her ancestral name to the place from which she fled, then she would not be using it any longer.

After explaining that she had to leave to Valga and receiving a refund for most of her septims, Gwynileth left the inn. She took a deep breath upon stepping outside: it would be best to lay low for a little while, that much was certain. It might even be possible to save some money that she would’ve spent on food, were she to purchase some traps and a bow and arrows to hunt with…

The blacksmith was a friendly enough gentleman who sold her the bow for a good price, as well as a quiver of thirty arrows. Next was a stop to the alchemist’s, oddly named Grave Concoctions, for a manual on the flora that could be used for potions or for eating. Foraging for roots, tubers, and mushrooms was likely Gwynileth’s best bet for food while she learned how to utilize her bow. Lastly, she took a look through the Grey Pines general store for any other necessities she might require in the open: a bedroll, extra bits of preserved food, water-skins…

And then she took everything in her possession and hiked into the forest beyond.

It was a beautiful walk outside of the city gates and into nature’s greenery. As it had been the prior day, the sun was shining through the canopies of the trees, casting fragmented rays of light upon her face. The birdsongs were still alive and well; it almost seemed as though they sang to one another.

Gwynileth smiled as she trekked into the unknown. A sudden realization caused that smile to grow—Captain Wayfinder had been right: it was not even First Seed, but south in Falkreath, it was warmer than she had expected.

Only a few minutes later did Gwynileth find a clear stream to begin settling by. The water’s surface was clear enough that she could see tiny fish swimming in the shallows.

She plopped down her knapsack and withdrew the rope she had purchased. When she had been younger and still had fruitful relationships with her parents, Lorth took Gwynileth on some of his hunting trips every now and then. He had taught her the basics and even set up targets for her to practice on.

Archery is all about patience and strength, he had said. It is knowing when you are calm enough to focus… to take the shot.

It had been years since she had used a bow, however.

Then again, now was not the time to be hesitant. If Gwynileth was going to attempt to live off of the land, she would need to have confidence to inspire her.

She pulled on the string of the bow—it was of sturdy make, though it was simple leather. Perhaps her muscles had atrophied beyond even her own expectations… if that was the case, it would take a good amount of hiking and wood-cutting to regain the proper stamina and conditioning…

But that was what the rope was for: to make traps, so she might catch some small game in the forest.

Gwynileth’s fingers had always been skilled at embroidery and at tying knots: she had learned a few traps and snares out of curiosity’s sake more than anything else, on days when she would’ve done literally anything to escape her studies. Only a few of them returned to her in a moment of need, however, and their makeshift was shabby at best.

It would have to do. She sighed to herself and placed them in thick foliage, particularly in places where dirt seemed disturbed. Even she, a Morrowind noblewoman, knew that rabbits burrowed underground in little warrens…

Once back at the stream, Gwynileth uncapped the water-skins she had purchased from the shopkeeper. He had not smiled at her when she entered his store; quite the opposite. His greeting had, in fact, been, “Steal anything from my shop and you’ll regret it.”

She had brushed off his brusque comment at the time, but now that she had ample freedom to think on it, Gwynileth found it very rude indeed.

It only took a few moments to fill the water-skins. While the stream seemed clean and clear, there were no risks that she wished to take. In order to properly filter the water, she would need to boil it in the pot she had bought, over a fire she would need to start with the fire-starter.

There was plenty of dry wood and leaves upon the ground for Gwynileth to scavenge into a fire-pit, and many rocks to encircle the pit so the flames wouldn’t spread to other parts of her encampment. After gathering these things together, she took a spare moment to admire her handiwork—and then she retrieved her fire-starter. The flint was a simple one, but it should be all she needed…

If she could just strike the flint against the rock properly, that was.

“Azura’s breath,” she whispered to herself. There was no telling how many attempts had passed at her simply trying to start a fire, but it was far too many than she cared to admit. “Please just work.”

But the flint was an inanimate object, and would therefore not just work.

Exasperated with her own failings, Gwynileth became slightly more aggressive in her attempts. This, however, only backfired against her; with the next strike against the stone, she accidentally struck herself instead of the rock. The objects fell from her hands as she cradled her thumb, which was already beginning to throb.

“B’vek,” she muttered, her eyes beginning to cloud.

It took a few minutes, but eventually the pain began to subside. Gwynileth chewed the inside of her lip as she took a long look at her surroundings. Her encampment was settled in a little grove next to a stream, sufficiently hidden by trees and bountiful leaves. Based on the way the sunlight was approaching from the west, it was late in the afternoon. Birds were perched upon branches, salmon were leaping out of the river far below her. Nothing was out of place… save for herself.

Gwynileth exhaled sharply, still rubbing the place where she’d struck her thumb. What in the seven hells was she doing? She had never considered herself stupid in any way—naïve, perhaps, but never stupid. Considering all of the Dunmer politics that she’d been forced to juggle ever since she was fourteen years old, she could never afford to be stupid.

And yet here she was at age twenty-five in the middle of an Azura-damned forest with only a few survivalist supplies, fifty-one septims, and a bruised thumb.

She blinked and stared down at the fire-pit. There was no other option, unless she were to return to Captain Wayfinder and the Northern Maiden and risk returning to Morrowind. But no, she had come too far to simply give up. Maybe there would be another way to get the fire started… if Grey Pine Goods was still open and the shopkeeper had some matches, then—

“It’s obvious you’ve never done this before.”

Gwynileth yelped at the suddenness of this new voice and sprang to her feet. The dagger she’d had strapped to her hip swiftly made an appearance, the blade glinting sharply in the white light.

Standing on the opposite side of the stream was a man with great stature and poise, with dark hair that trailed down to his shoulders. He was clad in unusual armor, the style of which certainly couldn’t be accredited to the Nords, nor to the Imperials. Strapped to his back were two weapons: a strange great-sword, and a war bow.

The man sniffed once at the appearance of the dagger, not looking threatened in the least. His eyes scanned her face—they were a most unusual color. They almost reminded Gwynileth of honey, but that was not quite correct. Honey was too golden to be this color.

Amber, perhaps.

“Even a blind man could see that you’re out of your element,” said the man. He did not take a step forward, noticing how Gwynileth was standing tense, like a cat waiting to pounce. “What are you doing out here?”

“Camping,” said Gwynileth. She didn’t mean to be so sarcastic, but the answer was the first thing she could think of, and honestly, she didn’t have a better reply than that.

The corners of the man’s mouth twisted, as though he wanted to smile but refused to let himself do so. “Really.”

“Really,” said Gwynileth. Doubling down would surely be a good idea. “So thank you for your concern, but I’m quite all right.”

“And forgetting to bring enough food for you to enjoy your trip—that was part of your plan as well?” he rebutted. “Or were you simply so eager to test your skill at making traps for rabbits or squirrels?” He did not even allow Gwynileth a chance to respond before nudging one of her poorly-crafted traps with his foot and raising a knowing eyebrow.

Gwynileth bit the inside of her lip, uncertain of what to say. It didn’t seem like he was hostile, or an enemy of any sort… the thought was less comforting than she had hoped it would be.

The man seemed to sense this new defeat oozing from her being; he held up his hands in surrender. “It’s all right, I don’t want to hurt you. I’ve been living out here myself and noticed your arrival. I thought you might need some help.”

“Help?” Gwynileth’s voice was surprised; she cursed herself.

“Aye. Your traps aren’t bad. They could use some tidying up, though.” He turned his gaze from her snare to her face once again. “It’s been too long since I’ve seen a friendly face. I’d be glad to have some company here in the forest. And I could teach you how to use that longbow you’ve been hoarding over there as well.”

Gwynileth spared a glance to her bow lying haphazardly atop the rest of her supplies. It was possible she could relearn it on her own, but… she had always learned better with an instructor.

And if push came to shove… Gwynileth was aware that nightshade grew in the thickets of Falkreath, thanks to the little manual she’d purchased at the alchemist’s. She wouldn’t want to kill him—but if she needed to debilitate him long enough to get away, so be it.

“All right,” she sighed. A sharp shink told her companion that her dagger was back in its sheath at her hip. “I… could use the help.”

He smiled; it was not traced with hints of a smirk, either. “All right. I’ll gather my things and meet you here. My name is Kaidan.”

“Thank you, Kaidan. My name is—erm, it’s Anya.”

“No it isn’t,” he replied.

And then he traipsed off through the trees, leaving Gwynileth standing fruitlessly by an unlit fire and a mind full of confused thoughts.

Chapter Text

“Good. Your stance is much better than it was yesterday. Pull back the bowstring again, and try to hold position for fifteen seconds this time.”

Gwynileth hissed through her teeth—her arms already felt like freshly-made jelly, and she and Kaidan had only been training for ten minutes. “How many seconds did I hold out in the last trial?”

“Twelve. But you’re getting better.”

The only reason that Gwynileth did not reply to that was because of how earnest his voice was, and she feared that were she to open her mouth again, something snippy would exit it.

She supposed it was only her own fault that Kaidan didn’t know just how very new she was to the entire situation. Both of the nights that she had spent in his company so far, they had been quiet ones, neither one of them willing to speak candidly to the other. It was to be expected, seeing as they were barely new acquaintances—but despite her gratitude for Kaidan’s selfless help, she found herself wanting nothing more than to rest on this third day of ‘camping.’

Then again, if Gwynileth wanted to survive in the wild, she would need to put in the work that was needed to defend herself.

A sharp breath; and then she pulled back the drawstring of her bow and put every ounce of effort into maintaining the stance that Kaidan had taught her over the last two days.

He was quiet for a moment, careening around her in a full circle. Gwynileth could feel her arms begin to shake, but she swallowed hard and maintained her composure. She had found that if she didn’t count how many seconds went by, she did a better job during each repetition.

“Keep your arm tucked in,” said Kaidan. “Right now, your elbow is sticking out at an odd angle. Your aim will be off if it isn’t corrected.”

Before Gwynileth could even ask what he was talking about, one of his hands moved towards her elbow and put it in place for her. She tensed slightly at his touch, uncertain—but immediately after, he let her go.

She relaxed again and tried not to feel guilty. It was not as though Kaidan knew of her aversion to physical correction, for she had said nothing about it. And he was only trying to help her, after all. He had offered it to her from the goodness of his own heart… or so it seemed so far.

“Anya.”

Gwynileth peered down the drawstring of her bow, trying to imagine where an arrow would go flying if she was pointing such a weapon at an enemy…

“Anya, you can relax now.”

“Oh.” Gwynileth flushed slightly and put down her bow. Even though she was sticking to her charade of calling herself ‘Anya,’ she hadn’t gotten used to it yet. “I’m sorry… how many seconds was that?”

When her crimson eyes landed upon Kaidan’s face, she was surprised to note that he was smiling widely. “Twenty-one.”

Her jaw dropped, but only for a moment. Upon realizing how ridiculous she must’ve looked, Gwynileth cleared her throat and returned her expression to a passive neutral. “Was it really? You aren’t lying to me to be kind, are you?”

Kaidan shook his head; already, the pride had vanished from his face. He was not a man who exhibited any semblance of joy very often, even if he was kind. “When it comes to a matter as serious as defending oneself, I will always be honest—brutally so, if I must. And that is why I say you are improving, and at a rate faster than I expected.”

“Oh,” she repeated. “That’s… good. I’m glad.”

And she was—but she was also worried. Gwynileth wasn’t sure how long it would take her to become strong enough to truly be considered a skilled warrior, and if her fears came to light, she wasn’t sure she would be strong enough to repel any employees of her parents, should they try to force her back home.

Kaidan picked up on her lack of enthusiasm. With a light frown, he said, “You don’t seem too pleased with your progress.”

“I… have a lot on my mind,” she replied, aware of how lame an answer it was.

“I see. Would you like to talk about it?”

Gwynileth paused. Would she like to talk about it? She used to tell Anya everything… there were no secrets before. And she had always found comfort in speaking to Anya over things that had gone wrong—she always felt better after releasing the burdens weighing upon her soul.

But this was not Anya asking. It was Kaidan. He was a good man, a kind one, but one that Gwynileth was not ready to trust wholeheartedly.

“Not today,” she said. Her arms dropped; her bow fell limply to her side. “But maybe someday. I appreciate the sentiment, though. Thank you, Kaidan.”

He nodded once, apparently unaffected by the revelation that she did not trust him completely. “All right. Shall we proceed with your training, then?”

The next hour was spent with Kaidan teaching Gwynileth how to shoot an arrow from the bowstring that she was now capable of drawing. It took a few moments for her to learn how to let the arrow rest upon her finger, in a way that it would not hurt. More than once, when she released the projectile, her arm was too close to the bowstring, which left angry welts against her skin.

And yet, by the time the sun was beginning to set, Gwynileth was able to hit a target. It was no bulls-eye, but it was certainly better than she could’ve hoped for. For the first time since she had realized how out of place she was in Skyrim, a grin crossed her face. Whirling around to her instructor, she said, “Kaidan… thank you. I don’t think I could’ve done this on my own.”

There was no smile upon Kaidan’s face, but his eyes were soft. “It’s no trouble. I’m glad for the company.”

“How long have you been out here by yourself?”

He paused for a moment. “I can’t say, exactly. But it’s been a long time. I’ve traveled all across Tamriel, but nothing compares to the wilds of Skyrim. She’s beautiful, as she is dangerous.”

Gwynileth nodded. She had not come across much of the danger yet, although… she suspected that was likely due to the kindness of the strangers turned friends that she had met. Captain Wayfinder, the carriage driver Bjorn, Valga Vinicia, Kaidan: in retrospect, she had been very lucky so far.

By this time, the sun had almost disappeared from its great sky. Knowing that they would need to start a fire, Gwynileth retrieved the woodcutter’s axe that Kaidan used to cut firewood and moved towards some of the smaller trees and brushes. “What brought you back to Skyrim?”

Thwack. One of the branches split off from the trunk of the small tree. Gwynileth grinned at her success and chucked it towards the pile of dry ground.

She could feel Kaidan’s curious eyes following her movements. He was quiet for some time, as though debating on whether to respond… right when Gwynileth was certain he wouldn’t, he said, “I came back looking for clues on my heritage.”

Gwynileth paused just before she could commit to the downswing of the axe. Her crimson eyes glimmered as she glanced over her shoulder at him. “You have no blood family to speak of?”

“Not anymore,” he answered. The way his lips pursed told her that it was time to change conversation.

“I’m sorry.” Gwynileth took a deep breath and centered herself… thwack. Another piece of log split in two.

“Ah. Don’t be,” said Kaidan. He moved next to Gwynileth and started picking up the pieces of wood that she hadn’t yet brought next to their fire-pit. “What about you? Do you have any family out there?”

The question was a good one, because Gwynileth wasn’t quite sure how to answer it. After what she had done, did she still have a family back in Morrowind? Or was she disowned, disinherited—completely forgotten by everyone whom she had spent years loving and caring for?

Then again, even if her parents still considered her their daughter, she was unsure whether she wanted that mantle. They had proven not to care about her already, even though she was their only child. Her own parents were willing to marry her to a man who had irreparably hurt her.

Considering that, even though it hurt to think… perhaps it would be better to be disowned. After a pensive moment, Gwynileth decided to say, “By blood, yes. By any other ties or bonds… no. Nor, I think, do I want them.”

“Maybe in time, bridges can be mended,” said Kaidan with a shrug. “Or maybe you were right to walk away from it all.”

Gwynileth sighed softly to herself. She narrowed her eyes at the next log and shuffled her feet, trying to focus on her center of gravity. “Do you really think that? Family is such an important concept where I come from.”

Thwack. Instead of forcing Kaidan to retrieve the wood she had cut, Gwynileth gathered up the chopped logs in her arms and began to carry them towards the fire-pit, where her companion had already placed dry leaves and twigs.

“Of course.” Kaidan met her eyes; there was great sincerity within them. “I don’t know much about Morrowind, but it doesn’t matter, does it? You chose to come to Skyrim instead.”

Gwynileth’s face flushed silver. She turned away from him and busied herself with retrieving the flint from her knapsack. “How did you know that I chose to come to Skyrim? And that I’m from Morrowind?”

“Lucky guess. When I first saw you, you looked frightened, like a deer peering into a hunter’s eyes. That’s not a look that most people wear unless they’re hiding or running from something.”

The answer was not entirely unexpected, although Gwynileth found herself chewing the inside of her lip again. She hoped that Kaidan didn’t see her as weak or hopeless. Even though he was a new friend—if indeed he was more than an acquaintance—she did not wish to come off as desperate… especially since she was. Swallowing hard, she asked, “Do I still look scared to you?”

With these words, she turned back to Kaidan and stared him directly in the eye. It was impossible to tell what he was thinking. The man was rarely prone to displaying his true emotions upon his face.

But then he said, “Not in the way that you were before. But I still see you’re frightened about something.”

“Ah… I see.” One of her hands rubbed her arm. “You aren’t wrong.”

“You aren’t afraid of me, are you?”

Gwynileth blinked and looked back to Kaidan, startled by the question. “Of course not. Why do you ask?”

Kaidan reached for the flint that she had placed upon the ground and began striking it against a stone. “You are… slow to trust. I don’t even know your name.”

There was a careful hesitancy to his tone, but Gwynileth had grown up learning how to decode a person’s voice and determine what they were hiding. It was an essential skill for Morrowind politics; she narrowed her eyes slightly and looked Kaidan up and down.

He refused to meet her eyes, focusing instead at the flint in his hands. He had never struggled before with starting a fire—this was a ploy, something to keep him from looking at her.

“I am not afraid of you,” said Gwynileth, and that was the truth. He had proven his kindness and sincerity over the last few days; if he wished to hurt her, he would’ve done so already. “But I am sorry for concealing my real name from you. You… deserve to know me for who I really am.”

She took a deep breath and wrung her hands. Only when Kaidan finally looked at her again did she say, “My real name is Gwynileth, from the House of Nerussa in Morrowind. I ran away seven days ago… you found me on the third day that I took refuge in this country.”

The fire was finally started. Kaidan took the initiative to nurture it so the sparks could become flames.

It only took a few moments for a soft orange glow to bathe their encampment. As they were positioned close to a lake, some of the firelight glimmered off of the water’s surface, shooting a few subtle rays back to them.

When Kaidan met Gwynileth’s eyes again, she noted that the soft look had returned to him. The corners of his lips tugged upward; a lump appeared in her throat as she met his eyes. She had only made his acquaintance for a few short days, but Gwynileth couldn’t help feeling comfortable around him.

“It’s nice to meet you, Gwynileth,” he said at last. He withdrew the great-sword from where it had rested upon the ground and began the arduous process of cleaning and sharpening the weapon. As he ran a whetstone along the blade of his sword, he said, “You said you’re from a House of Morrowind. What does that mean?”

Gwynileth smiled wryly, her eyes following the smooth movement of stone upon steel. “A House is a family with wealth, prestige, and power. My mother and father governed a significant portion of Morrowind, alongside members of other Great Houses.”

Kaidan paused and raised a suspicious eyebrow as he glanced back to her. “I didn’t expect to be knocking boots with an aristocrat, much less a princess.”

For the first time since they had begun addressing family and home, Gwynileth smiled. “No, no, it’s nothing like that. I was not so important. I was just… another noblewoman.”

“Sounds like you were important to me,” said Kaidan, as offhanded as one might be when describing the weather. The stone slid across his weapon’s blade with a sharp shink. “Like a princess of ash or something.”

Now she was laughing, throwing a hand to cover her mouth to conceal how amused she truly was. Eyes gleaming, she cried, “A princess of ash? Is that what you think when you think of Morrowind?”

“Maybe. Is that a bad thing?”

“No, I suppose not. You aren’t wrong, at least.” Gwynileth sighed and rubbed a hand upon her arm. “There is so much ash there it is hard to farm for ourselves. We rely on imports from other countries like Skyrim to survive. It can be grey and dreary, but the sunsets there are beautiful. When the sun turns scarlet and glows upon the sands, for a brief moment in time, they look like seas of silver…”

Kaidan leaned forward, the task he’d been so adamant on completing now forgotten. “Morrowind is one of the few countries I never got to visit. Tell me more about it.”

Gwynileth stole a skeptical glance. Upon seeing his reassuring nod, however, she smiled again. “Very well. I don’t really know what you wish to hear about, so… perhaps I’ll tell you about what I know.

“There is a King in Morrowind, but he does not hold much power. The Great Houses are what the common-folk and middle-class look to for leadership: Houses Redoran, Telvanni, and Hlaalu. The Redorans are known as the general leaders, masters of politics and policies. House Telvanni is an eccentric bunch, but they have an affinity for the arcane that other Dunmer can only dream of. House Hlaalu is in possession of great military forces; it is well known they can call upon the assassin’s guild, Morag Tong, at any moment. My family, House Nerussa, was looking to become the newest addition to that title through our riches and diplomatic ties, but now that I am gone…”

She stopped, suddenly realizing how tight her throat had constricted. Tears of anger sparked her eyes—despite the horror her parents were willing to inflict upon her, she still felt guilty for leaving.

There was no reason to be feeling guilty, and Gwynileth knew that. The nobles liked to preach that lesson all the time: everyone took care of themselves first, never mind the pious ramblings about responsibility. But it was harder to absorb the message now that she had taken such drastic action to save herself.

A silence took over the clearing they were camping in, save for the crackle of the flames and the chirping of crickets. Gwynileth could feel Kaidan’s eyes upon her; she knew that they were kind.

“It’s all right,” he said at last. “You don’t have to say anything more. I apologize for bringing up something so upsetting. Now I know not to do so again.”

Gwynileth wiped her eyes, hoping that Kaidan couldn’t see her over the flare of the flames but knowing that her hopes were in vain. She was not cross with him, because he could not have known. And so she smiled again, even if the gesture was thin, and said, “It’s all right. Thank you. I—appreciate that greatly.”

There was a rustle in the bushes nearby, which caused Gwynileth to jump—Kaidan retrieved his bow in a flash, an arrow nocked and ready. Only two seconds did he peer into the darkness before releasing it.

They heard an animalistic squeal and the heavy thud of a body hitting the ground.

“Just a deer,” said Kaidan. He stalked over to where the carcass lay and hauled it over his shoulders. “The pelt should make a good blanket, as you hardly seem adjusted to the cold. Come here, I’ll show you how to skin and tan its hide.”

Grateful to have such a drastic change in topic, Gwynileth took his side. Although she was paying attention to this new lesson, a part of her could not stop thinking about how relieved she was to have found someone like him: someone warm and genuine, who wanted to help her.

Anya would’ve liked him, of that, she was sure. In fact, Anya would’ve likely nudged her in the ribs with an elbow and hissed, “He’s handsome!” under her breath.

She smiled as she watched Kaidan masterfully separate the fur from the deer’s body. His voice was soft, yet well-spoken. Not at all like the Nords she had read about or met in Windhelm or Falkreath. There was a small spark in his eyes when he met her own.

Maybe Gwynileth didn’t have to be afraid of anything at all.

The following day, Gwynileth and Kaidan decided to relocate their encampment. While they quite liked the quiet stream and peaceful pines, the last thing they wished to do was thin out the game in the woods. It was still late winter, after all, and without sufficient meat to supplement their meals, they would go hungry before spring arrived.

Most fortunately, even the last three days had helped Gwynileth’s stamina. While her arm muscles were still sore, she was able to haul a decent amount of their supplies within the pack upon her back. Kaidan, of course, took whatever she couldn’t carry. While Gwynileth would’ve felt bad about this normally, one askance look at his muscles prevented her from feeling too sorry.

It was a simple journey along the dirt roads. Some of the pots clanked against the metal of their weapons, but Gwynileth didn’t mind the racket, because she was too busy conversing with Kaidan about things that didn’t really matter at all.

“What’s the hardest thing you’ve had to endure in Skyrim so far?” asked Kaidan with a sideways look.

“The food,” Gwynileth replied immediately. “Everything is so heavy here. Nords like to turn everything into a stew, or some sort of soup. I’d give anything for a simple puff pastry, or even—I never thought I’d say this—an ash yam.”

Kaidan shook his head, amusement lining his features. “Ash yams. Those sound enticing.”

There was no missing the sarcasm in his voice. Gwynileth rolled her eyes at him and made a show of doing so, too. “You only say that because you’ve never tried an ash yam quiche before.”

He chuckled, which made her grin in turn. It was not often that Kaidan laughed at anything she said, meaning his reaction was that much more rewarding. It also didn’t hurt that he had a nice laugh; it wasn’t aggressive, or forced in any way. She did like the sound of his voice—he had an accent she couldn’t quite place, one that was unlike her own people’s at all.

Despite it still being winter, the sun glared down atop their heads as they walked. It was directly above them in the sky, hinting that it was nearing midday—noticing this, Gwynileth spared him a hesitant look and asked, “Speaking of food, shall we take a quick break and grab something to eat?”

“Sounds like a good idea,” he said. He pointed towards a small spot just off-road where they could sit and rest for a while.

Gwynileth dropped her knapsack at her feet and massaged her shoulders. The weight of the bag was causing horrid knots to appear in her muscles, though of course she wouldn’t complain. Kaidan had offered to shoulder most of the burden, after all.

She took it upon herself to retrieve a loaf of bread and some preserved jams. After splitting the bread in half, she took a quick look around. There was a waterfall not too far off, and a clear great lake that it emptied into. If they were to rest for longer, Gwynileth suspected they could potentially fish up dinner, and then they wouldn’t have to worry about hunting later…

A few voices distracted her from her thoughts—she glanced back towards the road to see a few other travelers approaching them. They wore strange armor that resembled black mages robes… and the travelers were not Nords, but Altmer.

“Gwynileth.” Kaidan’s voice was stressed; he reached out and tightly grasped her arm, which caused her to gasp and drop her bread. He shot her an apologetic look and released her. “Let’s go.”

There was no arguing with that tone. She nodded and, forsaking her midday meal, began to gather her things—

A bolt of ice stopped her in her tracks. Gwynileth shrieked and whirled around only to see a few other Altmer had ambushed them from the nearby bushes—they had dropped their pretense of being simple travelers. Based on the amulets around their neck, it became obvious who they were: the Thalmor.

Kaidan’s great-sword was in his hands in a flash; he roared in anger and charged the first few elves that dared step in his path. He cleaved through them with a mixture of careful precision and unforgiving rage, but upon seeing the limbs hewn from their bodies, Gwynileth froze.

“Gwynileth!” he called. His amber eyes were blazing as he met her own. “Grab what you can and run!”

She choked; he was telling her to… leave?

One of the Thalmor lunged towards her, hands extended for her throat. Gwynileth gasped and smacked him in the head with her bow—he groaned and rubbed the wound. Taking advantage of his debilitated state, Gwynileth withdrew her dagger and swiped at him.

Her adversary howled in pain as a few of his fingers were severed at the knuckle and fell to the ground. Drops of blood followed after them, watering the dry dirt. Gwynileth’s breath began to come in short gasps, her chest tightened—

“Run!” bellowed Kaidan. “Run!”

In the spare moments where he was looking back at her, he failed to notice one of the mages beginning to prepare one of his fire spells. It was being aimed directly at his back.

There was no time to think. Gwynileth kicked the Thalmor next to her in the back of the knee, sending him tumbling to the ground, and withdrew her bow and a singular arrow. She set it carefully upon her finger, aimed, and let it go.

The arrow soared through the air past three other bodies and embedded itself in the mage’s chest. He fell to the ground, the spell fizzling out in his hands.

Kaidan glanced to where her arrow had landed; his eyes widened.

Before either of them could say anything more, the first Thalmor seized her from behind. His bloodied hand scrabbled at her throat, clawing into her skin—Gwynileth yelped and struggled, but he had managed to press his arm against her neck, and he was pushing with such force.

“No! Gwyn!”

Kaidan’s voice was growing fainter and farther away. She still tried to struggle, because that was her friend, the only one she’d yet made in Skyrim. He had told her to run, but she couldn’t just leave him.

The sounds of his shouting said that Kaidan was still fighting, but Gwynileth was no longer able to fight back. All feeling had been lost in her arms, her legs—still gasping for breath, she crumpled to the ground.

Chapter Text

It was the yelling that woke her up. Gwynileth's head was pounding, as though a clock's pendulum was crashing against her skull. She groaned and sat up, struggling to put her hands to her head… and realized she couldn't.

Her wrists were bound—that explained why they were so sore. And she was cold, horribly cold, to the point where her teeth were chattering. But, knowing she had to gather her bearings and try to find out where she was, she took a slow breath and looked around.

She was in a cell. Gwynileth had never seen a cell in person before, but that was certainly what this was. An iron door with thick bars kept her restrained in a tiny room; the bed she'd been lying on was little more than a pallet covered in straw, with no blanket. None of her belongings were nearby.

The screaming that woke her up became comprehensible words. A harsh, thin voice demanded, "Where did you get this sword?" and then, without even waiting for an answer, there was the sharp crack of… something… and someone else was grunting in pain.

Gwynileth gasped sharply and fought against her bonds, to no avail. Her efforts only served to make the burning around her hands worse… but the sounds of her struggle seemed to draw attention.

Footsteps echoed across the stone floors, rebounding off the walls. They seemed impossibly loud; it made Gwynileth's head throb.

A Thalmor agent appeared in front of her door. There was a ring of keys in his hand—he unlocked the door to her cell and stepped inside. His eyes were black as night, not a comforting color at all.

"What do you know about the sword?" he sneered.

Gwynileth stared at him. She could barely see the lines upon her captor's face, the darkness surrounding her was so complete. "What… what sword?"

A sharp crack—and then her face was stinging.

For better or worse, Gwynileth had grown accustomed to being slapped in the face. When she had truly made her parents angry, it was seen as appropriate discipline, and that was the only reason she was able to maintain her stern expression as she glared back towards the Thalmor agent.

"Don't play coy," the Altmer said, his voice snippety at best. "The nodachi blade your friend had. What do you know about it?"

She blinked, having never heard that word before. "I don't know what that is, and I don't know anything about it."

"You Dunmer bitch. I'll have the truth from you yet—"

"She doesn't know anything about it!" called a voice only a few meters away. Gwynileth gasped upon hearing that it was Kaidan, and yet he sounded so very different than how he normally did. "I barely know anything about it myself!"

There was a long and arduous silence as the Thalmor agent glared between where Kaidan must've been restrained and where Gwynileth stood in front of him. Only the slow drips of water leaking from the ceiling onto the stone floor could be heard, and the only thing she could see were those pitch-black eyes of her captor, the ones devoid of emotion, of a very soul…

"Naril! Take her out of the cell and into the barracks," said the Altmer at last. He waved an arm towards a body that was out of sight—but there was no missing the eager, sharp smirk on his face as he added, "She knows nothing, but will undoubtedly be a lot of good sport tonight."

A bolt of ice lodged into Gwynileth's heart. There was no way to misinterpret what that meant—she screeched like a wild animal and lunged away from the two Altmer, both of whom were reaching out for her with long, thin fingers.

"Come on, now, this'll be so much easier if you just cooperate," sighed one. Despite the darkness, it was evident he was rolling his eyes. "Now just—"

Gwynileth glanced around the room. A table; a chair; two needles that could maybe be used as lock-picks. Sharp stones broken from the wall. A knife on the ground…

One of their hands found her shoulder—with another scream of desperation, a sound of pure panic, Gwynileth slammed her shoulder into his chest. She was rewarded with a sharp gasp of pain, but there was still the second Altmer to take care of, and now this one was wary. He lurched back with a snarl; the white of his teeth gleamed, revealing exactly where he was.

Her hands were still bound, but Gwynileth didn't need them, because her legs were free. One of her knees slammed up into the Altmer's crotch, sending him doubling over and wheezing—then she kneed him in the face.

A gush of warmth spread all across her leg, trailing down her shin and towards her feet. But there was no time to be distracted, because he was still conscious, and the first of her captors was regaining his breath.

She only had a few seconds, and that was if she was lucky. Gwynileth threw her back, her bonds, towards the sharp stones on the wall and began sawing up and down, the way she had seen some of the Nords work their mills, the ones with great logs that needed cutting.

One of the ropes snapped. Her bonds were looser.

"Oh, no, you don't!" shouted one of the Altmer—he seized Gwynileth by the waist and hauled her into the air, who was kicking and screaming the whole while. "You Dunmer whore, you'll pay for—"

Gwynileth wrapped the back of her leg around his neck, effectively cutting off his words. Just the way that he had done to her during their first altercation by the waterfall, so now she was intent on returning the favor—she squeezed as hard as she could, hoping and praying to Azura that he wasn't strong enough to break free.

His hands pried at her legs, to no avail. Realizing that wasn't working, he began slamming his fists upon her ribcage. While these blows made her grimace and have to clench her teeth, she did not relent.

Seconds passed. They felt like an eternity—but at last, the man was unconscious. He tumbled to the stone floor, Gwynileth alongside him; she landed upon it with a sharp, "Oomph!"

The second Altmer was still getting up. There were only a few more seconds.

She returned to the sharp pieces of stone protruding from the wall and resumed sawing off her bonds. Another rope snapped, and then she was free—

Just in time for the second Altmer to rise. He snarled and seized her hair, causing her to scream as he yanked it upwards. But Gwynileth's eyes fell upon the knife that was loose upon the floor. She stretched as far as she possibly could, tears clouding her vision as she fought against the way the Altmer was pulling her hair. The knife was only a meter away, she could reach it, she had to reach it…

And then there was cold steel in her hands. Blade at the ready, she shrieked, lunged forward, and thrust the weapon at the silhouette ahead of her.

The blade was embedded in the soft pocket of skin between his ribcage. A soft grunt was the only sound he made… and then he topped over, the knife still buried within him.

Gwynileth stood, leaning against the wall, her breath coming in heavy gasps. Her head was throbbing from where her hair had been grabbed—she placed one hand upon its source with a light groan.

"Gwyn?"

She blinked, suddenly remembering that she had not been alone in the cellar.

"Kaidan!" she breathed—Gwynileth seized the two needles upon the table and staggered forward, out of her cell, towards the sound of his voice.

Most fortunately, he was not very far away at all… but when she laid eyes upon him, a lump lodged in her throat.

Kaidan's armor and sword were gone, leaving him dressed only in dark trousers. Streaks of red covered his chest and back—there was a whip with nine tails of plaited rope sitting upon the ground nearby, their tips covered in blood. His wrists were suspended in iron cuffs above his head, his arms were covered in gouges and purple welts. A black blotch covered his right eye.

"Azura's breath," she whispered. She dove next to him upon her knees, crimson eyes wide: the same color of his blood. "Kaidan!"

Her hands fumbled with the two needles that she held. Gulping down one last deep breath, she forced herself to steady her hands—

"Normally I'd encourage you to improve your lock-picking skill, but seeing as there might be more Thalmor nearby, it might be faster to search the guards you killed," said Kaidan, as calmly as he might remark upon the weather.

Gwynileth blinked once, twice… before racing off to follow his idea. The first guard that she'd suffocated didn't have any keys, but the one whom she'd stabbed in the chest did. Loud jingling revealed that there were dozens of keys upon his person; she could only hope that the key to those handcuffs was among them.

She was back at his side in a flash, attempting the keys one by one. As each one proved fruitless, Gwynileth struggled to keep her mind off of the fact that in only a couple of days, she had killed three people… they were Thalmor, that was true, but…

"What did they want with you?" she murmured, struggling to fit a key into the lock. But that one was no good, either: she tossed it aside with a huff.

"I think they were inviting me to high tea."

Gwynileth nodded absently before pausing to shoot him a mild glare. Upon noting the tiny grin on his own, she could only sigh and ask, "Now, Kaidan? Now is when you decide to joke around?"

"Thought we might both need it." Kaidan winced with this last and shifted his weight. "I've lost all feeling in my arms by this point… needed a good laugh to make up for it."

Even though neither of them had ended up laughing, Gwynileth couldn't help but smile. With a soft click, the eleventh key that she had chosen caused the handcuffs to give way; Kaidan's arms fell back to his sides, a sharp gasp escaping his lips as they did so.

"Stay there," she commanded, eyes already gazing about the room. They landed upon a few bottles filled with a glimmering red liquid: healing potions, if she was not mistaken. She darted forward and seized them all before uncorking the lids. "Now open."

Kaidan scoffed somewhat, grumbling incomprehensibly about how he was perfectly capable of administering the potion himself—but after one stern look from Gwynileth, he rolled his eyes and acquiesced. Ever so carefully, she poured the bottle's contents into his mouth.

The effects were instantaneous. The lashes upon his skin began knitting together, the purple bruises bubbled and melted away… by the time he had consumed the third bottle of healing, he looked right as rain.

"Bottled miracle, that stuff," Kaidan sighed. He stood again with no issue, and then his gaze landed upon Gwynileth. "Thank you. I owe you my life, Gwyn. I'll continue traveling with you as long as you'll have me to repay the favor. I'm not a man comfortable being in debt."

Although Gwynileth would've liked nothing more than to have Kaidan remain by her side, to help her learn the roads of Skyrim and of combat and of… well, everything about moving to the country, the last thing she wanted was for him to feel like he was trapped at her side. With a rueful smile, she said, "You owe me nothing, Kaidan. You've likely saved me three times over already with all of your help. I wouldn't have been able to fight off those two Thalmor without your teachings."

Kaidan, however, just raised an eyebrow. "You underestimate yourself. You'll have to forgive me for assuming, but based on your reaction, it sounded as though they'd said something that triggered a survival instinct in you. Those instincts are not something you learned from me."

Gwynileth paused and turned away, eyes glittering in the damp gloom. The last few days, she had been so preoccupied with training and learning how to be self-sufficient that she hadn't had nightmares. In fact, she hadn't had them since she'd arrived upon Skyrim's shores, if only because her mind was always wandering…

And yet, those words—those horrid words—reminded her exactly why she was in Skyrim in the first place. They reminded her why and of what she was afraid.

It had been close. Too close. Too close to reliving that horror, to being subjected to the same hisses, whispers, soft groans of pleasure while she herself felt only pain.

A shiver trailed down her spine at the recollection of that night. She hadn't thought about it in days, but now the memory was returning in full force…

"I realize I hardly have the right to ask you for further help, but I may need your assistance again."

Kaidan's voice broke her out of that spiral. Gwynileth's gaze snapped back to him with a sharp inhale through her teeth—a shaky breath exited her mouth as she locked eyes upon this man, whom she had grown to trust and care for in only a few short days. He had saved her, even if she had just returned the favor.

"Of course I will help," she answered. The memories were fading away, lost as she looked into Kaidan's steady gaze. Yet another thing she had to be grateful for, even if he had no idea for it. "What do you need?"

"My arms and armor. I need them back. The blade belonged to my mother—it's the only chance I have at discovering my heritage."

Gwynileth nodded. She remembered what Kaidan had said about the reason he had returned to Skyrim. Right when she was about to respond, however, a cool breeze infiltrated the cells from a crack in the wall. Her hands flew to her arms, crossing them in a futile attempt to block out the newfound cold… when she glanced back to Kaidan, she noted that his smile had grown more genuine at her reactions.

Noticing her questioning look, Kaidan nodded towards her small body and added, "We also need to find you better clothes. At this rate, you'll freeze to death before we even step foot outside."

"It's… it's colder here," said Gwynileth, knowing how pitiful she sounded. "Wherever we are, I mean."

Kaidan hummed to himself as he took a few cautious steps forward. There was no sound beyond the cell they were in, no sign to say more enemies were coming. He placed one eye against the crack in the wall to spy outside. "I can see mountains… we were traveling for about a day and a half before we were transported to this prison, and we were heading away from the sun in the afternoons. I can only guess we're somewhere in the Rift, or maybe Eastmarch."

Those locations sounded familiar, but Gwynileth couldn't quite remember where, exactly, those provinces of Skyrim were located. She nodded in an attempt to convince Kaidan that she was knowledgeable of such things, however, and said, "Let's go ahead and get your things. I'll be with you all the way."

She turned aside to begin scavenging for loose weapons or armor—or anything that could prove of use, really—and felt rather than saw Kaidan's gaze grow soft upon her back.

After a few moments of searching, they located an extra knife, a sword of imperial make, and a thin wolf-pelt cloak. Gwynileth took the knife and offered Kaidan both the sword and the cloak, to which he smiled thinly and placed the pelt around her own shoulders, insisting, "I'm all right. More worried about you, to be honest."

There was a light swirling in her stomach at such an admission, though all she allowed herself to say was, "Thank you," before continuing on.

It was about as easy to see in the surrounding corridors as it was in their holding cells… which was to say, not at all. Not for the first time, Gwynileth cursed herself for not having the foresight to pick up a few lessons on Alteration magic before she fled Morrowind. A simple Candlelight spell would've made their journey much easier…

Although a glowing ball of light would've also given away their position, when they came across the Thalmor guard within the innermost depths of the prison. He was alone, inspecting Kaidan's great-sword, grumbling to himself.

Kaidan spared one glance towards Gwynileth and nodded slowly—he crept along the backside of the dimly lit room and, once he was close enough, stuck the imperial sword directly through the Thalmor's neck.

"How's it feel, being bled like a pig?" growled Kaidan. He withdrew the sword from its victim's body—even in dim torchlight, Gwynileth could see it was drenched in red.

The Thalmor fell to the ground, his body hitting stone with a soft thump.

Kaidan kicked the corpse aside, wiping the blade of his temporary weapon upon the Thalmor's robes—

A shifting in the shadows.

"Kaidan!" gasped Gwynileth. She sprinted forward, her knife extended towards the emerging second enemy.

She was lucky the next challenger was a wizard, and was not wearing thick armor at all. His robes were of fine black silk, meaning the sharpened blade of her knife slid through them with little to no resistance… until its tip burrowed into skin and muscle.

A howl of agony filled the room, but Gwynileth only drove the weapon in deeper. She was the only thing standing between the mage and her only friend within the country.

Blood dribbled from the corner of the Thalmor's mouth. His eyes narrowed; he hissed and started to reach for her—

Then there was a snap. Kaidan had lunged forward and twisted the Altmer's neck sharply to the side, breaking it and hastening his death.

The second body fell almost directly next to the first. Gwynileth stared at them with wide eyes; the churning of her stomach was becoming worse until it felt like the harsh waves were frothing within her belly. It took every bit of her self-control to avoid being sick, because unlike the first few times she had killed, now she had the time to actually look at them and recognize what horrible sins she had committed…

"Ah. There we are," said Kaidan, who had retrieved his armor from a nearby chest. Within only a few moments he was dressed again, his war-bow and his nodachi back in place upon his person. When he turned back to Gwynileth, he frowned. "What's wrong?"

Gwynileth swallowed hard and forced her eyes towards Kaidan. Gesturing loosely to the two mer, she whispered, "Does it ever get easier?"

Kaidan seemed to know exactly what she was asking. The sharp lines upon his face relented as he replied, "Not always. But in certain situations, you have to think: if you hadn't killed these men, you'd be dead, or worse. You did what you had to do."

The thought brought a little comfort, though not as much as Gwynileth hoped. But she was not given much time to mope upon hearing him exclaim, "It looks like there are some extra sets of leather armor in this side-closet. Bah, these are shoddy make… we'll have to get you something that'll withstand more than a harsh breeze when we get the money…"

He pulled out a set of armor that looked slightly big for a small woman such as herself, but Gwynileth knew she couldn't afford to be picky. Her nose wrinkled as she took the offering—not because she was ungrateful, but because it still smelled like animal hide.

"I know," laughed Kaidan, shaking his head. "But it'll do until we can scrounge you something better."

She donned the armor, careful not to wrinkle her traveling clothes. At least the smell wasn't necessarily bad… she had enjoyed the night by the campfire, when Kaidan was first teaching her how to skin an animal. That could be a smell of association, perhaps… if she didn't think on it too hard.

Once Gwynileth sheathed the dagger at her hip and fastened the cloak around her shoulders, she glanced towards Kaidan again with a small smile. "What now?"

"Shouldn't we attempt to find your belongings?"

Gwynileth's face paled as she realized—everything she owned was nowhere to be found. Other than the chest within which Kaidan's things had been stowed, the room was empty, and they had explored the entire prison before finding the innermost sanctum of the cells.

"Maybe… maybe it got left behind at our old encampment," she suggested. She bit the inside of her lip hard enough to draw blood—everything she now owned was in that bag. All of her survival supplies, her money, her food…

"That's a good idea. We'll go back and see what we find."

At the mention of the word 'we,' Gwynileth met Kaidan's eyes again. There was no keeping the relieved smile off of her face as she said, "You were serious about coming with me?"

"Of course I was. You saved my life yet again in this room. I'd be a dishonorable man indeed if I were to leave your side now," he answered. One heavy hand was placed upon Gwynileth's shoulder; she could feel the warmth emanating from his body even through the thinness of her armor. "Besides, I'd worry about you if I left you alone. The Thalmor will likely be hunting us for a while."

Even though that was a terrifying thought for even a fully trained warrior, Gwynileth could not bring herself to worry all that much. She had survived so far; surely she could survive more.

Shooting Kaidan an anticipatory grin, she said, "All right, then. Let's leave this dank place. It's ridiculously humid, as though I'm walking directly through a thunder-cloud."

"Wouldn't want your hair to get too wet, now, would we, princess?"

"No, we wouldn't, or else I might catch cold."

Kaidan shook his head. Try as he might to turn away so she could not see, Gwynileth still noted how the corner of his lips fought upwards. "That's not exactly what I meant, but you're right, of course."

"If there's one thing I may learn faster than how to shoot a bow, it's how to return a quick wit," said Gwynileth. Unlike him, she did not bother to hide her own smile; her eyes were gleaming as they met his own. She did like the color of his eyes… they were warm, inviting. "Unfortunately for you, I grew up amongst nobles, so I may advance in this particular avenue of speech faster than you."

"We'll see about that," said Kaidan. They reached the door leading back out into the wilds of Skyrim; with a knowing look, he held it open for Gwynileth to walk through.

The sun was just beginning to rise over the eastern sky, casting hues of pastel orange and pink across the horizon. Muted sounds of rushing water could be heard nearby, although green trees blocked much of the view of both the river and the road. Everything was so fresh in Skyrim—certainly an upgrade from what Morrowind's outdoors offered.

With a deep breath, Gwynileth smiled at Kaidan and, upon noticing how he returned the gesture as well, stepped outside.

Chapter Text

Gwynileth's belongings were not at their old encampment, nor were they at the place she and Kaidan had been ambushed. There was no sign of her knapsack, her bow, or her food. The only things left were the necklace that Gwynileth had worn—the gift from Lady Unara, which must've been torn off sometime during the scrap beside the waterfall—and the notebook that Anya had left for her.

It was Kaidan who had found the two objects. "These belonged to you?"

She nodded, her mouth dry, and took them without verbal answer. The thin cord the pendant had rested on was broken, but Gwynileth did not mind. It meant enough just to have it, after all she'd been through… and the return of the notebook meant more to her than she could possibly express.

As the sun began falling away from the world, a band of wolves attacked. Luckily, they were not too difficult to fight, though Gwynileth was glad that Kaidan had had the foresight to find her some armor, because one of the mangy mutts had tried to sink its teeth into her forearm. Her bracers bought just enough time for her to stick it with her knife before it could do any lasting damage.

"Well," sighed Kaidan, sheathing his nodachi. He gestured loosely to the four dead wolves surrounding them. "These pelts should be enough to earn us a spot on the floor of Dead Man's Drink."

Even though Gwynileth was uncertain that they should spend whatever money they had just earned upon a bed at the inn, Kaidan eventually convinced her due to the looming grey clouds overhead.

"It'll thunderstorm overnight," he said, casting her a serious glance. "We don't want to be caught unawares by the rain—or whatever else might be lurking in the woods that we wouldn't be able to hear."

So it was that, after taking the painstaking minutes to skin the wolves, they rolled up the pelts and began the hike back to Falkreath. Much to Gwynileth's relief, it was warmer in the southernmost province of the country than it had been in the Rift. As they walked on, they kept a careful lookout for any bandits that might be lurking in the covers of darkness, or any further wolves seeking an ambush.

There were no further delays in reaching Falkreath once again. It was Gwynileth who approached Valga and offered greetings—the other woman seemed delighted to see Gwynileth again, and began filling her in on all the gossip that had accumulated throughout the past week.

"Rumor has it Ulfric Stormcloak has been captured to the east!" whispered Valga, eyes as wide as dinner saucers. "They should be passing through sometime next week to officially sentence him in Cyrodiil. This could be the end of the civil war!"

The news was particularly heartening, and Gwynileth thanked her hostess for it. After indulging Valga for another few minutes, she was able to secure a room with two beds, as well as a loaf of day-old bread and two bowls of vegetable broth for the four wolf pelts that they had gathered. While Gwynileth had absolutely no idea whether this was a good deal or not, as she was approaching Kaidan to tell him of the development, a startled voice broke her concentration.

"Ah, Gwynileth! It's you again!"

She blinked and turned around to see Lucien Flavius waving cheerily from a seat directly by the fire. The smile on his lips was a hesitant one, and this was explained as he launched from his chair and exclaimed, "I would like to apologize for the last time we met. I'm afraid I wasn't thinking, you see, and I am terribly sorry if I offended y—"

"It's all right," interrupted Gwynileth. And it was: she knew that Lucien could not have known how frightened she was on her second day in the country. "I was only caught off-guard by how quickly you guessed my heritage and name. How have you been?"

Lucien sighed; his hands fell back down to his sides. "What a relief. For a number of days there, I thought you positively loathed me. To answer your question, I'm doing quite all right, though I am still looking to hire someone to travel alongside and protect me as I research ancient archaeology. I can't help noticing you're a tosh more armed than you were upon our last meeting, and that you brought wolf pelts to trade for a room at the inn?"

He raised an eyebrow with that last, which only made Gwynileth's lips quirk upwards. Lucien was perceptive, that was for certain.

She cocked her head, thinking on her options. On the one hand, Gwynileth was still very new to defending herself. Over the last seven days, she had taken nine lives: four of the Thalmor, two from bandits that ambushed her and Kaidan on the road, and three from wolves that attacked in packs. She was still green when it came to the adventuring life, even if Kaidan was incredibly experienced and had taught her much over the week she had known him.

On the other hand… Lucien was offering to hire them. And as he had been on the first night she had met him, the Imperial was wearing robes of fine dyed cloth, complete with a pendant of gold. He did not seem to have any trouble flaunting his wealth, or where he was from.

Just before she could open her mouth to respond, Kaidan appeared from thin air, a scowl on his face. "Is this man bothering you, Gwynileth?"

"No, not at all," she replied. The lines upon Kaidan's face lessened somewhat, though he crossed his arms even so. "I met Lucien in the inn on my second day in Skyrim, though our meeting was… short."

Lucien coughed lightly, but said nothing.

"What do you want?" Kaidan asked.

The Imperial cleared his throat before crossing his arms to mimic Kaidan—though as he was much shorter, it did not work out the way he had intended. "I was hoping to hire Lady Nerussa to be my guard as I research both Dwemer and Ancient Nordic ruins for my thesis firsthand. I'm afraid I'm not very helpful in a fight."

That didn't seem to surprise Kaidan at all. The man just sighed and uncrossed his arms. Sparing a glance in Gwynileth's direction, he asked, "Well? What do you think about this?"

"I'm not sure yet. I was going to ask for your opinion."

Kaidan snorted. "I'll leave the decision up to you. I'm the one in your debt, after all, and I will travel alongside you either way."

Gwynileth nodded once and turned back to face Lucien, who was giving her an expression that seemed remarkably similar to a puppy begging for a bite of steak. She could not help laughing somewhat. "Where is it you intend to go, Lucien? Did you have a specific destination in mind?"

"Now that you mention it, I do have somewhere I'm dying to visit," said Lucien, though his words were slow, as if he were afraid the admission would prevent Gwynileth from accepting his offer. "I'm looking for a Dwemer ruin called Dumzbthar. The study of soul gem usage in automatons is widely known, and thus, this ruin intrigues me, as its name loosely translates to 'Bound Ghosts.' I intend to find out if some of the answers I seek might be there! Trouble is, I don't exactly know where Dumzbthar is yet… my father's looking into it while I'm here in Skyrim."

"I see," said Gwynileth. "And your father will inform you when he has confirmed its location?"

"That he will. And of course, anytime we find something that will assist in my research, I'll be happy to contribute more coin as thanks!"

The only thought that ran through Gwynileth's head was how much her mother would've loved Lucien, had the two ever met. Lucien was intelligent, dedicated, passionate, of good repute, and wealthy: everything that Nihali Nerussa had ever wanted in a son-in-law. Yet he was also charming, with a smile that wormed its way into Gwynileth's heart.

Based on the way he was standing, it was obvious Kaidan was less than eager to take Lucien along. But Gwynileth had made up her mind.

Sticking out one ashen hand towards the Imperial, she smiled and said, "Welcome to the team, Lucien. It's good to have you."

Lucien's hand shot out like a dart, grabbing onto hers with vigor and gusto. A light appeared in his eyes as he exclaimed, "Marvelous, simply marvelous! Thank you for having me—and here's the coin I promised, of course."

True to his word, he rummaged through the pockets in his robes, withdrew a large pouch, and plopped it into Gwynileth's hand. She was surprised at how heavy it was; the Dunmer woman had handled a lot of gold in her life. This was easily at least three-hundred septims.

"Just let me know whenever you're ready to head out into the big wide world tomorrow," said Lucien, the smile on his face still persisting. "I'll be sure to have my things ready at a moment's notice!"

With that, he nodded one more time towards both Gwynileth and Kaidan and headed towards the bar, clapping his hands together excitedly as he did so.

Gwynileth watched him go, unable to keep herself from grinning. She did not know why she had allowed herself to be frightened so by Lucien when first they had met… perhaps she had been far more skittish than she'd realized during those first few days. But now, with Kaidan by her side and a modicum of combat and survival knowledge in her arsenal, she felt much better than before.

"Are you sure this is a good idea?" murmured Kaidan, so only they could hear. His amber eyes were also locked upon Lucien, who had just ordered a round of drinks for everyone in the tavern—all of the Dead Man's Drinks' patrons cheered wildly.

Instead of answering, Gwynileth gestured towards one of the empty tables on the side of the room. They took seats next to each other; immediately after they claimed their spots, one of the servers delivered the bowls of vegetable broth that Valga had promised them.

She sighed and glanced around the tavern once more. The bard was singing a jaunty tune she vaguely recognized from her first night in Windhelm's inn. Patrons were gathered around him, dancing and clapping their hands, flagons of ale in their grasp. Everything was bright and cheery… and despite not finding her possessions, Gwynileth was in a surprisingly good mood as well.

"Lucien has given us a good amount of gold to protect him while he studies," said Gwynileth. She picked up her spoon and dipped it into the broth, though she kept her eyes upon Kaidan all the while. "We need the money if we're to replace the supplies the Thalmor took, and Lucien can learn how to adventure just as I have. Besides… I like him."

Kaidan paused, his spoon hovering halfway between his mouth and the bowl. He raised an eyebrow before letting the utensil splash back into the soup. "You like him? Seems like a clown to me."

"Don't be so cross with him, Kaidan," she laughed. Gwynileth blew gently upon the liquid in her spoon, hoping she wouldn't burn her mouth the way she had on her first night in Dead Man's Drink. "He's charming."

"Charming?"

"Yes. As are you, you know."

Kaidan seemed even more surprised by this than he did by Gwynileth's claim that she had come to like Lucien. "I—I'm charming? Me?"

His astonishment only made Gwynileth giggle. After consuming a few careful spoonfuls of soup—it was a decent soup, although somewhat salty—she replied, "I think you are. There's this… roguish appeal to you. It might be the marking upon the right side of your face, or maybe the way you're able to wield your blade. If I hadn't found something credible to your person when first you met me in the woods, I never would've accepted your help."

There was a brief quiet as Kaidan thought on her words. Laughter of the other patrons echoed in their ears, though the noise was muted as each of them were lost within their own thoughts and dinners.

At last, however, Kaidan sighed. "All right, then. I'll trust your judgment on this one… you're probably better at reading people than I am, anyway."

Gwynileth sighed in relief, realizing that she had been hoping for his eventual approval. She rewarded him with a smile and the words, "I appreciate that, Kaidan. As you are someone I owe a lot to… your thoughts and opinions matter to me."

Having finished her supper, she rose from her seat and retreated to her room for a good night's sleep.

It was quickly established that in order for both Gwynileth and Lucien to purchase fresh sets of armor, they would need to do some adventuring to amass extra gold. Much of Lucien's funds had already been depleted during the month he'd been in Skyrim, and that meant other than what he had put aside to reward his hires with, he did not have much for frivolous spending.

And so the next number of days were spent traversing through the southern woods of Falkreath. They came across a few caves that Gwynileth was able to identify on her map of Skyrim. Halldir's Cairn was one, in which they fought resurrected ghosts and a malicious specter. Skybound Watch was another, located atop a mountain, beyond which the trio could see for leagues outward. There was a cottage called Pinewatch as well, a little hut concealing a group of bandits. With Kaidan's skill, Gwynileth's increasing archery ability, and Lucien's fire and frost spells, they were able to clear out the cottage and its underground tunnels with little to no trouble.

Pinewatch revealed their first source of real treasure. After slaying the bandit leader—a muscled woman named Rigel Strong-Arm—they carefully unlocked the treasure room with a key. Inside were piles of gold, some metal ingots, a few gemstones, fresh arms, and a curious candlestick mold.

"Let's find a place to sell these," suggested Kaidan, grabbing one of the rubies lying haphazardly upon the floor. He held it up to the torchlight, inspecting its glow. "They might fetch a better price in Whiterun than they would in Falkreath, and the blacksmith there, Eorlund Grey-Mane, is the best in the country. We can get you both some decent armor in the city."

"And a decent meal!" exclaimed Lucien, whose face overtook a dreamy quality at the promise of finer fare.

Gwynileth couldn't help but laugh at the hopeless look Kaidan shot his way—the two of them were slow to become friendly towards one another. It had started with Lucien making an assumption that because of Kaidan's survival instincts and preference for the wild over that of civilization, that Kaidan couldn't read… and that had been taken rather personally. Names were thrown about, disregard for the other's interests had been expressed, and their rocky relationship had snowballed from there.

She supposed she should be grateful that they were compatible enough to support one another in battle, at the very least.

It was the 2nd day of First Seed that the three were traveling north upon the main road towards Whiterun. While Gwynileth and Kaidan did not mind silences occurring during their journeys, Lucien seemed weirded out by the long disquiets. He would often attempt to start small conversation with each of them, asking things such as, "Where are you from, Kaidan?" or, "Gwynileth, why have you chosen to come to Skyrim?"

Most unfortunately for him, neither of his companions were very keen on talking. While Gwynileth knew she would have to speak on her past eventually, she would do so on her own terms. And if she was going to be private about her past life, then she certainly wouldn't pressure Kaidan to open up about his.

Lucien eventually seemed to understand how futile it was to try and talk to them about their lives prior to their adventuring sojourns, and began to hum and sing to himself to fill the air between them.

Seeing as Whiterun was still a full day's journey on foot, the trio decided to camp for the night before finishing the trek to Skyrim's trading capital. Kaidan picked a dry spot with plenty of foliage to conceal them so they could spend the night. As he began chopping firewood and Lucien prepared an impromptu fondue, Gwynileth rummaged through her knapsack. She wriggled her nose as she pushed aside this and that—eventually, Lucien noted what she was doing and asked, "What are you looking for?"

"That troll fat we gathered from Pinewatch!" she grunted. A few things knocked about in her pack. "I gathered it because it's a helpful ingredient for resisting poison, but now I want it for something else. A-ha!"

That last was a triumphant cry; Gwynileth held the little bowl of troll fat upwards, beaming as she did so. From across the campfire pit, Kaidan shook his head. "I still don't know why you bother brewing all those potions together… the best defense is a good offense, I say."

Gwynileth shot him a sardonic look. "Yes, well, I can make you potions to help your offense become even more powerful. But I'm not brewing anything right now—I'm making soap."

"Soap?" repeated Kaidan, raising an eyebrow.

"Yes. We've been out here for three days, and while I can deal with the lack of city food or beds, I absolutely cannot stand the fact that I haven't bathed in all that while. So I'm going to make some soap, locate a stream, and meet you back here."

While Kaidan just shrugged, Lucien clapped his hands and excitedly said, "Ooh, another thing to look forward to once we're back in the city! A piping hot bath. Great thinking, Gwynileth."

She grinned as she fished out a few dried mountain flowers and some salt to mix with the troll fat. With luck, it could become some semblance of soap that she had grown accustomed to all her life. "Thank you, Lucien. I rather thought so, too."

"Can't believe I'm out here adventuring with two poncey nobles," muttered Kaidan from across the fire.

If Lucien heard the jab, he proceeded to ignore it.

It only took a few moments for Gwynileth to combine the simple ingredients into a thick paste that could constitute as soap. The activity reminded her of days where she and Anya would create candles out of wax—there were not many flowers they could use to color the candles with, but it was one of their favorite pastimes nonetheless. They would often read by candlelight together: stories of adventure and dashing romance.

So would she and Jenithar, during nights filled with thunderstorms.

Gwynileth paused. The nightmares had grown lesser recently, but that wasn't due to any progress on her healing. It was because she was having trouble sleeping recently… her mind would always stray back to her parents.

They'd never had a large family the way the Redorans or the Hlaalus did. They had been on their own, three people together.

Now down to two.

She sighed and stopped walking. The small lake she wished to bathe in was clear; when she dipped a toe upon its surface, the water was not too cold. After taking a quick look over her shoulder to make sure that neither of her companions could see her from their camping spot, she began doffing her armor and wrinkled travel clothes.

The two moons danced above: one scarlet, one white. Gwynileth stared at them as she ran the soap over her aching limbs, scrubbing ferociously at the dirt that insisted upon staying. There were never views of the stars like this back at the Nerussa Estate—it had been located in the city, where lights and lanterns prevented their glory from being seen.

Here, it was just wilderness and peace: nature at its best.

Gwynileth smiled to herself. Her journeys across Skyrim had actually been… quite fun, if she was being honest. It had been two weeks since she had run away from home, and she had already made two wonderful friends. She had also made considerable progress with her archery skill. Kaidan had even promised to teach her how to handle a two-handed weapon in the next few days, since her body was becoming accustomed to the hardship…

There was a rustling in the grass somewhere behind her.

She blinked and looked over her shoulder, taking care to cover her chest. No one was in the grass nearby—she could only barely see the flickers of the campfire from over the next hill.

Frowning to herself, she prepared to turn back around—

A sharp shink of metal; Gwynileth gasped as a figure materialized out of the darkness, holding a dagger in her direction.

Before that dagger could begin its descent, an arrow flew from the bushes nearby. It was swiftly followed by a second; both projectiles were buried directly in her assailant's chest. The tips of the arrows protruded through his ribs, through the black and scarlet armor he was wearing.

"K… Kaidan?" called Gwynileth.

Splash.

The attacker's body collapsed into the small lake, next to where Gwynileth was bathing. His blood was already beginning to stain the pure waters.

She screamed and began scrambling for the wolf-pelt lying upon the shore—

"My friend! Are you all right down there?"

The voice was entirely unfamiliar, though its owner did not stay hidden long. Emerging from the bushes only a number of meters away was a Khajiit with indigo-colored fur and yellow eyes; he held onto a bow made of dark metal, confirming who saved Gwynileth from near-certain death.

Her throat caught as she struggled to keep the pelt wrapped around her body. "Who… who are you?"

But the Khajiit did not reply. His eyes merely widened; he threw a hand to cover his face and turned so that his back was facing her. "Oh, I am sorry. I did not realize that you are in a bit of a compromising position."

"Gwyn!"

Kaidan burst through the trees, nodachi already in hand. Hot on his heels was Lucien, whose hands were aglow in red and white, ready to cast the appropriate flame or frost spell. They glared around the clearing for a moment—their gazes found Gwynileth, who was frantically trying to keep the pelt in place despite her hair still dripping and suds still covering her arms and back, to the body in the lake that was floating face-down… then their eyes landed upon the Khajiit.

Kaidan's grip upon his blade tightened; his lips pulled back over his teeth as he glanced back to Lucien. "You know the drill."

Lucien nodded, his jaw set—

"Wait!" cried Gwynileth, staggering forward. The pelt started to slip around her chest—she promptly froze and pinned it back into place. "He wasn't the one who tried to hurt me. He saved me."

The two men blinked and exchanged a quick look. It was Lucien who asked, "Saved you? What do you mean?"

Gwynileth jerked her head towards the body in the lake. "He… he came out of the shadows. There was a knife in his hand, he was looking directly at me. But then this Khajiit came and killed him before I could be hurt…"

Another splash. Kaidan had just waded into the shallows.

"Thank you for clearing up this misunderstanding. I did not like the idea of fighting your muscular friend. My name is Inigo! I am pleased to meet you," said the Khajiit, whose ears had perked up upon hearing the word 'saved.'

The two spells in Lucien's hand fizzled and dissipated, all hostility forgotten. A bright smile adorned his face as he took a step forward and saluted. "Nice to meet you too, Inigo! I'm Lucien Flavius, scholar of—"

"Eh, Gwyn?" called Kaidan, interrupting the introduction. He hauled the body back to shore and rummaged through the would-be assassin's pockets: there was a damp note clasped within his hand. "You might want to take a look at this…"

She nodded. With great care, she tiptoed forward, relieved him of the note… and after reading it, fell to her knees.

As instructed, you are to eliminate Gwynileth Nerussa by any means necessary. It is assumed she has fled to Skyrim; we've already received a hefty payment for the contract. Our client wants her amulet as proof of death. Failure is not an option.

"No… no, no…" The note fell from Gwynileth's hands; it sailed upon a brief gust of wind before landing daintily upon the ground, its edges ruffling.

Kaidan's expression morphed from dread to concern. "Gwynileth?"

She hiccupped once and said nothing, but there was only one thought bouncing through her head. Somebody had paid to have her killed. Somebody had paid… to have her killed.

"Let's get you back to the campfire," said Kaidan. He reached out to grab Gwynileth's clothes and placed them next to where she was kneeling. "Then we'll get you something to eat, eh?"

"What about Inigo?" asked Lucien.

Inigo smiled. "Hello. That is me!"

Gwynileth blinked, broken from her trance by the Khajiit's hearty grin. He was unaware of the circumstance at all—and in a strange way, it brought her a sense of peace. "Inigo, thank you for saving me. Are you… do you need something to eat?"

He thought for a moment. "Now that you mention it, I am a little hungry."

"Come stay with us for a while!" exclaimed Lucien. "I'm making a fondue from some fresh eidar cheese wedges, salt, and leeks—it's going to be delicious with the fresh loaves of bread we bought today! Provided I don't burn everything this time…"

"That sounds delightful. Sure, I'll stay for a bite."

The Imperial and the Khajiit began returning to the campsite, already talking animatedly about their favorite foods and how beautiful the stars were. It was as though the entire fiasco by the lakeside had already been forgotten; Gwynileth was grateful for their easily distractible nature.

But Kaidan had not risen from where he knelt by her side. He did not reach out to place a hand on her shoulder like he had on a few separate occasions, but he did meet her eyes. "Hey. You going to be all right?"

Gwynileth took a moment to gather herself and take a deep breath. She was not so frightened by the assassination attempt as she was by the implications and unanswered questions behind it. There were only two things she could think: someone wanted her dead… and Skyrim was no longer far away enough from them for her to be safe.

She would need to go further south… and start all over again.

Realizing that Kaidan was waiting for an answer, she glanced at him. For the first time since they had met, Gwynileth did not bother concealing the tears that were welling in her eyes. "I don't know, Kaidan. I truly… don't know."

Chapter Text

That night by the campfire was a quiet one. After Gwynileth finished rinsing the suds from her hair, she redressed herself and sat by the campfire with nary more than a few words of thanks for the meal that Lucien had prepared. It was a shame she could only bear to stomach a few bites, because it truly was delicious.

Eventually, even Lucien and Inigo had ceased conversation, their eyes darting shiftily between Kaidan and Gwynileth, who had intangible rain clouds hovering over their heads. It was obvious each of them were still stuck by the lakeside, even if neither of them would admit it.

The crackling of the fire was not as much comfort as Gwynileth had hoped it would be. She chewed on the inside her lip and extended her hands, longing to draw some warmth from the flames, the way she could not do from within herself.

"Well, you three seem like very quiet people," said Inigo, after an extended silence.

Gwynileth smiled thinly, her crimson eyes flickering with the dancing fires. "I'm sorry. You may have caught us on… a stressful night." Her gaze darted to Kaidan with that last; he had not shifted at all in the last five minutes.

"That is all right. Assassination attempts are not to be taken lightly." Inigo's gaze landed upon the bread that Gwynileth had placed in her lap. His whiskers twitched. "My friend, are you going to finish that? Because if not, I would be happy to take it away from your vicinity."

The Dunmer's smile grew as she handed over the largely uneaten loaf of bread. "It's all yours."

Inigo's ears perked up. "Thank you! That cheese dip is delicious. It reminds me of some fondue from the homeland I never knew."

Under different circumstances, Gwynileth would've loved to ask Inigo about Elsewyr—to pick his brain about tales of the Khajiit, about the warm sands, and how different it might be compared to Skyrim or Morrowind. But… considering what she had just gone through… she could not bring herself to ask the questions.

"Inigo," said Kaidan. His voice was wary, the way it was whenever danger lurked nearby. "How did you come across us this evening?"

"I was climbing a tree, trying to catch this pesky bird that had taken my favorite dagger—probably because it was shiny—and I heard someone talking to themselves below me. They were reading aloud that contract you found in his pockets, and I thought to myself, 'Well, I certainly do not want to be complicit in someone dying today, especially if they are innocent.' So I followed the assassin as best as I could and waited… and eventually, he showed himself, I shot him with an arrow, and now I am here!"

Inigo seemed quite proud of his story indeed; there was a perkiness to his bearing that hadn't been there before. Yellow eyes careened over the three faces of his dinner companions—Lucien and Gwynileth were both smiling, but Kaidan was not.

"So you mean to say you just followed an assassin… because you might have had a chance at saving someone?" he said, his eyes narrowed.

"Yes. I have been trying to do good ever since I finally kicked off the skooma. I did not do a lot of good things before then."

Gwynileth knew what skooma was, though she had never been tempted by it before. It was a diluted form of moon sugar mixed with strong alcohol; it was highly addictive, according to what she'd heard, and expensive too.

Leaning forward slightly, she asked, "You are trying to make up for some things in your past?"

"Yes." Inigo shuddered; there was a rippling effect along his fur, never mind the steel armor that he wore. When he spoke next, his ears pressed against the side of his head. "During my last job as a sell-sword, I was partnered with a wood-elf to take out a nasty group of bandits. I was also trying to get off of the skooma at this time—unsuccessfully, I should add. My partner was a good person, but because I was having horrid nightmares from the skooma withdrawals, I grew paranoid and was convinced he would kill me to collect the full bounty. And so I killed him first." He sighed, and suddenly could not look anyone in the eye. "When I realized what I had done, I redoubled my efforts to be clean. And it worked! Although I still feel very guilty for what I have done, I have dedicated my life to becoming a good person… a hero who helps people. That is what Vornil wanted to be."

Gwynileth found herself staring at Inigo, utterly fascinated with how open he was. After only an hour or two of knowing herself and her friends, he was already content with speaking about himself and his life and mistakes.

She, meanwhile, had known Kaidan for a fortnight—and she had not even told him what it was she had run away from.

"Well, you've already saved my life," said Gwynileth. The corners of her mouth quirked upwards at the hopeful look on her Khajiit companion's face. "I think Vornil would be proud of you."

He beamed. "Thank you. That is kind of you to say."

Another silence fell upon the gathering, though it was not one filled with dread, but rather a pensive peace. As she looked across the people whom she had been traveling alongside, she noted great intrigue and acceptance upon Lucien's face… whereas there was no small amount of trouble and concern within Kaidan's eyes.

She took a deep breath. In truth, Inigo had inspired her with such openness. In the spirit of continuing to deepen her friendships with those beside her, Gwynileth said, "The assassin that came after me… I suspect he was sent by my parents."

Kaidan blinked and looked at her, harsh lines of outrage on his face.

But it was Lucien who gasped dramatically and, slamming his palms down upon the log he used as a chair, exclaimed, "Your parents? But… but aren't they supposed to be your biggest supporters?"

"If only they were." A wistful curl to her lips met his gaze, which only startled the poor man further. "But they are one of the things I was running from, when I sailed here from Morrowind."

"One of the things?" repeated Kaidan, leaning forward.

Gwynileth nodded and took a deep breath. "The other thing I was running from was… my impending marriage. On the first day of the new year, without my knowledge or consent, my parents engaged me to a man that I simply could not marry: one who had hurt me irreparably."

Some late swallow-songs interrupted the conversation; they all glanced to the sky as a few birds with red feathers fluttered overhead, heading towards the trees to the south. It was not surprising to see them, as the return of spring was upon Mundus once more.

"What was wrong with him?" asked Inigo. He took a giant bite of bread dipped in melted cheese before continuing, with his mouth full. "Did he smell bad? I would not blame you for running if that was the case. I do not think I could marry someone with poor personal hygiene."

Such a silly remark made Gwynileth laugh despite the circumstances; she had only made the Khajiit's acquaintance for the last hour or two, but she was already quite fond of him. He was an unexpected breath of fresh air. Upon remembering the question he had asked, however, the smile faded from her face until there was no trace of it left. "No… it was nothing so trivial. We were friends once. Great friends, the likes of which anyone would be lucky to find. And then… he broke my trust."

She clasped her hands, striving to avoid the remembrance of that day. A sad shadow cascaded over her very bearing—one the others were able to see. When Gwynileth looked back up again, she swallowed hard and said, "My marriage was supposed to solidify the long-coveted status of Great House for my family. And now that I have run away… I can only assume that my parents wish me dead, so they might wipe the blot of dishonor I have brought them. I expected they would be angry, but to resort to this… to actually try and kill me, their only child…?"

There was a light shifting; it was Lucien, who had risen from his seat in favor of taking the one next to Gwynileth. He pat her atop the head awkwardly, obviously attempting to exhibit some degree of support. "I don't even know what to say. I can hardly imagine my own parents being so heartless towards me."

"I am glad you do not have to suffer it," said Gwynileth. She met Lucien's gaze, crimson eyes blazing. "There are few things more painful than the realization that your family, who is supposed to love you more than anyone else in the world, does not care about you. When they announced my engagement without even mentioning it to me… they showed me once and for all that they do not love me. They saw me only as a pawn to their own greatness: a tool to use and discard. And so I left, at the behest of my only friend in Morrowind."

There was a loud sniffle; Inigo was wiping his eye with a delicate claw. Upon seeing their gazes, the Khajiit cleared his throat in embarrassment. "I am sorry. I think there is, erm—a bug in my eye. Yes, that is it."

"Who is your friend?" asked Lucien, taking care to keep his voice gentle. "Where are they now?"

A cool breeze settled across the camp, causing Gwynileth to shudder. With a sigh, she retrieved her notebook from her knapsack and waved the others over.

Kaidan and Inigo both rose from their seats to stand over her shoulder. Once they were gathered, she opened the notebook to the page where Anya's gravestone was drawn, surrounded by lilies. Some of the charcoal had rubbed off onto the next page, but that did not bother Gwynileth. If anything, the smudges almost gave the drawing more character… and Anya had always liked things that were slightly imperfect, anyway. A chipped teacup; a flower with asymmetrical petals; things that others would normally overlook in favor of more traditional beauty. All of those, Anya would take and love, the way only she could.

"I lost her this winter," said Gwynileth, her voice ragged yet full of warmth. "I did everything in my power to nurse her back to health when she caught ill. But it was beyond my skill to heal. I have no formal training in Restoration magic, nor do I have much affinity for magic at all. The moment after she was buried, I set about planning my escape to this country. Once she was gone… there was nothing left for me in Morrowind."

A hand reached towards the page; it was Kaidan, who was leaning close over her shoulder. She could smell the smoke and pine needles from him and could not help smiling as his eyes narrowed so he could read the name upon the drawn tombstone. He always had an endearing furrow to his brow when in thought.

"Anya," he said. He looked to Gwynileth, who was smiling in an almost apologetic manner. "That was her name?"

Gwynileth nodded, her fingers trailing lightly over the yellowed papyrus pages. "Yes… I'm sorry that I used her name to introduce myself when I first met you. I did not know if I could afford to trust anyone."

Kaidan hummed to himself. "It's all right. I understand."

"For whatever it's worth… I think she'd really like you."

There was definite surprise upon Kaidan's face with that—upon noting the sincerity upon her, however, he smiled. One hand was placed upon her shoulder… and then he took a seat beside her instead of retaking his place on the other side of the fire-pit.

Feeling warm and safe among her friends both new and old, Gwynileth sighed deeply and said, "I think that is all I will say about myself for now. We will continue our journey to Whiterun tomorrow, yes?"

"Indeed!" exclaimed Lucien. "I am ready for a three-course meal and a feather bed again, thank you very much."

Gwynileth glanced towards Inigo, who was scratching the back of his neck in an obvious attempt to avoid intruding. "Would you like to come with us, Inigo? We have been adventuring the last few days and intend to sell our prizes at the trading capital tomorrow. You are most welcome to join for however long you wish."

Inigo's ears shot up like a tightly wound tent-pole. "Yes! That would be very fun. I too have a few things to sell, and purchases to make."

"Then welcome aboard," said Gwynileth with a smile. Lucien seemed quite pleased with her impromptu decision to allow the Khajiit to join their adventuring party—and when she glanced at Kaidan, she was surprised to note he seemed agreeable to it, too.

As if he could feel her surprise, Kaidan chuckled. "He's already saved your life once when I was none the wiser to the danger. He'll be good to have around."

The fire was dying down again, but no one seemed bothered. The conversation had reached a natural lull, and the stars still provided enough light to see within a decent enough distance. Figuring it was time to get some rest, Gwynileth retrieved her bedroll and began rolling it out upon the ground: close enough to absorb the fading heat, but far away enough to avoid the sparks and sizzling embers. She lay down upon it, gazing up at the stars—her view was blocked by someone standing above her.

Gwynileth propped herself on her elbow to see that it was Kaidan. She smiled at his approach and asked, "Something the matter?"

"Just wanted to see how you were holding up," he replied. He paused for a moment… and then added, "And I wanted to thank you, for telling us a little more about yourself. I've wanted to get to know you, but I also didn't want to pry."

Something warm appeared in the recesses of her chest; it was as though the fire had relocated from the pit into her heart. "I'm doing all right. A little scared, still. I don't think it's really… sunk in, yet. That someone wants me dead."

Her lips pursed. Saying it aloud certainly wasn't helping to calm her nerves.

Kaidan seemed to notice. He sat down next to her again, mimicking her posture by leaning back and propping himself on his elbows as well. "We'll find out who sent those assassins after you. And then we'll take care of them, so you don't have to worry anymore."

He sounded so confident… Gwynileth was envious of that. Her eyes located the stars, many of which were varying shades of blue and purple: colors that were not often seen in Morrowind. "How can you be so sure?"

"Hunting things down has been a special skill of mine. That, survival, and combat have been all I've ever known."

She heard the way his voice grew softer, as if attempting to prevent Lucien or Inigo from overhearing him. It would not surprise her if that was the case, considering how private of a person Kaidan had been over the last few weeks. Hoping the question was not out of place, Gwynileth asked, "Surely you did not learn all of this on your own?"

Kaidan shook his head. "No. Brynjar was the man who raised me. When other children were learning how to read books, I was learning how to handle a sword. We never stayed in one place for long. I think I've seen more of Tamriel in two years than most people do their whole lives."

Crickets had begun their choruses by that point—snoring from the other side of the fire-pit could be heard. Seeing as Lucien did not snore, that meant it was likely Inigo. Gwynileth was instantly jealous of how quickly he was able to fall asleep.

She exchanged looks with Kaidan upon hearing the Khajiit grumble something incomprehensible; the two of them exchanged subdued snickers before turning their gaze back towards the skies.

"You told me before that you returned to Skyrim hoping to find out who you were," said Gwynileth.

"Aye, that I did. I have no Voice of the Emperor, no Dragonskin, no natural resistance to the frost… all I have is this."

With that, Kaidan retrieved the sword that was more often than not strapped across his back. He carefully removed the weapon from its sheath and held it out for Gwynileth to take.

There was barely enough light for her to notice them, but now that she was looking closely, she could see: upon the blade, inscribed in the metal itself, were strange runes of a language she had never before seen. And yet… the letters were almost familiar somehow, as though she had seen them long ago.

Her fingers trailed along the smooth inscription, and her lips twisted in concentration as she struggled to make any sense of the language. "This belonged to your mother, yes?"

"It did," said Kaidan with a nod. "But I have no idea what these words say. Brynjar said he was going to tell me everything when I turned fourteen years of age… but one afternoon when I was twelve, I woke up to find him gone. All he had left behind was a simple dagger, an empty water-skin, and a flint. I searched for him for days, and never found him. From then on, I was on my own."

Gwynileth hiccupped in distress. "Twelve years old… but you were still a child!"

Kaidan's lips twisted into a wry smirk. "Perhaps, but I was a child that knew how to take care of myself. If I can just find a way to translate the words on this sword, I might have a clue as to where my mother was from… where I might be from."

She smiled and handed back the sword. "Maybe we'll find a lead sometime during our travels. If I can help you with this in any way, Kaidan, I will."

A few torchbugs flew past their faces, their green luminescent glow just enough for Gwynileth to see the grateful smile upon Kaidan's face. Something wriggled in the depths of her stomach as he looked at her with such care, the likes of which she had not seen from anyone since Anya had passed away.

"Thank you," he said. The words were simple, but his voice was not.

Gwynileth lay back down, resting her head upon the straw that constituted as a pillow. The stars were so bright and beautiful…

Kaidan rose to his feet—just before she could ask where he was going, he said, "I'll keep watch tonight. Don't worry, Gwyn. I'll make sure nothing happens to you."

The promise was more comforting than she had expected. With a slow smile, she nodded and replied, "I trust you," before closing her eyes and drifting off into sleep.

Chapter Text

The city of Whiterun was a beautiful place; trees grew inside the gates, as did mountain flowers of purple, blue, and red hues. Dragon Tongues were popular choices for private gardens, as were nightshades and deathbells—and best of all, everyone was perfectly friendly to Gwynileth and the rest of her friends.

They had arrived at sundown, and were thus unfortunately unable to sell their wares and treasure until the next day. Not even this was enough to dampen Lucien's spirits, however; the moment that they stepped inside the Inn of the Bannered Mare, he plopped himself down upon one of the stools at the bar and ordered a meal of grilled leeks, honey curated roast ham, a lavender dumpling, and the finest ale or mead that the inn offered.

Gwynileth quite liked the people of Whiterun; a young woman named Olfina Grey-Mane introduced herself and ended up giving Gwynileth advice on what to order for dinner, and where the stores were.

"You adventuring types might need to visit one of the two blacksmiths in town," said Olfina, with a smile charming enough to make the nobles in Morrowind jealous. "My grandfather, Eorlund Grey-Mane, is the best, but he often works on private commissions for the Companions. In case he's busy, your next best bet is to visit Adrianne at Warmaiden's—she's very skilled, and takes her craft seriously."

When Olfina excused herself to go speak with a strapping Nord with blond hair, it was Inigo who took her place upon the stool next to Gwynileth, a mug of ale in his hand. "It is quite nice here, is it not? I like Whiterun."

She smiled and clinked her cup—her drink, however, was only water—against Inigo's in cheers. "I do, too. It's nice to be back in a city again, after so many days on the road. How long were you adventuring for before you met us, Inigo?"

The Khajiit thought for a long while, his whiskers twitching as he counted underneath his breath. At last, he scoffed and retorted, "A long time. I lost count at thirty-one days."

Gwynileth's eyes widened. "Thirty-one?"

"Give or take a few days, that is correct!" he replied. He took a long swig of his drink and smacked his lips. "But do not worry about me, my friend. I am doing much better now that I have met you and gotten a good meal in my belly."

The bard began playing his drums soon after. Before Gwynileth could approach to ask him which song he was playing, Lucien appeared at her side, a hapless grin upon his face. "There you are, Gwynileth! This is a good song—'the Age of Aggression!' Come dance with me!"

He did not wait for an answer. As Lucien began pulling her towards a more open area, Gwynileth laughed and shook her head. "Lucien, have you had too much to drink?"

"Nonsense. I've only had two mugs," he said; and then he hiccupped.

Gwynileth looked over the edges of the room—her eyes landed upon Kaidan, who was sitting by himself with a bowl of beef stew ahead of him. She shot him a pleading look as a clear cry for help, but he just smirked and shook his head ever so slightly. The message was clear: you let yourself get dragged into this mess, now you've got to get yourself out of it.

She scoffed and stuck her tongue out at him, which only served to entertain the man further.

The remainder of the evening passed in similar revelry and simple enjoyments of being back in civilian life. For the first time in what felt like a long while, Gwynileth was comfortable enough to let her hair down; she laughed and danced with Inigo and Lucien, for they were insistent upon partaking in merriment until the townsfolk were heading to bed. She even had a small sip of Lucien's ale, and was surprised by how much she liked it; he truly did have a refined palate. When she said as much, Lucien grinned cheekily and retorted, "Well of course I do! We Flaviuses pride ourselves on our taste, and I mean that in more ways than one—eh, not like that, though! I meant in decoration, food, and hobbies!"

This last he had to say because at the words 'I mean that in more ways than one,' Inigo had snorted and nearly doubled over in laughter.

All in all, Gwynileth was feeling happier than she had in a long while by the end of their first night in Whiterun. The innkeeper, Hulda, showed her to her room an hour after midnight, when it was time to sleep; she was relieved to see a proper bed with feather pillows and a thick quilt of green cotton waiting for her. Even better, the room would be all to herself, although Lucien, Inigo, and Kaidan would be in rooms just down the hall. Through the wall behind her, she could hear Lucien exclaim, "Ooh, what a plush mattress!"

After bathing herself in the nearby bathtub, she nestled underneath the blankets. The sheets were tantalizingly smooth upon her skin, and comfortably warm while also not being too warm. She closed her eyes with a smile upon her face, hoping for a good night's sleep…

She did not find it.

The nightmares were back. Gwynileth awoke early in the morning covered in a cold sheen of sweat, her hands clenched and her legs entwined within the sheets of the bed. For a moment after waking, she could've sworn that Jenithar's eyes had followed her from her sleeping consciousness into the waking world—there was no forgetting some of what he had said to her, both that night and in her sleep.

It's all right, darling. I'll be very careful; you don't need to worry. This won't hurt.

It was another hour and a half before her three friends were ready to visit the stores together. Had Gwynileth been able to reap the benefits of a good night of sleep, she likely would've gone herself… but the nightmares coupled with the fact that a literal assassin had been hunting her two nights ago convinced her to wait for them, impatient as she may be.

Breakfast was a quiet affair, largely because Lucien was nursing a mild hangover, Inigo was not a morning person, and Kaidan seemed to have dark circles underneath his eyes to rival Gwynileth's own. Even so, they feasted on loaves of potato bread and scrambled eggs before simultaneously standing up to tackle the rest of the day.

The first place they went was Belethor's General Store, where they were able to sell off the gemstones from Pinewatch. Everything had been split evenly between Kaidan, Gwynileth, and Lucien; each person walked away with four-hundred gold once the garnets, amethysts, and rubies were gone.

Following the general store was the alchemist's shop. The owner, Arcadia, was quick to allow Gwynileth to utilize her alchemy station; it took a few minutes, but before long she was able to make a few healing potions. She was grateful that wheat and blisterwort mushrooms were so easy to find—all other potions she had come across, she sold for a few extra septims.

As the four of them were walking up the street towards the blacksmith, however, Gwynileth felt the hair on the back of her neck stand up. She glanced over her shoulder to see a Dunmer behind them; he wouldn't have looked out of place were he not wearing robes of pure black, his hood up in a poor attempt to conceal his face. It was as though he was trying so hard not to look conspicuous, that he was overdoing the effort…

Gwynileth pursed her lips and faced forward again. It was likely she was just being paranoid; overreacting, the way she had when she first arrived at Skyrim.

Unfortunately, Eorlund Grey-Mane's prices were still slightly too steep for either Gwynileth or Lucien to afford, and so they set off to Warmaiden's instead. There was a light breeze upon the air, a few flower petals swirling along the currents. By this time, Inigo had fully woken up and was happily chattering about one of his misadventures from the days when he was a sell-sword—and while Lucien was listening to the tale intently, Gwynileth was not.

As they passed through the market-square, she glanced over her shoulder again. That Dunmer was still there, albeit further behind than he was previously.

The couple who ran Warmaiden's was kind; it was Ulfberth War-Bear who proudly showed them all of their products on display, all of which were forged by his wife. One by one, Kaidan looked across the sets of armor, asking both Gwynileth and Lucien for their preferences on whether they liked light or heavy armors, what sort of price range they were looking for…

For the first time in a while, Lucien and Kaidan were perfectly civil to one another. They soon established that light armors would be preferred; while scaled armor was still expensive, there were studded leathers that would provide more decent protection than his current robes, while allowing for a significant amount of gold to be left over.

Throughout the entire exchange, however, Gwynileth couldn't help but continue to glance out the window. Prickles decorated her skin; there was an uncomfortable swirling in her gut that said something was wrong…

While Lucien spent plenty of time choosing his exact set of armor, Gwynileth only took five minutes to splurge on the scaled armor—sans a helmet, so she could have some money to purchase more arrows and food. She cast aside her shoddy leather armor as soon as was possible in favor of her new purchase—when she reemerged, Kaidan was waiting for her with a light smile and the words, "That's a good look on you."

For the first time that day, everything felt right in the world. Gwynileth smiled. "Thank you for helping me choose it."

By the time all of their errands were complete, Gwynileth still had two-hundred septims in her possession, her scaled armor, a bow of moonstone strapped to her back, and arrows of traditionally elvish make by her side. She had sold her iron dagger in favor of one made of steel and replenished her food supplies; now she had a few jars of jams, loaves of bread, some dried meats, and plenty of full water-skins for the next time they would venture out of the walls.

As they were returning to the Inn of the Bannered Mare, however, she could not help noticing how bothered Kaidan seemed. Cocking her head sideways, she nudged him gently with her shoulder and asked, "What's wrong?"

"The ramparts of this city are shabby—they need to be upgraded," he answered. A loose hand was gestured towards the walls; some of the stones were falling off in chunks. "If this city is to have any chance at surviving the civil war here in Skyrim, action should be taken."

Gwynileth shrugged and stopped by one of the stalls in the market-square; the grocer Carlotta had some delicious looking apples on display. "Maybe they don't have the money to dedicate to such a project right now."

"There's a war. It should be a priority nonetheless."

She reached out to take three green apples in her knapsack, plopping nine septims upon Carlotta's stall in exchange. When next she turned to face Kaidan, there was a light grin upon her face. "Are you always so serious, Kaidan? You're quite intense at times, you know."

Kaidan shot her a look, but waited for her to cross the square to the inn's entrance. Holding open the door for her, he said, "I'm well aware. But it's for good reason. After all we've been through together, you can't tell me that Skyrim isn't dangerous."

He was not wrong, of course: the roads were positively littered with bandits, wolves, and other creatures of a less than savory nature. It was a miracle that anyone was able to get anywhere nowadays with so much peril across the countryside; it was rare for Gwynileth and the others to travel for more than thirty minutes without being accosted by something.

"Of course it is. But… I would still like to see you smile more. I enjoy seeing it," said Gwynileth, entirely without thinking. She felt a silver rush of heat flood her cheeks; it promptly vanished upon seeing the warm look that Kaidan was returning.

"I'll keep that in mind," he said, and then they entered the inn.

Townspeople were already dedicated towards the evening's merriment, flagons of mead in their hands. A number of patrons were drunkenly singing along to Mikael's tunes; trying not to smile herself, Gwynileth approached the bar and asked Hulda for a simple glass of water.

Once her drink was in her hands, she glanced around the inn. A soft orange light was cascading through the windows on the western wall, illuminating her surroundings with faint dusk. Mikael was playing his drum already—by this point, Gwynileth was quite familiar with 'Ragnar the Red'—and happily singing along with the other guests.

But that swirling feeling in her stomach was back, and more intense than before. She sighed and placed her cup upon the bar behind her, wondering why she was feeling so uneasy, now of all nights, when she and her friends were safe inside the walls of the city…

"Ooh, what is that? Some sort of flavor-tablet?"

Gwynileth blinked and looked over to Lucien, who was pointing towards her cup upon the bar. But he was not looking at her—he was looking towards that Dunmer, the one with the black cloak, whose red eyes had gone wide.

"My drink," she said dryly. She had only put it aside for a few seconds, there was no way he should've been able to reach it… and yet, when she peered inside the simple cup, the liquid was not clear as water should've been.

It was black.

She opened her mouth—

The Dunmer leapt from the bar-stool and began sprinting towards the door of the inn, beginning to push aside the many patrons lazily ambling in.

Someone raced forward; it was Kaidan, whose bow was in one hand, and an arrow in another. The crowd had parted by this time, which meant he was able to reach the door easily. His shadow trailed into the inn, allowing Gwynileth to see that he had drawn back his bow.

There was a scream from outside. Finally broken from her stunned trance, Gwynileth inhaled sharply and ran to Kaidan's side. He was already gone, having stormed after the Dunmer, who now had an arrow in the back of his shin.

The darkness upon Kaidan's face was comparable to that of a thundercloud. He was at the Dunmer's side in an instant, demanding, "Why did you run? What did you put in her drink?"

The Dunmer swallowed something.

By this time, Lucien and Inigo had appeared by Gwynileth's side, and were watching the debacle take place. Each of them stared, horrifically transfixed, as the assailant's face grew paler and paler, as though he could not breathe.

Kaidan shook him by the shoulders, apparently realizing what must have occurred. "Answer me, damn you!"

"It's too late," murmured Gwynileth, slowly shaking her head. "It was too late the moment he swallowed that… that thing."

She was right. The Dunmer gasped one last time—when his mouth opened, it revealed his teeth were stained black, that there was blood coating his mouth—and then the last bits of light to his eyes were gone.

Kaidan scoffed and dropped the corpse unceremoniously to the ground. He did not have eyes for the congregation that had accumulated around the market-square, for the people who were beginning to whisper amongst themselves. He looked only towards Gwynileth as he stepped back towards the entrance to the Bannered Mare and lowly asked, "How did you know that he would die?"

Gwynileth took a deep breath, the uneasiness to her stomach finally and fully explained. "Because… because that is the protocol of the Morag Tong, the assassin's guild in Morrowind," she whispered. "If they are caught in any way, if their intentions or their clients are compromised, they swallow toxic herbs to kill themselves." Her eyes lingered upon the body on the ground; Whiterun's guards had surrounded it by this point, and were approaching Hulda to ask questions on what had happened even though she looked as startled as everyone else. "And they are under the jurisdiction of the Hlaalu family… the family that I was supposed marry into."

Dead silence reigned across the four adventurers for a very long moment.

"Well, we don't have any proof that they were from this Morag Tong, do we?" asked Lucien, in an obvious attempt to try and calm her down. "It's entirely possible that they're unaffiliated with your homeland—or… or maybe they just centered around the wrong target!"

"I do not think so," Inigo said with a light frown. "Assassins are not typically that stupid. Bandits and mercenaries, yes. But assassins, no."

Lucien sighed. "Very helpful, Inigo, thank you."

"Let's get inside and get something fresh to drink," said Kaidan, resting a hesitant hand upon Gwynileth's arm. "I think we all need it."

Gwynileth did not fight his gentle nudge to get her back into the inn. She did not fight it when Kaidan sat her down at a table on the far side of the room. She did not have the energy to do so, because this was the second time in three days that she had been targeted for death and had escaped it very narrowly, and only thanks to the intervention of her friends…

Whatever her combat skill had become, it was clearly not enough. Bows and arrows would not save her from invisible opponents, or miniscule lapses of her normally stringent guard. Her friends wouldn't be able to catch the assassins every time, either—and that was without mentioning that just by being with her, it was likely she was putting targets on their backs as well.

No. The only thing that could save her now… would be to run somewhere that her parents and the Hlaalus could not find her, and start all over again.

Her heart twisted at the conclusion despite knowing it needed to be made. She didn't want to start over. She liked Inigo and Lucien and… more than anything else, she didn't want to leave Kaidan.

"Here."

Kaidan placed another cup of water upon the table in front of her—it was accompanied by a mug of something else. Seeing her raised eyebrow, he explained, "Jazbay tea. Hulda thought you might like it. Offered it on the house."

She smiled and gingerly took the cup, although she could only bear to swallow a few hesitant sips before setting it back upon the table. Her hands trembled all the while; she wrung them together in a futile attempt to keep any of her friends from noticing.

It was Inigo who broke the lingering silence between the four, his whiskers perking up slightly. "Well, you cannot say that that was not exciting."

Although his statement brought a wispy smile to Lucien's face, the words only served to make Gwynileth's despondency grow deeper. "You shouldn't have to suffer these moments at all. The assassins are after me, not any of you."

"That doesn't matter. I told you that I intend to repay my life debt to you, and I hold to that," said Kaidan. He was frowning slightly, but not in anger; in concern.

"You've already repaid it. Several times over, in fact!" Gwynileth hiccupped. She reached out for her mug of tea only to find that she did not have the strength to lift it—when she tried even so, she only ended up spilling some of the drink onto the table they were sitting at. Trying mightily to restrain her tears, she said, "By staying with me, you put yourselves in danger. I don't… I don't want that. If any of you got hurt protecting me… I couldn't bear it."

Lucien reached for a napkin and began wiping away at the spilled tea. "But Gwynileth… we still like traveling with you."

These words made her pause. Was it entirely possible that they had come to care for her with the same intensity that she did for them?

Even if they did, it didn't matter. Gwynileth had already come to the conclusion for what she needed to do. Taking a deep breath, she drearily said, "I'm glad for that, Lucien. I am. But… I think… I need to go."

A startled pause ignited the air around the table. Lucien and Inigo exchanged cautious looks while Kaidan's face went strangely slack as he leaned back in his chair.

"Go?" asked Inigo. "What do you mean?"

Gwynileth bit the inside of her lip, cursing herself for saying the words, even if they were necessary. "I mean to say that… I need to leave you. All of you. It's obvious that there is someone from my homeland trying to kill me, if not multiple someones. And if I know my parents or the Hlaalus… they will never stop hunting me. They're persistent. They'll keep sending more and more assassins until they either lose my trail completely, or they finally kill me. By remaining with me, you place targets on your backs. If anything were to happen to you—to my friends—I would never forgive myself. The only option is for me to leave."

She could not find the strength to look at the faces of her friends, but she could feel their emotions nonetheless. Disappointment; worry; sadness. All of those things surrounded her like a fog so thick, it was as though Gwynileth could reach out and touch it.

"Where will you go?" asked Inigo, whose ears had drooped a significant amount.

Gwynileth sighed. One of her hands rubbed her arms: one of her sure signs of discomfort. "Cyrodiil. And if that's not far enough, then Elsewyr. I just… I don't know. I just want to be somewhere I can be happy. That's all I want, really, is to be happy. That's what Anya asked of me, before I left Morrowind." She sighed and closed her eyes, the image of her greatest friend's smile still etched like a faint drawing into her mind. "She told me to find a home I would be comfortable in, a good man to love, close friends to trust. I want nothing more."

A single tear trailed down her cheek; unbidden, unwanted. She ferociously wiped it away, wishing that she could wipe away the fear just as easily. "But it seems despite my best efforts, my parents and fiancé wish to take happiness away from me, too. Apparently my free will and my body weren't enough."

Even the boisterous sounds of the inn seemed to dim at her words, although of course the other patrons had no way of knowing what the four adventurers were talking about. Gwynileth opened her eyes again to see lines of sorrow bedecking Lucien's and Inigo's face. Kaidan's, however, was unbearably unreadable.

"What about Dumzbthar?" asked Lucien, his hands extended: a last-ditch effort to convince Gwynileth to stay. "Will you not come with us?"

Gwynileth looked at him for a long moment before lethargically taking her coin purse from her belt and emptying half of its contents onto the table. She pushed the money towards Lucien with the words, "I'm sorry, Lucien. Please take back the money that you paid me when you hired me to protect you."

While Lucien's eyes grew sad, he just shook his head and crossed his arms against his chest. "I will not. You did protect me, Gwynileth. And… you'll need the money, if you're to purchase papers of passage into Cyrodiil."

Seeing that Gwynileth was not making a move to retake the money, he reached out and took the painstaking moments to grab the coin and place them squarely in her palm. When it was all collected in her hand, Lucien gently closed her fingers around the gold and murmured, "Perhaps one day, I can meet you again in Cyrodiil. It was… it was an honor to travel with you, Lady Nerussa."

A watery smile finally emerged onto her face; her other hand grasped onto his own and squeezed once. "Likewise, Lucien. I hope you find everything that it is you seek: all the secrets of the Dwemer and of the Ancient Nords alike."

She finally replaced the gold into her pouch—Inigo's scratchy voice caught her attention next. "It is such a shame, because… well, because I only just met you."

"I know," said Gwynileth, turning towards the downcast Khajiit. She smiled thinly at him and added, "I wish I had more time with you too, Inigo. I've already grown very fond of you. You may not believe it yet, but you are a good person."

He chuckled once and maintained her gaze. "As are you, my friend. You deserve much more than what you have thus far been given."

And with that, he and Lucien nodded at each other; an unspoken agreement to go to the bar for something strong to drink.

Once they were gone, Gwynileth exhaled and leaned back in her seat. Unable to stop herself, her crimson eyes flickered over to Kaidan, who had hardly even moved a muscle ever since she relayed her decision. Though her heart trembled, still she asked, "Please tell me what you're thinking."

Kaidan finally turned to look at her, though there was nothing discernible in his face. "I'm thinking that you going off on your own is a death sentence, and that you would be safer if you stayed."

"Maybe," she allowed. "But you and the others wouldn't be."

"I'm fine with that trade. Stay."

Gwynileth shook her head. "Well, I'm not. I won't subject you to a fate that should be mine, and mine alone. Not you."

His eyes flared up at these last words; Kaidan leaned forward, his hands clenched into fists, and said, "You don't get to make my decisions for me, or for Lucien, or for Inigo. If you're leaving purely for self-preservation then that's one thing, but if you're leaving for our sakes like you've insinuated, then you're just being foolish. We didn't ask you to be noble. I'm sitting here, telling you that I'm willing to take the risks if it means knowing that you won't be killed the moment that you step off on your own. Even if it means getting hurt, I—"

"Don't you dare throw yourself upon the sword for my sake!" hissed Gwynileth. The tears had returned to spark her eyes, like miniature clouds of morning dew. She refused to blink, and so in the corner of her eyes they remained. "I have precious few friends in the world as it is. You… you are the closest person I have in my life now, Kaidan. Do not ask me to watch you die. I won't suffer it a second time."

"So I can't risk anything for you, but you'll literally gamble your life for mine?" he returned, eyes narrowed. "That isn't hypocritical at all."

Gwynileth inhaled through her teeth and glared down into the wooden carvings upon the table. There was no more steam rising from her mug of jazbay tea. "Don't let it end like this, Kaidan, please. It's already tearing me up inside; I don't want to leave you like this—but I have to. For all of our sakes."

Kaidan was quiet. He was usually quiet, but this was not his normal silence. It was one mingled with frustration and pleading… the silence of someone who didn't know where or how to move forward.

At last, the abrasive sound of a chair scraping against wood entered Gwynileth's ears. She glanced up to see that Kaidan had risen from his chair, and that there was a saddened yet dark look within his eyes as he said, "We'll accompany you to the border tomorrow. But please… take tonight to think, Gwyn. Because I don't want you to go like this, either."

Before she could even begin to think of what to reply to that, Kaidan turned on his heel and was gone.

Chapter Text

It seemed that Lucien and Inigo had come to the consensus that they should act as though it were any other morning when they met with Gwynileth and Kaidan for breakfast. They were their cheery selves all throughout the meal, exchanging tales of interesting studies or misadventures.

While Gwynileth appreciated their attempts to act as though nothing significant was happening, she still caught onto the tiny bits of tension they could not entirely eradicate from their faces: hints of forced smiles, a false brightness to their eyes.

Kaidan, it appeared, did not choose to partake in the same activity. He had been the last one to arrive at the table, and the first words he said were, "Are you still going to go through with this, then?" with his gaze pointed towards Gwynileth.

She had done some thinking, as Kaidan had requested the previous night. There was no denying that there was horrible temptation to stay… she already had friends in Skyrim, most obviously. And she had enjoyed their days of adventuring, even if they would often smell of draugr for hours after they emerged from some of the old Nordic crypts. It was exhilarating, to fight back-to-back with people whom she could trust, and then be rewarded with beautiful gemstones or ancient relics for her efforts. It was a whole different meaning to 'honest work.'

And that was without mentioning the cons of running away again. Gwynileth was frightened of what she might find in Cyrodiil. While she trusted that it was a country of good repute, there was no telling whether her luck on meeting friendly people would hold. For all she knew, the first person she might wave to in the Imperial City would be a cutpurse, and then what would she do? Then there was also the horrific thought of the assassins catching onto her ruse, and following her flight all the way from Skyrim even unto Cyrodiil. There was no guarantee that Gwynileth would lose her pursuers by simply hopping across the border.

But then she would think on what might happen to Lucien, Inigo, or Kaidan if she stayed. She had already seen the handiwork of the Thalmor done onto Kaidan but a fortnight past, and the Morag Tong were not particularly known for their merciful methods of killing. There would be no telling what they would do to her friends, if they ever decided to eliminate them in order to reach her with more ease.

So it was that Gwynileth finally replied to Kaidan's question with the words, "Yes. I am. I… have to go."

Kaidan sighed at her words and sank into his chair. There was a more defeated energy about him now than there had been the previous night. "All right, then. I won't argue with you. Just… know that if you ever need to come back to Skyrim, I'll be here, all right?"

After breakfast was concluded—Lucien had decided to treat as a final 'going-away' present for Gwynileth, and had thus splurged on fluffy pancakes with juniper berry preserves—they set out from Whiterun, back onto the roads from which they came. A few other denizens of the city nodded politely at them as they passed, for Gwynileth and her friends had become acquainted with many of the folk in Whiterun even over the last two days.

It was a beautiful day for traveling: the sun was partially hidden behind the clouds while still providing warm rays, there was little to no wind of bitter late-winter, and birds were singing overhead now that they were migrating north again. Gwynileth found it a shame to disturb the peace of the day… but as usual, Lucien eventually grew weary of the silence, and started humming to himself again.

The difference was that now, Inigo was whistling along to the songs. While Kaidan merely shook his head as the two of them began enacting a two-part harmony to 'The Dragonborn Comes,' Gwynileth could not help but laugh aloud at their creativity.

Apparently encouraged by her reactions, they soon switched to other songs that they knew she was more familiar with—drunk with the joy of the docile afternoon and the good company, Lucien even began making up new lyrics such as, "There once was a hero named Lucien Flavius, whose singing and writing and looks were just marvelous."

His words made the Dunmer laugh, but Kaidan just sighed and, almost accusatorily, asked, "Isn't that the tune to 'Ragnar the Red?'"

"Yes," said Lucien.

"Why are you making up new lyrics to a song that already exists?"

"Well, 'Ragnar the Red' is a good song, isn't it? Why reinvent the wheel if it isn't broken?"

Gwynileth laughed again and glanced over to Lucien, who was on her right side while Kaidan took her left. Trying not to grin too widely, she asked, "Isn't the phrase 'if it isn't broken, don't fix it?' Did you mix the two up?"

"Not at all! That was a malaphor."

Inigo shot Lucien a funny look. "That sounds like a disease."

As Gwynileth began laughing again—even Kaidan seemed amused by this simple remark—Lucien spluttered in indignation. "Well, I…! Of course it isn't, it's a literary invention! It's what combining two phrases together is called: one of the most popular is 'we'll burn that bridge when we get to it,' which is a bastardization of the expressions—"

But Lucien abruptly stopped speaking. Gwynileth didn't need to ask why.

They had just reached the top of a hill, and were able to see the village of Helgen only a couple hundred meters below. It was being burned to the ground; flames were consuming the thatched rooftops of the houses. The stone watchtower that would've had the best chance at withstanding any sort of attack was crumbling to pieces before Gwynileth's very eyes… and when she saw what was perched atop it, her heart nearly stopped.

It was a dragon; a great black beast with spikes protruding from its neck and eyes the color of molten lava. Even as she stared at it, it opened its mouth and spewed more flames from its maw, catching more buildings in its warpath. Screams—human screams—followed the sound of crackling sparks and collapsing timber.

One of the few studies that Gwynileth had actually paid attention to when she was young was how to lead her people during a crisis. How to keep calm under the pressure of a natural emergency, or one of war.

This was no different. She took a deep breath and seized both Lucien's and Kaidan's arms, her fingernails digging into their sleeves. Without sparing a look in any of their directions, she exclaimed, "There are still people in the village! We must go help them!"

"Gwyn, wait!" exclaimed Kaidan.

He was unheard, for Gwynileth was already barreling down the hilltop, towards the large wooden gate that led into the village. All of the weight she was carrying seemed to melt off of her body as she sprinted, taking deep and full breaths in steady rhythm to avoid tiring herself out.

People were shrieking for help; Gwynileth could hear their pleads for Stendarr's mercy or for Talos to save them. A few arrows emerged from the city gate ramparts, but none of them stuck in the great dragon's scales. Orders of conflicting nature were being barked left, right, and center.

Gwynileth burst through the gates with her shoulder, not even wincing at the impact. Her crimson eyes darted around, searching for someone—anyone—that she might be able to save.

A small boy was standing alone in the street, tears trailing down his face as he stared at a wooden toy that was wreathed in flame. She ran directly to the boy and plucked him off of the street—not a moment too soon. A trail of dragon-fire was spat directly after them, so close that Gwynileth could feel its heat caress her back.

The boy screamed as his gaze was redirected to the flames. His arms launched around Gwynileth's neck so tight, she was afraid he would pull them both to the ground.

As soon as they took refuge behind a building of stone, Gwynileth set him down and placed a hand upon the side of his face. "Where is your family?"

"Home." The boy pointed towards a burning building along the same street. It was not yet so overrun by the fire that escape was impossible…

"Stay here," said Gwynileth. She tried to smile at him and hoped the gesture wasn't as fearful as she felt, with her blood rushing, pounding, maniacally across her body. "I'll make sure to get you a new toy sword after all this is over, okay? I'm going to get your family."

Without waiting for a response from the child, she bolted out of the safety that the stone building provided. Her lungs were burning from the smoke that infested the air, but she would not give up so easily—

She dove into the house. The heat was so intense, it set Gwynileth to choking. She placed one hand ahead of her eyes in a futile attempt to block the ash; her voice was scratchy as she screamed, never mind how dry her throat had become, "Is anyone still here? Hello?"

For one intense and fearful second, there was nothing. And then—

"Help! Please, help me!"

It was a woman's voice, a young woman's. Gwynileth whirled towards the source and saw her trapped underneath a collapsed bookcase. Tendrils of flame were beginning to eat away at the edges of the furniture and were steadily making their way towards the young woman pinned upon the floor. Her eyes were green like the leaves upon the oaken trees, and they were filled with tears of fright as she met Gwynileth's gaze. "Please, help me! I can't breathe!"

Gwynileth dove towards the floor, her fingers lodged underneath the heavy case. She centered herself the way she did when chopping firewood, took a deep breath, and lifted.

The bookcase began to raise from the ground—it was not much, but it was enough to allow the woman to begin scrambling forward, out of range of the case. Gwynileth's muscles were sore, and it was hard to get a good breath in; gasping, she cried, "Are you safe?"

"Yes!"

She released the bookcase. It collapsed against the weakened floor with such force that it broke through the floor panels—Gwynileth then placed a hand upon the young woman's shoulder and shouted, "Let's go! Your brother is outside!"

"Hadil? He's alive?"

A horrid, spine-chilling crrraaacck filled the air; one of the supporting beams upon the ceiling had been burned through and was beginning to give way. If it fell before they left the house, they would be trapped inside.

Gwynileth seized the woman's hand and sprinted, sprinted as fast as she could. Her eyes were watering, she could barely see—but she had to believe they would make it, they had to make it, but now the beam was cracking, splintering—

She pushed the young woman out of the house just as the beam began its descent towards the earth. While her charge landed upon the stone street outside, coughing and gasping for breath, Gwynileth fell to the floor of the house, unable to make it out herself.

"No!"

The beam stopped falling: it was Kaidan—Kaidan had thrown himself underneath the beam to grab it and prevent it from falling, preventing the remainder of the supports from collapsing as well. He groaned in great pain and effort as he struggled to belay its inevitable fall.

"We've got you, Gwynileth!" shouted Lucien's voice from somewhere outside. Two lines of frost magic appeared: one was directed towards the path in front of Gwynileth, extinguishing the flames that had popped up ahead of her, while the other was directed towards Kaidan's hands, which were dangerously close to the burning wood.

Kaidan hissed through his teeth and shot Lucien a withering look. "What in Oblivion are you doing?"

"Keeping your hands from burning!"

"You're freezing my damn fingers off!"

"Well, ex-cuse me for trying to help!"

Gwynileth had managed to scramble to her feet and launch out of the house by this point, though she was gasping and choking for breath. Her eyes searched wildly for any sign of Inigo, for he had not been present—she saw him drawing his bow at the great dragon whirling above, shouting, "Come here, you big smelly gas bag!"

As soon as she was clear, Kaidan released the beam with a roar—the supports of the house began caving in on themselves, and the entire roof followed soon after, sending countless splinters of wood and cinders flying through the air.

"Time to go!" shouted Kaidan. He didn't even wait for Gwynileth to regather her breath—he merely scooped her up from where she knelt upon the ground and began running towards the exit of the village, holding her tightly against his chest. Even his armor, which was normally so cold due to Skyrim's frigid temperature, was hot to the touch. "Lucien, grab the kids! Inigo, let's move!"

"N-no!" wheezed Gwynileth, who was still expelling smoke from her lungs. "There are others—there could be others!"

She wriggled in Kaidan's grasp; now that she was out of the worst of the chaos, she was able to see again. Jogging behind herself and Kaidan was Lucien, who was grabbing the hands of both the young woman and the boy that she had spared from the dragon's attack. Each of her charges were sobbing relentlessly, totally oblivious to the words of comfort that Lucien was attempting to bestow upon them. Inigo was directly behind, covering their backs with an arrow nocked in his bow, one yellow eye scanning the skies.

"The village is lost," Kaidan said, regathering Gwynileth's attention. He glanced down at her, unpausing in his stride. "There isn't anyone else. And if there is… then they're beyond helping now."

Gwynileth's eyes stung again, but this time, it wasn't due to heated ash.

The village's exit was far away enough from the flames that they were no longer in immediate danger. Gwynileth exhaled sharply, restraining a hiccup, and freed herself from Kaidan's careful hold. She placed a hand upon his arm, choosing to share with him one significant nod of thanks instead of words.

Her eyes trailed over the village, which was now so complete in its destruction that she could barely see the outlines of the houses that, only moments before, had been perfectly still and standing. There were no more screams, no more orders: now, there was only crackling and bone-chilling silence.

A gust of powerful wind met the six bodies standing on the village outskirts—and then the black dragon responsible for the carnage appeared. It landed directly upon the top of Helgen's gate and glared unmistakably at Gwynileth.

The two children screamed at its appearance; Lucien whimpered and held them both close, staggering away. Kaidan and Inigo both drew their bows, preparing to fire an arrow…

But Gwynileth extended a hand to stop them. Her eyes were locked upon the dragon, just as its own gaze was fastened upon her. She took a singular step forward, as fascinated as she was terrified, for this was a creature of myth and legend, not one that she would've expected to ever see in the flesh…

The dragon roared once, its mouth opened straight at her. Gwynileth's eyes widened as she seized her own bow—

It was not flame that met her, but some sort of… shout. She staggered against the raw power of its voice but maintained her footing; the rest of those whom she traveled with bellowed and screamed as they were blown off their feet and into the surrounding brush. Gwynileth gasped and looked over her shoulder—but no one was seriously hurt. They were already staggering to their feet, groaning all the while.

Comforted by this small fact, she whirled back around to glare resolutely at the creature. She withdrew an arrow from her quiver—if this was to be her end, then it would be such an end as to be worthy of remembrance.

But the dragon merely scoffed, as if it could… and then spoke. "Hmph. Dovahkiin. Mu fen grind ahst grah gein sul."

Then, before Gwynileth could possibly begin to make any sense out of what had just happened, before she could even wonder why it was not burning her and her friends alive, the dragon took to the sky upon pointed black wings and sailed away.

She could only stand and stare after its trail, her fingers numb as they grasped for dear life onto her bow. There was utter silence behind her, proving that such shock was not hers to process alone. But as soon as the dragon's silhouette was gone, faded behind the faint clouds to the far-off horizon, Gwynileth expelled a breath that had lodged in her chest and sank to her knees.

Everything in her body had turned to jelly; the reality of what she had just done, what she had just witnessed, smacked into her like a ton of sawn logs. That had been a dragon—a dragon—and it had killed an entire village without any effort or any thought.

"What… the hell… was that," said Kaidan. For the first time since Gwynileth had met him, he seemed genuinely shaken. "Was that a dragon?"

"If it was not a dragon, then that was one overgrown lizard," Inigo muttered.

While normally Gwynileth would've laughed at such a remark, she could not bring herself to do so now. She was positively zapped of energy due to the fallout of the adrenaline and the sorrow and guilt for the people that could not be saved.

Gwynileth remembered what the next step was, after facing an emergency and guiding the people who she could through it. It was to reconstruct a plan: to gain a semblance of control over the people she was responsible for.

She took a deep breath and rose to her feet once again. After setting her shoulders, she turned around and looked towards the two survivors of the dragon attack: the young boy named Hadil, and the woman whose name she did not yet know. "Are you two all right? Can you walk?"

They retreated from where their faces had been buried within Lucien's shoulders; each of them had tears welled within their eyes. It was certain they were siblings, for the color of their irises were identical.

"We can walk," said the young woman, her voice raspy. She cleared her throat and spoke further. "My name is Idara. We… thank you. For our lives. We would not have made it out of there without you."

"You're very welcome," said Gwynileth. She forced a smile upon her lips, and forced it to reach her eyes. Keeping herself as kindly as she possibly could, she asked, "Do you know if it's possible there are survivors in the keep? The stone building was not fully destroyed when I last laid eyes upon it."

Idara paused for a moment, thinking… and then, slowly, she nodded. "It's possible. There are underground tunnels underneath the keep. People might've escaped the fires there."

"Do you know where they let out?"

This time, Idara's nod was confident. "Yes. I can show you. But… what will my brother and I do? We have nothing left…"

Kaidan stepped forward—his voice was kind, just as it was when speaking to Gwynileth, as he said, "There's a village to the north: Riverwood. We will escort you there and ensure that you'll be well taken care of before we depart."

The two young survivors exchanged melancholic looks, but ended up nodding in agreement. Each person assembled upon that hillside knew they had no other choice except to hope that Riverwood would be their salvation.

At Kaidan's exclamation, however, Gwynileth paused. She had just made up her mind to flee to Cyrodiil, to leave Skyrim in hopes of safety for both herself and the people that she had become close to over the last number of weeks…

But when she glanced backwards, towards Hadil and Idara, she knew she could not just leave them on their own. She had saved them directly from the jaws of hell—it would not be right to leave them now. And that was without mentioning if she did not ascertain their safety for herself, she would always wonder what happened to the two young children from Helgen.

"All right," she sighed. Her bow was strapped back to her back as she glanced across her friends. "I'll go with you to Riverwood, too."

Lucien, Inigo, and Kaidan's reactions were instant. Inigo's tail swished—Lucien grinned—Kaidan even managed a small smile. It was not as though she had promised to stay indefinitely, but apparently this extra day was enough to bring them joy nonetheless.

The children seemed relieved as well. It was Hadil who took Gwynileth's hand and said, "Uncle Tabic always said the elves were mean, but you were the only one who helped us."

Something shattered in her heart upon hearing how devastated the boy sounded. One of her hands ran through his honey-colored hair; flecks of soot rained down his shoulders, off of his shirt and onto the ground. "And I will continue to help you and your sister, Hadil, because that is what anyone with compassion would do. Besides… I promised you a new toy sword, did I not?"

Hadil's eyes lit up at the reminder. His face was considerably brighter with a smile upon it. "Right! If you get me a new one, you'd be my favorite person in the whole world."

Gwynileth laughed at this, for it had been a long time since she was in the vicinity of children, and she had always enjoyed their company. Taking his hand, she looked between him and Idara and said, "Then let us go. The sooner we reach Riverwood, the sooner we are to getting you food and rest, and the sooner we are able to warn the Whiterun soldiers of the dragon."

Chapter Text

Within the next few minutes, Gwynileth and her traveling companions had made it to the caves. They found only one survivor in that cavern: an Imperial soldier by name of Hadvar, who had been badly injured due to a number of rocks collapsing and scraping his side. It was great fortune that Lucien had had a healing potion in his belongings and was able to get the man on his feet.

"Where is everyone else?" asked Gwynileth, peering into the darkness beyond. She could see that the way back to the keep had been blocked by more stone.

Hadvar sighed and shook his head. He was a fairly handsome man, with brown hair and sharp features that made him seem only slightly older than he was. "There are no others. I had a few Imperial friends with me, but… the Stormcloak rebels had infested the tower first. We fought, brutally. I was the only one to make it past the collapse back there."

Gwynileth's lips pursed, but still she said, "Very well, then. Let us hurry to Riverwood—if that dragon catches wind of another defenseless settlement, it will surely beat us there."

So it was that as a group of seven, they proceeded to the village of Riverwood. Haste was their companion, because each person knew that if the dragon wished to wage war against the people of Skyrim, it very well could… and it would likely start right away.

It was remarkable, how swiftly the air had changed from the morning to the afternoon. Earlier on, Inigo and Lucien had been whistling to one another, chuckling like schoolchildren. But now they were stoic and silent, for they had seen something haunting. Kaidan, while usually quiet upon the road save for the occasional comment, was also suffering from that dark cloud of uncertainty.

"We're almost there," said Hadvar, when the sun was beginning to sink down over the horizon. "I see no smoke, and neither do I hear any screams. I think Riverwood still stands."

A number of relieved sighs and smiles met his words. It was Kaidan who next asked, "Is there an inn in the village?"

"Aye, and a general store for your basic needs," replied Hadvar. "My uncle, Alvor, is the blacksmith, too. I'm sure he'll be willing to provide you food and shelter for the evening if your purses are looking a little light."

"We couldn't possibly intrude on such short notice. We'll make do with a room at the inn," Lucien exclaimed, though there was a tiny part of Gwynileth's mind that wondered whether he had interjected so quickly due to his distaste of the general Nord's way of life.

Just as Hadvar suspected, Riverwood was untouched: a picturesque scene of early spring in the country of Skyrim. Trees grew tall and wild, tempered only by the millers and those gathering firewood. Mountain flowers of many colors adorned the pathways—but far off in the distance, Gwynileth could see snowy peaks looming far above. There was a great ruin situated atop one of the cliff-sides…

Upon seeing what she was looking at, Hadvar clicked his tongue in distaste. "Ah. Bleak Falls Barrow. It's one of those Ancient Nordic ruins—used to give me nightmares when I was a child."

Gwynileth nodded absently, though her mind was already whirling with what enemies and treasure might be lurking inside… as quickly as the thoughts arrived, she forced them out of her head. Just because she had agreed to escort the two children to Riverwood didn't mean that she had promised to stay longer than that, much as she would like to.

"Hadvar!" exclaimed a deep voice. It had come from a man with blond hair and muscles covered in burn marks and scars. His dark eyes were fastened upon Hadvar's face. "What are you doing here? I thought you were traveling north with the Imperials."

"Evening, Uncle," said Hadvar with a slight smile. "It's… a long story. Would you mind letting us come inside? I'll tell you everything."

The blacksmith glanced askance towards the six travelers aligned behind his nephew. Gwynileth could not begrudge him his skepticism; they were a strange bunch after all. A Dunmer, an Imperial, a Khajiit, a man of unknown origins, and two frightened children, all of whom were covered in faint remnants of ash and dragon-fire.

But after a couple of moments, Alvor nodded and waved towards his home. "Of course. Come inside, and my wife Sigrid will get you all something to eat."

While Hadil and Idara wasted no time in following his summons—and neither did Inigo or Lucien for that matter—Gwynileth hesitated, exchanging a single look with Kaidan. She knew at once that his concerns allayed with her own: that the blacksmith would not believe their story, and would thus ignore their warnings.

Still, it was not up to them to force the people of Skyrim to believe a dragon attack. The news of Helgen would spread soon enough, one way or another.

When Gwynileth stepped inside the blacksmith's house, she was met with a welcome rush of heat. The great fireplace in the midst of the room was full of logs and coals; a pot of soup was cooking over the flames. Bread and cheese were already placed upon the table, as were a few mugs of tea and water. Standing beside the humble cooking pot was a woman with copper hair and full lips, who smiled as they all walked in the door.

"Hadvar!" she cried, stepping forward. "We were so worried about you. How are things?"

"They've been better. I have dire news," replied Hadvar. Now that he was standing in the dim light of the fire, Gwynileth could see the fatigue shadowed underneath his eyes.

The woman frowned, though it was more in concern than anything else. "Why don't you all take a seat at the table? It seems there is a lot to tell…"

The following quarter-hour was filled with the children eating the food that the woman, Sigrid, had placed in front of them. Gwynileth and her friends stood to the side of the room despite being invited to take a seat and listened as Hadvar recounted the tale of the great black dragon. Shivers ran down her spine upon hearing that Ulfric Stormcloak had escaped during the chaos, the sounds of screams, the heat of the dragon-fire burning his back.

"A dragon?" asked Alvor, when at last Hadvar's story was told. He eyed his nephew suspiciously. "You aren't drunk, are you, boy?"

Gwynileth stepped forward and shook her head. "I assure you he is perfectly sane. The dragon nearly killed the two children seated at your table with its hellfire. Should you wish to see the carnage yourself, we rushed straight here to relay the news of the attack. The ashes should still be warm."

"Er—that won't be necessary." Alvor shook his hands in a meager surrender before gazing at Gwynileth with curiosity. "You say you saw this dragon yourself, then?"

"Yes! We all did! It was humongous and scaly and… well, horrible!" hiccupped Lucien, who had nearly shot up like a rocket upon recollecting the creature. Apparently sensing his distress, Inigo reached for a sweet roll upon the table and silently offered it to him.

Alvor sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "If that's the case, then we're going to have to send word to the Jarl of Whiterun. I'd go myself, but… if there is a dragon on the loose, we'll need to begin relocating some of our supplies to safe-houses. I will be unable to go as I do this—but if you could go in our stead, Riverwood and Whiterun would owe you a debt."

"What about Idara and Hadril?" asked Gwynileth, gesturing loosely to the two children still feasting upon stew at the table. "They are weary, and have been through far too much."

"They shall stay with us," said Sigrid with a smile. She turned to the children with a soft stance and softer voice and continued. "You are welcome to our home for as long as you need. Anything we have, you have, too."

The swiftness and authenticity of this declaration was surprising to Gwynileth. Having grown up in her noble family, she had never needed to ask for much; she had not been exposed to those in desperate need, either. But she knew how stingy those of Morrowind were nonetheless—and seeing how quickly the Nords looked out for their own was quite moving indeed.

As she was standing quietly to herself, someone pushed a piece of bread with butter in her direction. It was Kaidan, who was looking at her with carefully concealed blankness. "What shall you do now?"

Gwynileth glanced back towards the two children, each of whom were being smothered in blankets by Hadvar and Sigrid. She smiled lightly to herself before glancing back to him and saying, "I will come with you to Whiterun. As someone who saw the dragon firsthand, it is my duty to ensure the message is spread to the Jarl of Whiterun. Once that is finished… then I will go south again."

"Understood," said Kaidan. He nudged the bread in her direction again—Gwynileth took it with a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth—and added, "It will be good to have you around for another few days."

His words were warm; kind; soft. Gwynileth smiled and began to reply—

"So!" exclaimed Lucien, popping over towards them. "Shall we get a room at the inn?"

Rather than head to bed early and get sleep from dusk until dawn, Gwynileth found herself adventuring through Bleak Falls Barrow with her dear companions. Kaidan, Lucien, and Inigo had somehow managed to rope her into retrieving an ornament of solid gold for Riverwood's merchant, Lucan Valerius—Kaidan had said it would be good for her to receive more money for her journey south, and Lucien had begged to see at least one more Nordic ruin before she left… but despite their already persuasive arguments, it had been Inigo to finally convince her of one more adventure. The look the Khajiit had given her was rather reminiscent to that of a lost kitten, and of course Gwynileth couldn't say no after that.

So it was that she found herself shrieking bloody murder as a giant spider began falling from its delicate nest in the ceiling. The follicles of its horrid legs were almost as long as the strands of Lucien's golden hair; as soon as its beady eyes—all eight of them—were focused upon her, however, a warm paw was placed upon her shoulder, and Inigo's voice was crying, "Yes! A huge spider!"

Inigo and Kaidan both rushed past her, swords extended, leaving Gwynileth and Lucien in a safer position. While Lucien had gone pale and was muttering prayers under his breath as he cast icicle spikes, she swallowed back her horrified gasps and retrieved her bow and arrows.

Despite the creature's size, it fell easily. Ichor gushed out of its corpse and onto the ground, the color of dark ink. Gwynileth purposefully strode past it towards the person they had been looking for; the person who had been entrapped in its web.

"You! Fellow Dunmer! Get me out of here!" exclaimed the elf. He was clad in hide armor and bore only one iron mace… the garb of bandits.

Gwynileth eyed him dispassionately. "Where is the golden claw? You know it: the one that you stole from the merchant."

"The claw? I know how it works! The claw, the door of stories, the treasure; cut me down, and I'll show you!" he cried. The Dunmer wriggled around in the strands of silk, which only served to entangle him even further.

She sighed and rolled her eyes before turning to Kaidan. "Any chance you could cut him down for me? I don't have a sword strong enough to break through that spider's snares."

Kaidan nodded and stepped forward, his nodachi already in hand. With only a few swipes, the bandit was free… but before Gwynileth could even ask if he was all right, her countryman was running away, muttering, "You fools. Why should I share the treasure with anyone? It's mine, I tell you!"

For but one moment, Gwynileth stood, watching him go. She had always known that her people were rather prone to avarice, but this was a whole separate level of foolishness. Shaking her head, she withdrew her bow, aimed a careful arrow—and then released it.

There was a soft grunt from further down the darkened hallway, and then silence. No footsteps, no groans of pain: for better or worse, her mark had been found.

"I'm not sure what I should've expected," she mused, stepping forward. Based on the way the halls echoed, she knew her companions were following. "My people have always been rather tenacious about their wealth, but to so blatantly throw away his life like that, when he was indebted to us?"

"There are the brightest and dullest of each kind. I suppose his actions told us which end of the spectrum he was," replied Kaidan. He knelt down beside the Dunmer's body and rummaged through his knapsack; within seconds, he was holding out an ornament of solid gold in Gwynileth's direction, a sideways smile threatening to stretch across his lips.

Gwynileth took the offering and turned it carefully in her hands. The texture was surprising; scaly, like a dragon itself. But it reflected the soft lights from Inigo's torch and Lucien's Alteration spell, sending soft golden glows dancing across the walls.

"There it is!" exclaimed Inigo. "Well, now we could return that claw to the merchant… or maybe we could see what this treasure is?"

His whiskers wiggled mischievously with this last, in an obvious attempt to goad Gwynileth into further misadventure.

As it was, he didn't need to resort to subversions. Seeing as they were already in the Nordic ruin, Gwynileth figured it wouldn't hurt to purge the remaining draugr from the mountain and see if there was anything further that could be salvaged—so, shaking her head, she said, "All right, I get it. We can continue further."

They resumed walking through the crypt, weapons tightly in hand. Not two dozen steps had been taken, however, before Kaidan said, "So… Gwyn. We've fought plenty of wolves, bandits—even Thalmor. But you draw the line at spiders?"

Gwynileth's face flushed silver as she recalled the ungodly noise she'd made upon seeing the ginormous beast falling what could've been directly atop her head. Refusing to look at him, she stammered, "Well, I—there were never any spiders in Morrowind! Not like these, that's for certain. Did you even see it, Kaidan? It was as big as a carriage, horse and all!"

But her words were lost, for Kaidan was already laughing. It was not very often at all that he did so, either… which perhaps was the reason why a smile was spreading across Gwynileth's own face despite herself. She had always liked the sound of his voice; and the sound of his laughter was even better.

"You laugh at my expense, do you?" she said teasingly.

Kaidan glanced at her from the corner of his eye. "I mean nothing by it. It only amuses me that after all the terrors we've encountered upon the road, this was the one that evoked such a visceral reaction."

"Hmph!" muttered Lucien, only a few steps behind them. "For what it's worth, Gwynileth, I found those spiders absolutely appalling as well."

The Dunmer shot a grin to him over her shoulder before turning back to Kaidan and shrugging. "Yes, well, you and Inigo seemed only too eager to kill it before it could pose a serious threat. You have my gratitude for that."

Before anyone could respond, the hallway they were traveling through opened up into a grand antechamber, one made of stone. A stream trailed through the caverns; faint rays of starlight crept through the openings in the ceiling to illuminate the natural rock formations and light their way.

Everyone ended up stopping short to stare at the newfound room. Although Skyrim was full of beautiful sights, they were never exactly alike, and this one held the addition of a strange wall formation that Gwynileth had never seen before. Inscribed upon it were curious runes of a language she did not recognize and yet… felt as though she should.

"Look at it! It's marvelous!" gasped Lucien. He took an excitable step forward, already fumbling for one of the many notebooks he kept in his pockets. "I simply must transcribe as much of this as possible! Truly ancient Nordic ruins like these can only be found in certain places of Skyrim, and I do not intend for the opportunity to go to waste!"

While Lucien and Inigo rushed forth to begin further inspecting the cavern, Gwynileth shook her head and made off to follow—but then she felt a hand upon her shoulder.

"Just so you are aware: should we come across any further spiders in the time we have remaining together, I'll ensure they don't reach you," murmured Kaidan. While earlier he had spoken with jest, there was now a serious, dedicated shine within his eyes. "There are far too many things I fear I can't protect you from already."

Without bothering to elaborate, he was off—and Gwynileth was left staring helplessly after him. She swallowed hard and began to follow, although she could not shake the cold feeling of dread settling within her stomach.

It was obvious that she would be missed once she was gone. Her friends had stated as much. But to hear Kaidan's voice sound like that…

Lucien was already scribbling away in one of his half-dozen notebooks by the time she reached the pavilion ahead. That strange wall was just in front of her, still eliciting its strange pull. Gwynileth took a step forward—each step she took, a vision of swirling colors and lights strengthened in intensity, to the point where she was certain it was some sort of vision.

"Is this… magic?" she asked, her eyes trailing along the runes.

"Hmm?" Lucien glanced up from his notebook. "No, no, certainly not. They are of an unfamiliar origin to me, however… I shall have to transcribe these perfectly in order to study them back at the academy in Cyrodiil…"

But his words were nearly lost, for a roaring had taken place in Gwynileth's ears. A few marks were burning into her vision, searing the soul, opening up a cavern of knowledge in her head, and then—

"Gwyn!"

She gasped and stumbled backwards, directly into Kaidan. The lights were gone, the vision had faded… and now all she was left with was a strange sense of understanding that she could not place.

"I'm fine," she murmured. "I—"

Before she could even finish her sentence, the sound of stone against stone reached everyone's ears. Inigo growled and withdrew his ebony sword; the great tombstone behind them had opened, and a draugr with a pointed crown was emerging from the coffin.

Kaidan squeezed Gwynileth's shoulder lightly and withdrew his bow. With Inigo taking point and Kaidan supporting, it took little to no effort to best the undead. For once, Lucien didn't even seem bothered by the intrusion—he was too busy writing in his book.

The moment the draugr was facedown upon the ground, deadened once more, Gwynileth expelled a sharp breath. She hadn't even thought to retrieve her own bow. For some reason, she was feeling oddly drained, despite not having fought very much at all throughout the day…

She didn't need to say how fatigued she was. Kaidan seemed to note it already; with a small frown, he declared, "Let's get back to Riverwood and rest. It's been a long day, and there's tomorrow's travel to Whiterun to consider."

Gwynileth nodded and turned towards the exit of the caverns, but something made her stop. Her eyes landed upon the sarcophagus; without entirely meaning to, she crept towards its edge.

Sitting inside was a strange stone tablet. It was heavy—very heavy, far heavier than either her bow or her sword—but upon it was a map of strange markings, and words written in the odd script she'd been so drawn towards. Gwynileth bit the inside of her lip. If there was any way to explain what had happened… for she knew what she saw, she knew she wasn't losing her mind. There was no reason for her to be hallucinating…

"Ooh, what is that?" asked Lucien, popping over her shoulder to look.

She held it out for him. "I'm not sure. But… I think it could be useful."

Lucien nodded sagely and replied, "I agree! Anything is useful for the sake of scholarship in these sorts of places."

There was little else to do in the barrows. Gwynileth placed the stone tablet in her pack, feelings its weight bog her down almost as surely as her own uncertainty. Between Kaidan's words, her fear, and now this vision, she was nearly full to bursting when it came to uncertainty.

The skies were dark by the time they emerged from the mountainside caverns. Riverwood was but a short distance away; Kaidan took the lead on guiding the party back to the village, and while normally Gwynileth positioned herself right next to him, on that night, she lingered closer to the back, her eyes on the road at her feet. It was so odd… so odd how tired she was now.

"My friend," murmured a voice, low but sympathetic. "Are you all right?"

Inigo was watching her with yellow eyes bright in concern; his ears perked up when she met his gaze, a hesitant smile flickering across his face.

Gwynileth knew that she couldn't afford to appear anything less than her best. There was no telling whether spies or assassins lurked in the shadows, not anymore. Someone could be waiting, watching, sniffing for weakness.

And so she answered, "I'm all right, Inigo. Thank you for asking," even though she was not sure of that response at all.

Chapter Text

Even though they knew it would do well to hasten their journey to Whiterun, the four adventurers did not set out from Riverwood until mid-afternoon the following day. They returned the golden claw to Lucan Valerius, Gwynileth took a few apprenticeship lessons with Alvor on how to blacksmith, Inigo had an archery competition with the Bosmer, Faendal… and then they were on their way.

If Gwynileth had not witnessed the dragon attack firsthand, she would've laughed if someone had told her how chaotic the previous day had been. The weather during their short journey north was nothing short of delightful; it had Lucien and Inigo pointing out clouds and humming with one another once again. A few wolves attempted to intercept their path, but Kaidan and Gwynileth were able to stop them dead in their tracks. Despite heading north, there was no snow, no harsh wind… it was truly a peaceful day.

Gwynileth's lips twisted. It almost seemed like Skyrim was mocking her for her decision to leave the country in favor of its southern neighbor.

When they reached the city of Whiterun once again, however, they were startled to note that the great oaken doors were not standing open. They were sealed shut, guarded by no less than three elite guardsmen.

Upon seeing the adventurers approaching, the guard in charge stepped forward and in a commanding voice, exclaimed, "Halt! The city is closed with the dragons about."

"We have news about the dragons," said Gwynileth, gesturing towards the south. "We come from Riverwood… and from Helgen, which now lays in ruin."

"Ah. Then please, enter. But be cautious during your stay—the world's going mad these days," replied the guard. With one swift nod, the other soldiers began creaking open the gates… and then Gwynileth, Kaidan, Lucien, and Inigo were granted entry, with the guardsman's words of, "Please go speak to the Jarl as soon as possible to inform him of what you know," following after them on their way.

Even though they had visited Whiterun only a few days prior, the wariness that had settled around the city made it feel like an entirely different place. Everywhere Gwynileth looked, the townspeople she had met were whispering to one another, glancing fearfully up to the skies. It was clear the news of Helgen had spread even faster than she had anticipated.

The people seemed to part for Gwynileth and her friends as they passed. Perhaps it was because they knew of their adventures; perhaps it was due to any lingering ash or burn markings upon their armor. No matter what it was, it helped them to reach Dragonsreach before a quarter-hour had passed.

They had not visited the Jarl's palace during their first visit. Even on the outside, the castle was magnificent. The detail of wooden filigree upon the beams was exquisite, the craftsmanship was impeccable… Gwynileth had seen many fine buildings during her adolescence in Morrowind, but none of them commanded the same awe and power that Dragonsreach did.

Its interior was even more impressive. Rugs of soft cotton covered the wooden flooring. Large dining tables suited to fit a dozen people on one side were positioned ahead of the grand throne, upon which a regal-looking man with long blond hair and rigid posture was sitting.

"The Jarl of Whiterun!" whispered Lucien with delight. "Jarl Balgruuf!"

As Gwynileth continued towards the throne, she eyed the Whiterun Hold's lord with narrowed eyes. She had grown adept at reading the faces and postures of ruling lords and ladies due to her aristocratic upbringing, and she wondered what she would find within his expression.

There were a few lines to his face, which was not old, but not young. His eyes were a deep blue, the kind written of in tales of twilights and oceans. His garb was much simpler than those of the nobles in Morrowind: cotton shirt, embroidered with golden thread, but no extra jewels save for the circlet positioned across his forehead and his blond hair. Gwynileth figured he only wore it because it was the symbol of his authority and station, based on how plainly he had decided to dress otherwise.

Men who chose to embrace humility rather than egoism were either extraordinarily good men… or extraordinarily evil ones.

Standing next to the throne were three others: a man with dress that screamed of Cyrodiil, a larger man with a traditional Norse beard and weapon, and a Dunmer woman who wore simple leather armor, but who carried herself with sharp grace.

"Who is it that approaches the throne of Whiterun?" asked the Dunmer woman. Her scarlet eyes glared daggers at Gwynileth—though upon realizing her as a fellow dark-elf, the skepticism melted to a slight degree.

"Come now, Irileth. Don't be so harsh to our guests." The Jarl of Whiterun's voice was deep, robust; it echoed off of the wooden beams to fall into Gwynileth's ears a second time. "I received a crow from the men at the gates. They said that adventurers would soon be arriving… adventurers with news of Helgen."

Gwynileth nodded and curtsied as she had been taught to do in her home country, hoping that it would not be seen as disrespectful in such a different place. Her eyes upon the carpets on which she knelt. "We are those adventurers, sire. We were present when the dragon attacked."

Jarl Balgruuf chuckled. The sound was warm. "Rise, my friend. I will request no special fealty from you when you are doing me such a service."

She returned to standing, a small smile upon her face. It was not often that a lord would so easily dismiss displays of power like Gwynileth had been giving him. With a slight tip of her head, she replied, "My thanks, Jarl Balgruuf. We have come here from Riverwood, and from Helgen there before. The latter village now lies in smolders, the criminal responsible being a great black dragon with scales as hard as diamonds, and eyes as red as burning coals. It flew off before we could even begin to attack. Of Helgen's residents… only two children survived its desecration."

Low grumbles of concern sprouted from the men accompanying the Jarl with these last few declarations. Gwynileth could feel their unease from their stances alone… she bit the inside of her cheek. The nobles and their courts were apparently not as concerned with hiding their emotions as the nobles of Morrowind were.

"Thank you for this report," said Jarl Balgruuf at last. "Where might the dragon be heading now? Did you note its flight pattern?"

Gwynileth glanced backwards, for she had not noticed its direction.

Lucien cleared his throat and stepped forward, bowing before the Jarl as he did so. "It flew in the direction of the sun, Jarl—and our time of arrival was early in the afternoon. We suspect it went in the direction of Riverwood. Their blacksmith, Alvor, humbly requests soldiers to protect their village!"

"Riverwood?" exclaimed Balgruuf, his eyes widening. He whirled towards the man with clothes from Cyrodiil, the man with greying hair. "Proventus! Send a squad of soldiers to Riverwood immediately! If the dragon is already there…"

He did not need to finish his sentence. The man named Proventus nodded swiftly and was off, as fast as his feet could carry him.

With this finished, the Jarl turned back to Gwynileth, a warm smile upon his face. "You have done me a great favor by bringing me such information, my friend. Might I inquire after all of your names?"

One by one, they relayed their names: Inigo, Kaidan, Lucien Flavius from House Flavius of the Empire of Cyrodiil. Gwynileth hesitated for only a moment before relaying her full name and title: Gwynileth Nerussa, Heiress to House Nerussa of Morrowind.

If she was to leave Skyrim soon, leaving her full name within the country's borders might throw any pursuers a red herring, and cause them to explore Skyrim more thoroughly before attempting to search anywhere else.

Once their names were relayed, Jarl Balgruuf approached Gwynileth and held out one muscled, scarred hand. The intent was clearly for a handshake.

Gwynileth took the offering and shook once, surprised by how warm he was.

"I may have further need for your services, Lady Nerussa," he declared. While there was a twinkle within his eye, his tone of voice was quite serious. "My court wizard, Farengar, has been looking into the resurgence of the dragons. He has been looking for a stone tablet located within a nearby ruin: that of Bleak Falls Barrow."

She blinked at the name and, instead of responding, dropped her pack at her feet. Ignoring the startled look upon the Jarl's face, she dug within the many pockets—and then she withdrew the stone tablet, much to his unhidden shock.

"We fancy ourselves good adventurers!" exclaimed Inigo.

The Jarl took the offering from Gwynileth's hands, though she had to admit… she was slightly loath to part with it. She had not forgotten the swirling lights, the strange familiarity she felt with the runes carved within the stone… and if she gave it away, there was no telling she would receive any answers for what she had seen.

Still—people in Skyrim were suffering at the claws of dragons.

Gwynileth placed the tablet in his hands with the soft words, "It is heavy."

Before he could even begin to reply, the door to Dragonsreach burst open. A soldier sprinted across the carpets, past the tables bountiful with food, and rested at the Jarl's feet. His breathing was labored as he cried, "My Jarl… a dragon has been spotted at the watchtower!"

A hush fell over the throne room.

Jarl Balgruuf broke the disquiet by turning towards the four adventurers and asking, "How accurate are your arrows?"

Gwynileth's mouth dropped open; she stared helplessly back towards Kaidan, who had been her instructor, who had been the one she turned to whenever she did not know what to do.

Kaidan placed a hand upon her shoulder and met the Jarl's eyes. "Accurate."

"Then… I may request yet another great favor from you, unfair though it may be for me to do so. I will need your assistance in slaying this dragon," sighed Balgruuf. His eyes revealed the regret accompanying his words; for that reason, Gwynileth took a deep breath and composed herself again.

"You are the only ones with prior experience to a creature such as this," continued the Jarl. "Should—no, when you return to us victorious, I will see you handsomely rewarded. All four of you."

While the gold was certain to be helpful for restarting her life—again—Gwynileth was yet uncertain. The dragonfire was still hot upon her back, the screams of innocent people fresh in her ears. If this next dragon was anywhere near as powerful as the first, the battle ahead was certain to be hard-fought.

But then she felt Kaidan squeeze her shoulder. She glanced back, still unsure… and her doubts began melting away. Where she was unsure, Kaidan was resolute; where she was worried, he was confident.

"We have the ability, so long as we stick together," he murmured, low enough for only Gwynileth to hear. "You have become stronger. The Jarl's men will be with us. For the people of Whiterun… I believe we need to fight."

For the people of Whiterun.

The last of her fear vanished. Gwynileth nodded. "All right. So long as you're with me… I will run into the fire."

"And glad I am to hear it!" boomed the Jarl's voice, so suddenly that the Dunmer woman gasped and leapt into the air. "We will need people of your caliber if we are to be successful, I'm sure."

Gwynileth smiled dryly at his enthusiasm, but said nothing more. Meanwhile, Inigo was giggling and preemptively withdrawing his bow, while Lucien was whimpering and exclaiming, "A dragon? We're actually going to go fight a dragon?" behind her.

Within moments, the Jarl had sent them forward with his housecarl, the Dunmer woman named Irileth. She led them towards the gates, picking up as many soldiers as she could along the way—and they hastened forth.

The townspeople's eyes followed them as they passed. They did not bother attempting to hide their somber moods; such gloom sent shivers down Gwynileth's spine. She could not help thinking whether this would be the state of Skyrim for many years to come… hopeless and fearful at the hands of creatures once thought to be myths, with no one able to help or save them. If so… then she pitied them. That was a sad fate.

They exited the great gates of the city and ran into the plains. The lavender and cotton plants reached out to brush Gwynileth's shins as she passed.

"All right," said Irileth at last, stopping ahead of a large boulder. The watchtower was positioned directly ahead of her; it was already smoking. Some of the stone had been knocked off of its roof and onto the grassland below. "We're going to need to exercise extreme caution. It looks like the dragon has flown off for now, but he's certainly been here. Take inventory of the situation as quickly as you can. Let's go!"

Gwynileth took a deep breath and prepared to follow orders—

"Whatever you do, stay within my line of sight," said Kaidan, leaning close to her ear. "I will do what I can to protect you."

She smiled at him, at the faint worry-lines in his face. "Thank you… Kaidan. Let's hurry."

With Inigo and Lucien hot on their heels, they raced towards the watchtower. There was no movement from within, no torches or shouts for help from the soldiers who had been positioned there. Some of the grass was singed, spreading a horrid smell of burnt hair and ash. A few large piles of soot lay upon the ground—when Gwynileth leaned closer to see what was poking out of the piles, she immediately gasped and lurched away.

Fragments of scorched bone.

She began running towards the entryway of the watchtower. Upon seeing the unceremonious end that the soldiers of Whiterun had been met with, she was desperate for a sign of survivors. Surely not all of them had met the same fate?

When she reached the doorway leading into the fort, she breathed a sigh of relief. Crouched in the darkest corner was one of the soldiers. His helmet was missing, and his arms were wrapped around his legs in the fetal position… but when he spotted Gwynileth, he let out a gasp of horror and hissed, "No, wait! It… it's still here somewhere! It was waiting for reinforcements—as though it still hungered!"

Gwynileth's eyes flew wide. She raced outside to shout this warning, but too late; a great roar had already split the air, shaking the foundation of the tower itself. Over the far horizon, a silhouette was approaching: slowly but surely, it grew larger and larger in the sky, heading straight in the tower's direction.

"Here it comes!" bellowed Irileth, waving an arm. "Form ranks! Make every arrow count!"

The soldiers withdrew their bows. Gwynileth was among them, resting her fingers upon its solid string, an arrow poised atop her fingers—

The dragon was upon them before she could even blink, blowing a cone of fire towards the first of Whiterun's defenders. Screams filled the air; some of their armor caught fire, while some were just barely able to dive out of the way of its breath.

Kaidan pointed his weapon towards the belly of the beast. One of his arrows was lodged in its softer skin. Inigo was quick to follow his lead, and Gwynileth would not let herself be left behind.

What chills had run down her spine were gone, replaced by the same fire and determination she had been consumed by when rushing into Helgen. For all of her life, Gwynileth had been one of the helpless. Even though she was a noble—even though people looked up to her to protect them.

For the first time in her life, she was genuinely in a position to defend others… the way a noble should always be.

She loosed arrow after arrow, using all of the training that Kaidan had given her. Instincts took over; Gwynileth utilized the shelter of the watchtower, blocking fire and smoke alike. Her breaths were deep, calm: when she focused as such, each of her attacks found their mark. There was no denying that she had indeed become stronger.

It also became obvious that the dragon was not immune to the effects of her arrows—the great lizard eventually faltered in the air, its wings punctured by arrows and Lucien's icicle spikes. With a roar of pain and anger, it descended to the ground, staggering many of the soldiers with the force of its landing.

Gwynileth put away her bow in favor of her blade; many of Whiterun's people were in no position to take the front lines, and so she put it on herself to do so. Inigo and Kaidan stood beside her as well, nodachi and ebony blade already at the ready.

Upon seeing three people advancing, the dragon began backing up—

"Inigo!" cried Gwynileth. "Are you able to flank it?"

"You got it, my friend!" he shouted back. Inigo sprinted forward, evading the dragon's attempts to crush him underfoot, and began hacking at the backs of its ankles with maniacal laughter.

This left Gwynileth and Kaidan with the arguably more difficult position of the fight, yet she was not afraid. There was an unusual confidence flowing within her veins, as though this dragon was not so difficult to fight, as though she had in fact fought one before.

She swept towards its talons, steel blade glinting wickedly in the fading sunlight; her sword cut through its scales and nails like paper. The dragon reared backwards with another roar. The depths of its throat burned orange—

"No!"

Gwynileth flinched away from the blast, but there was no heat breathing down her neck. She blinked and looked forward to see Lucien had dove ahead of her, a ward splintering and fracturing at the pressure of the hellfire.

Right when she was afraid Lucien's spell would be overwhelmed, Kaidan's voice bellowed, "'Ey! Over here, you great worm!"

Lucien released the spell and crumpled to his knees; Gwynileth seized him before he could hit the floor, all of her bravado forgotten. "Lucien!"

Noting the state of his companion, Kaidan leapt forward and drew the dragon's attention by cutting a significant wound across its maw. The next sound that emerged from the dragon's mouth was more reminiscent to a whimper than a roar; its great yellow eyes whirled to Kaidan. It opened its jaw—

Kaidan lodged his nodachi within the dragon's mouth, positioning it so securely that it couldn't close its mouth without puncturing itself.

Gwynileth gasped as Kaidan withdrew his bow again. She remembered how important that blade was to him. It was his mother's blade, the only clue he had to his heritage—

"Are you all right?" she nearly screamed to Lucien.

The Imperial nodded grimly. "I think I'm fine… just exhausted…"

She did not need to hear any more. The dragon was weak enough to finally be killed—Gwynileth didn't know how she knew that, but she did, and she knew that it was time to finish the battle.

The dragon was swaying its head, struggling to dislodge Kaidan's nodachi from within its mouth. Gwynileth took a deep breath and waited for an opportunity… she saw it like a thread among the battlefield. Then she jumped.

"Gwyn, no!"

It was too late to stop what she was doing even if she wished to. Gwynileth flew through the air, landing hard upon the dragon's neck. Her hands wrapped around one of the many horns upon its head. Summoning all of her strength, she hauled herself into standing, straddling its thick neck—and she plunged her own blade through the roof of its mouth.

She was rewarded by an ear-splitting shriek. Gwynileth withdrew her blade, covered in flecks of skin and plenty of crimson blood, and thrust it downward again.

There was no scream this time… only a low gurgle as the dragon choked upon its own blood. A glassy sheen settled over its eyes, and the deadened creature fell to the ground, sending Gwynileth tumbling off of its neck and into the charred grass below.

Puffs of dust and smoke filled the air, blinding those who had survived for a long, tense moment. Gwynileth groaned as she began to sit up, feeling as though she had bruised or possibly even broken a rib in the fall. After rubbing her eyes, she glanced around… and grinned slightly to see Kaidan's nodachi laying in the grass next to her, unbroken, unchipped: in pristine condition.

"Gwyn! Where are you?"

Gwynileth coughed some of the smoke from her mouth. "I'm here, Kaidan."

Not even another second passed before he was there, amber eyes wide and full of relief. He dove next to her, shock fully upon his face. "What was that stunt? Diving directly towards the dragon? What in Oblivion was that for?"

She blinked in confusion, her head cocking sideways. With great care, she pressed the hilt of his blade back into the palm of his hand. "It was weak. And your sword… it's the only thing you have left of your heritage, isn't it? I… didn't want it to be destroyed."

Kaidan was silent. Still.

Then he began to laugh. Strong arms wrapped around Gwynileth's body so tightly she was forced to gasp for breath. If her ribs weren't bruised before, they certainly were now.

"Don't ever risk your life for something like that again," said Kaidan, his voice thick with gratitude and lingering laughter. "It's true, this was my mother's. But it's still just a blade. A blade can be replaced… but you never could be."

He placed one hand against the side of Gwynileth's face, this thumb lightly trailing along her cheekbone. A rush of silver began to fill her face, drawn short of breath due to how close he had become. There was a large part of her subconscious that suggested for her to fill in the remaining distance between them, but…

"My friends! Are you okay?"

Inigo burst through the smog, coughing and waving his paws exaggeratedly. When he saw Gwynileth and Kaidan kneeling upon the ground, he sighed and exclaimed, "Thank the gods! I thought that you had both become dragon chow!"

Gwynileth giggled at his words, but she was cut short from her laughter upon remembering the state that Lucien had been in when she'd left him. Her face paled. "Lucien! Where are you?"

"Bleahhhhh…"

She scrambled to her feet, kicking up extra dirt in her haste to locate her magical friend. He was not hard to find, seeing as there was a small shield summoned around him to prevent dust and smoke from reaching him. The moment that Gwynileth appeared, however, the spell fell apart.

"I used… so much… mana," Lucien panted. He did not protest Gwynileth's assistance in sitting him up. "Tomorrow is a day off… for sure."

The Dunmer laughed and wrapped her arms around him, her eyes beginning to spike sharply. "Oh, Lucien… if not for you, I would've been burned to death. Thank you so much."

"Really?" asked Lucien, sounding surprised. "I… helped?"

She giggled again and rested her cheek upon the top of his head. Lucien normally took such pride in personal hygiene, but considering the battle they'd just had, his hair was full of ash pieces and grass tufts. That was all right, though. Gwynileth didn't mind.

"Yes, really. You saved my life."

Lucien exhaled, loud and slow. Even though Gwynileth could not see his face, she could feel him smiling as he replied, "Oh, well… good, then. I'm glad!"

"Roll call!" shouted Irileth's voice. "Who is still standing after all of that?"

Gwynileth seized Lucien's arm and draped it around her shoulder, assisting him in standing again. Once it was gathered that all four adventurers were alive and well, they trekked out of the smog to regroup with Irileth.

The Jarl's housecarl and five others were standing, including the man that had been hiding within the first round of the watchtower. There had been a dozen soldiers prepared to fight the dragon… that meant that three good men had died. Whether they'd been trampled, burned, or eaten, Gwynileth could not say. A lump appeared in her throat at the realization that they likely had families waiting for them at home…

"Everyone all right?" asked Irileth, her red eyes scouring the scene.

Gwynileth nodded and opened her mouth to speak, but she was suddenly cut off by a number of gasps and exclamations of shock from the men ahead of her. They began pointing to the dragon's body behind them—

A stone fell deep within her stomach. She glanced over her shoulder expecting to see the dragon still alive and getting back to its feet, but what she saw wasn't that. What she saw was a rainbow of color and light, swirling into great patterns in the air; they were descending directly towards her.

Gwynileth staggered backwards, nearly falling over in the grass with Lucien… but when the lights touched her skin, she did not feel any pain. It was similar to the previous night, looking at the wall—a great surge of power was flooding her body, opening up potential. It was as though a piece of her heart had just been freed from confusion and doubt, making way for strength.

As quickly as the spectacle had started, it was over. The lights dissipated, the feeling of renewal faded away… Gwynileth turned back to Kaidan, figuring that he wouldn't likely know what had just happened, but hoping that he did all the same.

Much to her surprise, he was gazing at her in something reminiscent to reverence. All of the soldiers were.

"Gwyn…" Kaidan swallowed hard. "I think… you're the Dragonborn."

Chapter Text

At first, Gwynileth had been utterly unimpressed with being called Dragonborn. She had never heard of such a thing in her life, and was more confused than anything else. She'd been more focused on the fact that the others had seen the dancing lights, which meant she wasn't losing her mind.

When she and her friends returned to Dragonsreach and Jarl Balgruuf told her of the Nordic legends, however, her confusion morphed swiftly into shock and fear. Gwynileth had no idea how to feel about the assumption that she was destined to become a great dragon slayer—the only one, as a matter of fact. According to Balgruuf and the Nords, the Dragonborn was the only one capable of permanently killing a dragon by devouring its soul.

The idea of consuming a dragon's soul was disconcerting at best, and that was without an even more terrifying implication: if Gwynileth was the only one able to permanently defeat dragons, and she left Skyrim… then she would be damning all of its people to fates of death and subjugation by the dragons.

"Go speak to the Greybeards," the Jarl had suggested, placing a warm hand upon her shoulder. "Did you hear the thunder on your way back up the mountain? They were summoning you. They may have the answers that you seek."

Five days had passed since the day of the dragon fight, and the adventurers remained in Whiterun. Gwynileth and Lucien were being tended to by priestesses of Kynareth, skilled in the art of healing. It had been quickly determined that one of Gwynileth's ribs was broken while Lucien had overwhelmed his magical ability; each of them required rest in order to regain their strength.

Throughout those five days, Gwynileth tried to enjoy her time in Whiterun. As he had promised, the Jarl had indeed handsomely rewarded all four of them: two thousand septims and a handful of amethysts, sapphires, and emeralds each. And to Gwynileth, the newly dubbed Dragonslayer, Jarl Balgruuf had also bestowed the title of Thane, and granted her permission to purchase property anywhere within his hold.

Inigo had immediately visited the fletcher to replenish his arrows. Kaidan had purchased upgrades for his weapons. Lucien spent much of his earnings on lavish foods, drinks, and scholarly books.

But Gwynileth didn't know what to do with the money. She stared at it with great guilt… because she couldn't get the thought out of her head.

She had killed a dragon, that was true. Hidden assassins, however, were hardly the same foe.

The logical voice in her head said that Gwynileth was being ridiculous. She had grown stronger, she had friends who cared about her, and as the sole Dragonborn throughout all of Skyrim, she had a duty—an obligation—to meet with these Greybeards and fulfill her predetermined destiny.

The other voice, the one motivated by uncertainty, reminded her how close she had already come to being murdered, or taken back to Morrowind in a burlap sack. It reminded her how close Lucien had come to dying during the fight against the dragon… and certainly the danger was not over. Would she lose another friend before the end of her quest came to pass?

As Gwynileth sat upon her barstool at the Bannered Mare, thinking once again about these two conflicting trains of thought, someone placed a mug of tea ahead of her with the words, "You have that look on your face again."

Of course it was Kaidan; he had spent the last five days incessantly checking up on both her and Lucien, ensuring that they were resting well and not attempting to strain themselves when their bodies were already worn down.

"Sorry," said Gwynileth, a wry smile twisting her lips. "I've had to do a lot of thinking over the last few days."

"About?"

She sighed and scooped up the mug of tea, not even caring whether she'd end up burning her tongue with how hot it still was. "What I'm going to do next."

"Ah." Kaidan watched her intently for a moment; Gwynileth could feel his gaze traveling from her face, towards her shaking hands. "You can only do so much as one person. If you feel as though you need to leave, no one can begrudge you for taking care of yourself."

Gwynileth's wry smile grew as she looked at her friend: the first she had made within the country. "I wish I could believe that, Kaidan, but the fact is that I am the only known Dragonborn in the country. If I leave, everyone here… all of these people…"

Her eyes trailed around the inn. Hulda was smiling as she chatted with her customers. Adrianne and her husband Ulfberth were sitting close together, enjoying mugs of ale. Carlotta and Arcadia were laughing together as they danced to Mikael's music, their faces rosy and bright. They had all been so kind to her; they were such good people…

"You have no way of knowing that," said Kaidan, recapturing her attention. "We may never have a way of knowing. All I can tell you is if you stay… then you'll never have to be on your own. I'll be with you all the way, no matter where it leads. And I'm sure Lucien and Inigo would be, too."

She smiled to herself. Such a declaration did bring her some peace of mind. And… Gwynileth still wanted answers. There was no explanation for the lights she had seen in Bleak Falls Barrow, or what being a Dragonborn truly meant. There was no certainty on if she truly was one of those figures of legend, either.

The only way she would know would be if she visited those Greybeards.

A low breath escaped her lips, trailing over the steaming tea still within her mug. But then she smiled, looked Kaidan full in the face, and said, "As a noblewoman, I grew up with the idea that I must always look out for the people under my jurisdiction. What happened at that watchtower has shown me that this is bigger than myself and my own life. Skyrim… may desperately need a Dragonborn. And so… I will stay, and do what I can."

Kaidan blinked once, though no visible change came over his face. "You're certain?"

"Yes. I am."

Something bright fell over Kaidan's bearing, though it was obvious he took great pains to conceal it from her. His voice slightly strained, he said, "Well… you'll have us to rely on, Gwyn. As always."

Then he rose from his chair and, with a grin upon his face, shouted, "'Ey, Hulda! A round on me for everyone in the inn!"

Gwynileth couldn't help from giggling as everyone roared in approval, raising their mugs in cheers to the Dragonslayer, and to Skyrim's newest protectors.

It was three more days before Lucien and Gwynileth were healed sufficiently to resume traveling, and by this time, all four adventurers were quite ready to be on the road again. While they all adored the city of Whiterun, the allure of the outside world was strong for all four of them—and for Gwynileth especially.

Ever since she had made the decision to stay in Skyrim, her heart had been light. She was relieved to have the choice behind her, because deep in her subconscious, she knew that she had chosen the correct path. Helping the people of Skyrim gave her a purpose that she had been lacking for so very long, and that was without accounting for the many other benefits to remaining: keeping the money she saved, staying in a place she loved, being with people she cared about…

Gwynileth had been unable to banish the joyous look to Kaidan's face on the night she made her decision. That smile was something she'd enjoyed, too.

They took it slowly on their first day back on the road. Inigo and Kaidan insisted on taking point position the whole way, just in case the other two were still not up to full capacity for fighting. They made a detour to clear White River Watch of bandits—that was by Jarl Balgruuf's request—as well as a few wolves from some hovels. Before long, however, they were laying eyes on a magnificent sight: Valtheim Towers, two great stone watchtowers that overlooked a grand river.

"How gorgeous!" gushed Lucien, taking one step closer to the towers' entryway. "Shall we have a look around?"

Just as he had spoken, however, a man dressed in shabby iron armor traipsed through the door. Poor weapon craftsmanship, mismatched boots: bandits. Again.

"Oi!" exclaimed the man, his voice gruff and menacing. "This here's our tower, which means you have to pay a toll to pass. That'll be around, say, two hundred septims."

Seeing as Gwynileth was the one who normally charmed their way out of hairy situations, she took a step forward and said, "The last I heard, this was the king's road through Whiterun. There are no tolls imposed on the king's road."

"Well, the king's dead now, ain't he? Two hundred septims."

A month and a half ago, she would've paid the fee and ran. But now, she pressed her lips tightly together—if she and her friends didn't take care of these exploiters, then how many innocents without fighting experience would be subject to robbery by this man's hands?

"I don't think so," she said sharply, withdrawing her bow.

The difficulty with starting a fight at Valtheim Towers was that the enemy had the clear height advantage; the moment that Gwynileth had rejected the bandit's offer outright, three archers appeared over the stonework with bows already drawn.

Luckily, Inigo was a master marksman—before any of them could blink, he had nocked an arrow and loosened it, sending it flying directly into the esophagus of the archer closest to him. Gwynileth followed soon after, managing to bury her projectile into the side of the next.

Kaidan took the front of the fight, dealing blows to the bandit who'd first approached them. It was clear he'd missed the thrill of the fight; his enemy toppled like grass against a strong wind within only a few seconds, and then he was charging into the entryway of the towers, waving Inigo to follow.

As the two of them disappeared, Lucien sighed behind Gwynileth and asked, "Those two are quite the warmongers, wouldn't you say?"

She giggled and seized his hand, pulling him after them. "Perhaps they are, but they're our warmongers. Let's go!"

"You're hardly any better sometimes, you know!" he cried, but he was duly ignored. "I blame Kaidan for that!"

A path had already been cut for them by the time Gwynileth and Lucien made it inside Valtheim Towers. With bow and icicle spikes at the ready, they peered around the corners of the staircases and proceeded, preparing to assist their friends—

The moment that Gwynileth appeared upon the rooftops, she noticed one of the archers across the stone bridge aiming an arrow at Inigo. She breathed deeply and released her own; once again, her aim was true. The arrow ended up embedded within the man's chest, perhaps directly over where his heart had been beating.

Inigo whirled around to face her with a great grin. "My friend, you are certainly becoming quite proficient with that bow. We should have an archery contest sometime!"

Gwynileth grinned and reached into her quiver for yet another arrow. "I wouldn't miss it for the world, Inigo!"

"Great!" he called back—and then he engaged in combat with one of the last two bandits with his ebony sword.

Not even thirty more seconds had passed before the fight was over. Kaidan had sustained a few scratches, but beyond that, everyone was fine. Having gathered this much, Gwynileth began inspecting the bodies of the bandits, one by one—before they'd left Whiterun, the swordsman Amren had mentioned the bandits at these very same towers had stolen his father's sword…

The third body that she inspected had the family sword in its possession; Gwynileth recognized it by the runes upon the blade, the same ones that Amren had drawn for her. She leaned forward and gently pried the weapon from the corpse's grasp… and noticed something else around its neck.

It was a beautiful amulet of gold, with a pendant made in the shape of a teal flower. An aquamarine gemstone sat in its middle—even though Gwynileth normally left each body's possessions alone, there was something that reached out to her about this particular necklace…

With as much respect as she could, she reached out and unclasped the necklace from the young man's neck. She held it in her palm, turning it this way and that—the way the sunlight gleamed off of the gold was mesmerizing.

"I hope this does not cast some sort of curse on me," she murmured to herself.

But it seemed to be the exact opposite. If anything, Gwynileth felt… healthier. Stronger, even.

"Do we happen to have any healing potions?" said Lucien's voice, sounding disgruntled. "Kaidan's got a rather nasty nick on his arm, and he won't let me try those new healing spells we learned from the priestesses at the temple in Whiterun…"

Gwynileth almost laughed with how petulant Lucien sounded with this last, though she abstained for the sake of her friend's pride. She rummaged around in her knapsack for a moment before pulling out a small vial of the red liquid—then she cursed. "Damn! I forgot that I sold the rest of the healing potions to pay for provisions… I have the alchemy ingredients to make more, but there's no equipment here to do so…"

"Then this'll have to do," huffed Lucien. She could feel him rolling his eyes as he gently plucked the bottle from her grasp. "I'll go give it to Sir Grumps-A-Lot and see if it makes his wounds any better."

She giggled at this new nickname for Kaidan and briefly observed Lucien stalk to where Kaidan and Inigo were both standing, watching the sunset over the river. A warm smile found Gwynileth's face as she noted they all seemed not too worse for wear—and then her gaze fell upon the amulet in her hands again.

Her hands reached behind her neck, clasping it around her neck.

The adventurers soon decided to use the towers as refuge for the night. Inigo and Lucien began preparing to set up camp, seeing as the sun had nearly set over the horizon. Kaidan was removing the chest plate of his armor, stretching his arm slightly. The wound was still deep enough to be cause for concern…

Unfortunately, there were no further healing potions upon the bodies of the bandits; when Gwynileth rejoined Kaidan within the main room of the further watchtower, she bit the inside of her lip. He certainly ran the risk of infection, if nothing else.

Apparently noticing the worry in her face, Kaidan chuckled and placed a hand upon her shoulder. "Don't worry about me, Gwyn. I've had worse."

"Yes, well… I do worry about you even so," she retorted. Her back was already to him, determined to scour every inch of the towers for another healing potion. She'd look through every single barrel—even the ones with cobwebs on them—if she had to. "I would offer to use some of those minor Restoration spells I just learned, though I know that you prefer to avoid magic wherever possible. I don't blame you for not trusting it… my spells are still weak."

A brief silence settled between them, save for the rustling of Gwynileth upending barrels and searching their contents.

"I don't trust magic, that's true. But I trust you."

Gwynileth started at how close Kaidan's voice had become; he'd approached her without a sound, sending shivers down her spine. She glanced over her shoulder with a questioning look, and could only bring herself to say, "Then… you don't mind me trying my basic healing spell?"

He smiled slightly, a warm, heartwarming sight. "Not if it's you."

"Oh… all right, then," she replied, though she wanted to hit herself for how breathy her voice had become. Trying not to dwell on how pathetic she was, she settled next to him and reached out towards his arm.

The only spell that she'd learned so far was basic healing, but… it might be enough. Gwynileth's eyebrows furrowed as she concentrated all of her mana, put all of her focus, towards that one spell—a glowing ball of golden light left her palms, sometimes fizzling and flickering out whenever she would grow fatigued. But then, ignoring Kaidan saying that she did not have to continue and that he would be fine, she would take another deep breath and attempt the spell again.

It took a few solid minutes and a lot of concentration, but at last, the final layers of Kaidan's skin had sewn together. Dried blood still decorated his arm, but there was no more trailing down his muscle, no more risk of infection.

Gwynileth exhaled sharply, beaming as she cried, "I did it!"

She glanced up at Kaidan with this same excitement, this same brightness—he stared at her for a long moment, tense, as though at a loss for words.

"Is… is something wrong?" she asked, suddenly mortified. Her hands fell into her lap, wringing incessantly: a nervous tick. "Should I not have used magic for so long?"

"No, it's nothing like that." Kaidan reached out and placed a hand upon her own, preventing them from wringing any further. He smiled. "I'll make you a deal from now on, as long as you want—I'll be your shield if you mend my scratches."

That was a deal Gwynileth was more than happy to take. Trying not to smile too widely, she replied, "Of course. I'll try to improve my Restoration magic from here. The last thing I want is for you to be hurt, in any way, shape, or form."

Before Kaidan could reply, a cry from Lucien stated that he and Inigo had managed to make some soup—cabbage and potato with some extra salt and cheese. Both of their stomachs rumbled at the words; with amused looks directed towards one another, they rose from their seat at the wooden table and proceeded to where the cooking pot had been stationed.

Their meal was delightful; Lucien was quite a good cook, even though he didn't seem to believe it himself. Gwynileth was more than content as the onset of night fell upon them, as the four of them talked and made general plans for reaching the village of Ivarstead the next day. Even though the idea of being Dragonborn was still daunting, having good company truly did make things easier…

It was Gwynileth's turn to wash the dishes that night. Withdrawing some of the soap within her pack, she descended to the riverbank and began scrubbing. Washing dishes wasn't a difficult chore, seeing as they'd all practically scraped their bowls clean of soup with the leftover bread from the day's breakfast.

As she tended to this task, the light of a torch approached. She could tell by the footfalls alone that it was Kaidan—sure enough, his voice began to say, "Thought I'd keep you company while you… what's that?"

Gwynileth blinked and looked up at him, confused. "What's what?"

Kaidan had gone still, staring at the new amulet around her neck. Something had changed within his face, though thanks to the darkness of the sky and the way the firelight highlighted his face, she could not discern what it was. His voice was off in some way as he said, "I had no idea you were looking for marriage."

She stared at him for a long moment. "W… what?"

"Your amulet," he replied, pointing at it with one finger. "The Amulet of Mara. You… do know what it means, don't you?"

Her fingers reached out to touch the golden flower, though it no longer provided her warmth with its touch. "I… no… what are you talking about, Kaidan?"

He chuckled somewhat and descended to his knees, dropping the torch upon the stones of the riverbed. The light flickered and nearly went out, save for a few sparks—and it was due to these sparks that Gwynileth was able to see the amused gleam within his eyes as he answered, "In Skyrim, wearing an Amulet of Mara means that you're looking for marriage. It's an invitation for people to ask to marry you."

Heat immediately rushed into Gwynileth's face, flooding it with silver. She nearly dropped the clay bowls she was carrying as she cried, "Does it really? I—I didn't know that!"

"Well, now you do. I'd be careful if I were you." Kaidan looked at her, amber eyes quite serious, before turning away and adding, "Could give a man the wrong impression."

Gwynileth nodded, though she said nothing. Her mind was whirling; was he attempting to say that she had confused him? Should she have said something else? It wasn't that she was looking for marriage—because she wasn't—but… she also didn't want to say anything that would turn him away.

Swallowing hard, she decided to redirect the conversation ever so slightly. "Is it really that simple in Skyrim? There are no… no courtships? No barters or negotiations?"

"Barters or negotiations?" he repeated, a light frown in both his face and voice. "Hardly. There are some courtships, but life is Skyrim is often short and passionate. People don't necessarily wait for long periods of time in a place like this. They just sort of… go at it, I suppose."

"I see." Gwynileth looked back towards the dishes, all of which had been cleaned save for the spoons, and sighed. "Thank you for telling me."

"It's no trouble. Need any help carrying those back up to the towers?"

"I'm not quite finished yet, though I would enjoy your company."

Kaidan smiled as she resumed washing the spoons and said, "And I am glad for it."

A few more minutes passed with this simplicity; Gwynileth found herself lingering on her chore for perhaps longer than was necessary. Eventually, however, the job was finished—and then they grabbed the dishes and proceeded towards their beds, knowing that the following days would be long ones.

Chapter Text

The remainder of the journey to Ivarstead was largely uneventful save for stumbling upon a place called Hillgrund's Crypt, where a young Nord asked for their assistance in purging a necromancer from his family's tomb. Gwynileth was glad to help, largely because the necromancer in question was a Dunmer, and she wanted to give the young Nord a different impression of her people than the evil one he had already become acquainted with.

They did not rest for long in Ivarstead. The Journey of 7000 Steps was aptly named; the air grew thinner and colder the higher they ascended. Lucien ended up requiring a break halfway through the trek, and Gwynileth was glad that he'd asked for it, because she was nearly as fatigued. They ended up battling ice wraiths, a few wolves, the odd ice troll—and then they were there.

The monastery of High Hrothgar was an intimidating building of grey stone and ice, with a great statue and chest of offering sitting ahead of the front door. Gwynileth placed a bag of supplies inside the chest—it had been a request from one of the villagers of Ivarstead—and glanced uncertainly back to her companions.

"Well… I suppose this is it," she said, biting the inside of her lip. She had managed to forget the heaviness of the burden she carried over the last few days, but now, the concept of being Dragonborn was returning in full force.

This would be the place that she could start embracing a terrifying destiny. Once it was confirmed that she was indeed this mythical Dragonborn… there would be no turning back.

Her friends apparently seemed to catch onto her repressed fear. It was Inigo who stepped forward and placed a warm paw upon her shoulder, murmuring, "We are here with you, my friend! We will have your back."

She smiled gratefully at him and, with this sentiment bringing her comfort, opened the door.

The following few hours were filled with great wonder and fear alike. Gwynileth withstood the unbridled voices of the five Greybeard monks, who were patient and understanding, and who finally confirmed: she truly was Dragonborn, the only one that the world had seen since the reign of Tiber Septim.

And that meant only she could kill the dragons and bring peace to the country… just as she had both expected and feared.

The coloring lights were finally explained; the draconic language was ingrained within her heart, her very soul—whenever words of power were in Gwynileth's vicinity, she would not only be able to read them, but be able to fully absorb their meaning. It would be done very similarly to how she consumed dragon souls; not intentionally, but with strength and understanding. Only by combining a dragon's knowledge with a word of power would she be able to Shout the way the Nords had spoken of, however.

"Shout?" repeated Gwynileth, frowning slightly. She gazed upon Arngeir with confusion. "What does that mean?"

Master Arngeir smiled patiently at her and answered, "The ability to Shout is intrinsic to a dragon's—or a Dragonborn's—very being. It is their way of speaking, of exchanging power and conversation. Have you not attempted to do so?"

Gwynileth shook her head. She had never known any of this… she couldn't help thinking she was quite the lousy Dragonborn…

And yet, within only another few minutes, she was able to understand what Arngeir had been talking about. By channeling her strength, her understanding, Gwynileth finally did it—she finally Shouted.

"Fus!"

The singular word rang throughout the grand foyer, rustling the hair of the Greybeards and her companions alike, knocking over the ceramic vases piled atop one another on the far side of the room.

Gwynileth gasped and began to apologize, but she was interrupted from doing so by some enthusiastic clapping behind her—the sound was coming from Lucien and Inigo, both of whom had stars in their eyes and were looking at her as though she were a messiah. Kaidan stood next to them, an encouraging smile upon his lips, though he remained silent.

"Very good!" praised Master Arngeir, whose grey eyes were twinkling. "You learn quickly. Try it again!"

Before the sun had reached its zenith, Gwynileth had mastered the second word of the chant Fus-Ro, and learned an entirely new word: Wuld. According to Master Arngeir, the words meant force-balance, and whirlwind. Upon demonstrating her new mastery of the Voice, the Greybeards wished their farewells and bestowed upon her one last task.

"Bring us the Horn of Jurgen Windcaller," said Master Arngeir, placing a weathered hand upon Gwynileth's own. He pat it encouragingly, like a grandfatherly figure might have. "Once that is done, and you have proven your ability to utilize the Voice according to our way, then we will resume your lessons."

That night in the Ivarstead Inn was cause for celebration, according to Inigo and Lucien. They swiftly ordered quite the feast from the inn's kitchens—much to the delight of the innkeeper—and insisted that they would pay for it all, because Gwynileth learning how to use her Voice was impressive indeed.

"This is fantastic!" cried Lucien, throwing an arm around Gwynileth's shoulder. "I'll be able to study the usage of the Thu'um up close! Do you know how many scholars get this sort of opportunity? None! I'm the only one! I'm so excited!"

"Those roars are so impressive!" added Inigo. He immediately seized the largest of the three cheese wheels and began cutting into it while haphazardly passing bread around the table. "I wish I could roar like that. I would scare all those stinky undead right back into their coffins."

The villagers of Ivarstead were largely friendly; the innkeeper, Wilhelm, was quick to warn them about the haunted barrows to the east of the inn and was more than happy to keep their mugs of ale filled. The bard, Lynnly, was a kind woman with a voice of silver—Gwynileth happily paid her to perform as many songs as she knew.

Lucien's generosity extended to mugs of mulled wine and the finest beds that the inn had to offer. He ignored all of Gwynileth's attempts to pay him back, stating, "Tut-tut, I can't have that! Consider this an advance payment for all of the donations we'll receive when I publish my dissertations on the Nordic Thu'um. They'll be posted all around the libraries of Cyrodiil with any luck!"

And so, left with little to no choice, Gwynileth allowed him to spoil her rotten. The beds were so incredibly soft, the mulled wine sitting easily within her stomach… she began to drift off into sleep—

Her dreams started out sweetly; her and Anya running through House Nerussa, looking to steal some of the cranberry crostatas from the kitchens. Lucien sitting beside her, reading from his journal. Inigo engaging her on that archery contest, the one he insisted would be legendary…

And then they turned to nightmares. Hands upon her thighs, a body pushing her into the mattress, cold lips on her neck, by her ears. Her fists pounding at a broad chest, a muscled back; the horrid pinch she'd felt between her legs.

You're perfect, Gwynileth. You feel  incredible.  And once we're married, I'll get to fuck you like this whenever I want.

"Gwynileth!"

She shrieked and launched forward only to find herself out of that room, out of the Nerussa household, but entangled in bedsheets all the same. Whimpering, Gwynileth scrambled to free herself from the blankets. Every centimeter of her body felt horrible, filthy, impure—she cried out as she hit the floor, legs and arms struggling, vying to free herself from the snare of her own making.

Standing in the doorway of her room was Inigo, whose yellow eyes were wide and full of uncertainty. Gwynileth knew that her own eyes were filled with clouds, but try as she might, she could not keep them in check—

Her legs and arms were finally free. Ignoring the fact that she only wore a simple cotton dress, she pushed past Inigo and fled the room. Her first and only concern was to find a place to be clean, to rid herself of the feeling of Jenithar on her body, in her body—

The wooden door to the inn banged shut. She couldn't care less if it drew attention or not; Gwynileth remembered seeing a river on their way into the village.

She sprinted forward, her eyes locked upon the waters ahead. Not even pausing to check for passers-by, she ripped the dress off of her body and jumped into the waters.

The chill of early-spring water almost made her go into shock. She gasped only to inhale more water—Gwynileth couldn't breathe, she couldn't see, it was far too dark outside to be able to look through the water—

A pair of hands seized her arms. Gwynileth cried out; only bubbles exited her mouth. The hands began pulling her out of the water.

And then she was on the riverbank, coughing and spluttering and sobbing. Her ebony hair was soaked, covering her shoulders and breasts, but now her embarrassment was returned to her, knowing that a total stranger was likely the one seeing her so exposed and so crazed in the middle of the night.

Someone draped a thick pelt around her shoulders: Inigo. He was sitting next to her, his tail curled around her legs, an arm around her shoulder.

Knowing that it was a friend only made her feel marginally better. Gwynileth sniffled and wiped her sopping hair away from her eyes. "In…igo?"

He looked upon her not with pity, not with confusion, but with warmth. Resting his prickly cheek atop her head, he simply said, "You will not feel any better if you do not cry."

His words hit her like a ton of sawn logs. Gwynileth's bottom lip trembled; she had tried so hard to forget everything from Morrowind. She had loved adventuring so much—she had a purpose now in being Dragonborn that she hadn't had in so very long. And yet… it wasn't as easy as simply forgetting.

It likely never would be.

Gwynileth began to sob into Inigo's shoulder, one hand wrapped tightly around his own, squeezing it so hard she could hardly feel her own fingers. He did not flinch, did not move; his other paw made comforting circular motions upon her back, his touch muted due to the thick bear pelt she wore. And he was patient as she sniffled and choked and became utterly beside herself, choosing not to speak, choosing to be the rock that she sorely needed.

Gwynileth became vaguely aware at some point that more footsteps were approaching, but she could hardly bring herself to care. Her mind was still locked on what had been done to her—Jenithar had been her friend. He had even claimed to love her only a couple short months before it had happened.

How could someone who loved her do that?

"I-Inigo… I'm s-so sorry!" she wailed, burying her face deeper within his fur. She had always been jealous of how warm he was; now, she held onto that warmth with the same desperation that she would her last life-line. "I'm sorry! I'm—I'm so—"

"I am not sorry," he replied calmly. "I am helping a friend."

His words stunned her into silence. Gwynileth could only wheeze and gasp, struggling to intake a steady breath. The way he had spoken, with such confidence and certainty, did bring her a little peace of mind.

She was not a burden. Not to him.

As the next few seconds went on, she focused on slow, deep breaths. It was a fight; her chest hitched, her throat closed up every third inhale. But eventually, with Inigo's support, she was able to maintain a rhythm to her breathing, a steadiness to her bearing. That was when she began shivering, realizing exactly how cold it was outside, how fiercely her teeth were chattering.

"Let us go inside," said Inigo. He rose to his feet and more-or-less hauled Gwynileth up next to him, keeping one arm resolutely around her waist so she would not fall. "Kaidan is purchasing the key to the bathing room for you."

All the color drained from Gwynileth's face with these words. "N-no! No, not him! I don't—I don't want him to—he can't see me like this, Inigo!"

Inigo looked down at her. "He is very worried about you."

Gwynileth's shivering grew worse. Though she knew that more tears would hardly help, she nearly stumbled to her knees all the same as she whispered, "Inigo, I… I can't."

"Oh, yes you can!" exclaimed Lucien's voice from somewhere near the porch of the inn. He marched forward, a bundle of blankets in his arms—one by one, he draped them over Gwynileth's shoulders, huffing all the while. "You think we're just going to sit here and let you drown yourself in the river? Pah! Hardly. What you actually need is a warm bath and maybe some more mulled wine. Or some mead! And maybe another good crostata so that way you can keep it down. And more blankets! And—"

"I think she gets the idea, my friend," Inigo interrupted.

Lucien cleared his throat. "Yes, well… help me get her inside, would you, old chap?"

Within the next minute, Gwynileth had been escorted back into the inn. She was immensely grateful to note that it was late enough that no other patrons were still in the building—the clock on the far side of the room ticked away at three in the morning. There was snoring from somewhere downstairs, perhaps from the innkeeper. And standing on the far side of the room, looking as though he'd lost all rest from the last week of sleep in its entirety, was Kaidan.

"Any luck with the bath key?" Lucien asked brightly.

Kaidan shook his head. "No, but it doesn't matter. I've learned a thing or two about picking locks."

He opened the door he was standing ahead of. A wave of steam entered the inn's main room. Without speaking, he gestured Gwynileth and the others inside.

Gwynileth swallowed hard but trudged forward as she was bade. The bathing room was warm—a relief for certain. Colorful bars of soaps were gathered in a wicker basket. There was a basket for clothes, and a stone basin that was already filled to the brim with hot water and bubbles was along the opposite wall.

She blinked and stared for a long moment, her mind blank. "I…"

"Are you going to be all right on your own?" asked Lucien, whose blue eyes were bright. "I mean, I don't want to sound weird or anything, but if you want us to stay…"

"I… give me a moment. To think," she said softly. A tiny smile fell upon her lips as she gazed across her three friends. "Thank you. I'll… let you know."

They nodded and closed the door behind her—and then Gwynileth was alone.

She stared at the bath ahead for only a brief moment before letting the pelt and all of the blankets fall to the floor. She dove into the basin; the water was hot, almost scalding, and that was a relief. Trembling fingers seized the bar of lavender soap and began scrubbing, scrubbing so hard that she would be surprised if she didn't accidentally peel away some layers of her skin.

Two, three coats weren't enough. Gwynileth kept cleansing herself, her eyes closed, thinking.

This wouldn't be the end of the nightmares. They would certainly keep happening. But she couldn't lose her mind each time they happened, especially not now that she had a destiny to fulfill.

She sunk deep into the foamy water.

A soft knock at the door let her know that someone was coming: it ended up being Kaidan, who was carrying a bundle of cloth. Looking sheepish, he said, "I, er… hope you don't mind, but I went through your things to find you a change of clothes. Inigo says your dress must've—er—gone down the river."

Gwynileth blinked and sunk deeper into the water. "Oh… I see. Thank you."

He did not reply immediately, instead setting down the second cotton dress upon the bench. Without turning to face her, Kaidan asked, "Are you all right?"

She thought on how to answer this. In truth, she still felt horrible. She wanted to spend the next hour stewing in the hot water and cleansing herself with the bar of soap until it disappeared. On the other hand, she didn't want to be weak. Not to him.

But would lying really be any better?

"No," she murmured at last. Her crimson eyes followed Kaidan as he walked around the sides of the room, his gaze very carefully avoiding the place where she was bathing. "No… I don't think I am."

Upon hearing this, he glanced at her from the corner of his eye. "Well… if you want to talk… you know where to find me."

Kaidan began walking towards the door with the clear intention of leaving—

"Wait," Gwynileth blurted out. "Would you… stay?"

He turned back around, the hint of a sad smile gracing his sharp features. When his gaze met her own, however, some of that sorrow melted away. "Of course."

He walked back to the bench and moved it slightly closer to the stone basin. As he did this, Gwynileth watched him; she could not help marveling at how very different he looked without his armor on. With it, he was commanding, invincible—and without it, he was still strong, but softer… more approachable.

They were both quiet for a little while, adjusting to one another's presences, attempting to read the energy they were each giving off. It was Gwynileth to speak first, her voice hushed as she said, "I'm sorry to be such a burden."

"No," he replied, so sharply it was almost a snap. "You are no burden."

Gwynileth exhaled. Some of the bubbles ahead of her mouth disappeared at the gesture. "It is still hard to believe. Inigo had to fish me out of the damn river, Kaidan. For all you knew… you must've thought I was trying to kill myself."

Kaidan visibly tensed with these words, though he did not speak.

"That was not my intention," Gwynileth said quickly, realizing how her words had affected him. "There were days in Morrowind that I—that I felt as such, but… you should know that as soon as I have come to Skyrim, ever since the day that I met you, I… have not entertained those thoughts. Not even tonight. That is a promise."

He nodded. One of his hands ran through his dark hair, part of which was tied back the same way as always. "I appreciate you saying that, Gwyn. And I understand if you don't want to talk about it. But it would taste a lie to say that the three of us aren't concerned."

The warmth of the water had soothed Gwynileth's limbs, restored feeling to her numbed body. She turned towards the bucket just outside the basin and began filling it with more heated water, slowly pouring it atop her head. Taking courage from the newfound heat, she sighed, "I know. And I am sorry for that. You… deserve answers."

She placed the bucket back onto the ground, folding her arms atop the ledges of the basin. Taking care to cover the rest of her body by the stone walls and the bubbles, she murmured, "In truth, I would be surprised if you did not already know." She focused on the man ahead of her, banishing the tears from her eyes. Enough of them had already been shed. "I was raped, Kaidan. By the man who I was engaged to."

Kaidan was still for a long moment, though a war had erupted upon his face. A storm of emotions passed, some of which Gwynileth could identify, some of which she could not: anger, resignation… guilt?

"He was one of my closest friends once." Her voice was hushed, swallowed up by the walls of the bathing room. "I trusted him with everything. But this last year… he put something in my drink, when he knew no one else would be in my family's house. I wish he had put more so I would've been unconscious, but he didn't, and I remember everything. Those memories… they haunt me more often than I care to admit when I sleep."

Her chin rested upon the stone of the washbasin; it was much cooler than the water surrounding her body. Gwynileth sighed once and looked away from Kaidan, unsure if she wanted to know the look that would be on his face. Telling him of that burden was struggle enough without seeing what he made of it.

"I thought I was making progress. I thought I was healing." Now that the words had started, they wouldn't stop tumbling out of her mouth—like a waterfall that had been dammed for years on end. "But it's clear by my reaction to the nightmares tonight that that isn't case. It still hurts… maybe even as much as the day it happened. And I… I hate the thought of that. Of such weakness!"

"You are not weak."

Gwynileth inhaled sharply by the growl that had been Kaidan's voice; such shock only increased to see his fists clenching, the shadows that fully occupied his face. His eyes were blazing as he met her gaze and resolutely shook his head.

"You are not weak," he repeated, retaining his intensity. "I've seen what ordeals like that can do to a person. More often than not, they don't get the help they need. It's all right to be angry. It's all right to be afraid. But I'll tell you this, Gwyn—" He rose from his seat upon the bench and knelt ahead of the stone basin, one hand reaching for her own and holding it tightly. "On the nights when things become too much, I cannot do the healing for you, but I can damn well try to help. Anything you need, I will do all I can to provide."

There was such great sincerity in his words, it was impossible to mistake it for anything else. Forgetting the fact that she was dripping with hot water, Gwynileth choked and launched her arms around him, burying her face within the crook of his neck. Her shoulders heaved, but no more tears threatened to stain her face; a small blessing, but one that she remained grateful for.

One of Kaidan's hands rested on the back of her head while his other arm went around her waist, though he carefully avoided her bare skin with his hands. Gwynileth smiled within this newfound sanctuary, wishing that she could remain still for the rest of the evening… but alas, she knew that was impossible. After taking one last moment to relish how warm he was, how safe she felt, Gwynileth retreated back into the bubbles and bathwater.

Upon noting how much water she'd accidentally splashed upon his shirt, her face flushed silver. "I—I'm sorry about all of that. I hope you won't be too cold once you return to sleep."

"I'll be fine. Lucien splurged on the thick quilts, remember?"

She giggled, if only because he was right. Lucien had been quite adamant on wanting to rest warmly and without feeling like his toes were freezing off.

"You going to be all right?" he asked next, eyeing her seriously again.

Gwynileth nodded, and that was the truth. She was feeling a little better. And… if nothing else, she was relieved by having told Kaidan of the burden she still carried. Sharing the news made it weigh a little lighter upon her own shoulders.

A small smile appeared on Kaidan's face with this last. "Good. If you need me, you know where to find me. We're setting off for that barrow Ustengrav tomorrow, right?"

Without waiting for a response, he nodded once at her, rose to his feet, and began to leave. The door clicked shut behind him; Gwynileth thought for long moments in the water, attempting to make a plan for what she would do the next time the nightmares plagued her, how to counteract her fight-or-flight instincts.

Take deep breaths, a voice inside her head kept saying. It sounded remarkably like Anya—in fact, Gwynileth suddenly remembered hearing her say the same thing, in the days following the attack that Jenithar had made upon her. Take deep breaths, and count to ten. It might be hard, and that's okay. But you need to breathe. No matter what else… just keep breathing. I'll be here, all right?

The corners of Gwynileth's lips curled upwards ever so slightly upon hearing Anya's voice, even if it was only in the depths of her own mind. She wished she could have one more conversation with her, because there was something Gwynileth wanted to tell her about.

She wanted Anya's opinion. She wanted to know what Anya would say to the fact that no matter the day or the circumstance, Gwynileth's mind kept straying to a picture—a person—of comfort: to a man with a soft voice and amber eyes, a man who had so far done everything in his power to simply be there for her.

"Anya," she whispered to herself, her voice muffled from being underwater. "Anya, I think… I think I found that good man you were talking about."

Chapter Text

The Nordic crypt of Ustengrav was close to the marshes in the north-western province of Skyrim. It was approximated to be a three-day journey if the adventurers were quick—unfortunately, they were easily distracted.

They returned through the same road they'd used to reach Ivarstead, which prompted for a swift first day's journey seeing as they'd cleared out all the hovels and crypts that were on the way. Instead of taking the longer route through Whiterun, however, they elected to take a shortcut through the forests just south of the village of Dawnstar.

Seeing as it was still early in the spring, the tall pines were flecked with snow. Icicles hung from their branches. Sprouts and saplings battled their way through the white blankets, but despite the beautiful scenery, the road was still dangerous.

Ice wraiths and trolls guarded shrines dedicated to the gods, all of which Gwynileth and her friends ended up clearing out. A few Thalmor guards patrolled the road, causing Kaidan to pull both himself and Gwynileth behind the trunk of a particularly thick tree so they wouldn't be spotted. And on top of all that, ice wolves galore littered the roads both paved and dirt—on the bright side, they had plenty of pelts to use as blankets or to sell for extra gold.

"How are you feeling today, my friend?" Inigo asked Gwynileth as they walked. It was their third day of travel, and the crypt of Ustengrav was likely to be within their sights before the sunset of that next day. All throughout that time, Inigo had done everything he could to keep Gwynileth warm, knowing how much she detested the frigid temperatures of Skyrim.

That day, however, was a bit warmer than the days previously. So it was with a smile upon her face that the woman replied, "I'm doing all right today, Inigo. Thank you for asking. How about you?"

"I am doing well. Maybe a little hungry."

Hearing this, Gwynileth rifled through her pack. "Well, here's a cheese wedge and a bit of bread if that will help to hold you over. I can't tell what time it is due to all of these clouds…"

Lucien sighed despondently behind them. "I don't suppose you've got any alto wine on you, do you, Gwynileth?"

Gwynileth shot him an apologetic look over the shoulder and said, "I'm sorry Lucien, but I don't. We might be able to pass through Dawnstar and restock on supplies tonight, however…"

"We passed Dawnstar to the south early this morning," said Kaidan, who had taken the front of the pack. "If we turn around to visit the city, we'll lose half a day of progress, and we've already lost a day as it is."

No one said anything to these words; they simply continued trekking through the snowbanks. Gwynileth did not mind camping out—between Inigo keeping her warm and Kaidan making sure she had enough to eat and drink, she was quite comfortable—but she also knew that Lucien was less than pleased by how long they had gone without resting at an inn. He had certainly made his regrets known over the last few days.

The trees soon lessened, revealing grand mountain ranges with glistening white peaks. The adventurers stopped for a moment, reveling in the beautiful sight.

"Where are we?" asked Lucien with wonder.

"To the east of Hjaalmarch," Kaidan replied. "We're on the western borders of the Pale. It'll start to warm up soon."

Lucien sighed in relief. "Oh, thank the Divines."

"I wouldn't thank them too soon. There's a lot of mud and marsh to travel through after that."

Gwynileth didn't need to turn around to know that Lucien was pouting.

The beauty of the mountains helped to keep some of the bitterness at bay. Gwynileth couldn't get enough of them; they reminded her of the ash mountains in Morrowind, but those had looked like puny hilltops compared to the grand rock and stone towering above her. It helped her to remember how small she was in the world… a comforting thought, considering her newfound destiny.

"Ooh, what is that?" gasped Lucien. He was pointing towards a grand shrine close to the top of one of the mountains, though the details were obscured by thick clouds of fog and sheer distance.

"It's beautiful," Gwynileth murmured. She turned to Lucien with a lighthearted grin. "Shall we go and take a quick look?"

Lucien clapped his hands together. "Oh, yes, plea—"

"We don't have time for that," interrupted Kaidan. He did not turn to face the rest of his traveling companions. "The horn of Jurgen Windcaller won't wait for us forever."

"Pah! As if," scoffed Lucien, crossing his arms. "That horn has been festering in a decrepit crypt for centuries on end. I'm sure it can wait an extra thirty minutes for me to do a teensy bit of sightseeing. And I think Gwynileth wants to take a look at the shrine, too! It's enormous!"

Kaidan stopped walking. He still didn't turn around, but he didn't have to for Gwynileth to know how he was feeling. His shoulders were tense, his fists had clenched; he was uneasy. "What do you think about this, Inigo?"

The Khajiit shrugged. "I am up for whatever Gwynileth wants to do. She is the Dragonborn, after all. Although I will admit I am not looking forward to another date with a draugr anytime soon… they are creepy."

Gwynileth glanced between her three friends, aware of the stand-off that was occurring even if the others were not. She bit the inside of her lip—on the one hand, she stood to upset Kaidan, and the last thing she wanted to do was discomfort him. On the other, Lucien had been in discomfort for the last three days; looking at this shrine would make him happy and improve his mood again.

It also didn't help that Lucien was giving her puppy-dog eyes.

"A quick detour," she blurted out, hoping her verdict wouldn't be ill-received. "Five minutes, ten minutes at most. We should still reach Ustengrav on schedule that way."

Lucien hurrahed and instantly ran towards the upward path, never mind the way it would surely wind him if he continued at that pace. Inigo was right on his tail, exclaiming, "Excellent! I wonder how far I can shoot an arrow from up there!" as he ran off.

Gwynileth watched Kaidan from the corner of her eye. He did not speak, but he began walking up the mountainside without complaint.

It was only a fifteen-minute ascent, although Gwynileth's legs were screaming in protest at the speed and earnestness with which she had climbed. She wasn't the only one—Lucien was groaning next to her, hunched over as he gasped, "Ooh, that… that sprint might've been… a mistake. Good thing there wasn't any wine after all…"

Once she had regathered her breath, she took a quick glance around. The shrine was much more ominous up close than it had seemed from far below. A black altar sat just ahead of her, decorated by spikes. There were no blemishes upon it, save for the markings upon its fringes that Gwynileth could not read. Standing guard over the altar was a great sculpture of a demon; it too was made of black stone. Obsidian, perhaps. The gargoyle had four hands, two of which were grabbing onto weapons. It was sitting above a door, which was obviously locked and sealed up tight.

"Look at this place!" gasped Lucien, still heaving. "Incredible!"

Before she could even offer him some water to rehydrate himself, Lucien withdrew his notebook and began muttering to himself. "Ah, if you look closely, you can see dremora carved into the stonework of this altar! Fascinating!"

Even though Gwynileth had championed to visit the shrine, the chills she received down her spine were enough to turn her away again. She left Lucien to his work, giggled as Inigo carefully aimed an arrow at a giant far below the shrine—and then laid eyes upon Kaidan.

Kaidan's face was pale. He was standing slightly away from the shrine and the altar, refusing to even look at it.

The guilt swelled in Gwynileth's chest. She took a few steps towards him and, her voice soft, asked, "Are you all right? You seem…"

She did not even know how to finish that statement.

It didn't seem to matter anyhow. Kaidan swallowed and looked over the area below; they could see the beginning of the marshes from such an altitude. Without meeting her eyes, he said, "Aye. Fine."

"That isn't so convincing, Kaidan," she reproached, though she took care to keep her tone gentle.

He did not respond.

Gwynileth waited. She took note of his posture: rigid. She slipped a hand within his, her fingers gently intertwining amongst his own. Never before had she initiated such a gesture, but it seemed to calm him, if only slightly.

"Tell me what's wrong," she murmured.

Kaidan sighed. His shoulders slumped. "I'd just—prefer to get out of here."

Gwynileth studied him for a long moment, but it was difficult to discern what exactly he was feeling when he refused to look her in the eyes. His grip upon her hand had become almost uncomfortably tight. "Kaidan—"

"How incredible! This is a shrine to Mehrunes Dagon, built in the third era by the cult of the Mythic Dawn!" Lucien exhaled in satisfaction and snapped his book shut. "It's too bad I'm not writing on daedric princes. Perhaps I'll send this to university as a minor footnote; a piece of trivia, if you will."

"Are you quite finished?" Kaidan asked through gritted teeth.

"I think so! Shall we continue on our way to—"

He didn't even get to finish his question. The very moment Lucien's first sentence had been uttered, Kaidan had torn his hand from Gwynileth's and begun descending the mountain.

They reached Ustengrav perfectly on schedule, but Kaidan did not seem to be relieved by this at all. Quite the contrary, he had only become more withdrawn over the course of the afternoon—not that Lucien or Inigo seemed to notice. Lucien was too involved in his studies, and Inigo had always been appallingly oblivious to the moods of those around him.

Gwynileth, however, was concerned. It was obvious that Kaidan's aloofness had something to do with that shrine, but she did not know how to bring up the topic without upsetting him further, if he even wanted it brought up at all.

Either way, she was worried about him… immensely.

Seeing as the sun was beginning to sink and it had already been a long day of travel, the group agreed to rest for the remainder of the night and regain their strength for the morning. Inigo was the one assigned to making supper that day. They had come across some wild mushrooms and winter carrots within the forests of Dawnstar, and there was plenty of salt and seasoning among their packs—some elk still remained in the nearby trees as well.

"Shall we hunt for some meat?" asked Inigo, his whiskers twitching. "We could make a delicious roast if we find even one elk."

Kaidan rose from his spot upon the ground and clapped a hand on Inigo's shoulder. Without speaking, he trekked off towards the trees, his bow in hand, his nodachi at his hip. He did not look back as he disappeared.

"Is it just me, or does he seem grumpy today?" whispered Lucien, his lips twisting sideways. "More so than usual, I mean."

Gwynileth did not answer. She merely stood up and began following after the place where Kaidan had gone.

"All right, then. I guess I'll just… stay here. Where it's warm. And where there aren't any chauruses in sight," Lucien sighed. He withdrew his notebook, pouting slightly as his eyes followed Gwynileth's back.

It turned out that Kaidan hadn't gone too far away. He was concealed by a few of the thick trunks and pine branches. His bow was already in hand, his eyes locked on a target a number of meters away. As Gwynileth silently approached, Kaidan released the arrow—instead of lodging within the elk's body, it flew straight into the hollow of one of the pine trees.

"I'm sorry," she murmured. They both watched the elk run away, further into the forest. "I didn't mean to distract you."

Kaidan smiled, but the gesture was pressed. "It's all right. It wasn't you."

He did not bother to explain further; he began trailing after the elk, making as little noise as possible to avoid alerting it to his pursuit. Gwynileth followed suit—she had grown adept at sneaking around the caves and dungeons that they raided, and the woods were not much different.

"I'm worried about you, Kaidan," she said softly. "You seem… troubled."

"I'm all right." Kaidan began trekking towards the tree his arrow had been stuck in to see if he could salvage it.

She sighed to herself but did not continue to press the issue… yet. Instead, she trailed after his footsteps, withdrawing her own bow and keeping a weather eye for any further prey to enter her sights.

They grew further and further away from their campsite, though Gwynileth did not mind it. Even though he was obviously hesitant to speak with her candidly, Kaidan's presence brought her great comfort. She did not ever feel as safe or valued as she did by his side.

Gwynileth smiled somewhat upon thinking of what Anya would say to such thoughts: just kiss him already, you know you want to. Stop playing games. No one has time for that!

She almost walked straight into Kaidan, she was so wrapped up in her own thoughts. The reason he had paused was clear: four mountain goats were grazing together just ahead, none of them the wiser to the danger that stalked them through the trees.

Both of them raised their bows; two arrows were simultaneously loosened.

And two arrows simultaneously met their marks. Two of the goats collapsed to the ground with soft brays; the other two bolted, their hooves clopping up the stone of the boulders just behind them.

Kaidan straightened and shot Gwynileth a sideways grin. "Well, it isn't elk, but it'll do."

She smiled in response, and together, they approached their prizes. While Gwynileth had purchased a hunting knife from a butcher in Whiterun, she couldn't help but laugh slightly upon noticing that Kaidan had withdrawn his large nodachi in order to skin the goat he had slain.

"Still using your most prized possession for that?" she quipped, eyes sparkling in amusement. "If I didn't know any better, I'd say it was a giant's hunting knife."

Kaidan shrugged. Some of the tension melted away from his person as he retorted, "If it gets the job done, I don't see why not."

Noting the way that her banter seemed to cheer him up, Gwynileth thought for a moment. Maybe Kaidan didn't want to talk about what was bothering him at all—and that was all right. Everyone had their own way of dealing with their struggles and problems. Just because she liked to talk things out didn't mean he did.

But it also didn't mean she couldn't still find a way to cheer him up. The way her joke made him smile ever so slightly made her think that she was doing something right.

"You know, I heard an amusing joke in the Ivarstead inn when we were there. Why are bards a pickpocket's favorite target?" she said.

He raised an eyebrow. "Jokes, Gwyn? I didn't take you for a jokes kind of person."

Gwynileth gently guided her hunting knife through the carcass of the goat. "Well… maybe I'm just full of surprises."

Kaidan's amber eyes met her own for a long moment. It was clear he understood her reasoning for the sudden and unexpected change in conversation… something in his face softened. "So why are bards a pickpocket's favorite target?"

She grinned. "Because they have the best lute."

Kaidan made a noise that was something in between a scoff and a groan, but there was no hiding the way the corners of his lips were curling upwards. "That's a terrible joke."

"And you're always terribly serious," she returned. Her hands were busy at work, cleaning the pelt and separating the meat from the bones of the goat. It was funny; a month ago, she would never have expected to be so familiarized with a butcher's process. But now, it was almost like second nature… thanks to the man next to her. "Don't you know any jokes?"

"I suppose I know one. What do you get when you cross a joke with a rhetorical question?"

Gwynileth cocked her head sideways. "I don't know, what?"

Kaidan didn't answer. He just continued to clean the goat.

It took her a moment, but at last she understood. A laugh escaped her lips, as did the words, "Azura's breath, Kaidan."

"It's no worse than yours."

"All right, well, this one is a classic even in Morrowind. Why did the Redguard's foot hurt?"

"Because his hammer fell. Too classic—even I know that one," he retorted.

Gwynileth grinned. She began to wipe her hunting knife into the ground, hoping the grass would clear it of most of the blood. "What did the Dunmer weatherman say?"

Kaidan glanced at her suspiciously. "What?"

"Rain today, to-Morrowind."

Another groan was coaxed out of Kaidan's mouth, which only set Gwynileth to laughing again. Something warm filled her chest as she realized he was smiling too, seeming more like himself than he had throughout the rest of the day.

It was getting dark; each of them rose to their feet, the goat meat in their hands, their weapons replaced in their sheaths. As they began walking back to where Inigo and Lucien were surely waiting for news of their success, Kaidan said, "I think I'll have to keep an ear out for more terrible jokes. I'd like to hear you laugh like that more often."

His expression was soft, yet somehow… it was also sad. Gwynileth couldn't even begin to fathom why.

The following hour passed by in relative routine: the four of them sitting around the campfire, enjoying a meal that was quite delicious, doing everything they could to ignore their less than pleasant surroundings. Lucien shared his notes on the architecture of the Nordic crypts with Gwynileth, Inigo was practicing his already perfect archery on targets he had set up within the trees, and Kaidan was sharpening his nodachi with a whetting stone.

"Look here, can you see the different keys on this puzzle door?" asked Lucien, pointing towards his hasty sketch of the Nordic puzzle locks. "They are considered one of the most secure doors in all of Tamriel, due to there being only one key per door, all of which are in the shapes of dragon claws."

"So you're saying that we could've gotten more than one-hundred gold from that merchant in Riverwood for returning his unique heirloom?" asked Kaidan, raising an eyebrow.

Lucien shrugged. "Possibly. But Lucan Valerius is just a shopkeeper. I doubt he truly knows what it's worth."

Inigo hummed to himself; a familiar twang sounded as his latest arrow was released. "No wonder those bandits wanted to steal it from him, then. It is probably worth a lot of money."

"It's possible, but we digress," said Lucien, returning to his notebook. He lightly tapped Gwynileth's arm to redirect her attention to its pages. "You see how there are multiple different animals upon each of the keys? My latest hypothesis is that these are the animals which Ancient Nords held the most respect for, thus insinuating—"

But Gwynileth's attention was no longer on the book. Her mouth dried as her eyes fell upon Kaidan's blade. "Your sword…"

Kaidan paused in sharpening it, inspecting the blade from every angle. "What's the matter? Is something wrong with it?"

"No, it's… I… recognize the writing on the blade." Gwynileth looked up, suddenly realizing why she had felt such a familiar tug towards the writing when first he had shown her the nodachi. "The runes are Dovahzul—dragon language."

Everyone paused for a moment.

Then Inigo raced behind Kaidan's back to look at the runes, yellow eyes narrowed in deep concentration. Lucien was gasping excitedly, asking, "You can read the dragonish language? Why didn't you tell me about this before? There are so many translations I'll need for—"

"I can't read it," she murmured. While she spoke to all of her friends, her eyes were upon Kaidan as she continued. "I can only recognize it. There are only a few words that I can read, and only when they reach out to me. I'm sorry."

Although Gwynileth had feared that Kaidan would be disappointed by this admission, he seemed anything but. A smile gradually filled his face as he mused, "It's more than I knew yesterday. And if you're the Dragonborn… there might still be a possibility that you can translate these runes if we find more of those Word Walls that Arngeir told us about…"

Someone snorted; it was Lucien, who was exhibiting an uncommon smirk as he shook his head towards the two. "Or you can do the easier thing and find an established scholar who has already published volumes on the translation of the dragonish language. We're in Skyrim, right on the doorstep of Solitude! For how smart you two are, you sometimes say the most outlandish things…"

"So you think we're smart now? I distinctly remember you calling me a barbarian," remarked Kaidan, narrowing his eyes.

Lucien scoffed, though his face turned a light shade of pink. "We all say things in the heat of passion. I had to defend my books!"

A brief moment of silence overcame the group. It was Gwynileth who broke it first as she began to laugh so hard she nearly fell off the log she was perched on top of, her face flushed silver as one hand covered her mouth. She could feel Lucien and Kaidan watching her with varying degrees of amusement, but it was only when she cried, "You two are so ridiculous!" that Lucien began to laugh alongside her.

They ended up with arms wrapped around one another's shoulders, relying on the other for support.

"We are ridiculous, aren't we?" sighed Lucien at last, wiping a tear from the corner of his eye. He turned back to Kaidan, still grinning. "Come now, old chap, we'll get the runes on your sword translated. I think it'll help you discover where you come from."

"After Ustengrav, of course," said Kaidan, but his expression was warm and welcoming as he looked towards them. "We have a duty to help the Dragonborn first, don't we?"

Inigo grinned and clapped a hand on Kaidan's shoulder. "You are most correct! Until the very end, I will be glad to shoot down those stinky lizards."

So it was that they decided it was time for rest, for there was an ancient relic to hunt down on the morrow.

Chapter Text

"Well, how was I supposed to know the Horn of Jurgen Windcaller would be missing!"

Lucien's voice rang around the chamber, amplified by the grand archways and the ancient stone that it was made of. He sounded both irritated and distraught; two sentiments that Gwynileth could sympathize with him on, for she felt them as well.

It had been a dusty, dangerous journey to where the artifact lay within the Ustengrav crypt. Draugr had invested said crypt in droves, reanimated skeletons shot arrows at them from within the walls themselves—there had even been a puzzle that Gwynileth needed to solve by following the Way of the Voice.

All of that they had braved only to find that the Horn of Jurgen Windcaller was not, in fact, within Ustengrav any longer. Where it had rested, a note had been left, and all it read was: Dragonborn—I need to speak to you. Urgently. Rent the attic room at the Sleeping Giant Inn in Riverwood, and I'll meet you. –A Friend

"Hrmm," muttered Inigo, twisting his whiskers. "Perhaps we should not have stopped at that weird shrine yesterday…"

"It's too late for regrets," Gwynileth said. It was the first time she'd spoken since reading the note, and her voice was tight. "All I know is that someone knew I would be coming here. I cannot help wondering… if this is another trap set up by the Morag Tong. It is not as if it's a secret that I am Dragonborn, and their organization has always been good at picking up information."

"If it's them, they won't live to see another day," growled Kaidan.

Gwynileth smiled drearily at his words. He was certainly more than capable of protecting her in a straightforward fight, but she knew well that when they were backed against the wall, the Morag Tong would not fight fair.

She sighed and placed the note back into her pocket. "There's no way to know unless we dive into the situation headfirst. We should return to Riverwood."

Lucien blinked and cocked his head. "What about the book on dragonish translations? Solitude really is right there…"+

"That's not a priority," said Kaidan, taking the lead on exiting the crypt. "It's true that I'd like to get my blade transcribed, but there are dragons still terrorizing Skyrim's landscape. Those will have to come first."

Even though Gwynileth knew that he was correct, a well of guilt infested her stomach as they turned south instead of west to where Solitude lay.

All throughout their journey, the mood was tense. Kaidan insisted on creating plan after plan for how to deal with an ambush, starting from the moment they stepped foot in Riverwood until they had the Horn of Jurgen Windcaller in their hands. Whatever uneasiness he had felt from the Shrine of Mehrunes Dagon only seemed amplified during their three-day trek, and that in turn only served to make Gwynileth even more nervous.

The night before they were supposed to arrive in Riverwood, Kaidan had once again gathered the other three around the campfire and was relaying his latest counterattack to a Morag Tong ambush.

"Lucien, it'll be up to you to conjure any wards for mages. You'll be standing in the front with me while Inigo keeps his bow drawn in the back—above all else, Gwyn must—"

"Gwynileth must be protected, yes, we know, Kaidan," sighed Lucien. Upon beholding Kaidan's irritated look, he dramatically rolled his eyes. "Haven't you been over this enough the last three days? Or have you been so enveloped in your own paranoia that you've failed to see how uneasy you're making our beloved Dragonborn in the first place? Hmm?"

This last sentence caused Kaidan to stop short, amber eyes hesitantly turning towards Gwynileth, who refused to meet them. Apparently noticing the way she stared resolutely into the fire, he softly said, "Is Lucien right, Gwyn?"

Gwynileth swallowed hard, mildly exasperated by being put in the middle. One hand rubbed her arm, knowing that it would not do well to lie. "I… there is a lot that I must deal with: the Horn, the dragons, the Morag Tong, the Dark Brotherhood… my nightmares."

A short silence settled across the group; after her breakdown the last time her nightmares were so vivid, Gwynileth had decided to tell Lucien and Inigo a mild version of the truth. She had stated that she suffered from night terrors, and while they were not daily, they were consistent enough that they could be a significant problem. Both of her friends had accepted this answer gracefully and stated that they would always be around to help or to talk, if either of those things were desired.

Kaidan's gaze softened at her words. He reached out as if to take her hand… then thought better of it and returned it to his side. "You have my apologies. I didn't mean to—"

"It's all right," she interrupted with a slight smile. Her crimson eyes shone with gratitude. "I know that you only say these things because… you care."

He exhaled; the weight of his armor settled with a slight clink as his shoulders slumped. "That I do. More than anything else."

So it was that the conversation was ended, and they all went to sleep.

When the adventurers stepped in Riverwood the next day, no ambush was waiting for them, nor any dragons. It was peaceful in the village; the mill's saw was creaking as always, chickens were clucking within fenced-in pastures. People were waving and greeting one another with kindness—Camilla Valerius saw Gwynileth approach and immediately said a kindly hello.

Lucien chuckled to himself and took a deep breath. "Well, old chap, it seems as though all of our plans aren't needed, eh?"

"I wouldn't speak too soon," returned Kaidan, shooting the Imperial a mild glare. "It's always better to be safe than sorry when you've got so many enemies to look out for."

Lucien was obviously unconvinced, but he walked alongside Kaidan as the plan had been laid out for him nonetheless.

Seeing as it was the middle of the day, the Sleeping Giant Inn was empty save for the bartender, Orgnar, and the innkeeper, Delphine. They were bickering with one another about how the ale was going bad—but as Gwynileth stepped up to them, they halted their conversation.

"Can I help you?" grunted Orgnar.

The Dunmer turned towards Delphine. Though she looked into the innkeeper's eyes, she kept a sharp watch for any shifting in the shadows of the dark building as she said, "I'd like to rent the attic room, please."

A flicker of surprise flew across Delphine's face, but it was gone just as quickly. She pursed her lips. "The attic room, eh? Well… we don't have an attic room, but you can help yourself with the room on the left. Make yourself at home, and I'll come check on you in a moment."

Left with little else to do, Gwynileth nodded and turned towards the room in question. Once she knew Delphine's eyes were off of her, she seized the hilt of the dagger strapped to her waist and carefully opened the door—

It was just a room. A small room with a wardrobe, a bed, and a bedside table. A lone candle had been placed upon that table. There was no room for anyone to hide—and she trusted Kaidan to have scouted the inn thoroughly by that point as well.

A breath of relief escaped her lips, completely unintentional. But it couldn't be helped, for Gwynileth had been certain that a fight would break out between her own countrymen—it was strange to think that the 'friend' who had left the note might be just that… a friend.

"So you're the Dragonborn I've been hearing so much about."

She turned back to the doorway to see Delphine standing close by, one hand laxly upon her hip. There was something in her other hand…

"Here," said Delphine. She gently grasped Gwynileth's arm and deposited an ancient horn into her hands: the Horn of Jurgen Windcaller. There was a slight smirk on her face upon noting the other woman's surprise. "I guess I'm getting pretty good at my harmless innkeeper act. I'd like to talk to you, if it isn't too much trouble. And you won't need to do that," she added, loosely gesturing to where Kaidan was holding a dagger in the direction of Delphine's back. "I don't mean you any harm."

Before anyone could say anything more, Delphine was striding across the room, towards a cabinet on the opposite side of the inn. She turned and waited expectantly for them to follow.

The comforting thing about the situation was that Inigo and Lucien seemed just as surprised by the turn of events as Gwynileth herself was. Only after exchanging looks and curt nods did they mirror the innkeeper's footsteps. While Gwynileth was ready to at least hear the woman out, she couldn't help noticing that both Kaidan and Inigo kept one hand upon their weapons.

When Delphine opened a false back of her closet and began descending the set of stairs behind it, Gwynileth felt a hand upon her arm.

"Are you certain you want to do this?" muttered Kaidan's voice. His gaze was fixed resolutely upon the spot where the innkeeper had disappeared, his lips tightly pressed. "It's not too late to walk away."

Even though Gwynileth agreed the situation was strange, she took a deep breath to reply, "I think we should at least hear her out. If the worst happens, there are four of us and one of her. And she did give me this ancient horn before asking a thing… that's not something an enemy would do, either in Morrowind or anywhere else."

Kaidan scoffed lightly as Gwynileth continued onward. Under his breath, he muttered, "You're so damn trusting," before following after her as well.

The staircase led towards a small room in which plenty of survivalist supplies were waiting. Weapons including bows, swords, and great-swords hunt from racks upon the walls; an alchemy and enchanting table took up another corner of the room. Bookshelves lined with dusty tomes decorated the far side of the room. Satchels of money and other valuables were out in plain sight.

But the things that most caught Gwynileth's eye were what lay upon the table in the center of the room. The first was a map, upon which circles and x's were marked.

The second was the Dragonstone Tablet, the very same one she had given to Whiterun's wizard, Farengar.

"You have an interest in the dragons," said Gwynileth, raising an eyebrow.

Delphine smiled curtly. "Good to know you're shrewd. Yes, I do. I'm part of a group that's been looking for you—or someone like you—for a long time."

"And what do you mean by that, exactly?" asked Lucien. Though he kept his hands behind his back, a cold aura emanated from them: he had prepared an ice spell, and had taken care to stand away from his allies to avoid friendly fire. "Are you looking for a noblewoman? A mercenary? A Thane?"

Each of those suggestions caused the wry grin upon Delphine's lips to grow. At the mention of the word 'Thane,' she audibly laughed. "Hardly. I've been looking for a Dragonborn. You're the only one able to permanently kill a dragon by devouring its soul, and so I must ask… can you do it? Can you devour a dragon's soul?"

The one and only time that she had done so—if, in fact, that was what had happened—Gwynileth hadn't even realized it was happening. Those colors had swirled around her, a space within her chest had opened up as if to make room for something, an understanding had filled her mind… and then everything had faded: gone back to normal.

"The Greybeards say that I can," she elected to reply.

Delphine's lips pursed. "You either can, or you can't. Skyrim needs someone who's certain in their own abilities." She sighed; all of the irritation flickered out of her face upon gazing across the four adventurers arrayed before her. "I suppose you'll be able to prove it to me soon enough."

"What do you mean?" asked Gwynileth. Her eyes fell upon the map again; on her second inspection, she noticed something she failed to see the first. One of the circles was highlighted in red ink.

"Thanks to this Dragonstone you fetched for me, I've determined where the next dragon is going to show up. We're going to travel there together, and you're going to help me kill it."

The confidence with which the innkeeper spoke caused Gwynileth to blink and gather the expressions of her companions. As to be expected, Kaidan was less than pleased with the idea. Lucien seemed to be considering it—and Inigo, funnily enough, seemed no less than delighted by the prospect of fighting another giant enemy. He had always enjoyed a good, adrenaline-filled fight… unless, of course, said fight included the undead.

Although the reactions of her friends helped ease her mind, there was one thing that Gwynileth wanted answered first. "How can you use a stone to predict the movements of a living dragon? That doesn't make sense."

Something flashed through Delphine's icy eyes; approval. "That's a good question. Here's the part where I'm going to need you to trust what I'm talking about. Dragons aren't just coming back to Skyrim, Dragonborn. They're coming back to life."

A long pause settled throughout the room, which suddenly seemed far too cramped with all of the supplies strewn about.

That disquiet was broken by the sound of a snort—snickering, Inigo said, "That is a good joke. You are funny."

"It's not a joke. The dragons are rising from ancient burial mounds, some of which were put into the ground by my own ancestors." While Delphine's voice was clipped, there was no trace of anger within her eyes. For better or worse, she seemed to realize how improbable her words were. "I've traveled to some of them myself and found them empty. The pattern started in the southeast, down towards Riften. As the days have passed, dragons have been spotted further to the north. The next one is going to rise in Kynesgrove, at the foot of Windhelm."

The mention of Windhelm made a shiver run down Gwynileth's spine. She had not thought about that city ever since escaping it, and she didn't care to dwell on it any more than that.

Apparently noticing the distasteful look upon her face, Delphine quickly added, "We won't be visiting the Stormcloak headquarters, if that's what you're worried about. Kynesgrove is still well outside Windhelm's borders. We're just going to figure out how the dragons are coming back to life, send it back into its grave, and then travel back here."

"You make it sound easy," sighed Lucien, running a hand through his hair.

Delphine smirked at that, though her eyes were only for Gwynileth. "So what do you say? You've got the Horn of Jurgen Windcaller, you'll get experience you sorely need on fighting dragons, and I'll tell you everything about who I am and what I work for the moment I have proof that you're the Dragonborn. All you have to do is trust me for a little while longer."

Even though there was much left to be answered, it was not as though there was a better choice. On one thing Delphine was sorely correct: Gwynileth needed more experience fighting dragons. A great reason why she had chosen to stay in Skyrim was to fulfill the destiny thrust upon her—and she would not be able to do so without learning how to defeat the creatures terrorizing the countryside.

With a deep breath, Gwynileth stepped forward and stuck out a hand. "You've got yourself a deal. But all of my friends are coming with me."

"Of course," said Delphine, whose pointed face finally melted into a smile at Gwynileth's words. "You'll need good, strong friends to help you withstand the trials you've yet to face anyhow."

The cramped stuffiness of the room promptly relaxed; almost as one, everyone seemed to breathe again.

"We'll set off whenever you're ready," said Delphine with a nod. One arm loosely gestured towards the possessions strewn about the room. "Feel free to take anything you need in order to prepare yourselves."

Before any of her four guests could reply, the innkeeper stepped around them and back up the stairs. Gwynileth halfway expected a click to sound behind her, locking them inside—but the door remained open, permitting free exit and entry.

Once she was gone and they were certain that Delphine was not eavesdropping, Lucien placed a hand upon Gwynileth's arm, wonder and excitement written plainly within the few lines of his young face. "It looks as though we've found another mentor! This will be good; the more help we can get against all of these dragons, the better, I say!"

"I wouldn't be so quick to trust her, Lucien," said Kaidan, whose sharp voice cut through the still air of the room like a knife. "It's obvious she wants something out of Gwyn. She isn't offering assistance purely from the goodness of her heart…"

Lucien clucked his tongue in disappointment.

"I'm inclined to agree with both of you," Gwynileth said, gathering their attentions once more. Her eyes were fixed upon the alchemy and enchanting tables; considering the task that lay ahead, it would be a good idea to make some healing potions. "It's clear Delphine wants my help with something… but it also seems as though she wants to end the dragon menace. I have a feeling our goals might align."

Inigo coughed from the corner of the room. "Maybe, but she is spooky. She does not seem like the type to enjoy jokes."

A smile fought its way onto Gwynileth's face at the reminder of how her own silly jokes had brought Kaidan some peace of mind but a week prior. Without speaking further, she seized a few bundles of wheat and blisterwort mushrooms and proceeded to the alchemy table nearby.

The following few minutes were spent in a contemplative silence as they all inspected what else lay around the room. Inigo managed to locate a few extra ebony arrows; Kaidan found a number of throwing knives; Lucien stepped forward with the words, "Would you like me to help you enchant your weapons, Gwynileth? I used to study some rudimentary enchanting at the Arcane University, you know!"

Although Gwynileth had been determined to craft as many healing potions as possible, she had long been thinking about having her bow improved. It was with a grateful smile that she replied, "I'd love that, Lucien, thank you! Just give me a moment to let these distill first."

Within the next few moments, she had bottled up no less than a half-dozen potions and placed them within her knapsack. Seeing that Lucien was joyfully beckoning her over, Gwynileth laughed and joined him at the enchanting table.

"So the thing about enchanting is thus: it's all in the selection of the soul gem," he coached. Lucien pointed towards the three different gems before picking up the medium-sized crystal, one that was colored a light lavender. "See this one here? This is a common variety; it'll do the job, but there's still a lot of room for improvement. It looks like the biggest one is the only gem that's housing a grand soul, so let's go ahead and use this to enchant your bow, yes?"

Step by step, Lucien walked her through the process of enchanting an item. The difference in his demeanor was startling when compared with how he acted in battle; when it came to academics, his fingers smoothly maneuvered over the table, his voice unpausing in its instruction.

Yet each time he was dragged into combat, his hands shook.

"Lucien," said Gwynileth, interrupting him from a truthfully fascinating lesson about how black soul gems worked, "would you like me to train you on how to use a bow?"

The Imperial broke off from his lecture to stare at her with wide eyes. "What, me? Gwynileth, what gives you the idea that I'll be any good with a bow?"

She smiled; shrugged. "No harm in asking. It's all right if you don't want to. What were you saying about black soul gems being the type used by warlocks?"

But Lucien didn't reply immediately. His brow had furrowed, as though he were deep in thought, the faint light of the lanterns reflecting his troubled gaze.

Right when Gwynileth was about to apologize for overstepping his boundaries, he exclaimed, "You know, I've been thinking for a while… I don't want to be useless in all of our fights. I fully intend on continuing to travel with you, and with you being the Dragonborn, we're likely to encounter plenty of tough fights. Would you… consider training me in all aspects of combat, and not just the bow?"

The request was not one that she had expected. Blinking once or twice, Gwynileth stammered, "I, er—I don't know if I'm the best person to ask for general combat tips, Lucien. Maybe Kaidan would be better… he was the one who taught me, after all…"

Heavy footfalls proved that Kaidan was approaching, having heard the previous conversation. "On the contrary, Gwyn, I think it would be better for you to take the reins on this one. There's not much more I can teach you at this point. You teaching Lucien how to wield a blade or a bow will help both of you improve."

Gwynileth bit the inside of her lip as she studied Kaidan's expression. He was warm, encouraging—as ever.

With a slight smile, she turned back to Lucien and said, "All right. We'll get started once we get back and have a little free time. I apologize in advance for anything that doesn't make sense."

"I wouldn't worry about that! I look forward to it!" laughed Lucien. He gently, if not a little awkwardly, pat her arm before returning to the enchanting table.

It was only ten minutes later that Gwynileth found herself standing upon the porch of the Sleeping Giant Inn, with her three friends and Delphine at her side. As she gazed over the horizons towards the setting sun, the realization began setting in: they were on their way to fight another dragon, with no end to their carnage in sight.

"Let's go," said Delphine. Without a look over her shoulder, she set off.

Knowing that the first step was always the hardest, Gwynileth jogged after her—

As though he could sense the change in her stance, Kaidan placed a hand upon her shoulder. His mouth close to her ear, he murmured, "If it helps at all, just know that I'll be at your back. It's going to be a long road ahead, Gwyn, so anything you need, I'll do everything in my power to provide. All right?"

A smile graced her thin lips at the genuine sincerity within his eyes. She reached out, placing slight fingers atop his, interlocking them. "Thank you. That… means more than I can say. Because this will be a long journey indeed."

Delphine's silhouette was almost out of sight, but only after noticing Kaidan's following smile did Gwynileth take a deep breath and fully continue after her.

Chapter Text

By the time the five travelers reached Kynesgrove, it was clear the dragon expected at the village was already present. Citizens of the farming town were screaming, taking cover underneath stone buildings, seizing what few possessions they owned so they wouldn't be lost. There was no destruction or dragonfire—much to Gwynileth's relief—but forceful gusts of air revealed that the dragon was indeed close by.

"A dragon! A dragon up at the burial grounds!" screeched a woman, who had been sprinting down the cobblestone streets. She paused ahead of Gwynileth; her eyes scanned the Dunmer's body, taking note of the scaled armor and the bow strapped to her back. "Can you do something? Please!"

"Yes," said Gwynileth. She knew well how important it was to keep calm during an emergency. Her crimson eyes blazed upon adding, "Get yourself to safety. Leave any possessions that cannot be easily carried behind, and don't come out until we return to give you the all-clear. Understand?"

Her cool countenance seemed to bring some semblance of ease back into the frantic woman's person. The shaking of her body lessened.

"Thank you," she gasped—then she scurried off to obey the instruction given.

Once she was gone, Delphine chuckled and stepped forward. "Good to know you have a way with the people you'll be protecting. Come on. That dragon is sure to be swirling up at the peak of the hillside, where all the graves are located."

It was near dawn; they had traveled throughout the night to reach Kynesgrove on time, battling packs of wolves and emboldened bandits along the way. Despite the speed and the time of their travel, however, Gwynileth was not tired. Adrenaline and determination in equal measure were flowing through her veins, because she knew without being explicitly told that this would be her first real test: to see if she was Dragonborn, capable of defending an entire populace from myth and legend.

Sure enough, at the top of the hill sat a number of faded gravestones. Their names were unreadable, signaling that no one in Kynesgrove had recently perished—were it any normal day, the graveyard might've actually been a good place to spend a warm afternoon.

The great black dragon hovering in midair, however, banished such thoughts from Gwynileth's mind.

"Get down!" hissed Delphine, whose deceptively strong hands seized Gwynileth and Lucien by their collars to pull them into the bushes.

Gwynileth swallowed hard, ignoring the thistles that stuck like pricks within her skin. She was far too startled by the sight ahead of her. "I've seen that dragon before. That's the dragon that destroyed Helgen."

Delphine accosted her with icy eyes. "You're certain?"

It was certainly the same dragon; Gwynileth would not forget those eyes anywhere, the eyes of molten lava and endless flame. "Yes."

"Hmm," muttered the woman, whose stern countenance made way for thought. "Why would the dragon fly all the way here to—"

She was promptly cut off from her words by the sudden, boisterous Shout above them. The sound rattled the world, caused Gwynileth's teeth to ache; trees bent backwards with the force of the gesture, the saplings of which were uprooted entirely, tumbling through the air.

"Sahlokoniir," grumbled the black dragon. "Rise. The time for rebirth is nigh."

Next to her, Inigo scoffed lightly and said, "I wish we could know what it is they are saying."

Gwynileth wasn't even given the opportunity to inform him before a well and wash of color burst up from the dragon's burial mound. Such lights swirled and danced around like a rainbow without form; and then the great dragon, the one responsible for Helgen's desecration, turned towards her.

"You cannot even speak our tongue, can you?" asked the dragon. Its molten eyes met hers—Gwynileth stood up straight, for she refused to cower in the bushes against a monster who had already ravaged so many lives. "Such arrogance… to take for yourself the name of Dovah."

The earth began to shake. Bursting up from the ground was the skeleton of the buried dragon, finally freed from its shackles. Yet even as she watched, the colors surrounding it began painting scales back upon its body: talons, teeth… even eyes.

"Sahlokoniir. Defeat these weaklings and join me in welcoming the remainder of our brothers and sisters again."

With that, the black dragon began flying away… leaving its rebirthed kinsman glaring at them with beady green eyes and a duty to adhere to. A low, rumbling sound emerged from its throat.

Gwynileth breathed deeply, her fingers lightly trailing the string of her bow. Without looking over her shoulder, she said, "Be ready."

The skin of the dragon's throat glowed orange—

She gasped and rolled out of the way as a column of flame emerged from the dragon Sahlokoniir's mouth, headed directly for her. The heat upon her back was intense, almost as intense as the day Helgen had burned. Twigs and dry brushes began to catch flame, though they were quickly doused by Lucien's ice magic.

"Gwyn!" shouted Kaidan. His nodachi was well in hand; with anger his company, he charged forward, to the dragon that still had not fully reformed its wings.

"It is stuck on the ground!" Inigo laughed in delight. He put away his bow in favor of his ebony sword. "I will make sure there are still holes in its wings!"

Gwynileth returned to her feet, gasping due to the sheer heat that remained around her person. Somehow, miraculously, she had been spared from sustaining injury—but the remnants of its flames caused her lungs to burn, causing her to choke and cough as she struggled to aim her bow.

She grit her teeth, forced herself not to cough. If you are Dovahkiin, inhale the flames as a dragon.

One arrow was loosened, aimed towards the soft underbelly.

The dragon roared; although it had been fixated upon Kaidan and Inigo, their weapons had dealt minor damage against the hardness of its scales. Apparently more concerned with the threat to its vulnerable points, the dragon whirled around, locating Gwynileth within its stare once more.

"Wuld!"

She raced forward at a speed unknown to her before, underneath the dragon's legs, on the other side of its body. The exclamation left Gwynileth's mouth before she could even think about it, but sheer instinct saved her life—its spiked tail swept across the place she had previously been standing, unearthing rock and stone with the sheer force of the gesture.

"Come here, you ginormous pincushion!" bellowed Inigo. His ears lay flat upon the back of his head, yellow eyes like slits as he brandished his blade. With a great swipe, he dislodged one of its scales from its body.

If his plan had been to distract the dragon from the Dragonborn, it worked. But Sahlokoniir had been incensed as it was, and the dislodgment of one of its scales didn't improve its mood. Its throat burned orange again.

Lucien appeared from the back line of the fight, his palms extended towards the dragon. A shield of thin blue emerged ahead of himself and Inigo, yet the dragonfire was repelled, and unlike the fight with the dragon on Whiterun's slopes, Lucien's shield remained strong as the flames bore down upon him.

With the dragon's attention divided, Kaidan and Delphine took point position again. They tore at it with their swords from the sides in an unrelenting assault. Blood began dripping down the dragon's legs, staining its claws—

Gwynileth raised her bow once more. The dragon had lost her in the midst of the commotion, providing her ample opportunity to aim for softer spots underneath its scales, towards its eyes. Her arrows soon decorated its skin like pine needles… but as she reached back for her quiver once more, she realized it was empty.

A curse fizzled out in her throat as she strapped her bow to her back and retrieved her steel blade. It didn't seem as though the battle would last much longer; there were burned patches upon Lucien's robes and blood dripped down Kaidan's forehead, but the dragon was faring far worse with slashes across its body and one toe almost perfectly separated from its foot. It didn't seem to have the magicka to continue utilizing its fire breath, either.

Even as she thought as much, the dragon attempted to take to the skies on battered wings. Its blazing eyes were fixed on Kynesgrove.

Gwynileth gasped. "Kaidan!"

He whirled around and met her eyes. A stream of crimson trailed past the orange tattoo marking upon the side of his face.

"We're not letting it get away!" she shouted. She began sprinting towards him as swiftly as possible, though the air slammed against her own body as its wings beat through the air. "Boost me up!"

Much to her surprise, Kaidan didn't protest. He simply nodded and fell to one knee in the ground as she continued forward, sword still tight within her grasp.

She smiled, unable to help it—she leapt onto Kaidan's back and, with all her remaining strength, jumped into the air.

The dragon was struggling to rise due to the arrows that had pierced its wings, and that was perhaps the only saving grace that Gwynileth had in reaching the underbelly with her sword. Yet still it reached; with a determined scream and all the muscles in her arms, she slashed her sword at its stomach.

A tremendous wail shook the world once again, a shower of blood and clumped organs falling towards the dirt. Some of it lodged within Gwynileth's hair, her armor—she hit the ground with a groan and looked up only to see the body of the dragon descending after her.

Gwynileth gasped and scrambled backwards on her hands and knees, but she was too slow, far too slow—

Weightless. Someone scooped her up from the ground and was carrying her out of range of the falling carcass.

The dragon's body slammed into the dirt, sending shards of clay and rock scattering in all directions. Gwynileth yelped as she and her rescuer stumbled, fell upon the ground. A cloud of dust polluted the air, preventing her from seeing anything past a meter in front of her face.

Her breathing was ragged. It was Kaidan who had spared her from being crushed, who was lying in the dirt next to her. His eyes were closed—lying next to his head was a relatively big stone, the top of which was covered in speckles of blood. A pool of red was beginning to form underneath his body… his armor had been split in half along the back, one of the dragon's claws torn from its foot and embedded within the steel.

Horror infested every aspect of Gwynileth's being. "Kaidan!" She scrambled above him, placing her fingers against his neck to desperately search for a pulse.

A low groan soared past his lips. "I'm all right… please don't yell…"

"You aren't all right. You—you're bleeding everywhere!" she insisted. Her heart was suddenly beating faster than it had throughout the entire fight she'd withstood against the dragon. She rummaged within her knapsack for the healing potions she had crafted; three of the bottles had shattered during the fight, sending shards of glass and viscous, red liquid across her belongings.

She seized the remaining healing potions and gently placed two of them upon the ground next to her. The last she uncorked and tipped into Kaidan's mouth.

He swallowed it without issue, though he didn't open his eyes.

Gwynileth moaned softly and repeated the process with the other two potions, cursing aloud at herself for not being a more skilled alchemist, because she could only manage paltry potions even in the best of times, nothing for a series of wounds such as these. When the potions were gone, she extended her hands and carefully placed them upon his chest and his face, fitfully concentrating upon the only healing spell she possessed.

Swirls of light and color surrounded her body—for the first time, she realized the clouds of dust had settled. The skeletal body of the dragon lay almost directly next to her, providing her with the knowledge of another olden soul.

"By the gods," whispered Delphine's voice. She crept forward with reverent trepidation. "You really are…"

But Gwynileth didn't have ears for the innkeeper. She continued studying her healing spells, vying to ignore the tears welling up in her eyes. The amulet hanging around her neck glowed at the Restoration magic, providing her with extra magicka; yet still she tired.

"Kaidan…" her voice trembled. She had sealed the few wounds upon his neck and face and had managed to at least help lessen the bleeding of the great gash upon his back, but she had no idea how helpful her interventions actually were. For all she knew, she was about to lose her closest friend, the way she hoped never to do again after Anya. "Kaidan… please… say something."

Kaidan's eyes flickered open. He smiled upon noting the wetness within the corners of her eyes and reached upwards, his fingers gently wiping away one of the tearstreaks upon her face. "You know these dragons aren't enough to kill me, Gwyn."

There was a brief moment of silence.

And then Gwynileth choked and threw her arms around his neck, silent sobs wracking her shoulders. Relief drenched over her with the same feeling as a hot bath after a winter's day. "Azura's breath, don't you ever scare me like that again!I can't lose you!"

She hid her face within the crook of his neck and melted into him as his arms wrapped around her as well. Gwynileth knew that she was likely being dramatic—perhaps even pathetic—but she couldn't bring herself to care upon feeling his fingers lightly trailing through her ebony hair. It was a soothing gesture that she long missed; one that only Anya had ever performed before.

"I'm not going anywhere," he promised lowly. "I'm all right. I swear to you."

With this final statement, Gwynileth finally withdrew from his arms. She knew her face was flushed silver with both relief and embarrassment… yet still she leaned forward and placed a soft kiss upon Kaidan's temple.

The look she was met with afterward was one of the softest she had ever seen.

"Well done."

Delphine stepped forward, a smile upon her face that made her appear ten years younger. Reverence and respect alike shone within her icy eyes. "It seems I owe you some answers… as well as an apology. I'm sorry for mistrusting you in the beginning, as well as for dragging you into such danger."

Gwynileth cleared her throat. Whether she was ready or not, it was time to return to the business of being the Dragonborn. "There's nothing to apologize for. You gave me the Horn of Jurgen Windcaller and asked for my help, which I was happy to give. But I do wish to know who you are, and what your interest in me is."

For the following quarter-hour, the five dragon-killers talked. Delphine explained that she was a member of the Blades: an old organization dedicated to wiping out the dragons. The Blades were in turn hunted down by the Thalmor for their part in the Great War… and they continued to be hunted by the Altmer, which was the reason behind Delphine's skepticism.

"I'm trying to find out who's bringing the dragons back to life," said Delphine with narrowed eyes. She glanced north, in the direction of Windhelm. "One suspicion is that it was done by the Stormcloaks… the first one was seen at the sight of Ulfric Stormcloak's execution, after all. But due to the chaos, he escaped—and the civil war continued on to ravage the countryside."

"You don't seem convinced of that theory," Lucien remarked.

"I'm not. I think there's a far likelier explanation in the Thalmor. Think on it: if Ulfric escaped the Empire, the war continues. War is only good for Skyrim's enemies… and the Thalmor have been eyeing this country for a long time." Delphine shifted her weight, her arms crossed against her chest. "I think there's proof somewhere in their embassy that they're behind all this, but… I'll need time to think on how to obtain it."

Gwynileth glanced among her companions. For once, all of them seemed to be of a like mind: they agreed that the resurgence of the dragons was too coincidentally timed to be accident.

"Will you return to Riverwood, then?" asked Gwynileth.

She was met with a nod. "Yes. I'll be setting off now, but you don't have to travel with me. Get some rest and continue healing your injuries. By the time you come back to Riverwood, I'll have something planned."

Figuring there was little else to do except check on the village and tend to themselves, Gwynileth agreed. It was just as well—the commotion of the fight had kept the citizens inside their hiding places, but now that things were quiet once more, people had begun tiptoeing up the hill. Whispers were beginning to spread: that a dragon's skeleton was upon the graveyard, the adventurers who killed it wounded.

"Take care traveling, Delphine," said Gwynileth. She glanced around with muted amusement at the villagers, all of whom were beginning to clap and whistle with relief and appreciation. "Something tells me the roads will be even more dangerous than before."

Delphine chuckled. "Worried about me? Don't be. I can take care of myself."

With that, the woman was traipsing down the hill, leaving Gwynileth, Inigo, Lucien, and Kaidan behind.

The moment that she was gone, Inigo sighed. "Why is it that each time we have fought a dragon, one of us ends up close to dead?" His whiskers twitched. "Let us not make a habit out of it. I would hate for our adventures to come to an end if we were to die."

Before any of them could reply, the same woman whom Gwynileth had soothed shuffled towards them. With stars in her eyes, she said, "You… you really did it. You killed it!"

"Not without obtaining wounds," replied Gwynileth. She glanced back down to Kaidan, whose face had regained color, yet who was still suffering based on the way he grimaced. "Do you have an alchemist, or a priestess? Anyone with ability in advanced healing arts?"

The woman shook her head. "I'm sorry, but… we're just a small mining and farming village. We don't have any specialists here, but we do have a carriage that can take you to Windhelm. You can also have your armor mended there." This last she said with a nod in Kaidan's direction, due to him removing the sheared breastplate still with the dragon's claw in it.

Even though Windhelm was the last place Gwynileth wanted to be, she would not turn away an opportunity for her or her friends to regather their bearings. Smiling sweetly, she replied, "If you don't mind, that would be most helpful."

The citizens who heard her words scrambled to prepare the aforementioned carriage—but before Gwynileth herself could follow them, the woman cried out, "Miss, wait a moment! If the dragon truly is dead, then… then you must be Dragonborn, yes? May we please have your name, so that we know who to properly thank for saving our homes?"

Gwynileth paused, realizing that she had two courses of action. She could not forget the fact that assassins had been hunting her, hired by parties unknown; distributing her name would be sure to aid them in narrowing down her location.

On the other hand, the people of Skyrim were desperate. They were clinging to any sort of hope in the midst of not only dragons, but a civil war. The roads were littered with bandits and worse, making travel just as dangerous as simply living in their houses. If she could provide some semblance of hope… then it was part of her duty as the Dragonborn to provide it.

She glanced across her three friends. Inigo and Lucien were talking amongst themselves, laughing at the soot and ash that covered their hair and faces. Kaidan sat nearby, cleaning the dirt off of his damaged armor—but upon sensing her gaze, he looked up and met her eyes.

A tiny smile filled his lips, one that said much more than she had expected.

"My name is Gwynileth Nerussa," she said, turning back around to the woman ahead of her, the woman who stared at her with a growing smile and sparks in her eyes. "I am Heiress of House Nerussa from Morrowind, Thane to the city of Whiterun, and the Dragonborn. And I will help you however I can."

The confidence with which she spoke startled her. Only a few months ago, she had been unable to bear speaking above a whisper due to how badly betrayal sunk into her chest.

She would've never imagined that in only four short months, Gwynileth would stand so tall again.

"Thank you," whispered the woman. She bowed low before her, adoration plain within her face. "Thank you, Lady Nerussa."

"Please… Gwynileth is fine."

A light laugh, a grand smile—and then the young woman was turning away, to assist the rest of her neighbors in preparing a carriage, some food, and some healing herbs for the four adventurers still within their village.

Gwynileth exhaled and turned around. Her gaze once again fastened upon Kaidan, the way it did so often as of late. She was unsurprised to see him smiling again and thus asked, "What is it?"

"Just you," he answered. "You're incredible."

And the inflection with which he spoke, with warm fondness and respect, proved that he was genuine.

She smiled at him again and reached out to help him to his feet. It was a welcome sign, to see how much stronger she was growing physically as well as emotionally. "Part of it stemmed from you… from all you did to help me when first we met."

Gwynileth steadied him as Kaidan stumbled ever so slightly, a low hiss escaping through his teeth at the early-spring air chilling his back. She met him with a soft smile and added, "Let's get to the carriage. Just like you did for me, I'm going to try and look after you for a bit."

"It's just a few scratches, Gwyn," he chuckled. "I don't need any fretting over."

She raised an eyebrow. "Is it so bad for me to care about you, Kaidan?"

He paused; blinked. Then he looked at her again, at the fortitude upon her face, the concern within her furrowed brow, the slight downturn to her lips. "No, I suppose it isn't."

With that settled, they continued down the hillside, Lucien and Inigo already singing songs behind them again as they went.

Chapter Text

Windhelm was just as horrible as Gwynileth had feared it would be.

The very moment they stepped into the borders of the city, the four adventurers were struck with a despicably open and casual bout of racism from three Nords against a Dunmer woman. Gwynileth instantly recognized the woman as Suvaris Athon, the same person who had welcomed her to Windhelm when first she had arrived—and so she was quick to step to Suvaris's defense, as were the rest of her friends.

"Leave her alone," Gwynileth seethed, stepping in front of Suvaris. "You should stop harassing her and preoccupy yourself with getting warm in the midst of this godforsaken snowfall."

For snowing it was, coating everything in thin blankets of white even though it was nearing the end of the year's third month: another reason to hate Windhelm.

"I ain't doing nothing at the behest of a filthy grey-skin like you," the man snarled. He reached out as if to push Gwynileth aside—and was promptly stopped by Kaidan seizing his wrist so hard it caused the man to yelp.

His voice as cold as the ice surrounding them on all sides, Kaidan said, "I suggest you follow the lady's advice. Get out of here."

"Whadda you know about what's goin' on?" asked the Nord. His words were slurred and there was an empty mug within his hands: drunk. "Nothin'! You're just another visitor in this town—and you can't even get high and mighty with me when you're traveling with her."

He pointed towards Gwynileth with one shaking finger.

Kaidan's jaw clenched. He took a single step forward. "If you have a problem with Gwyn, then you have a problem with me."

The man snorted. "Listen, buddy, if you want sully yourself by fucking a Dunmer whore, that's your busi—"

A sharp crack.

Within two milliseconds flat, the man crumpled to the snowy steps. He was cushioned by the pillows of snow and thus sustained no injury other than his newly broken nose—Kaidan stood above him, angrier than Gwynileth had ever seen. His knuckles weren't even red from punching the drunkard out cold.

Lucien whistled through his teeth, fixated on the man's crumpled form. "Nice one, Kaidan."

"Thank you," Kaidan replied humbly.

"Hey!" Up trotted two of the city guard, their eyes visibly narrowed through their helms. One of them pointed towards Kaidan and exclaimed, "We're going to have to arrest you for that misdemeanor, sir."

Kaidan just snorted and tossed two bags of septims in their direction. "No you don't." Then he placed a hand upon Gwynileth's back and gently escorted her inside the Candlehearth Inn, the place they'd attempted to get to before the chaos.

The following two days were longer than an age, in Gwynileth's opinion. While there were plenty of decent folk within Windhelm, it was unfortunately obvious that the most obnoxious ones were the racist assholes who seemed to glare at her and Inigo at every turn. Seeing as Lucien and Kaidan were clearly human men, they weren't subjected to the same sneers or underhanded remarks—but they were very good at shutting such prejudices down quickly, which was greatly appreciated.

The only consolation that Gwynileth had was how her friends seemed to hate Windhelm as much as she did. More than once per evening, Lucien sighed by the fireplace and muttered, "I hate it here. When can we leave?"

"I wish we could leave now, but we're still waiting on the improvements to my bow and for Kaidan's armor to be fixed," Gwynileth whispered in return. Her eyes skittered across the attendees to the inn; it was mostly empty at such a late hour of night, save for the bard and a traveling author. "It's estimated to be another two days before they're ready, and the roads are too dangerous to travel unarmed or unprotected…"

Lucien sighed again. Despite clearly wanting to complain further, he remained quiet.

In order to spend as much time away from the salty men of Windhelm as possible, Gwynileth elected to take a walk early the following day. Kaidan quickly volunteered to accompany her, as he made it quite clear that he didn't want the Dragonborn to be venturing about without someone else to protect her.

"I think I can handle myself now, Kaidan," said Gwynileth, when he made such a declaration. In truth, she wasn't annoyed by his reasoning in the slightest.

Kaidan seemed to note as much. It was with a small smile that he replied, "Well, if you won't accept that excuse, then I'll just go right ahead and say I enjoy your company."

There was nothing that Gwynileth could think to say to that, and so she simply smiled and waved him onward, trying not to look too pleased.

Despite the days beginning to bleed into spring rather than winter, snow still fell delicately from the clouds. Although she had never been fond of the coldest season of the year, Gwynileth couldn't help but smile as the snowflakes patched within her and Kaidan's hair.

It was a relief to be out of the suffocating city. A couple of humble farms lay directly to the east of Windhelm, one of which was run by fellow Dunmer: an encouraging sight in the midst of an otherwise unfriendly province. She found herself waving to the farm workers as they passed by—instead of simply waving in return, however, the young workers gasped and hissed among themselves for a moment. Right when Gwynileth was about to pass beyond the farm's fences, one of them joyfully cried, "Thank you for saving Kynesgrove! My sister lives there—you saved her life!"

She blinked and faced the two Dunmer with surprise. There was adoration plain within their eyes; something she had never before expected to see.

"I'm always happy to help where I can," said Gwynileth, knowing how important it was to keep up appearances. Her heart, however, was beating fiercely within her chest at how easily she was recognized.

They passed onward. Gwynileth could feel their eyes upon her back until they were too far out of sight… and then she felt someone else's eyes upon her. She turned to look at Kaidan almost accusingly and was unsurprised to note his smile, his warm expression. Trying not to sound too haughty, she asked, "Do I amuse you?"

"You impress me," he replied easily, as though he were remarking that the sky was blue, or that two moons hung in the sky at night. "It's like you've become a completely different person. It's hard to believe how much stronger you've grown since first we met five weeks ago, Gwyn."

His final words caused her to stop short, startled by the reminder of how short a time it had been since she had run away from home to Skyrim. So much had happened it seemed like a full lifetime ago, and yet…

"Five weeks?" she finally repeated.

Kaidan nodded. "Aye. And in those five weeks, you've become not only capable of defending yourself, but capable of defending others. You're the bloody Dragonborn. People revere you like they would a god."

The smile upon his lips was warm, sincere—it caused something to reach into her chest and twist her very heart. The feeling had become a common occurrence when laying eyes upon him as of late; when she thought back to it, Gwynileth couldn't quite pinpoint the moment it had begun.

All she knew was that she cared about him deeply… and it frightened her.

Back in Morrowind, Gwynileth had been careful never to succumb to love or affection. When she was fifteen, there had been a serving boy whom she smiled at as he tended to the Nerussa Estate's gardens. He had returned her kindness with loyalty of his own… but when she realized that her feelings for him were deepening, she had kept a careful distance.

As the Heiress to the Nerussa Estate, it wouldn't be proper to be with him.

At twenty years of age, Gwynileth found herself harboring affections for her private tutor, an educated young man named Daniro born to parents of only minor importance. Still, his family had been relatively well-off, and so she mentioned the prospect of marrying into his family to her parents.

Their reactions had been heinous. Immediately had they dissolved Daniro of his duties and hired a different tutor to take over her lessons.

"Marrying into a house of minor nobility is unacceptable," Nihali Nerussa had hissed, her face incredibly silver. "Don't ever ask to marry into a family lesser than that of a Great House, Gwynileth."

And five years later, when at last she had strengthened her friendship with Jenithar, the member of Great House Hlaalu that her parents finally approved of, he had raped her.

Gwynileth had been perfectly content to lock away her budding affections for anyone after that. Yet despite those circumstances and all the effort she put into staving off her own romantic notions, there she stood, with a fluttering heart and a silver face ahead of her closest friend.

"What do you think of my being the Dragonborn?" asked Gwynileth. She turned away from Kaidan, hoping he hadn't noticed the stricken shine within her eyes, and turned back towards the cobblestone pathways that lead towards the borders of the country.

Kaidan chuckled and met her stride, taking his place back by her side. "To be honest, at first… I was concerned. Being the Dragonborn is hardly an easy burden to carry." He hummed to himself, amber eyes fixated on the sun rising above their heads. "But I'm not worried anymore. You learn quickly, you're inspiring, and you're kindhearted enough to earn the love of the people. I know I can count on you to at least try to do what's right."

Such a ready defense of her character caused the flush on Gwynileth's face to grow worse. She was more than ready to address it by claiming it was because she was cold—but instead of tease her for her darkening face, Kaidan reached out and took one of her hands, sliding his fingers within her own.

Even though she was incredibly happy with such action, there was still one thing on her mind. "I hope you don't see me as anything more than myself. I… don't want to be the Dragonborn to you."

His hands were warm within her own. Squeezing it slightly, he opened his mouth—

"Kaidan. Traitor."

Emerging ahead of them was a purple portal, one swirling with demonic energy. From its depths emerged a devil-spawn the likes of which Gwynileth had never before seen; a monster with red and black mottled skin and a goat's horns. She clenched her jaw and seized the sword at her belt, withdrawing it with a sharp shink!

Kaidan did not do the same. He simply stared at the demon—the dremora, the creature from the plane of Oblivion—looking as though he'd been hit by an entire carriage.

The dremora's sword was pointed towards him before Gwynileth could even blink. Its blade was wickedly sharp, covered in spikes and unnecessary tools for pain should the weapon find its mark. It was a blade that held no equal within Mundus, and it swirled with magic that she could not name.

"Lord Dagon demands reparation," it hissed, its voice like a thousand knives sharpened all at once. "He will claim your soul and feast on the blood of the Dragonborn."

Its final utterings finally caused Kaidan to snap out of his trance. His nodachi was well in hand within a moment, and he had taken a defensive stance. "Enough! Tell me who sent you!"

He was not answered. The dremora lunged forward—its blade was blocked by Kaidan's own, keeping both weapons in suspense.

Capitalizing on the situation, Gwynileth darted forth, her crimson eyes swiftly scanning for a chink in the hellspawn's armor: it was weak at the neck and under the arm. The tip of her blade was escorted directly underneath its armpit from the side and was buried deep into its body.

An animalistic roar left the dreamora's mouth; it had pointed teeth. It whirled around so fast that Gwynileth gasped and nearly lost her grip upon the hilt—the moment he held control over his weapon again, Kaidan directed his blade towards the dremora's neck.

Its head was separated from its shoulders with ease. A spurt of blood showered up from the severed neck; a sickening thlop disturbed the air as the head bled red upon the snow.

"Run!" yelled Kaidan. He seized Gwynileth's arm with insistence and began dragging her away from the body.

BOOM.

The dremora's body exploded, sending shockwaves of flame in a great space of open air, melting the snow that still lay upon the earth. Some of the heat caressed Gwynileth's back, singed the ends of her hair—Kaidan kept moving them forward, further away from the fire.

Only once the searing lights of red and orange ceased glowing did they stop and assess the carnage. The grass surrounding the area they had just been standing was scorched black. No sign remained of its corpse save for a pile of ash and soot, which meant there would be no clues leading towards who had sent the dremora from Oblivion in the first place.

Gwynileth took a hesitant step forward, her fingers still clasped around the hilt of her sword.

"Gwyn." Kaidan's voice was strangled as he reached one fruitless hand in her direction. "Don't."

She stopped. Curiosity burned within the back of her throat as surely as the heated air had seconds ago. "Kaidan… what's going on? That dremora… it knew your name."

Silence filled the air for a long moment. Gwynileth scanned his face, which was unbearably unreadable, the way it had been when first they'd met—

Then he collapsed to his knees in the snow.

"Kaidan!" she gasped, falling to the road beside him. Her hands found his face, gently lifted his chin so he might look at her—but his eyes were closed, as if to prevent her from doing that very thing. "Kaidan, please talk to me. This seems really important, and… I'll be worried for you if I don't know what's happening."

A bitter laugh emerged from his mouth. "You'd be worried about me? You heard that bastard creature. It's after you, too."

"I'm not afraid," Gwynileth said immediately, and she meant it.

"You should be." Kaidan's voice was low, his eyes fallen to the stone roads underneath his knees. "Did you hear who it served, Gwyn?"

She frowned, attempting to recollect the dremora's words. Its voice had been so jarring, some of its threats had been unintelligible to her ears—but then she blinked. "Lord Dagon." Her thoughts whirled back to the Shrine of Mehrunes Dagon that she and her friends had visited a little over a week prior… and how uneasy Kaidan had been that entire day. "Mehrunes Dagon?"

Kaidan didn't answer. The defeat surrounding his person said everything he needed to.

The pieces of the puzzle slowly began to click into place. The altar at the shrine had been new, compared to the old ruins of the temple itself. "You… used to worship the Daedric Lord of Change and Destruction?"

At long last, his gaze flickered back up to meet hers. He reached out as if to brush a strand of ebony hair behind her shoulder before faltering and lowering the hand back down to his side. "You're as smart as I feared you'd be. Aye, Gwyn. I… fell into a cult that followed his doctrine for a time. It's not a part of my life I like to talk about much."

Noticing how uncomfortable he seemed, Gwynileth rose to her feet and extended her hand. "Would you like to talk about this some other time?"

"No. I shouldn't have been keeping secrets from you. You need to know." Kaidan took a deep breath and met her eyes once more. "Before I say anything, I need you to know I'm a different person now. Or… I'm trying to be."

"I believe you," she said softly. Her hand remained extended—and at long last, Kaidan took it. Unlike the minutes prior to the dremora's appearance, however, he did not keep hold of her once he was back upon his feet. "So tell me what you feel like I should know."

They walked on, through the sunlight and the ice flurries alike. And throughout those following minutes, Kaidan slowly spoke about the cult that he had joined: the Blooded Dawn. Their beliefs revolved around the necessary evil of destruction and change—eliminating the weak to make room for the strong, to usher in the world as it was supposed to be.

He scoffed upon repeating the mantra, a look of disgust deeply engrained within his face. "The truth of the matter was that they—we—were just violent people looking to justify our actions. And then… there was one night where I just couldn't justify it anymore."

The darkness that had crept into his tone was telling in itself, but still Gwynileth asked, "What happened?"

They came upon an abandoned watchtower far to the east of Windhelm. The Velothi Mountains were looming incredibly close; it startled Gwynileth to realize how close she was to her ancestral home. Yet she wasn't as unnerved by its presence as much as she had feared she would be… because she wasn't alone.

Kaidan waved her towards the abandoned watchtower, underneath which were a few dry spots in the grass for them to sit. As he took a place shielded from the snow by the cool stone, he withdrew something wrapped in cooking paper and gently extended it in her direction.

When Gwynileth carefully peeled back the wrapping, she was delighted to see a delicate puff-pastry covered in butter and jam waiting for her. Her crimson eyes wide, she whirled to Kaidan and cried, "How did you get this?"

"Made a special order from Susanna at Candlehearth Hall," said Kaidan with a light smile. "I remember you saying you were craving some a few nights ago." A semblance of his usual spark returned to his eyes upon seeing how happy she was… just as soon as it had arrived, however, it disappeared. "I was hoping to give this to you under better circumstances, but this'll have to do."

He fell quiet, glaring at his own hands.

Gwynileth just smiled. "It means a lot, Kaidan… no matter our topic of conversation."

Even though he said nothing, there was a shift in the air around him: relief.

Peaceful moments passed during which they each consumed a small midday meal. The snow outside made the day much brighter than what Gwynileth was used to, reflecting the garish lights of the sun. It was growing warmer with each day that passed, at least… perhaps before long, the snow would finally stop falling.

"You asked what happened," Kaidan blurted out. He sighed and turned away, hiding his face so all Gwynileth could see was the reddish tattoo upon his skin. "It was supposed to be a simple supply raid on a farm, but everyone got out of control. The family who lived there… the things that were done to them… I wish I could forget, but perhaps I don't deserve to."

Ghosts haunted his face, dancing like shadows atop his shoulders. Gwynileth reached out and took his hand again, a gesture she was growing more comfortable with—almost unconsciously did he tighten his grasp around her fingers.

"Night after night, I couldn't get their screams out of my head," he continued, looking far ahead to something that was not there. "Eventually, all I could think was that I needed to destroy the entire cult."

"And that's how you got away?" asked Gwynileth, her voice soft.

Kaidan grimaced. "Sort of. It didn't go exactly as planned. I, er… I had a woman at the time. That complicated things." He glanced sideways at Gwynileth as if to gauge her reaction before resuming. "Her name was Rosalind—she was the clan's priestess, very talented in Conjuration magic. I didn't want her to die with everyone else, so I told her my plan thinking she'd side with me. It was the stupidest thing I could've done."

Instead of speaking, Gwynileth waited, careful not to display her thoughts upon her expression. It prompted her to resurface a few tricks she'd learned in the Morrowind courts, because loath as she was to admit it, a surge of unreasonable jealousy had swirled within her stomach at the mention of Kaidan's previous lover.

"Rosalind promised to make me stronger with her magic, but instead of helping me, she turned it against me," Kaidan continued. His face twisted. "When someone you think you love tries to burn you alive in the fires of Oblivion, it changes the way you see them. The cult's hideout was destroyed in the fight. I don't know if anyone survived it."

It was clear that was the most that he wished to rekindle the memories of that night. He exhaled, leaned against the stone wall, and glanced sideways at her. "If it isn't too much to ask, Gwyn… I'd like to know what you're thinking… when you collect your thoughts."

Gwynileth nodded, grateful for that final addition. There were plenty of questions still swirling around in her head: how he got involved with them in the first place, what exactly had been done to the farm's family, whether he missed Rosalind at all.

But what she asked first was, "Is that why you dislike magic, then?"

Kaidan blinked, as though surprised by the revelation. "You know, I never thought about it much. But… yeah, I think that might be the reason behind a few prejudices. That's not to say I dislike your healing spells, though. In fact… they give me a different picture of magic. A better one."

He smiled thinly at her with that, a gesture she returned. Gwynileth returned to shuffling her thoughts within her head, attempting to figure out what it was she wished to say.

But there was one detail of his story that bothered her still.

"You said Rosalind was talented in Conjuration magic," she mused. The sunlight peered through some of the cracks in the watchtower's foundation, pouring onto Kaidan's face, highlighting how troubled he truly was. "Do you think she might've been the one to send the dremora after you?"

Enlightenment dawned with Kaidan's face, followed by the rage of a swift thunderstorm. "If she survived that night, I wouldn't put it past her. And if I still know anything about her… she won't give up until both you and I are dead. I won't let that happen."

He seized the hilt of his nodachi, as though further threats lurked outside the confines of the desecrated tower.

"Do you intend to find her? To go after her?" Gwynileth said quietly.

Kaidan seemed to note the uncertainty she spoke with. He nodded resolutely. "I do. That devilkin threatened you directly. I won't stand for it."

"I figured you would say as much," she sighed. She rose to her feet and stretched her legs—the sun was starting to lower slightly to the west, signaling the onset of the afternoon. "You aren't going alone, Kaidan. I'm going with you—and I'm sure Lucien and Inigo will be angry with you if we were to leave them behind."

"No!" Kaidan's exclamation seemed louder than he had intended; one of his hands launched towards her own, grasping at her arm. "I'll face this alone, Gwyn. I won't let Dagon get his hands on you."

Gwynileth eyed him evenly. "And I'm not letting you run headfirst into a trap, either. Like it or not, Kaidan: we're doing this together."

He glared at her as if that alone would be enough to stop her made-up mind… and upon seeing that not a single change overcame her stance, he sighed and muttered, "I should know better by now than to argue with you about these things. I just don't want you getting hurt for my sake."

She smiled wryly, charmed by his concern. "Do you understand how I felt when those assassins were coming after me now?"

An unintelligible noise exited Kaidan's mouth with that last, though a semblance of amusement finally returned to his bearing. "I suppose I deserve that, for all the fight I gave you back then…"

With a hopeful air of normalcy surrounding their persons, they began to walk from underneath the watchtower, back into the rays of the sun—

"Gwyn," said Kaidan. He reached out, grabbed her by the shoulders, focused his eyes upon hers. "Thank you for hearing me out. I was worried my past would turn you away, but you're still here. There's more I need to tell you at some point, but for now…"

He leaned forward and gently kissed her forehead, a soft gesture that Gwynileth could hardly believe that he had made.

"Let's get back to Riverwood and see if Delphine has come up with anything for the Thalmor first," murmured Kaidan. The corners of his mouth quirked upwards upon noting the deep grey that invaded Gwynileth's face. As if he wished to make matters worse, he pressed his lips to her forehead a second time. "But if you're truly serious about coming with me to put this to rest… I'll let you know when. Thank you."

Instead of trying to stumble over her words, Gwynileth smiled and reached out to brush her fingers against his face. And with that silent promise in place, they turned back in the direction of Windhelm, the sun slightly warmer upon their backs.

Chapter Text

To the delight of all four adventurers, they were out of Windhelm before the month of First Seed was up. The blacksmith had completed Kaidan's armor repairs and his apprentice had finessed Gwynileth's bow, which meant there was nothing keeping them from seizing the next carriage towards Whiterun.

Even within the following couple of days, Gwynileth could tell that something had changed in her relationship with Kaidan. He was more open than before, always willing to tell her what was on his mind. When he knew Lucien and Inigo weren't looking, he often reached out for her hand or brushed an arm against her side—when she was dozing off in the carriage to Whiterun, she was relatively sure she had felt him gently kiss the top of her head.

At night when they would make camp was when Gwynileth would train Lucien in combat. She started him with basic exercise and physique before moving towards novice lessons with the bow and one-handed weapons.

It wasn't until she was instructing Lucien that she realized how very much she had learned since first setting foot upon Skyrim's shores. Each lesson would have them both breathing heavily by the end, though there was no mental exhaustion to accompany the physical. In fact, every night Lucien would say, "Thanks again for doing this. I really do appreciate it."

And before much longer at all, they were back in Riverwood. Delphine was waiting for them when they stepped through the front doors of the Sleeping Giant Inn, and there was a tight-lipped look to her face.

"Come on," she said, waving a thin yet muscled arm in the direction of her secret room. "I've figured out a plan. Orgnar, you've got the inn."

"You got it, Delphine," said Orgnar in a somewhat bored tone.

They proceeded without protest. The moment they knew they were within the soundproof walls, Delphine turned towards Gwynileth and said, "What I'm going to ask of you is going to be dangerous. Maybe even deadly. But it's our only shot at getting proof for the Thalmor being behind the dragon attacks."

"I've been in danger since I walked out of my home country," said Gwynileth, struggling to restrain a sigh. "Let's hear it, Delphine."

The older woman smiled wryly, as though amused by her swift agreement. "I need to sneak you into the Thalmor Embassy."

"You what?" demanded Kaidan, whose amber eyes flew wide. His fists clenched and were placed upon the wooden table. "Are you mad? Do you have any idea what they'd do to her if she's caught? There are Thalmor crawling up every goddamn corridor, Delphine!"

"I know. But I have a way to provide her with legitimate reason to be inside the embassy," Delphine replied. Her eyes again landed upon Gwynileth; they were so bright, it seemed that they were digging straight into her soul. "Ambassador Elenwen throws ridiculous soirees all the time for those important enough to attend. With all the good work you've done around the country, you're important enough to be issued an invitation. I have a trustworthy contact who can smuggle your gear inside and point you in the direction of Elenwen's office. It's the only shot we have, Dragonborn. What do you say?"

There was nothing more important than finding a way to end the dragon menace in Skyrim, and Gwynileth knew that. No matter what it took, it was her duty. Maybe even her destiny.

Ignoring the obvious displeasure from all three of her friends, Gwynileth met Delphine's eyes and replied, "I'll do it."

Dead silence settled across the table as eyes darted back and forth, meeting one another in troubled glances. Someone reached out and placed a hand upon Gwynileth's shoulder—it was Inigo, whose whiskers were twitching uncertainly and whose yellow eyes were full of unhidden concern.

But the first to break the disquiet was Delphine, who clapped a hand upon Gwynileth's back; she was far stronger than she looked at first glance. "I knew I could count on you. Here's what I have in mind."

The following thirty minutes were spent with Delphine laying out a painstakingly detailed plan for how Gwynileth would meet with the trusted contact at the inn in Solitude. All of her gear would be handed off to the Bosmer named Malborn, and Delphine would supply her with the official invitation to the soiree. Once she was inside, Gwynileth would have to socialize and mingle for a short while… and then find a way to locate Malborn, who would escort her to the servant's passageways to begin her investigation.

All throughout that time, Gwynileth couldn't help noticing how pale Kaidan seemed. She couldn't necessarily blame him—she hadn't forgotten what happened the last time she had encountered the Thalmor, after all. But she also knew how imperative it was to keep her composure.

Like it or not, she was the Dragonborn. She had to do this.

"The soiree is in seven days," said Delphine, when at last their conversation was on the verge of being concluded. "Meet Malborn in Solitude the night before, and I'll escort you to the embassy at eleven o'clock the next morning. Until then… prepare however you can."

"Thank you, Delphine," Gwynileth had said—and then she and her companions were off.

They elected to take a carriage to Solitude the following day, seeing as everyone was feeling fairly dreary with the looming thought of Gwynileth invading the Thalmor Embassy. Throughout the journey, she couldn't help noticing that Kaidan seemed withdrawn—even more so than usual. There was a pensive look on his face more often than not; his eyebrows would be furrowed together and his lips would curl downwards into a frown. It was the look of a man who had something to say, but had no idea how to begin saying it.

Solitude was a magnificent city of regality and wealth. It definitely reminded Gwynileth of home; everywhere she looked, people in fine raiment traipsed the streets, speaking in refined language with one another. There were plenty of stores to purchase fresh wares and market-stands that offered fresh foods… the splendor of it all was almost overwhelming when compared with the forests and mountains with which she had become acquainted.

"Ah, Solitude!" exclaimed Lucien as they stepped inside its gates. "What a marvelous city. It's very much like the Empire, you know. Fitting, I suppose, for being the Empire's base of operations here in Skyrim!"

"Let's not get in the way of the Legion while we're here," muttered Inigo, whose whiskers twitched as he glanced towards the great stone keep where their soldiers were located. "If word gets out that the Dragonborn is visiting, they may attempt to conscript you. That is the last thing we need right now, I am thinking."

Gwynileth quite agreed.

The following two days were spent with the four adventurers scouting the areas surrounding Solitude. At Kaidan's insistence, they made a plan for where they would meet in case Gwynileth was unable to extract herself from the Thalmor Embassy without issue; they found a sweet clearing with minimal amounts of snow to the west of Solitude called Clearpine Pond. There were plenty of flowers around the area, and after exterminating the hostile spriggans taking root there, it was quite peaceful as well.

They ended up eating a brief lunch around the pond, which made Gwynileth quite happy. She found herself picking up lavender flowers to make into soap and purple mountain flowers just because she adored their color—but as she began to place them in a wicker basket, she felt a hand on her shoulder.

"Found something for you," said Kaidan's voice, soft enough so only she could hear. His arm appeared around her side to place a small object in her palm: a beautiful silver ring with a ruby gemstone. "I know we've found plenty of these before, but… with your new enchanting skills, you could turn this into a token of protection while you're cozying up to the Thalmor. Right?"

It was obvious based on his tone of voice that he was far more worried than he wanted to admit. Gwynileth smiled as she slipped the ring over her third finger of her right hand and said, "That's a good idea. I'll ask Lucien to help me. And… it's funny that you should have something for me, because I have something for you too."

With this admission, she retrieved a book from inside her knapsack. Despite spending the majority of their time adventuring as usual, Gwynileth had been given enough time to visit the Bard's College and retrieve a book of dragonish translations: Dragon Language, Myth no More.

She gently pressed it into Kaidan's hand with a small smile. "Shall we translate those runes on your blade?"

Kaidan stared at the book for a long moment, his thumb rifling through the yellowed pages as though it were the most sacred artifact. He did not speak when next he looked at her, though his gaze said more than words ever could.

They sat together on a dry patch of ground. Kaidan withdrew his nodachi and lay it flat on his lap; then they searched the translations, looking for words that matched those etched upon his weapon.

"There," murmured Gwynileth, one slim finger pointing towards a matching set. "This word says search. And I know the next one—bone."

"You're a quick study," Kaidan laughed softly. "What else can you see?"

She resumed her work, though it was hard to concentrate knowing how close he was to her. Despite spring's nearness, there was still the lingering chill from the last vestiges of winter… and yet she could feel Kaidan warming her just by being close, by keeping one hand upon the book, his fingers lightly grazing her own.

It took a few extra minutes for her to fully translate the passage, but at last, she closed the book shut with the words, "Tovit kruziik qethsehokoranne. Search the ancient bones of enemies."

"Search the ancient bones of enemies…" Kaidan repeated. His brow furrowed slightly as he processed what that could possibly mean. "I suppose I just have to figure out who these enemies are, don't I?"

"We'll figure it out," Gwynileth said immediately as she put the book away.

A soft laugh was her answer. "You've already done much more than you needed to, Gwyn. Yet here you are, still offering your assistance."

She stared at him with her head cocked sideways in confusion. "Of course I am. I promised you I would help, didn't I?"

He nodded. "Right."

A short silence settled between them. The sun was beginning to sink lower in the sky, casting lights upon the surface of the pond. The waters were so clear, Gwynileth could see teeny fish swimming in their shallows; nearby, Inigo was peering at a strange glowing mushroom, and Lucien was scribbling away in his notebook while muttering the fungi's characteristics to himself.

Kaidan's voice lowered as he grabbed Gwynileth's hand and said, "Listen, Gwyn… I know you're set on invading the Thalmor Embassy in two days, and I know I can't be there with you in case things go wrong. Just know that… I don't care if you get the information or not. If you get the idea that anything is wrong, you leave that place and meet us here, all right?"

Gwynileth smiled sadly at his words, grateful for his concern while knowing she wouldn't be able to just abandon her mission even if she wanted to. "Don't worry. I'll make a few invisibility potions to give to Malborn to be safe."

"Right…" Kaidan sighed, forcing a small curl of his lips. "Well, let's find some nirnroot for you to make those potions with."

"I'm surprised you know that nirnroot makes invisibility potions. I distinctly remember you saying how an alchemist in Cyrodiil told you to taste ingredients, and your response to that was—"

Kaidan laughed shortly, interrupting her. "You've got me there. But even I know that nirnroot mixed with a luna moth's wing makes an invisibility potion."

She could not help herself from smiling with that. When she glanced among the pond once more, a soft sigh escaped her lips. "It is beautiful here… I bet if we waited until nightfall, we could find some luna moths emerging—"

"Shhh!"

The sudden hush from Inigo caused Gwynileth to stop short. The Khajiit was standing uneasily, the fur on the back of his neck sticking up, his ears perked the way they only did when they were exploring in ancient crypts.

Even the very air seemed to chill as the others fell silent. Gwynileth's grip grew tighter around the wicker basket in her hands, at the bottom of which was lying a steel dagger. She could not hear anything herself save for the calm trickling of water down the stream and the few birds and bugs chirping from the trees…

"What is it?" whispered Lucien at last, his eyes wide.

Inigo glared into the bushes to the south; they were thick and plentiful, certainly concealed enough to hide oneself in. "I thought I heard footsteps, and then a bush rustling. I have a bad feeling in my stomach…"

His instincts were uncanny, and Inigo did have the best hearing out of the four of them.

But the last thing Gwynileth wanted was to hasten another skirmish. Kaidan had healed from his injuries after the fight with the dragon and Lucien was becoming more confident with himself in battle, but… she did not want to worry about was something happening prior to her infiltration of the Thalmor Embassy.

"Let's go back to the city," she suggested, moving ever so closer to Kaidan, whose hands were upon the hilt of his nodachi. "We've spent long enough out here."

The next day was tense. There were still two days before the Thalmor party, and now there was an additional point of worry: what—or who—might've been listening to their conversations at Clearpine Pond.

Gwynileth's first thought was that it was a Thalmor agent, one who had been preemptively sent to spy on the newfound Dragonborn. Her identity was hardly a secret even if no one was keeping a distinct eye on her whereabouts… and that was why she found it just as likely that it could've been another round of assassins sent to eliminate her as well.

For better or worse, it seemed that her friends had fallen down the same line of thinking. They hardly seemed to let her alone over the following forty-eight hours, save for to bathe and to sleep.

But she had to give them credit—they were creative in their attempts to keep her close. Inigo insisted on taking her with him to the fletcher so they could both buy new arrows, then to the blacksmith to see if they could find her a better bow. Kaidan took walks with Gwynileth whenever she grew restless and always listened to stories about how Solitude reminded her of home with a smile on his face.

On the morning she was to meet Malborn and hand off her gear, Gwynileth suddenly made a nasty realization.

"I haven't got a thing to wear!" she hiccupped at the breakfast table, nearly flying out of her seat. The only clothes she possessed were her nightclothes and those upon her back: her scaled armor, gloves, and boots. Leaning close to the table, she added, crimson eyes wide, "They're never going to allow me in if I don't find something suitable! Azura's breath, my mother would flay me alive if she knewI had forgotten to purchase a nice set of clothes—"

Kaidan and Inigo interrupted her by exchanging looks and beginning to chuckle, which just made her cheeks flush hot.

"Don't laugh!" she scolded, placing her hands upon her hips. "The first thing you're ever judged on when meeting a new acquaintance is your attire! Clothes can tell you so much about a person!"

"Mm, particularly with the shoes or the jewelry, since shoes are oftentimes ruined during travel or on a dance floor and jewelry can rust if not taken care of properly," Lucien agreed, nodding sagely. He glanced across the other two men, both of whom were staring at him with thinly veiled surprise. "What? Information brokering is an important skill if you belong to a noble family, which Gwynileth certainly did."

The Dunmer sighed in relief and nodded once, thankful for his validation.

Apparently realizing that neither Kaidan nor Inigo had anything to say, Lucien clapped his hands and stood up from the table as well. "Well, there's nothing for it, Gwynileth. Let's go shopping!"

Gwynileth grinned at the prospect—she didn't often enjoy shopping in Morrowind since her mother often forced her to try on every dress the vendors had to offer, but going on a fun trip with Lucien seemed like a delight.

Kaidan and Inigo began reluctantly rising from their seats as well—

"Ah, ah, no. No, no, I think this will be a little trip for Gwynileth and I," said Lucien, more or less pushing them back into their chairs. "You two go ahead and do… whatever it is you like to do in your free time. We'll be back in a couple of hours!"

With that, Lucien seized her hand and began pulling her out of the inn.

The first and only stop they had on their minds was that of Radiant Raiment, the clothing store just across the street. It was no secret that their textiles and sewing techniques were the finest in all of Solitude—perhaps even all of Skyrim. Their store provided clothes even for Jarl Elisif, the woman who was once on the verge of being crowned the High Queen, or so Lucien told Gwynileth as they approached.

The moment they stepped inside, however, a snippy voice declared, "Come in and shut the door."

Gwynileth did so, her lips twisting downwards. The shop was run by two Altmer women, neither of whom seemed intent on masking their people's naturally haughty nature.

Upon noting her expression, Lucien chuckled lightly and lightly tapped her arm. "Allow me."

Before she could even begin to ask what he meant, her Imperial friend stepped forth, cleared his throat, and declared, "Greetings, my ladies! My friend and I are in the market for fine garments for a soiree. Naturally, this was our only destination."

The first Altmer smiled thinly. "Then you've at least got some fashion sense. What is it you were looking for, exactly?"

The way she said that final word made it clear she would be judging them on their taste in style.

"Nothing made of material lesser than silk or satin, to be sure," said Lucien with a winningly charismatic smile that Gwynileth had only seen on a few special occasions. "Now that spring is upon us, velvet simply won't do. Surely you understand."

"Of course," said the Altmer. Her thin smile melted into a real one. "Well, I suppose I could indulge you in some of our finer textiles… don't think this is my way of saying you're allowed to haggle, however. Surely you're smart enough to know that if you need to ask the price, you're in the wrong store."

Lucien chuckled lightly. "I wouldn't dream of asking such a thing."

With a wave of their hands, the two Altmer gestured towards the many racks of clothing displayed behind the counter. Even though Gwynileth was impressed by how well Lucien was able to charm his way into their good graces, she couldn't keep a smile from her face upon thinking that Kaidan would've absolutely hated them.

It was quickly determined that whatever garment Gwynileth purchased, it shouldn't be in the color of brown or green.

"If you ask for anything in a shade of brown, I will throw you out. With that out of the way: your skin is the color of a winter's dawn, which means shades of blue are possible, but difficult to match you," said Endaarie, who had given them her name as they exchanged lofty pleasantries. "And with the crimson of your eyes, green is hardly complimentary. I would suggest sticking to reds or deep purples—and of course, any jewelry you purchase to accompany your gown will need to be silver. Never gold."

Even though Endaarie was sharp-tongued and quick to voice her displeasure about things she didn't like, Gwynileth found herself having a grand time. She only tried on the gowns that she liked, and she had positive feedback from those who accompanied her. It was a stark contrast to when she would go shopping with her mother in Morrowind, during which trips countless dresses would be thrust at Gwynileth with the expectation that she would try them all... and then hardly an encouraging word was said, for her mother always had an eye for critical detail.

It was near lunchtime when they were finished with their shopping trip. The gown that Gwynileth ended up purchasing was a beautiful ruby color, and she had elected to purchase an armored circlet of silver and obsidian to accessorize it with, with the promise that Lucien would help her enchant it as soon as possible.

"It's beautiful on you!" exclaimed Endaarie, who had a genuine smile brightening her face. "I worried this dress wouldn't fit any of our normal clientele—they've got stockier builds than us mer—but this is delightful! You simply must wear it for the rest of the day to break it in."

Gwynileth smiled softly in reply and glanced at herself in the looking-glass. The satin was embroidered with fanciful black swirls that accentuated her breasts and hips in a flattering way, and the neckline wasn't anything too immodest. It was perhaps the first time she felt truly comfortable in a dress ever since that day, when she had been left alone with Jenithar.

With the gown settled, Gwynileth and Lucien elected to pick a few extra sets of everyday clothes to be comfortable in. Seeing as they didn't have much in the way of frivolous possessions, it seemed only right that the two of them indulge in some treasures they had had while growing up in noble families.

Endaarie had transformed from cold and calculating to positively warm by the time their shopping spree had ended. Even as Gwynileth was waving and walking to the door, the Altmer called after her, "Feel free to visit again anytime, Lady Nerussa. And please take care!"

As they walked across the street back towards the Winking Skeever, Gwynileth could feel a few eyes upon her. Since it had been Endaarie's request, she had kept the ruby-colored gown on; it made sense, after all, to break in the dress ever so slightly so she could at least be comfortable during the soiree… and she felt beautiful in the gown again, something she hadn't described herself as ever since she had been violated.

For the past six months, she'd thought of herself as dirty, even damaged. The word beautiful had sent shivers down her spine, because that was the word Jenithar had used while he was abusing her. But now… for the first time in a long while, Gwynileth was thinking about reclaiming the word for herself.

Her thoughts were broken by a low, almost evil chuckle from Lucien.

"Something amusing you?" she asked with a light smile.

Lucien promptly sobered himself. "Oh, nothing, nothing! I'm just wondering what the others might think about your new attire."

Gwynileth stopped in the sidewalk, only a few meters away from the door to the inn. Something twisted in her chest; he wasn't laughing at the thought of a certain person's reaction to her gown. Right?

"Is that… supposed to mean something, Lucien?" she asked, struggling to maintain her composure.

Her friend said nothing and simply accosted her with a sideways look that clearly said, You aren't fooling anyone with that. You know what I'm talking about.

Heat rushed into her face. She had been so preoccupied with making good memories alongside Lucien and indulging her noble upbringing that she hadn't even spared a single thought to what Kaidan might say or think about the dress she was wearing, but now that it had been brought to her attention—

"Come on, then, let's see what they have to say!" exclaimed Lucien. He seized her arm and more-or-less dragged her towards the door of the inn.

Gwynileth dug her heels into the dirt, suddenly petrified by the prospect. "Lucien, don't—please stop—I can't—"

It was no use. Lucien had become stronger over the course of their training together, and so he pulled her into the Winking Skeever with a grin and the joyous exclamation of, "We're back! What do you think of the dress we found for Gwynileth?"

The main sitting room of the inn had been empty save for Inigo, who was perched at one of the tables, playing a game of cards—but upon hearing Lucien's words, he turned around.

"That is pretty!" cried Inigo, who leapt up with a beam upon his face. His ears perked as he scrambled towards Gwynileth's side and gently ran a paw across some of the loose fabric. "It feels well-made, and it looks very good!"

His verdict caused the knot in Gwynileth's stomach to lessen. "Thank you."

Some footsteps emerged from the direction of the stairs, and then Kaidan's voice was saying, "You didn't have any trouble while you were out, did you?"

The devilish gleam returned to Lucien's eyes as he watched Kaidan's shadow draw nearer. "Not at all, my friend! What do you think of Gwynileth's new dress?"

"New dre—?"

Kaidan froze at the bottom of the stairs. He was quiet for a short while, his gaze resolutely stuck upon Gwynileth's face and new attire. Although she knew it was silly to think, the silence lasted long enough that Gwynileth started rubbing her hands upon her arms, fearing that she looked ridiculous. If that was the case, maybe there was time to return the gown…

"I like it," he said at last, nodding tersely in her direction. "It's nice."

Lucien shook his head and started muttering under his breath. "Really? 'It's nice?' That's the best you could do?"

For better or worse, Kaidan didn't reply to such an exasperated retort. He just nodded and gestured loosely towards the table. "Inigo. You wanted to teach Lucien that card game, right?"

"Yes!" exclaimed Inigo, whose good yet oblivious nature clearly didn't pick up on the underlying message that Kaidan's request had made. He waved a paw towards the table. "Come, my friend! I ordered some alto wine for you while waiting for your return. It should still be cold! I hope…"

Lucien accosted Gwynileth with a light grin and started off to where Inigo was patiently waiting for him.

The moment they were preoccupied with the rules of the game, Kaidan crossed the foyer of the inn towards Gwynileth, who still stood uncertainly near the otherwise-empty doorway. She was aware of her heart crashing within her chest, of the way her blood warmed both her face and her body…

When they were close enough to whisper without being overheard, Kaidan reached for one of Gwynileth's hands. He laced his fingers within her own for but a fleeting moment before leaning forward and murmuring, "You are the loveliest woman I've ever had the fortune to meet, with or without a dress like this."

A rush of air flooded into her lungs and was stripped away all over again. Gwynileth stared at him, almost painfully conscious of the fact that Kaidan hadn't let go of her hand. "Do you… you can't possibly mean that, can you?"

"Of course I do," was the immediate response. Kaidan smiled, a gesture that was slowly becoming ever-more commonplace in her presence. "I don't say things I don't mean."

Gwynileth glanced towards the wooden floor underneath her feet, trying and failing to keep a smile from trailing across her lips. Even though she couldn't think of anything to actually say, she didn't think she needed to. It was obvious within her face, the way she squeezed his hand, that she was glad and grateful for his answer.

"Please be careful tomorrow, Gwyn," murmured Kaidan. His fingertips raised to trail along her cheekbone, a feather-light gesture that caught her breath in her throat. "I don't want to put you in any additional danger, but if there's a single indication that something goes wrong, I'll lay siege to the entire embassy."

There was such sincerity to his voice that it was hard to doubt he meant it. At last, Gwynileth looked him in the eye again and murmured, "I promise you; I'll meet you at Clearpine Pond tomorrow evening in one piece." Over the past few days, each spurt of physical affection had been started by Kaidan—and while Gwynileth was so happy to have them, she wanted to ensure that he knew it as well. So she raised his hand towards her lips and placed a swift kiss upon the inside of his palm. "The Thalmor won't be enough to stop me. Not when I know you're waiting."

Something flickered behind Kaidan's face, though what exactly changed, she could not tell.

"I'll hold you to it," he replied at last.

Gwynileth laughed softly and released his hand. "Well, I suppose I'd best get this dress off for now and—" She stopped at the way his lips twisted. "Or… should I not?"

The shine within Kaidan's eyes could only be described as smug. "I wouldn't object to seeing you in this for a little longer."

Her next laugh was fuller. But Gwynileth sheepishly acquiesced, following him towards the table where her other two friends were in heated competition with that silly deck of cards.

Chapter Text

Actually getting into the Thalmor Embassy was surprisingly easy. Everything went off without a hitch: Gwynileth's invitation was legitimate, her attire was both appropriate and admired, and she received no funny looks from any of the guards that patrolled the building. She even made a friendly acquaintance on her way inside: a lackadaisical gentleman named Razelan who only seemed to be present due to a sense of obligation.

"And a healthy helping of good wine!" he added with a laugh, never mind that it was only eleven in the morning.

Even causing a distraction so Gwynileth could escape to the servant's passage was simple enough. With her newfound friendship—and a healthy bribe of some colovian brandy—she was easily able to ask Razelan to create a scene. It was more than enough time for her to find Malborn and have him sneak her into the servant's passage through the kitchens.

So it was that, after lovingly doffing her new dress, slipping on her scaled armor, and retrieving her bow and her invisibility potions, Gwynileth stood ahead of the door leading into the rest of the embassy, her chest tight.

"I have to lock the door after you. Please hurry or else they might start to notice I'm missing," hissed Malborn, though his urgency was obviously due to fright rather than maliciousness.

Gwynileth nodded and began to count to ten. She couldn't help remembering how worried all three of her friends had been when they wished her well earlier that morning. Inigo had made her promise to be careful; Lucien tried to encourage her through worried eyes; Kaidan looked as though he'd barely slept and said that if she needed him, to use the Nordic war horn he had given her weeks ago.

"I don't care how many Thalmor bastards I'll have to cleave through," he'd said, voice tight. "I'll be there if you need."

With that comforting reminder and the feel of the ivory horn at her hip, Gwynileth took a deep breath and stepped through the door.

The moment it closed behind her, a soft click echoed in her ears.

No going back now.

Gwynileth crept low to the ground, taking care to hide her shadows as best as she could. She was so grateful that Lucien thought to enchant her scaled boots with a muffling charm so they wouldn't make noise.

There were voices in the next room.

She paused, listening for a moment. Daring to peek through the door-hinges into the adjoining foyer, she noted two of the Thalmor were discussing frivolous matters that held no importance—they were blocking the next passageway leading deeper into the embassies.

Her fingers tightly grasped one of the seven invisibility potions she had made, thumb upon the cork, ready to flick it open at a moment's notice. Gwynileth's breath grew short upon hearing one of them declare, "Well, we'd better get back to our patrols. Don't want Madam Emissary being angered today."

Their footsteps drew closer; Gwynileth prepared her potion.

The tiniest pop of the bottle being opened was enough.

"What was that?"

Gwynileth downed the potion; it slid past her throat like warmed chocolate, though the taste was hardly anything to write about. A tingling settled through her chest, towards her fingers and toes. When she raised a hand ahead of her face, she couldn't see her own body.

The Thalmor agent stepped out of the room, only a few feet from where Gwynileth remained crouching nearby. He glared into the hallway, almond eyes narrowed… and then shrugged.

"Must have been my imagination," he said to himself. Then he turned aside and began his patrol.

A surge of hot relief flooded Gwynileth's lungs, but she didn't dare breathe out for fear of him hearing her. Taking advantage of the miniscule opportunity she'd been provided, she darted as quickly as she could into the room that would hopefully lead towards Elenwen's office.

Most fortunately for her, it didn't seem as though there were a lot of patrols on the upper levels of the embassy, which meant she didn't have to waste her invisibility potions. Unfortunately, it didn't seem as though there was anything of note in those rooms save for a few well-made regeneration potions and some loose valuables. Even though she wouldn't fancy herself a thief, Gwynileth didn't mind taking things directly from the Thalmor—she swore softly to herself upon noting that there were locked display cases, none of which she had thought to bring lockpicks for.

She smirked and shook her head. If her parents knew that their daughter was contemplating stealing diadems and jewels from the Thalmor themselves, they might just have an aneurysm.

After thoroughly scouring each room within the embassy, Gwynileth was forced to acknowledge that what she was looking for was nowhere in sight. There had been a solar past a courtyard that she'd passed on her way inside the party, well-guarded by a number of Thalmor agents…

Her lips pursed. It was almost certain her quarry was inside that building instead.

Knowing there was nothing else for it, she peered through the hallways and, once they were completely clear, carefully pried open the door leading outside.

Even though it was well into the fourth month of the year, Solitude—like Windhelm—was far north enough for a few piles of snow to still litter the ground. Gwynileth exhaled softly, aware of the fact that her breath appeared like a miniature cloud ahead of her. That meant she would have to avoid both stepping in the snow and breathing too heavily if she came close to any of the Thalmor.

She popped the third of her seven invisibility potions into her mouth. Just like before, her very form became translucent… but Gwynileth was getting nervous. If her assumptions about Elenwen's study being in the next building were wrong, she might not have enough potions to sneak out of the embassy again…

Her hand unconsciously went to the ivory horn at her hip. The feel of the smooth object was comforting.

Kaidan had promised.

With that in mind, she trudged down the stone walkways, careful to leave no evidence of her person behind.

Just as she had feared, the courtyard was crawling with Thalmor agents. There must've been a divine being smiling upon her, however—someone had directed some food and wine from the party towards the middle of the courtyard, and most of the guards were swarming around the offering like flies to amber. Many of them were speaking in haughty voices, offering opinions on the party guests or the dullness of their patrol; knowing that she wouldn't have a better chance, Gwynileth sprinted forward, careful to avoid the light of the mid-afternoon sun.

The door to the solar was unlocked. When she was all but certain that the guards were not facing her direction, she cracked the door and slipped inside.

The effects of her third invisibility potion wore off the moment she shut the door behind her again. A soft sigh of relief escaped her lips; that had been close.

Once again, there were a few voices in the next room. Seeing as the door leading into it was closed, Gwynileth dove past it towards the opposite side of the foyer—she was lucky not to meet any stray Thalmor agents on her way.

That was when she found herself facing a majestic desk. Countless parchments were strewn across it: letters addressed both to and from Ambassador Elenwen. Most of them seemed to be correlated with the Summerset Isles or the Thalmor organization. A few were dedicated towards the Jarls within Skyrim… those that had remained loyal to the Empire, at least.

And sitting plainly atop the rest of the papers was a note from one of Elenwen's highest ranking officers. All it said was: There has been no success getting our new friend to talk. He is adamant on not knowing about the reappearance of the dragons. For your convenience, I've placed him in the cell closest to your office.

Gwynileth exhaled slowly, her eyes trailing along the desk. Underneath the letter had been two dossiers—she reached out and opened them. Two names waited her eyes.

Ulfric Stormcloak and Delphine of the Blades.

Knowing it wasn't safe to read the dossiers just yet, Gwynileth stowed all three documents in her small knapsack and prowled around the study. She was unsurprised to find a small staircase leading towards a dank basement area; it was likely the prisoner the letter had been mentioning was down there.

He might talk to a friendlier face, if indeed he knew about the dragons.

Once again was the door unlocked. Far from being relieved by the realization, however, it set Gwynileth on edge. The first time was luck… but a second?

She could only assume it was either pure arrogance—which was entirely possible, since she was raiding the study of a woman who thought herself invincible—or a trap.

Even if it was a trap, there was no way that she would shy away from it. Gwynileth still hadn't found the information she needed: the information that stated where the dragons were coming from, and whether the Thalmor were behind their reappearance within the country.

As soon as she stepped through the doorway into the prisons, the scent of blood and rot hit her senses. She wrinkled her nose and threw a hand ahead of it in distaste, vying not to be sick. She'd smelled worse.

Or so she told herself.

There were two guards within the prisons, but one of them was dozing within a chair—Gwynileth could tell due to his snoring. The second was appraising a number of steel instruments, some of which were tipped with the coppery hue of dried blood… and in the jail cell closest to where she was positioned, someone was whimpering.

"I already told you, I don't know anything," said a young man's voice: broken, brittle, spent. "Why would I lie to you at this point?"

He was not even dignified with a response.

For the first time since she had set foot within the embassy, Gwynileth retrieved her bow and positioned an arrow. She was on a ledge above both of the Thalmor agents, which would give her a proper height advantage, and neither of them seemed any the wiser to her presence…

The first arrow soared through the railings of the balcony and was embedded almost perfectly through the jailor's forehead. He didn't make a sound as his body collided with the floor.

The second Thalmor agent snorted and woke up—

But he had no time to even grab his weapon. Gwynileth's second arrow soared through the air and landed straight through his chest, over his beating heart.

Satisfied that the dungeons were no longer guarded, Gwynileth rose from her crouch with a sharp exhale. She swiftly made her way down the stairs and ran towards the jail cell—kneeling upon the wooden floor and a flimsy bed of straw, his arms suspended above his head by steel cuffs, was a young Nord.

"I… I don't know anything," he rasped upon locking eyes with her. "It's like I was telling the others—I really don't know anything!"

"I'm not here to torture you," she said softly. Gwynileth moved towards the desk where the torture instruments had been resting. Sure enough, there was a ring of keys just lying in plain sight for her to take.

As she returned to the door and started trying the different keys, the Nord stared at her. "Why… are you here, then? Surely it's not just to rescue me. The Thieves' Guild wouldn't do that."

"Though I'm happy to help, you're right. I didn't come to rescue you." The door finally opened with a squeak. Gwynileth knelt by his side and started searching for the key that would unlock the cuffs around his wrists. "I'm investigating the Thalmor about… an important matter. Let's just say that they're as dangerous as everyone makes them out to be."

"You don't have to tell me twice," said the Nord. He gasped sharply as his arms were finally released from their restraints—a wince of pain swiftly made way for relief. "My name is Etienne."

Gwynileth smiled. "You can call me Gwynileth, if you like." She rose to her feet again and strayed back into the dungeon's foyer. Sitting on the opposite side of the desk was a wooden chest; when she opened it, she found two more dossiers, each of which looked incredibly important.

The first had a name upon it: Esbern of the Blades.

The second had a title: Records of the Akaviri Tribes.

She paused. Even though it was hardly safe to do so, there was a feeling deep within her stomach that stated she should reach both of those dossiers sooner rather than later. If they were lost or destroyed in any way and she hadn't yet read the information inside, she would be all the more foolish for choosing to wait.

And so Gwynileth flipped through them. Her crimson eyes addressed the dossier with the man named Esbern—the Thalmor were searching for him. They seemed to believe that he had a trove of knowledge on the dragons… and that he was hiding out somewhere in Riften.

"Isn't the Thieves Guild in Riften?" she wondered aloud.

"Yes." Etienne's voice nearly made her jump out of her own skin; he had been so quiet, so immersed in the shadows as he scoured for a weapon or spare armor, that Gwynileth had almost forgotten he was there. "We make our base out in the sewers known as the Ratway."

That seemed like good information to bring to Delphine, especially since it was explicitly written in the reports that the Thalmor were at a loss to the sudden reappearance of the dragons.

With that settled, Gwynileth began thumbing through the dossier on the Akaviri settlements. Her stomach quickly churned as she absorbed its contents: the records were Thalmor reports on the four Akaviri settlements within Skyrim, all of which had been purged—

She froze. Her eyes had landed upon a familiar name from one of the tribes.

Brynjar.

"Kaidan," she whispered, her fingers carefully brushing against his caretaker's name. There was still no telling what Brynjar had been to him: a father, an uncle, a family friend. But his name was there, written in records of Thalmor-inflicted genocide… and Kaidan needed to know about it.

"Hey, I've found a way out," murmured Etienne, who lightly tapped her upon the shoulder. He gestured towards a trapdoor that was well-hidden by a number of dusty boxes. "I think the Thalmor use it to dump bodies down there…"

The realization was less than pleasant, but it certainly seemed to be the most pragmatic way to leave—

Just as Gwynileth was about to scour around for some stray lockpicks, however, the door leading back up into Elenwen's study opened. Two shadows emerged and strode forward with purpose.

"We know you're down here, spy," sneered one. "We've caught your accomplice."

"Ouch! Don't push!" exclaimed a familiar voice: Malborn.

Gwynileth withdrew her bow again and bit the inside of her lip. There only seemed to be one guard, but now he was the one at a height advantage, which really wasn't good for archers. Based on the way the guard was scanning the dark dungeon, he hadn't yet located her exact position—if she messed up her aim, he would be alerted to where she was exactly. Or, even worse, she could accidentally hit Malborn.

But there wasn't really another choice.

Taking a deep breath, she nocked an arrow. Her fingertips lightly trailed against the feathers for a short, pensive moment… then she fired.

A soft grunt, a gasp of pain; then a body fell to the ground again.

The terrified squeak that sounded and the flood of footsteps descending the stairs told her that she had hit her intended target. Sure enough, Malborn came scurrying down the stairs, terror in his eyes as he hissed, "Great, just great. Now the Thalmor will be hunting me for the rest of my life!"

"Get in line," muttered Etienne.

But Gwynileth didn't entertain the petty comments. Now that she knew they'd been discovered, their primary objective had to be to get out.

She raced up the stairs, desperately hoping to locate the key to the trapdoor upon the guard's body—and she was not disappointed. A single, rusty key was within his robe's innermost pocket. It looked like it would be a perfect match for what was effectively the 'garbage chute.'

"Got it," she murmured, returning to Etienne's and Malborn's sides. She glanced towards the thief from Riften. "Did you happen to find a weapon?"

He nodded and withdrew a short-sword and a dagger. Each of them were sharp.

"Good. Then let's get out of here."

With that, she unlocked the trapdoor and jumped.

It was not a long fall. Gwynileth was grateful for that—and the smell wasn't anywhere near as atrocious as the one she'd been met with in the dungeons, although there was still a pungent aroma. When she glanced around, she noted that there were bones scattered around the edges of the cave she'd fallen in. They had been meticulously picked clean of all flesh and muscle, and the lack of a decaying smell told her that they hadn't deteriorated naturally.

Once Etienne and Malborn joined her in the cave, she held out a hand to stop them from moving forward.

"There's something here," she said. Her voice echoed off of the icy cave and flew back into her own ears. "Something dangerous. Stay behind me."

Malborn whimpered, but did as she bade. Etienne was quiet as he nodded.

They trudged forward. It was dark still, with only a few gleams of daylight guiding them towards the exit of the cave. Gwynileth kept keen crimson eyes towards the shadows, waiting for something to spring forward—

The slightest rustle of movement.

She whirled around—and promptly tripped over something lying within the snow banks. It was large, fuzzy: the carcass of an ice troll.

The ice troll was almost certainly what had eaten the corpses of the Thalmor's prisoners. But if it had already been killed, then what the hell had made that slight shuffling noise?

A flash of silver in the dark.

Gwynileth gasped and raised her bow. The moonstone metal it was made of was able to repel the incoming blade with a deafening clang that rattled across the walls of the cave, leading into the open air. Now that her attacker was nearer, she could see crimson eyes much like her own staring back at her, peering out of a familiar mask.

Etienne bellowed and swung his sword towards their attacker. A spurt of red decorated the cave as the assassin stumbled back, one hand clasped towards his throat. A horrid gurgling sound emerged from his mouth, but none of the escapees paid it much mind. Malborn held a hand towards Gwynileth and hauled her to her feet.

"Run!" she cried. She knew it was unlikely for either Etienne or Malborn to be targeted; the Morag Tong assassin was only after her, and they didn't like leaving additional evidence if they could avoid it. "Get out of here, go!"

The shuffle of footsteps told her that her command was heeded. Summoning all her strength, Gwynileth followed them in sprinting towards the exit.

The sharp glare of the late afternoon sun was jarring against pure white snowbanks. All three of them winced and held a hand to block the newfound light... yet even though they'd officially escaped the embassy, a shiver of a bad instinct trailed down her spine. Sparing a single glance towards the Nord and the Bosmer beside her, she murmured, "I have friends nearby. I'm going to call them to escort us all to safety."

Each of them nodded, seeming relieved by her words. With that vague comfort in mind, she seized the ivory horn at her hip and raised it to her mouth—

Before it could even make a sound, something knocked it out of her hand into a deep snowbank.

An arrow, made by the craftsmanship of her own people.

Three more Morag Tong agents appeared from the icy thickets, all of which were equipped with bows, arrows, daggers, and long-swords.

Gwynileth exhaled sharply. She should've known there would be more of them. She shouldn't have been stupid enough to think that after their previous failures, the Morag Tong would only send one agent to deal with her.

They started to grow closer, knives withdrawn. Toxins laced the blades; she could see them in the fading sunlight.

"You're outnumbered, Lady Nerussa," said one, though his words were slightly muffled by the mask he wore. "Surrender."

Gwynileth turned towards Etienne and Malborn, the former of which held his blades aloft, the latter which seemed frightened beyond sense. They both were stiff, awaiting her next orders.

"Don't follow me," was all she said before veering in the opposite direction.

"After her!"

The raging sound of footsteps crashing through fallen pine needles and snowbanks was enough to tell her that they'd left Malborn and Etienne alone. She didn't bother looking over her shoulder to check, because the three voices shouting after her told her she was right.

Gwynileth didn't even contemplate attempting to turn around and fight them off. It was true she had grown stronger, but to engage in a direct confrontation with just one Morag Tong agent would still be a death sentence, never mind three of them. Their arrows flew after her as assuredly as their shouts did—she could hear them cursing and taunting her, calling her whore and bitch in gruff, violent tones.

One of the arrows whizzed past her head, nicking her ear. She cried out and ducked behind the trees, desperate to use them as line of sight blocks.

Her breath appeared in clouds ahead of her mouth; the cold air burned her lungs just as her dead sprint burned her legs. She wished she could've retrieved the ivory horn that Kaidan had given her but it simply wasn't possible because it was lost in the snow—all she could do was run.

The only saving grace she had was that over the past month and a half, Gwynileth had become familiar with navigating the unforgiving Skyrim landscape. She had grown accustomed to avoiding slick patches, she knew how to recognize deep wells of snow… and the Morag Tong didn't. They were obstructed by those pitfalls that she had come to know, and that was the only reason they were unable to catch up to her as quickly as she had feared.

Past a beautiful, terrifying shrine—past the pit the locals called Wolfskull Cave—Gwynileth tore down the road, one hand upon her satchel. She needed to get to Clearpine Pond, it was so close now, if she could just make it, her friends could help her and then she could give that dossier to Kaidan, she could live—

"Kaidan!" she screamed. "Lucien! Inigo!"

No response. She was still too far away for them to hear her.

Her legs were burning so fiercely, so deeply, that she could barely focus on anything else. Gwynileth's vision began clouding with tears as she continued to sprint because there was nothing else to do—and as arrows continued flying past her body, some of them much too close to comfort, something began settling deep within her chest.

Fear. For the first time since her last night terror, she was truly, genuinely afraid. Because once again, she was alone.

The familiar, comforting sight of the glade was before her within another minute. Gwynileth gasped and sobbed as she ripped through the bushes; she could see Kaidan and Lucien and Inigo on the far side of the pond, discussing something with one another. Upon hearing her crashing through the foliage, they turned to look at her.

"Kaidan!" she cried out, tears threatening to spill over her face. "Behind m—"

A piercing ray of white-hot pain lanced through her side, searing across her skin, her stomach, her chest. Gwynileth gasped and stumbled into the frigid waters of the pond, suddenly realizing: she had finally been pierced by one of the Morag Tong's arrows.

That arrow was poisoned.

She collapsed underneath the water. Bubbles emerged all around her like an avalanche—somewhere above the lake's surface, there was screaming. So much screaming…

The poison was strong. It was horrid, blinding her with pain—Gwynileth struggled to break the surface of the water. She needed to breathe, she needed air so desperately—

But she wasn't strong enough to get it.

Gwynileth expelled the remaining air from her lungs, sending more bubbles around her face. All she could think was how at least at the end, she had led a good life. She had led one she could genuinely be proud of.

That didn't mean she wanted to die. Not after everything she'd overcome to finally live that life.

The light from the afternoon was fading away, lost under what seemed to be an insurmountable amount of water. In a final, desperate attempt, she thrust her hand towards the surface of the lake.

She didn't want to die. Not yet.

Someone grabbed it.

Chapter Text

Over the following few days, Gwynileth floated in and out of consciousness more times than she could count. The first time she had awoken, she was shivering horribly. A blanket had been wrapped around her shoulders, but it wasn't enough to ward off the chill that had seeped into the very depths of her bones. People had been talking above her, sounding panicky, on the verge of breaking—

Then she had fallen into darkness again.

The second time she woke up, she was lying in a bed. She wasn't sure, but the room looked familiar to the one she'd been renting in the Winking Skeever. She was still cold even though there were more blankets and a fire was raging in a nearby hearth. Voices floated above her: some familiar, one not. An elderly lady with a kindly smile had gently guided her into swallowing an ill-tasting potion, one that if she had had more strength, Gwynileth might've spat out.

And again, she fell asleep.

The third time Gwynileth regained consciousness, she was in a carriage. Even half-delirious, she recognized the familiar bumps and jolts of a wagon… more blankets were around her shoulders. Based on the way her legs were curled up, she was in someone's arms.

When she lethargically glanced up, she noted that Kaidan was above her, nestling her carefully into his arms. He seemed on the verge of dozing off himself—but upon seeing her own eyes open, he was startled awake.

"Gwyn," he exclaimed, voice hoarse. He cleared his throat. "How… how are you feeling?"

She contemplated the question for a little while before eventually settling on, "I'm… cold…"

"It's all right. I've got you." Kaidan reached forward, draped yet another quilt over her aching body—for the first time, she found herself wondering how many blankets her little adventuring party could possibly possess.

But it wasn't the extra blanket that provided the reprieve she was desperately searching for. When Gwynileth nuzzled closer to Kaidan's chest, for the first time in what felt like forever, she was finally warm again.

She exhaled softly. "You feel nice…"

Once more, she fell asleep.

When she finally woke up again, everything was heavy. Her entire body was thick with sleep and uncertainty, and that was without accounting for the heavy quilts that seemed glued to her. It took a long moment, but Gwynileth finally found the strength to open her eyes for longer than a few seconds.

The first thing she noticed was that her surroundings were completely unfamiliar. Even in her dizzy condition, she knew that to be true: Gwynileth had never before stepped foot in this place. And the strange thing about it was that it wasn't an inn or a shop she simply hadn't visited—it was a house. A place people typically lived in.

She blinked and glanced around. The bed she had been lying in was a size larger than she'd become accustomed to in Skyrim's inns, and softer as well. Two pillows had propped up her head while she'd been sleeping… and based on the sound of movement in the area downstairs—downstairs?—she wasn't alone.

"Where… where am I?" she asked.

Something clanged downstairs. Rapid footsteps swiftly followed, as did Kaidan's voice calling, "Gwyn?"

Gwynileth breathed out. For one fearful, timid moment, she'd feared she might've been abducted by the Morag Tong after all.

Kaidan appeared in the doorway, relief melting his features upon seeing Gwynileth awake and sitting up in bed. He inched closer and swallowed hard before asking, "Are you all right? Feeling better at all?"

The clear concern within his voice made a tiny smile stretch across her cracked lips. "Yes… but things are still… heavy." She almost unconsciously glanced around for a cup of water, longing for a reprieve from her dry throat.

Apparently sensing what she wanted, Kaidan gently grabbed a goblet that had been sitting upon the bedside table and pressed it into her hands.

She shot him a grateful smile before slowly drinking it all, testing how her mouth felt, her throat. There was still an aching twinge in her side—

Gwynileth's eyes widened as she remembered what had happened the last she'd been conscious. The questions began flying out of her mouth almost as swiftly as the Morag Tong's arrows had pursued her. "What happened? How long has it been? Did the Morag Tong retreat? What about the documents I stole from the Thalmor Emb—"

"Slow down, Gwyn," interrupted Kaidan, though there was a tiny curl to his lips at the rapid-fire interrogation. One of his hands ran through her hair, which was surprisingly soft considering her predicament. "One thing at a time."

As always, he was so patient. Gwynileth nodded and swallowed before trying again. "What happened?"

Shadows appeared upon his face, underneath his eyes. "After you collapsed, we defeated the Morag Tong. There was nothing to indicate who hired them or how they knew you were in the Thalmor Embassy, but it doesn't matter anymore. They're dead. As soon as we realized the arrow in your side was poisoned, we… we rushed you to the alchemist in Solitude."

The elderly woman: Angeline Morrard, owner of the apothecary right next to the Winking Skeever. Now that she was no longer in a half-witted state, Gwynileth realized that was the woman who'd poured those horrid potions into her mouth.

"I remember being on a carriage," murmured Gwynileth.

"Aye. With the invasion of the Thalmor Embassy and the appearance of the Morag Tong, the three of us came to the conclusion that it wouldn't be wise to stay in Solitude. The moment you were stable enough to move, we hired a carriage back to Whiterun."

That made sense, according to what little she'd been conscious for and remembered. She shivered, a trail of ice trailing down her spine—and was instantly met with a worried look and the words, "Are you still cold?"

Gwynileth frowned; something twisted deep within her chest as she remembered how she had fallen into the freezing lake. Her throat tight, she whispered, "The dossiers… are they… they aren't ruined, are they?"

Kaidan shook his head, though he exhaled softly as if in amusement. "Of course you'd prioritize the mission over your own well-being. The Thalmor like to splurge for their important documents, apparently. All four of the notebooks in your satchel were enchanted to be waterproof."

Relief draped over Gwynileth's shoulders, providing a reprieve from the constant ache in her chest. "Oh… good. There was one I wanted to give you. Where are they?"

"Lucien took them. He's meeting with Delphine to tell her what happened and will relay our next plan once he returns."

Gwynileth blinked. Except for the day she'd infiltrated that embassy, their little adventuring party had never been split up before. "What about Inigo?"

Guilt tore at the edges of Kaidan's guarded expression. "He's… investigating something for me."

Before Gwynileth could reply, a piercing ray of sunlight traipsed through the room. It soared past the slightest crevice of the curtains to land upon her face; she flinched away from the brightness, her head swimming with the sudden illumation.

The gesture was not unnoticed by Kaidan. He promptly rose back to his feet and clasped the curtains shut, blocking out the sun and only allowing the soft candlelight to be their guide. The moment that was done, however, he sat upon the edge of her bed, grabbed one of Gwynileth's hands, and murmured, "You're still recuperating. You'll need to rest for a few days more."

Gwynileth glanced around again. If she was to rest, then the house they were in seemed a good place. It was comfortable; cozy, even. She liked it immensely, though her face burned upon realizing that surely she and her friends were intruding upon someone's hospitality. "Whose… whose house is this?"

The question caused Kaidan to look away, though he did not remove his hand from hers. "Well, it—the three of us didn't want to keep you in an inn where anyone could harm you if our backs were turned, so… we pooled together some money and… bought it."

She stared at him. "Bought it?"

"From Proventus Avenicci."

Even though she was certain that she'd heard him correctly, Gwynileth couldn't quite understand. It made sense, but it didn't. Her friends had bought a house so she could recuperate from her wounds in peace?

"Kaidan…" she started to whisper, but she could get no further.

"It seemed like a good idea even without your injuries." His voice was quick, almost agitated. "Lucien thought it would be good to have a safe place to keep our things, and he liked the idea of having a place to rest in between adventures. And Inigo wants to live in Skyrim, so… it worked out for everyone in the end."

It was quite obvious that Kaidan feared Gwynileth would either disapprove or think of him as a madman—but those things couldn't be further from the truth. She hiccupped lightly and threw her arms around his neck, pulling him close. He was still warm.

"Thank you for helping me," she whispered. Her fingers trailed and were lost within his dark hair. "For taking care of me."

"You shouldn't thank me. I wasn't fast enough."

The sudden anger in his voice was jarring. Gwynileth leaned back, accosting him with wide eyes. "What?"

Kaidan clenched his fists, refused to meet her eyes. "I should've had my bow drawn the moment you arrived. The moment Inigo mentioned that presence in Clearpine Pond, I should've known."

"How could you?" asked Gwynileth. She nearly heard her own heart break with his guilt-ridden admission, because the situation was anything except his fault. "You can't see the future, Kaidan. I didn't even anticipate the Morag Tong arriving when they did. I was careless."

"You had plenty else on your mind. I didn't."

She sat quietly, watching the war take place over Kaidan's face. The blood-orange sunlight streaming through the window suggested that it was nearly dusk—suddenly realizing that she didn't know how much time had passed, Gwynileth asked, "What day is it?"

"The fifteenth of First Seed."

"That's… it's been a full week?" Gwynileth's mouth dried upon repeating the number of days. The poison had been stronger than she'd anticipated.

"Still adamant on insisting your wounds weren't of my own making?"

Kaidan's voice was soft, broken—and Gwynileth wouldn't stand for it.

"Yes," she said, putting all her strength in her voice alone. She was pleased to note that she sounded so certain, he blinked and stared at her again. "It wasn't your fault. It wasn't any of our faults. We can't blame ourselves for every little mishap. And now that I'm well again… the last thing I wish to do is harp on what happened. All we can do now is grow stronger and prevent it from happening again. Right?"

Even though Gwynileth wanted so badly to be completely fearless the way she was portraying herself to be, she could not forget how afraid she had been when fleeing from the assassins that had been sent after her.

She still didn't know who had hired them: the Hlaalus, or her own parents.

"Gwynileth. Do you still want me around?"

The words were spoken so swiftly that Gwynileth thought she might've misheard them. Upon studying Kaidan's face again, however, she was forced to recognize that they had not been an illusion; they were real, and Kaidan was incredibly apprehensive over the answer.

"I need to know," he added before she could speak. "I need to know if you're traveling with me because you wish me to, or because you feel obligated."

Gwynileth's lips curled into a smile as she reached out and clasped one of his hands. She raised it to her lips, pressed soft kisses upon the inside of his wrist, his palm, his knuckles—then she giggled and murmured, "Does that answer your question?"

There was no escaping the piercing look she was accosted with, no hiding the way Kaidan's smile made her almost unbearably warm. Her face was a deep silver, the way it seemed to be so consistently lately; what little bravery she had summoned to kiss his hand had vanished the instant after she had spoken.

Just because he had been more affectionate didn't mean he truly meant it. She of all people should understand—men could be dangerous.

But Kaidan wasn't like that. He wasn't anything like Jenithar, who had pretended until he got what he wanted. Gwynileth had felt safe around him, every hour of every day.

That still didn't mean he cared about her the way she was slowly coming to realize she cared about him.

A warm hand was placed against her cheek, slowly guiding her back to looking at him again. Gwynileth sucked in a sharp breath and redirected her focus towards Kaidan, who simply said, "I think it does."

With a tiny smile and only a small amount of uncertainty, he began leaning closer towards her—Gwynileth's face was still blazing and her hands were clenched tightly within her lap, but for all the lingering fear and trauma bestowed by the last man she had harbored affection for, it would taste a lie to say Kaidan's actions weren't what she wanted.

No matter how it ended, either happily or with her heart broken yet again, she wanted to leap into it on her own. For it to be her choice.

She shut her eyes—

The door below slammed open with the force of a tidal wave.

A sound that was somewhere between a squeak and a yelp emerged past Gwynileth's lips, she was so startled by the sudden noise. She lurched away from Kaidan with a gasp, hands flying to her mouth, heart raging within her chest—

"Can you believe that Delphine said we have to go to Riften now?" exclaimed Lucien's voice, sounding thoroughly disgruntled. "We only just came back from Solitude and now we have to travel to the opposite side of the country! This is starting to get ridiculous!"

With the shock of Lucien's sudden appearance subsiding, Gwynileth looked towards Kaidan with wide eyes. He had directed his gaze outside of the window, and if looks could kill, she was fairly sure the window would've splintered into dozens of shards.

"Oh, yes. So ridiculous," sneered Kaidan.

Lucien made an agreeable sound; footsteps began crossing the foyer below. "I'm glad you agree! How's Gwynileth?"

"Startled half out of her wits with the door slamming. Thanks for that."

Gwynileth bit the inside of her cheek and reached out for Kaidan's hand again. Try as she might to restrain it, a slow grin was creeping across her face—there was no use pretending that the last few moments hadn't happened, and she didn't want him and Lucien being so sour with one another right after she had just woken up, either.

And so she leaned forward and pressed her lips to his cheek; not quite the romantic gesture she had been hoping for, but something to at least say she cared. That he made her happy.

Kaidan blinked as she retreated, his countenance melting again. Something flashed through his eyes, and Gwynileth entertained the fleeting thought that if he tried to kiss her again, she would not be opposed in the slightest—

But he leaned away instead, his thumb lightly brushing against her cheekbone.

"Wait, did you say Gwynileth is awake? Thank Akatosh—Gwynileth! How are you feeling, my friend?"

She smiled at the sound of Lucien rushing up the stairs; though she spoke to answer his question, she kept her eyes solely upon the man sitting in front of her as she replied, "I'm warm, safe, and happy. How could I not be well?"

Inigo returned to the house before the next couple of hours, looking hale and hearty. While he did not say where he had been, Gwynileth did not miss the fact that he passed off a parchment to where Kaidan was sitting in the foyer of their new house. The thought of her friends actually buying a house was still a strange one, so far as Gwynileth was concerned.

Once all four of them were present and had a meal of steak and vegetables sitting within their stomachs, Lucien explained what he had learned from Delphine.

Apparently Esbern, the man the Thalmor had an entire dossier dedicated towards, was an associate of the Blades. He was considered an expert on the study of dragons and the Akaviri, which was why the Altmer had been looking for him.

"It seems that he's hiding out somewhere in Riften," said Lucien with a despondent sigh; it was no secret how much he disliked the prospect of visiting the town renowned for its thievery. "Delphine thought he might be in the sewers of the Ratway. Charming, isn't it?"

His remonstrations didn't seem to be shared by any of the others. While Gwynileth had no opinion yet on the place, Kaidan and Inigo exchanged looks and briefly mentioned they liked the province of the Rift just fine.

Lucien sighed and rolled his eyes at their words. "Well, that's what I've got. Find Esbern, escort him to Riverwood, and we can work from there. Sound good?"

"Yes. Thank you for meeting Delphine in my stead, Lucien," said Gwynileth. She took care to offer him a smile and an extra bottle of alto wine that had been lounging within the ice box of their home. "Did you… happen to bring back the dossiers as well?"

"That I did! Here you are."

With that, Lucien carefully deposited the four notebooks into her outstretched hand. Upon opening them, she was able to see that Kaidan had not been lying earlier; they were in perfectly readable condition. It was as though they had been in no danger at all.

"When shall we set off for Riften?" asked Inigo. He grinned across his three friends, ears twitching in excitement.

Lucien shrugged and stretched widely. "I think that depends on Gwynileth. We don't want to travel before she's fully well again. That would just be asking for trouble."

"We can't wait for much longer, either," sighed Gwynileth. "The Thalmor have been hunting Esbern down for what seems like weeks already. Each day we dally is another day closer to his capture, and then what will we be able to do to put a stop to the dragons? So long as we take a carriage tomorrow, I shall be fine."

"But Lucien has a point, Gwyn. If the Thalmor have been looking for Esbern for as long as you say, it's likely there will be agents in the Ratway by the time we arrive. We'll do everything we can to protect you, but you'll still need some of your strength in case you'll need to defend yourself." Kaidan reached out and seized her hand underneath the table. It was not a gesture of affection so much as one of concern, even though he laced his fingers within hers as well.

Gwynileth smiled wryly. "I'll be all right. The Thalmor no longer frighten me. The assassins most recently sent after me, however…"

Her friends obviously did not miss the fairly despondent look upon her face. Kaidan squeezed her hand once more and forcefully said, "We lost them once we left Solitude. And if they somehow find you again, we'll be with you. They won't separate us a second time."

Although she well believed him, if Gwynileth focused hard enough, she could still feel the tenderness in her side: the place the arrow had pierced.

"Do not worry, my friend. Since there is no more need for sneaking into places we are not wanted, there is no reason for us to not be with you!" exclaimed Inigo. He grinned, flashing pointed white teeth, before reaching for another piece of steak.

Gwynileth smiled again, more to comfort herself than anything else. Her eyes located the nearest window beyond which was a beautiful view of the mountains to the east of Whiterun: Breezehome, the house was called. It was on the main road of the city but inside its gates, which provided additional security. And seeing as the Jarl had ordered additional checks to be made for each person entering the city, there was no danger of shifty characters finding her and sneaking into the house to harm either her or her friends.

"We'll set off for Riften tomorrow afternoon and rest at the inn overnight. The day after tomorrow, we must begin our search," said Gwynileth in a tone firm enough to prevent from inviting argument.

Luckily, it seemed adding an extra day for her to recuperate seemed like a good enough compromise for Lucien and Kaidan both. With the conversation over, Lucien began making a pot of tea and Inigo volunteered to wash up after their meal—once they were gone, Gwynileth reached for the dossier that contained the records of the Akaviri tribes and flipped it open to the page where she had seen Brynjar's name. With utmost care, she pressed the dossier into Kaidan's hands with the words, "You need to read this."

Kaidan did so, confusion clear within his face… but as his eyes scanned lower and lower down the page, that confusion morphed into understanding, and then muted sorrow. When at last he had read the pages he needed to, he gently pressed the book into Gwynileth's hands. All he said was, "If it's not too much trouble, I'd like to visit Northwind Summit when we can."

"Yes," she answered immediately. "Of course."

All was quiet between them for a long moment. Inigo was humming to himself as he washed the dishes, the only sounds in the house. As she looked around, Gwynileth found herself fixed upon some of the planters by the windows… if she truly wanted, she could start planting flowers there. Then she'd have an endless supply of them for her soaps and alchemy potions—

She paused, another light frown finding her face. Was it so easy, to accept that this building was home? That this was where she would live for an extended amount of time? Was it truly so simple as to call it her own and accept it?

"You look troubled," said Kaidan, taking care to keep his voice low.

Gwynileth chuckled lightly, her attentions drawn from the barren planters to the man beside her. There was no forgetting that without him, she likely wouldn't be alive to appreciate the prospect of finding home. It was smiling that she said, "I'm just… surprised, I suppose. By how much this feels like home, and how easily I've come to think of you all as…"

But she stopped, if only because while she did indeed think of Lucien and Inigo as family, that was not how she saw Kaidan at all. He was different; he had always been different, though that was not and had never been a bad thing.

Kaidan smiled and spared her from finishing her sentence with the words, "It's all right. I know what you were trying to say."

And before she could thank him for understanding, for simply listening and being there for her, he rose from his chair to grab them each a cup of tea that Lucien had made.

Chapter Text

Within the first fifteen minutes of exploring the city of Riften, Gwynileth had come to recognize it as a hopeless place.

Everywhere she looked, she saw orphans and beggars roaming the streets. People shouted at her within the main square, desperate to sell wares so they could get coin they didn't currently have. Each person she came across, whether they were Nord, Argonian, or Dunmer, seemed to have a task they needed help with. Thanks to Gwynileth's fascination with alchemy ingredients, she was able to assist in a few cases: ten pinches of fire salts for Balimund the blacksmith, three flawless amethysts for the barkeep Talan-Jei, five ice wraith teeth for a grocer named Marise, a chunk of gold ore for the jeweler Madesi.

But even after assisting those four people with their woes, there was still so much despair within the city. It was reaching out to choke her, as if to say that not even a Dragonborn was enough to help the citizens in some ways.

Gwynileth might've been distracted for hours on end if it weren't for Kaidan at her side.

"We need to find Esbern," he muttered lowly, though not without sorrow or kindness. "I know you want to help these people, but we don't have the time for the rest right now."

She knew he was right. Even though it sent a lance of pain into her chest, she started to turn away—

"Never worked an honest day in your life for all that coin you're carrying, eh, lass?"

Even though it was possible those words could've been directed to anyone else, Gwynileth found herself pausing in her tracks. When she glanced over her shoulder to see who had spoken, she was met with startling green eyes. The man grinned at her curious expression; everything about him was dangerously charming, from his accent to his playful look to the slight curl of his lips.

While he was conventionally attractive, he was certainly not the type of man Gwynileth would trust easily, if ever at all.

"I think my wealth is my own business, serah," she said coolly, taking care not to afford a change in expression. She was about to turn away once more and resume her path to the Ratway when his voice again halted her steps.

"That's where you're wrong, lass. It's also my business."

Gwynileth huffed. Azura curse her, but she couldn't help being curious about such cryptic responses. With a raised eyebrow and a mild irritation lingering in her chest, she turned around again. "And just who are you, exactly, that is so wise in matters of finance?"

The man grinned outright, revealing perfectly white teeth. "Finance? I suppose that's one word for it."

"Try anything with her coin purse, and I'll take your hand for a trophy," sneered a familiar voice. Kaidan had placed a hand upon Gwynileth's shoulder; he gently turned her away and murmured low so only she could hear, "He's in the Thieves Guild. Anyone acquainted with Skyrim's shadiest corners could see it at a glance."

When Gwynileth glanced at the man over her shoulder again, she was met with a wicked grin that all but confirmed Kaidan's words.

"Wait," she exclaimed, stopping in her tracks. Though she didn't trust the man by any means, if it was true that he was familiar with the shady corners of Skyrim, he might know a way to navigate the labyrinths of the Ratway. "Do you know anyone by the name of Esbern?"

"Never heard of him," said the man, but the flash of recognition that ran through his eyes directly contradicted his statement.

Gwynileth pursed her lips. "What would it take for you to tell me? Finding him is far more important than you realize."

The man appraised her for a long moment, green eyes blazing from her face towards her hands and then her manner of dress. As the silence was prolonged, Gwynileth felt Kaidan's hand grow tighter upon her shoulder. It was clear that he worried for her safety, but such worry was unnecessary considering the man was unarmed and that city guards stood all around the market-square.

Right when Gwynileth was about to bid him a good day and try her luck elsewhere, the man blurted out, "If you're able to help with a little task, I'll tell you what you want to know."

She halted once more, vying to keep her piqued interest off of her face. It would not do for the man to know how deeply she desired the requested information, lest he take advantage of it and continue to raise higher and higher demands. "Oh? And what sort of little task needs doing, pray tell?"

The cheeky smirk that next crossed his lips made her regret asking. "Just a small thing: I need you to plant the jeweler Madesi's silver ring into Brand-Shei's pocket… without either of them noticing."

"What's the other catch?" asked Gwynileth.

The man grinned, sharp as a shark's. "You're smarter than I first made you out to be. The other catch, as you put it, is that I don't have the ring. You'll have to fish it out of the strongbox underneath Madesi's stand whilst I'm making a distraction for you."

Gwynileth did not like the sound of such a task at all. Her eyes narrowed and she crossed her arms tightly across her chest, considering her options.

It was entirely possible that someone else—one of the honest folk she'd already assisted—might be able to help her. Then again, this thief was almost certainly her best bet. The suave confidence he wielded screamed that he was well-acquainted with the city of Riften in all its capacity… especially the Ratway.

That didn't mean she wished to implicate an innocent man in a charge of thievery.

Right when Gwynileth was about to refuse and try her luck elsewhere, a voice called her name from across the town square.

A familiar young Nord was rushing in her direction, a grin upon his face and light returned to his eyes. There was more muscle upon him than last she had seen; his injuries had healed nicely as well. Though Kaidan tensed upon noticing the approaching Nord, his worry evaporated as Gwynileth gasped in relief and rushed forth to meet him.

"Etienne!" she cried. "You made it away from those assassins after all!"

Etienne laughed. "Kind of you to worry about me, Gwynileth, when you were the one being pursued. That Bosmer and I made it off free and clear thanks to you… and I told you I'd repay you if ever I met you in Riften, eh?"

Before she could ask what he meant, Etienne turned towards the man who had been pleasantly chatting with Gwynileth and Kaidan the minutes beforehand and said, "Brynjolf—this is the one I told you about. She set me free from the Thalmor. We owe her."

Brynjolf's eyebrows raised so high they were almost lost within the tangles of his reddish hair. "This is the one? The Dragonborn?" He paused a moment before laughing. "And to think I pegged you as Thieves' Guild material… but the lad's got a point. We owe you for busting our man out of Thalmor clutches, intentional or no."

He leaned forward conspiratorially, all warmth and smiles. "The man you're looking for is hiding out in the Ratway Warrens. Paying us good money not to tell anyone where he is. You'll want to be careful, though, lass. Plenty of fellows roam those sewers, and none of them are as charming as Etienne or I."

"Thank you," said Gwynileth, who was no less than delighted to have received her answers without resorting to framing or bribery. She shot Brynjolf a final smile and turned—

"Oh, and lass," exclaimed Brynjolf behind her, "if ever you want to whet your appetite with a taste of the thief's life… you and your companions will always be welcome at the Ragged Flagon."

Even though Gwynileth wasn't quite certain about that, she shot him a courteous nod and turned in the direction of the sewers.

The Ratway was about as charming as its name suggested. Gwynileth found herself turning her nose up at the horrendous stench of mold and mildew infesting the tunnels, a sight that made Inigo laugh fondly. There was little light to see by in the tunnels, which prompted her to keep one hand upon her dagger at all times—considering the narrowness of the labyrinth they traipsed, she did not feel safe withdrawing her bow for fear of blocking the way of her companions.

"So, Gwyn," said Kaidan as they walked. She could all but hear the smile in his face. "Didn't fancy becoming a thief as well as the Dragonborn?"

Gwynileth laughed shortly. "Hardly. The reputation of the Thieves' Guild in Skyrim is well known even in Morrowind. Word has it that their outfit has been stealing from the poor to further line the pockets of the rich. It would take a severe change in policy for me to be any sort of interested."

Next to her, Lucien sighed in resignation. "If only the Gray Fox were still in charge. Did you ever hear about him, Gwynileth? He was a hero to the commonfolk!"

"That I did. I would be happy to follow his orders were he in command."

"Wait a minute," said Inigo with a frown, "I thought the two of you were from fancy noble families. Wouldn't it be in poor taste to steal from yourselves?"

His observation caused both of them to laugh, though Gwynileth's mirth was short-lived as a large rat scurried almost directly over her foot—Kaidan had to seize her shoulder to keep her from tripping backwards.

Seeing as she was still recovering from the brief trauma of her rodent encounter, Lucien took it upon himself to answer. "We may have grown up in noble families, Inigo, but that does not mean we swear by their lifestyles. I want only enough wealth to live comfortably, as do we all."

The soft snort from Kaidan behind her told Gwynileth that he wasn't convinced.

Ignoring his interjection, she nodded and added, "If my priorities lay with the aristocratic lifestyle, I would not be here. I would be returned to Morrowind, having sold my life and liberty in exchange for dresses of silk, jewelry of silver embedded with rubies, and food far too rich to be any sort of fair." She scoffed and rolled her eyes. "The longer I adventure here in Skyrim, the more disgusted I become by thoughts of that life. Had I the choice to follow in the Gray Fox's way—to steal from the rich to supply the poor—then I would gladly creep through sewers such as this and call myself thief. Alas… that is not the case."

"You surprise me every day," mused Kaidan, shaking his head.

Gwynileth smiled and glanced at him over her shoulder. A mischievous spark lit her eyes as she answered, "Perhaps I just like to keep you on your toes."

They continued on through sludge and shadow, searching for the passageways that would lead into the Ratway Warrens. Past the Ragged Flagon they trailed, then into the Ratway Vaults—

It was within the vaults that they received a nasty surprise: a group of Thalmor guarding the entrance. Said Thalmor were not taking any measures to be silent, which allowed them plenty of forewarning to the danger… Gwynileth halted in the narrow hallway and glanced to her friends with wide eyes.

"What shall we do?" she whispered. "Engage them, or sneak by?"

Kaidan gestured towards his bow and murmured, "The tunnels open up more in the vaults, and there are windows we might be able to use to our advantage. Let's try and off as many of them without being detected as possible."

The plan seemed as good as any other. With Gwynileth and Inigo leading the way, they kept low to the ground, arrows resting within their fingers. Despite their desperate attempts to keep quiet, their boots still made sloshing noises as they stepped through puddles of dirty water and mud—

Lucien groaned lightly behind them. "This is disgusting. How in Oblivion did we get roped into this?"

"Shh!" Kaidan shushed him.

"What, so the two of you can whisper and it's all fine and dandy, but I can't?"

"I think it is because we are closer to the Thalmor now, my friend," whispered Inigo, though his concept of whispering was not quite as attuned as the others.

Gwynileth shot a desperate look towards them, silently begging them to please be quiet.

"Sorry, sorry," Lucien barely whispered. "I'll be quiet."

It was only another sixty seconds later that they came upon their first Thalmor patrol almost leisurely walking below them. As Kaidan had said beforehand, there were plenty of cracks within the walls or broken fence-links for them to aim through; it was altogether that Kaidan, Gwynileth, and Inigo drew their bows…

And released the arrows, all of which landed upon their respective targets. Kaidan's hit the Thalmor's skull; Gwynileth's flew into the back of the Thalmor's neck; Inigo's embedded itself directly into the Thalmor's heart.

They released a collective breath and shot slight smiles towards one another.

"I cannot wait until I can wield a bow with that kind of accuracy," sighed Lucien, a nostalgic sort of want highlighting the lines of his face. "I'm getting better, at least…"

Gwynileth couldn't help smiling and ruffling his hair at that, the way she might have a younger brother. "You are indeed. Perhaps another fortnight of dedicated training will do you some good, Lucien."

Even though Lucien reflexively scrunched up his face at the way she messed with his hair, he did not complain. He merely grinned at her praise and continued on.

Most fortunately for Gwynileth's sanity, they located the Ratway Warrens before another quarter-hour had passed. Once more did she, Kaidan, and Inigo eliminate another patrolling squadron of Thalmor soldiers before pressing forward, deeper into the darkness.

Unlike the previous areas of the sewers, there seemed more of the beggars wandering freely in the Warrens. Most of them did not seem to be in their right minds; some were muttering to themselves about a supposed reckoning, or were talking to themselves animatedly without even realizing that a group of adventurers had come. One attempted to attack Inigo's back when it was turned, but was stopped by Kaidan placing a well-aimed kick to the man's legs, sending him tumbling into the sewage for his troubles.

And then they were standing ahead of a grand iron door, complete with no fewer than five padlocks and only a tiny slot for the denizen inside to slide open to see.

Realizing this could only be Esbern's home, Gwynileth stepped forward and knocked.

"What? Who is it?" exclaimed a man's voice. It was an older voice, one laced with worry.

"Esbern? My name is Gwynileth. Delphine sent me," she replied.

The tiny slot opened up to reveal that elderly man squinting out of his home. His eyes were a rich hazel. "Delphine? So… so you finally got her, and she led you to me, is that it?" He paused a moment. "Yet you don't look like Thalmor, do you?"

Gwynileth could not help smiling a little at that. "That would be because we're not. We seek to discover why and how the dragons are coming back to life. Could you help us?"

She was met with another long, suspicious glance… and then Esbern sighed and slid the slot shut with the words, "All right, you had best come in. Just one moment please, I must undo all of these locks. It will only take a second."

There was the conspicuous sound of clanking metal, turning wheels and cogs—after what seemed almost too long a time, the door opened, and Esbern was hurriedly whispering, "Come on, then, come inside."

Esbern's abode was livable enough, especially considering what lay within the remainder of the Ratway. There was a cooking pot hanging above a fire, a bookshelf filled with academic tomes, a few knives to defend oneself with, and other assorted items needed for survival. As soon as they were safe within his home, the man shut the door behind them with a relative slam.

It took some time for Gwynileth to explain their purpose in Riften. It was not easy, either—the man was quite suspicious of their adventuring party. It took the recollection of a battle against a dragon for Esbern to finally believe in her words.

"Dragons are being brought back to life?" he whispered hoarsely. "Then it is true… Alduin the World-Eater has returned. If that is the case, there is little else to do except wait and pray. It seems the gods have tired of us…"

But Gwynileth shook her head and stepped forward. "They have not. I am Dragonborn."

A storm of conflicting emotions ravaged Esbern's face: disbelief, excitement, relief. It was a long moment before he said, "You are? Truly?"

"Aye," said Kaidan, speaking for the first time since they had entered the hideaway. "She is. We can all attest to it, as can Delphine for that matter. We've all watched her absorb the souls of dragons."

"It is a little disconcerting," muttered Inigo under his breath.

Esbern exhaled sharply—the man seemed to lose ten years in just as many seconds as he straightened and exclaimed, "Then there is hope! This changes everything! We must set out to meet with Delphine at once. Just give me a moment to gather a few things… now where did I put that almanac…"

While Esbern was distracted, Gwynileth found herself peering out the tiny slot welded within the door. The metal did quite a good job of blocking out sound as well as sight; the moment she opened it, she could hear the whines and mutters of the mad and the unfortunate that roamed the Ratway…

Yet despite the darkness, she also noticed a few flickering shadows creeping closer to the hovel: shadows that belonged to tall, slim silhouettes.

"What's wrong?" murmured Kaidan, placing a hand upon her shoulder.

She exhaled softly and gestured him to the doorway in answer.

Kaidan glanced out of the metal slot for only a moment before stepping towards Inigo and Lucien, each of whom had been assisting the elderly man in collecting his scattered possessions. "The Thalmor are closing in on our position. There's no telling how many there are, which means we'll have to be ready for them."

"We'll never be able to fight in these narrow tunnels!" exclaimed Lucien, whose blue eyes widened. "There's no room for you to swing that sword, much less the four of us!"

Gwynileth glanced towards Esbern, who for better or worse seemed completely oblivious to their current predicament. He seemed to be a scholar rather than a fighter—and ignoring his advanced age, there was no telling how malnourished he was after having been isolated in Riften's sewers for the divines knew how long.

"We'll have to sneak past," she declared. Her eyes trailed across each of her friends, all of whom were affected by doubt and uncertainty. "We'll do everything in our power to stick to the shadows and prevent the Thalmor from finding us. But if that simply isn't possible… we'll have to split up."

Inigo's ears flattened against his head. "Split up? I do not know, my friend…"

"The primary goal is to escort Esbern to Delphine," Gwynileth continued, not allowing herself to be distracted. "He will be depending on us to keep him safe, and yet… after my break-in of the Thalmor embassy, it would not be wise for me to remain in the same place as him while we make our escape. Keeping us together will only make it easy for the Thalmor to track both of their targets."

"No. You will not go alone," said Kaidan, voice taut. He lunged forward and seized her hand. "Do not ask me to remain behind again. I will not."

Gwynileth smiled; despite the severity of the situation, the obvious care he held for her made her chest lighten. "Even if nothing had gone wrong during my latest stunt in their embassy, I would not wish to be alone against so great a threat. Kaidan… would you come with me? We will take the road north while Lucien and Inigo escort Esbern directly west, back towards Riverwood."

The three of her friends were quiet for a moment, exchanging silent yet significant looks. It was clear they were weighing their options… yet as the shadows continued closing in on their position, they seemed to realize there was no other choice.

"I will go with you. Always." Kaidan squeezed Gwynileth's hand once before letting it go. "But let's see if we can't evade their eyes first."

And the moment that Esbern declared he was ready, they began their silent exit.

Though Gwynileth had despised the dreary darkness of the sewers at first, as they crept through decrepit passageways and through broken grates, she became exceedingly grateful for it. Since no sunlight reached so far underground, the only light was from the torches upon the walls—and as they progressed further and further away from the Warrens, it grew harder and harder for the Thalmor to follow their tracks.

All five took great pains to remain deadly quiet, save for the occasional sludge of a boot through muck or water. Gwynileth and Inigo led the group, for their vision was sharpest—more than once were they forced to hold out a hand for an abrupt stop, during which a spare Thalmor agent would amble past them, apparently none the wiser to their presence.

For all their stealth and ability, however, the Ratway was just as difficult to navigate a second time. The Thalmor had infested the sewers quite efficiently, forcing the adventuring party to take unexpected detours or backtrack altogether—

Just when Gwynileth turned around another corner and saw sunlight, however, someone accidentally kicked a spare stone that had been dislodged from the ground…

And a group of Thalmor had been positioned by the entrance.

"Run!" hissed Gwynileth. She sprinted forward, swift as her own legs could carry her, keeping a careful watch on her friends behind her.

Shouts and orders echoed along the stone walls of the sewers, directions to capture the Dragonborn or the elderly Blades agent. Thunderous footsteps raged after them; based on the cacophony alone, Gwynileth could only guess there were two dozen or more that had been within earshot of their final mishap.

Inigo reached the grates leading back to the surface first. He thrust open the door, ushered the remaining four onward—

The moment that they were through, Gwynileth whirled towards the shabby iron gate. She could already see the glowing eyes of one of the Thalmor following after them; with little more than a single breath, she withdrew her bow, aimed an arrow, and released it.

It landed directly in the Thalmor's skull, shattering it: killing him.

"Take Esbern through the southern gate and go directly west!" ordered Gwynileth, retrieving two arrows from her quiver. "Kaidan and I will attempt to drive them north after us instead! We'll meet you in Riverwood!"

"Gwynileth—" Lucien started to say.

"Go!"

Lucien and Inigo each seemed to hear the desperation in her voice. They took a deep breath and nodded; while neither of them seemed happy for their party to be split up yet again, they also seemed to understand it was the only viable course of action left. It was Inigo who took the lead, one paw upon Esbern's arm and the other across Lucien's shoulder—and then the trio bolted through the streets, ignoring the way Riften's citizens shrieked and barreled out of the way.

Only once they were completely out of sight did Gwynileth tightly grasp Kaidan's arm and exclaim, "Let's go."

Kaidan nodded but did not speak; with shouts of the Thalmor pursuing after them, they fled through the northern gates of the city, intent on being as convincing a distraction as possible.

Chapter Text

For better or worse, Gwynileth's plan unfolded exactly as expected.

The Thalmor thundered after herself and Kaidan, apparently believing them to still be in the company of Esbern and the others. Even as the two fled through the trees, she could hear the sounds of their heavy footsteps cracking through fallen leaves and thin branches, their captains barking orders all the while.

Though Gwynileth had prepared to flee all the way to Windhelm—despite how deeply she despised the city, any Stormcloak soldiers they would've come across would've been only too happy to support them in a fight against the Thalmor—when they had traveled about a league and a half outside of Riften, Kaidan abruptly stopped her.

"Most of them have lost us," he said, breathing heavily, "and we can best those that remain if we lay a clever trap."

The prospect of dealing with the threat sooner rather than later seemed the better option. Gwynileth swallowed hard and asked, "What did you have in mind?"

Within two minutes, they were camouflaged within large piles of fallen leaves and other shrubbery, waiting for the approaching Thalmor. Though such piles were more than adequate hiding places, Gwynileth couldn't stop her nose from scrunching slightly at the slimy feeling of wet leaves caressing her skin.

And only one minute after that, their quarry appeared in the midst of the road, doubling over and panting for breath.

Gwynileth remained utterly still for a long moment, waiting to see if the Thalmor might continue down the road under the assumption that she had Kaidan had done so as well. Her eyes narrowed as they gathered together: five soldiers in total.

She exhaled softly. Kaidan had been right—they could deal with them.

"Captain!" gasped one, his hand pinching his surely aching side. "Shall we… proceed further north, sir? It seems the Blades agent is headed for the safety of Windhelm!"

The Thalmor who must have been the captain snorted in disdain. "It figures that the Blades would ally with those ragtag nationalists. Yet that seems like such a predictable plan… perhaps they only wish us to think that is their destination…"

Gwynileth narrowed her eyes and grasped her bow. She had prepared a few arrows just before hiding; if she needed to, she was in perfect position to initiate a surprise attack.

"But there is one thing you are missing, soldier," continued the Thalmor captain. He clasped his hands behind his back, eyes towards the dirt road. "The last time it rained here in Riften was fairly recent, was it not? Thus, we are able to track runaway insurgents not only by sight, but by footsteps in the—"

He was not even allowed to finish his sentence. An arrow sprouted from the pile of leaves directly to Gwynileth's left, as though by magic. It ended up embedded within the captain's throat, spearing his neck and leaving him to die by choking on his own blood.

As shouts of shock fell across the springtime trees, Gwynileth released her own arrow. Hers quickly sent another Thalmor soldier sprawling, his eyes wide and glassy.

And then she and Kaidan burst forward, exchanging their bows for swords.

Due to the success of their ambush, only three Thalmor remained, and they were leaderless. Each of them scrambled for their swords hanging within their sheaths, but despite all their training, they were still too slow.

Kaidan ripped through one of their torsos before they could blink, his blade shining red in the fading sunlight. Gwynileth was not far behind, crimson eyes narrowed and strength in her arm.

The Thalmor she was sprinting for only barely managed to block her blade. A spark flew through the crisp air, a deafening clang—the soldier gasped and fell onto his bottom in the road. He began to shout something, though whether it was a plead, a bargain, or a curse, Gwynileth would never know. Her blade silenced him before the first syllable could be uttered.

The sound of another body hitting the ground told her that the battle was over. Looking over her shoulder, she noted that Kaidan was already at work cleaning his blade by wiping it in the nearby grass and leaves. Disgust was on his face as he glared at the fallen corpses, though his gaze softened when his eyes migrated to Gwynileth's face.

"I don't think there are more," he said. "The rest must have pursued the others."

Gwynileth nodded. Her lips twisted as she thought of Lucien and Inigo—

"They'll be all right." A strong, warm hand was placed upon her shoulder as Kaidan approached. "You know they are strong. You yourself have taught Lucien everything he now knows."

"Yes… that's one thing I'm worried about," sighed Gwynileth. Without thinking, she grabbed Kaidan's hand upon her shoulder and squeezed it—and then fought to avoid the horrible flush that came over her face as she realized what she'd done. She quickly let him go.

If Kaidan noticed, he did not comment on it. He instead turned towards the horizon blazing orange and gold and declared, "There will not be enough time to reach Windhelm before dark, or even Kynesgrove. Riften is far too risky to return to, which means we will have to make camp."

There was no refuting Kaidan's logic, but there was something hopeful in his tone. Gwynileth raised her eyebrow and said, "You have somewhere specific in mind."

Kaidan jolted. Try though he might to conceal it, the expression upon his face hinted at guilt as he chuckled. "Aye. Northwind Summit is not too far away from here. I thought perhaps…"

He trailed off and averted his gaze.

Gwynileth could not stop herself from smiling. After cleansing her blade in the grass and replacing it in its sheath, she perched aside him and grasped his hand again. "You only ever need to ask."

A faint cloud of breath appeared ahead of Kaidan's mouth. It was with a warm glance and half of a smile that he tightened his grasp around her hand and set westward.

The trek to Northwind Summit was fairly peaceful, save the occasional encounter with a wolf or a den-deprived bear. The area that lay between Riften and Windhelm was marshy yet warm, host to beautiful orange-colored flowers and jazbay grapes. Hot springs sizzled and steamed nearby, warding off the last of the winter-spring chill.

All was peaceful until they reached an ominous cave, beyond which no light made its home and a stale wind was blowing. They stood ahead of the entrance for a spare moment, peering into the darkness for any potential threats.

"Shall we?" asked Gwynileth. When she looked upon Kaidan's face, she was not surprised to see his jaw was set, as though preparing for whatever he might find… or not find.

The sound of her voice seemed to bring him back to the present moment.

"Aye," Kaidan said. His shoulders relaxed; his armor settled with a soft clink. "Let's go."

It was even darker inside the mineshaft than it was outdoors. There was no moon or starlight to guide them—there was only the slightest sliver of silver light close to the top of the mineshaft, where an exit lead to a mountaintop.

"I can't see a Talos-damned thing," grumbled Kaidan. He took a precarious step forward. "Can you, Gwyn?"

Gwynileth exhaled slowly. "Yes… though this mineshaft is dangerous."

"How so?"

She paused, taking inventory of all she could see. Thanks to her dunmeri vision, she was able to determine a few integral details: the mine had been clearly abandoned for some time, the pulley systems were rusted, the wooden structures looked rickety and unstable even at a short glance… and it did not help that there was a great hole in the middle of the mineshaft, threatening to consume anything that fell into it.

Kaidan noted her extended silence. "Shall we wait until morning? I will trust your judgment, Gwyn, no matter your decision."

His patience and understanding was comforting, but even so, Gwynileth did not wish to wait. She had uncovered precious information about Kaidan's family, answers he had been searching for for years on end—and after all the assistance he had given her over the prior months, all the times he had come to her aid, all the kindness he had expended in her direction… she would not keep him waiting a moment longer.

"I can guide us," she said, and while her voice was soft, it was full of determination. "I want you to have your answers."

Though he did not say anything, the warm silence that formed between them was enough for her to know he appreciated her answer.

So it was that Gwynileth guided them through the tunnels of the Northwind Summit's mineshaft. The pathways leading towards the upper exit were thin, which made finding solid footing a dangerous chore. There were no good handholds among the walls; due to the humidity of the outside marshes, the stone was far too slick. Even so, they continued their ascent one painstaking second at a time—and everything that Gwynileth said and instructed, Kaidan followed without hesitation.

Yet as they gently clambered over the dilapidated structures, a sudden shift in the wood caused the hair on Gwynileth's neck to stand on edge.

"Kaidan!" She leapt forward and seized his hand, pulling him onto a relatively safe path of dirt—no sooner had he been brought to safety did the segment of the scaffolding fall away, down into the depths of the mineshaft.

Gwynileth stood petrified, her blood roaring. She swallowed hard and looked down; there was no telling how far down the pit went, especially at their current height. Had she been any slower or any less diligent—

"Thank you, Gwyn. Let's keep moving."

She whirled back to Kaidan, astounded by the calmness with which he was speaking. Though it was unlikely he could see her, she could still see him.

There was a soft curl to his lips that she had only seen on a few occasions, a warmth and understanding that she could hardly understand. Thanks to her own decision to move forward, he had nearly died.

"I know that silence," he said with a smile. "You're questioning yourself. Don't. I trust you."

And those words alone were enough for her to take a deep breath, nod, and say, "Very well."

There were no further perils as they continued climbing upward. As the seconds turned into minutes, the silver light of the moon became more and more prominent until Kaidan no longer needed her to dictate where he should step…

And then they were staring upon the remnants of a village, burned yet unmistakable, out in the open mountain air.

Gwynileth took a hesitant step forward. At first glance, it seemed as though there was nothing left. Nothing at all for Kaidan to inspect, to find answers—the houses were little more than charred wood. Columns of stone had been broken and chipped at by either dragons or the elements. Everything was eerily silent, as though the village was a relic waiting for someone to stumble across it.

"Look at that view…"

Kaidan's voice caused her to turn. He had been standing close to the mountain's edge, gazing to the northeast where the marshes met the borders of the forest beyond. The sight was a stunning one to say the least; Gwynileth silently approached him, transfixed by how very far she could observe the world.

"The Akaviri must've been able to see for leagues around. It's such a defensible location! No wonder this was the last bastion to fall against the Thalmor. It would be perfectly feasible to lay traps around the base of the mountain to wait for them, and if any were good with the bow, it would take some time to storm this place…"

He continued speaking in such a manner, showing Gwynileth the proper places for traps or ambushes as they peered over the mountainside. It was near dark save for the half-moons and the stars dotting the sky outside; this far east, there seemed to be additional pricks of red and green that Gwynileth hadn't noticed when they'd been stationed in Whiterun. The lights highlighted the almost boyish enthusiasm on Kaidan's face as he illustrated potential defense strategies and attempted to determine battles that might have taken place, had the Akaviri survived the Thalmor.

And Gwynileth found herself smiling as she watched him—it was a rare occurrence to see him so bright, so alive. Something tightened within her throat as she realized there was nothing she wanted more than to reach out and take Kaidan's hand, moving so erratically as he spoke. She truly did care for him so much—

"You're adorable."

The words escaped her mouth without even meaning to. The exact moment she realized they'd been said aloud, Gwynileth clamped a hand over her mouth. Her face burned.

Kaidan froze. When he turned in Gwynileth's direction, incredulity lined his sharp features. "Adorable? I've never been called that in my entire life."

His tone of voice was unbearably unreadable. It only made the flush on her face grow worse.

"I… w-well, I—it was—ah—"

Her horrid stammering was cut off by the sound of Kaidan laughing so fully that he nearly doubled over where he stood. "And you claim I'm adorable? Look at you, Gwyn! There's no need to look like you've seen a gheist." He sighed and straightened again, taking a step forward. Gwynileth did not miss the way his hand twitched at his side, as though he had wanted to reach out before deciding against it.

Though she remained shock-still with mortification, Gwynileth found the courage to meet his eyes again. Her shoulders slumped at the warmth she was met with; there was no longer any fear over whether she had offended him.

"It was simply unexpected," he said, as if reading her mind. A sideways smile tugged at his lips. "And if I'm being quite honest with you, I've thought the same thing about you ever since I watched you attempt that pitiful rope trap before we met."

The burning in Gwynileth's face flared again. "I had hoped you would forget that…"

"Unlikely. How often does one come across a Dunmer noblewoman camping out in the forest?"

Gwynileth groaned as Kaidan began to laugh once again, though she could not find it in herself to look reproachful. She drummed her fingers on a stone plinth beside her, longing to find something to say in response—

Some of the stone she was tapping suddenly fell away, revealing a hollow crevice in the pillar.

Both she and Kaidan blinked at the sudden hole and peered closer.

"There's something inside," murmured Gwynileth. The object within was sparkling a bluish-white, complementing the lights of the stars.

Kaidan carefully reached for the object. When he opened his hand, a ring and a yellowed note—still rolled up—sat within his palm. The gemstone embedded in the ring gleamed a stronger blue in direct light.

They shared aghast looks for only the briefest moment before unfurling the paper.

"More runes in the dragon tongue," said Kaidan, his voice strained. He held it out, hope in his face. "Do you think you could translate it?"

Gwynileth took a deep breath and glanced it over. One of the words she recognized from Kaidan's nodachi: search.

"There's another place we must search," she mused slowly, eyes trailing across the remaining two words. "But I cannot say where exactly. Viinturuth…"

Her fingers trailed the words. She could feel Kaidan's desperate gaze upon her face, silently willing her to finish the translation. And she would, because it was for him, of all people in the world.

"It sounds like a name," she said at last. "Viinturuth. And this final word, that I am not exactly certain on… it looks like it says grave, or possibly tomb. So altogether that would mean—"

"Search Viinturuth's tomb," said Kaidan. His eyes widened. "That name… it was in the book you found me! Dragon Language: Myth no More—Viinturuth was the name of a dragon that had been felled close to Windhelm! According to historians, dragons were always buried close to where they were killed…"

"So we have our next destination, yes?" Gwynileth could not stop herself from beaming at the radiant joy within Kaidan's face. He was not even attempting to hide it, and the sight was so comforting, so warm and rewarding, she could feel her heart pounding against her ribcage. "Shall we visit it tomorrow?"

Kaidan stared at her. "Tomorrow?"

"Well… yes, of course. It's not terribly far out of the way, is it? I'm certain Lucien and Inigo will forgive us if we take the long way home."

A short silence fell over the mountaintop, broken only by the faint sound of geysers rushing far below. Gwynileth immediately felt her face grow hot due to the look she was subject to; as always, Kaidan was near impossible to read.

And then his countenance melted. A smile crept across his lips as he reached out, took one of Gwynileth's hands at her side, and pressed a swift kiss to her knuckles.

"You have been good to me," he said, "far more so than I've ever had the right to ask. Thank you, Gwyn. If you are willing to accompany me tomorrow…"

"Yes." She could not stop the beam from crossing her own face at the validation he had, unconsciously or not, given to her. "Yes, of course. I would accompany you anywhere."

The following morning, their search for Viinturuth's tomb was graced by birdsong and delicate rainshowers. A few months past, Gwynileth might have despised the rain for soaking her hair and her armor—now, however, she could hardly care less. She was in the company of the man she cared most for, the man who was apparently in a delightful mood as he told her old stories of his first hunts, back when he was ten years old.

It was during a particularly impressive tale about him bringing down a mother grizzly that Gwynileth could no longer restrain her astonishment. "By Azura, Kaidan, I almost do not believe you! Taking down a monstrous bear with nothing but a bow and four arrows?"

Kaidan chuckled and reached for something underneath the collar of his armor. He held out a small pendant, one that Gwynileth had seen before: a large, jagged tooth.

"This was the trophy I took from that day," he said. "Brynjar insisted I honor it somehow."

"It is an extraordinary tooth, but how do I know it came from said grizzly, hmm?" Gwynileth made sure to keep her voice light as she nudged him with her hip. "What if you are lying in order to impress me?"

He laughed at that. "I would do almost anything to impress you, Gwyn, but I wouldn't lie to you. Whether you believe me or not is your own choice."

Gwynileth's face was beginning to hurt, she was smiling so widely. In fact, she had been smiling ever since they'd shaken off the Thalmor—there was something about having Kaidan for company that felt right somehow, as though she didn't need to erect any emotional walls or barriers at all. She could simply exist in his presence and be at peace, and that in itself was a testament to how comfortable he made her.

"Well, I do believe you," she said at last, as they crossed an abandoned sawmill to the southwest of Windhelm. "I've seen you best many a creature since I've met you, a dragon being the latest of your conquests."

"I'm deeply honored," Kaidan said humbly.

As Gwynileth was laughing at his remark, they passed over a steep hill… and stopped.

Just east of the cobblestone road was a large mound of dirt, recently emptied. Piles of damp earth sat in crumbles here and there, and nearby trees had been uprooted or blown away entirely. It certainly seemed like a dragon had recently visited the roadside.

"This doesn't look good," said Kaidan. All jesting in his voice was gone.

Gwynileth was quiet, though she did agree with his assessment. The sight told her one important piece of information: the dragons were still being resurrected, and at a faster rate than she or Delphine had anticipated.

She crept forward to get a closer look. There was no sign of the reborn dragon now, for better or for worse. Not even the smallest bone had been left behind as a clue… though there was a strange crevice in the middle of the grave.

Kaidan seemed to notice it the same time she did. As one, they dove to their knees in the dirt and frantically began digging into the ground with their hands.

It only took two minutes to find what they were looking for: a dark chest engraved with Nordic and draconic runes alike. It was large enough to fit armaments.

With a deep breath, Kaidan clicked it open.

The lid of the chest fell away with no resistance. One by one, he withdrew the items inside: a gorgeous shield of black metal, another ring with a red jewel rather than a blue, a circlet with gemstones the color of starlight…

And a letter, still sealed and intact.

Gwynileth took a step backward as Kaidan tore open the envelope, taking great pains to shield it from the rainfall. As happy as she was for him, she did not wish to intrude on such a personal moment. Kaidan had been searching for years for his answers, and after a fair amount of searching, he might have finally found them.

She would not ruin it by overcrowding him.

All was quiet for a few minutes that seemed to turn into hours. Gwynileth kept a faithful watch on the roads, ensuring no wolves or bears would catch them unawares. The weather was grey and dreary, the river dangerously close to flooding… Kaidan was silent behind her, and she did not dare steal a look to see his face—

Which was why she yelped and stumbled backwards when he took her arm.

Kaidan caught her as she nearly tripped into a pile of dirt. "You all right?"

"I… am I all right? Are you?" blurted Gwynileth. Her face was hot again; the burning only grew worse as his hand moved from her arm to the small of her back.

"More than all right. I have my answers—I have a letter from my mother." Kaidan chuckled at the bewildered look on her face. "And I am in the presence of the person who possesses my trust most completely."

Gwynileth laughed, painfully aware of how close he was. There wasn't even sunshine to disguise the heat in her face with… matter of fact, the rain was only growing worse, soaking her armor and her hair alike. "I would think the letter would capture your attention more than my presence would."

"On the contrary," he said, shaking his head. "This was only possible because I met you. My freedom—my answers—my very life. I wouldn't have any of it without you, Gwyn."

The rain was pouring. Gwynileth blinked rapidly, wondering whether she was simply imagining the adoration in Kaidan's face, or if the drops were obscuring her vision. Because there was no escaping the thud of her heart, the rush of blood in her veins—when a peal of thunder crashed over the northern mountains, she thought the sound might haunt her for the rest of her days.

His eyes were so beautiful. She wanted to say something, but… what was there to say?

"Gwyn."

She blinked. "Yes?"

For the first time since she had met him, Kaidan's expression could only be described as soft. "If I asked to kiss you, what would you say?"

A small hiccup flew past Gwynileth's mouth, because she hadn't been expecting the question, she hadn't been… but a smile tore after, far too swift and intense to be stopped, even if she wanted to.

He remembered. He had remembered how badly she had been hurt before, how averse she used to be with any sort of physical contact. He remembered. He asked.

Gwynileth threw her arms around his neck. "Yes. I would say—"

But she could say no more before Kaidan gently pulled her against him and pressed his lips to hers.

Every nerve in Gwynileth's body froze. It took a moment for her to catch up with what was happening—usually Kaidan was careful to keep at least a little distance between them, to keep himself hidden away, to not be so vulnerable.

Yet the way he held her, tight enough she could scarcely move, disregarded all those usual norms. His lips were hesitant yet so hungry, unraveling her piece by piece, and Gwynileth was breathless because the truth of the matter was… she loved him. She cared about him so damned much; she was reminded of it every time her eyes fell upon his face, every time she heard his voice.

There was no one in the world she would rather be with.

She pushed back against him, responding to his kiss. A low moan left Kaidan's throat as she gently nipped his bottom lip—his breath was warm against her mouth—the pressure of his hand upon her back seared through her armor, sending flames dancing across her skin, spreading to every corner and crevice of her body. Everything was so utterly perfect that Gwynileth could scarcely believe she was awake…

But as quickly as it was begun, it was over. Gwynileth moved back ever so slightly, placing a shaking hand against the side of his face. Her thumb caressed his sharp cheekbone, eyes drinking in every detail of his kind smile, the adoration in his eyes… and she couldn't help but smile to herself.

Only a few short months ago, she had been unsure that she would ever wish to be close with a man ever again. She might've been content to live the rest of her life on her own, with no romantic love for company.

But Kaidan had changed all of that. And if she hadn't been sure of it beforehand, the soft, kindhearted look he was bestowing upon her now was the final answer.

"It's because of you, Gwyn," said Kaidan. "Thank you."

His eyes closed; his forehead rested upon her own. And even though the rain still fell in cold curtains around them, Gwynileth had never been so warm in her entire life.

Chapter Text

Though Gwynileth might’ve been content to stand in the rain for hours more with Kaidan for company, the rain apparently had other ideas. Only moments after their kiss, the droplets thundered down atop their heads so fiercely it almost started to hurt—so Kaidan seized Gwynileth’s hand and, laughing, yelled, “Run!”

Most fortunately for them, there was a riverside shack in need of some care not too far away. They stumbled through its threshold laughing maniacally and soaked to the bone; Kaidan immediately started chopping remnants of old furniture into splinters to use as kindling while Gwynileth retrieved the necessary camping supplies and extra pairs of clothes.

And then, as they huddled around the newfound fire vying to find warmth and dryness, Kaidan finally relayed what had been written in the letter.

“My mother was from that Akaviri tribe—the village atop Northwind Summit,” he said, his voice barely heard over the sound of raindrops pattering against the river. “The Thalmor were determined to root us all out, so she asked Brynjar to take me away and raise me somewhere safe when I was a babe. It turns out… he was my uncle.”

Gwynileth heard how reverently he spoke that last. “That is good news, yes?”

“Very good.” Kaidan smiled and awarded her with a light kiss to her temple. “Whether or not he had been related to me, I would’ve always held him in high esteem. But now, truly knowing… I can be even more grateful for what he’d done for me.”

It took five days for Kaidan and Gwynileth to safely return to Riverwood, which coincidentally, was how long it took for him to convince her to accept the rest of the items in that hidden cache as gifts.

“I cannot take these things, Kaidan,” she would insist, shaking her head. “They are far too precious to go to me, a woman who has no relation to the Akaviri at all.”

“I will again remind you these artifacts would still be surrounded by dirt if it weren’t for you,” Kaidan would retort evenly, a playful gleam in his eyes. Even though Gwynileth had grown up in a noble family, she was uncomfortable accepting gifts—they almost always came with strings attached or unspoken rules that needed to be followed—but it almost seemed like he delighted in the challenge of getting her to accept something from pure goodwill. “The circlet and the ring were my mother’s, but I have no use for it. I want them to go to you. I know you’ll take care of them.”

The argument had surfaced enough times that Gwynileth finally caved in.

“Very well,” she heard herself huffing, as the sun set and Riverwood was finally within view. She could see Inigo’s silhouette standing far ahead, his tail swishing anxiously as he waited by the village’s borders. “I will take them, if you are being so damnably stubborn about it.”

That had made Kaidan laugh and exclaim, “Oh, I’m the stubborn one?”

Gwynileth was not provided a chance to retort, because by that time, Inigo had spotted them arriving from the northern path and begun sprinting to welcome them back.

Even though she had expected her friends to escape the Thalmor in one piece, seeing Lucien and Inigo hale and hearty was a balm to Gwynileth’s lingering nerves. There was no telling what else could’ve befallen them on the roads, and she always had been a worrier anyhow—

“My dear Gwynileth, stop your fretting!” exclaimed Lucien when she began to relay as much. “I promise you we faced no hardship whatsoever. Esbern is resting within the Sleeping Giant even as we speak. He says the road is for young people nowadays!”

As Lucien continued to relay the story of their relatively uneventful travel, however, Gwynileth spotted Inigo sliding something into Kaidan’s palm from the corner of her eye. They both looked concerned…

With a mental note to check in with them later, Gwynileth allowed her Imperial friend to escort her indoors.

It turned out Inigo and Lucien were not the only ones waiting for her and Kaidan’s return. Standing at the countertop of her inn, fingers drumming atop the dark wood, was Delphine. Even through the relative darkness of the setting day, her blue eyes were piercing. The very moment that Gwynileth crossed the threshold of the building, the woman’s gaze snapped to her face as she huffed, “Good, you’re finally back. Took the scenic route or something?”

“Something like that,” replied Gwynileth with a slight smile. Even if Delphine tried to goad her further, she would say no more than that. It was Kaidan’s story to tell, if he wished to tell it at all. “What have we discovered in the meanwhile?”

It did not take long for Lucien and Delphine to catch her up to speed. Thanks to Esbern’s extensive knowledge on draconic history and prophesy, he had given them a new place to visit called Sky Haven Temple. According to his studies, there was a great engraving within the stone of the mountain that recorded the details of Alduin’s previous defeat by the Nordic heroes of years past. If they were lucky, some of the information might prove useful even still.

“Where are these ruins located?” asked Gwynileth, peering over a map.

Delphine pointed a slender finger towards the eastern edges of Markarth, in the heart of the mountains. Her fingertip rested beside a faded label: Karthspire.

“Right in the middle of Forsworn territory,” said Delphine, her lips pursed in distaste. “We’ll have to fight our way through one of their camps to reach the ruins. With luck, they haven’t been able to break the thousand-year old seal that protects the place.”

From the tension in Delphine’s voice alone, Gwynileth could tell their access to Sky Haven Temple would be a hard-won reward. She had heard enough rumors about the Forsworn to know they were dangerous. As Lucien had only been too eager to tell her during one of their nights beside a campfire, the Forsworn had been displaced from the Reach two decades prior by none other than Ulfric Stormcloak, and due to their time in the mountains, they had grown fiercer and more merciless than ever before. They, more than any other tribe or race in Skyrim, were the most likely to turn towards darker magicks.

Gwynileth sighed and ran a hand through her hair—she suddenly realized how long it was getting, and wondered offhandedly if she should cut it soon. “Well, if that’s the case, we shall have to prepare ourselves accordingly. Four against three dozen doesn’t seem like good odds…”

“Six,” said Delphine. The right side of her mouth curled upwards. “Esbern and I are going with you.”

“Esbern…?” Lucien started to say, obviously confused.

But Delphine silenced him with a bark of a laugh and the words, “Don’t let his ‘old man’ act fool you. Give him another few solid meals and some time for meditation, and his magical prowess will surpass that of the professors of the College of Winterhold.”

Although Lucien didn’t seem quite convinced of the validity of her claim, he and Gwynileth alike were reassured by Delphine’s certainty in her colleague. The two of them had, after all, worked with and known each other for many long years.

With the conversation decidedly over, Delphine began rolling up her map and stated, “We leave in two days. Rest up tomorrow and grab what supplies you need. But the dragons aren’t going to wait around for us to stop them.”

Delphine left the room soon after, leaving Gwynileth and her friends standing about the dark room. In the corner, the alchemy table was sizzling with half-baked potions and poisons still steaming or simmering. She thought offhandedly that it might be wise to prepare additional healing potions before they left—

“Gwynileth, I have a favor to ask,” said Lucien, breaking her out of his thoughts. When she turned his direction, she was surprised to note he was uncharacteristically shy, his hands wringing together, his posture slouched. "Thanks to my research at Solitude’s library, I was able to locate the ruins of Dumzbthar. They are somewhere in the isle of Solstheim, and my father is trying to unearth a copy of the key! Once he finds it, he will send it along presently, but… in truth, I feel as if I am not ready to enter the ruins yet. Not without further training.”

His actual request was unspoken, yet still clear as day. Gwynileth could not help but smile as she said, “Then it sounds as though we should set to work, does it not?”

Lucien’s usual perkiness was restored at her ready offer of help. With only a sideways grin and a hand reaching for a spare bow, he gestured her towards the door leading out of the Sleeping Giant.

The town of Riverwood was a quaint and peaceful place for archery lessons. Now that the snow was melting and the sun shined warmer upon Mundus, Gwynileth found herself laughing as she corrected Lucien’s posture and set up targets for him to aim at.

Their efforts were not unnoticed, either—before long, a stray dog was barking at their heels, chasing after the arrows as Lucien let them fly and fetching them if they landed in the ground. Faendal was quick to approach and offer some additional advice, free of charge; Alvor waved heartily at them as he worked in the forge, smelting swords of iron and steel; the children of Riverwood played in the streets nearby, offering cheers of encouragement. Their enthusiasm invigorated Lucien, who made leaps and bounds from his previous progress despite his brief hiatus.

All in all, by the time the sun was setting over the western horizon, Gwynileth felt as though nothing could damper her heightened mood. She adored Riverwood, and she felt sure in herself and in Lucien’s ability to raid Karthspire the following day, and then Dumzbthar not too long after.

“Shall we conclude preparations with enchanting and alchemy?” she asked with a grin. Even though she needed a bath first and foremost—her hair was all but plastered to her forehead—Gwynileth figured it would be more beneficial to stay on task.

“I say!” replied Lucien. With a hearty slap on her shoulder, they turned towards the Sleeping Giant together, already launched into discussion on alchemical recipes and which ingredients they had surplus of so they might continue to experiment.

The bubbles and simmers of their potions provided comforting backdrop as they brewed together… but while Gwynileth much enjoyed Lucien’s company, she could not help noticing that on the opposite side of the inn, Kaidan and Inigo were looking quite suspect indeed, huddling close together and speaking in hushed whispers. She had not forgotten the little sleight of hand they had pulled earlier in the afternoon, and now with their additional secrecy, her curiosity was burning.

At last, when she had procured six medium-sized healing potions and three medium-sized potions for regenerating magicka, she whirled towards the two and playfully jabbed a finger in their direction. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say the two of you are plotting something you don’t want me knowing about.”

Silly though her words were, they seemed to ring true. Inigo’s ears jolted straight upwards, the way they did whenever he was caught unawares—but Kaidan merely sighed and glared into the shadows, darkness underneath his eyes.

Gwynileth laughed uneasily at their reactions. If it had been something lighthearted, they might have bantered right back at her. “Is… everything all right?”

Silence was her answer, save for the crackles of the hearth and the sound of Orgnar sweeping the kitchen pantry.

“I’m going to tell her.”

It was Kaidan who had spoken, his voice taut. His fists had suddenly clenched at his side.

Lucien spluttered indignantly and took a step forward. “You’re going to tell her now, Kaidan?” He stepped forward and, despite being a whole head shorter than the other man, glared into his eyes. “It’s not time yet!”

“Don’t ask me to keep lying to her, Lucien,” Kaidan hissed in return. “I won’t. Not anymore. Things have… changed.” His eyes softened as they landed upon Gwynileth, though they were slightly sad seeing the unhidden apprehension within her face.

“Well, hurrah-dee-dah for that, old chap, and it’s about time I’ll add, but we don’t have proof to support your suspicions! You can’t go worrying her over base suspicion at best, that’s ludic—”

“Wait, Lucien, you’re… you’re in on it too?” asked Gwynileth, eyes widening.

Lucien abruptly stopped speaking and took an abashed step backward, muttering something under his breath about apologies, and didn’t want to worry, and shouldn’t have said anything, why do you always put your foot in your mouth, Lucien.

All was silent between the four for a long, tense moment. Gwynileth stared between the three of her friends with bated breath. Despite the urgency of their words, it did not seem like there was any animosity between Kaidan and Lucien, at least. Whatever they had been doing, whatever they were so concerned about… it seemed as though it had brought them closer together. It was a minor salve.

Then Kaidan sighed; a heavy gesture that seemed to bring the weight of the entire world upon him. He glanced between Inigo and Lucien before saying, “Let me explain. If anyone should… it’s my past as well.”

Children were laughing somewhere in the inn’s gardens behind them. It was the only joyful sound to be heard. Gwynileth found herself becoming far colder than she had any right to be with the last vestiges of the cooking fire still alight.

“Right,” Lucien finally replied. He uncrossed his arms from his chest and started sheepishly rubbing the back of his head. “Well… at least let us be there with you. It will be better if we are all there, I think.”

“No arguments there,” said Kaidan, rising to his feet. He forced a small smile on his face and held one hand to Gwynileth.

She swallowed hard but accepted his hand, allowing him to escort her into the room Delphine let them use whenever they took shelter in the Sleeping Giant.

It took a moment, but at last all four were situated: Inigo was sitting cross-legged on the floor, Gwynileth upon her bed, Lucien in the armchair in the corner of the room, Kaidan standing watch close to the door. Gwynileth found herself absentmindedly reaching for her hairbrush—one of her few luxuries—to address the tangles within her hair. More than anything, she wished Anya was with her to perform the gesture. It had always helped to calm her down when she was nervous.

Only once Kaidan gently closed the door behind him did he speak again. “I’m sure you’ve noticed us acting a little strangely as of late, Gwyn. I’m sorry about that. But there’s been some… discoveries we’ve made recently regarding the assassins.”

Gwynileth gently pulled the hairbrush through her hair, not even wincing as the tines hit a particularly nasty snarl. She stared up at Kaidan, waiting.

He stepped forward; for the first time, she noticed there was something in his hand. When he unfurled his fingers, Gwynileth stopped short in surprise. Her mouth dry, she murmured, “That… that’s my amulet.” With shaking fingers, she caressed the smooth jadestone pendant. True as could be, it was an exact replica of the necklace that currently adorned her neck: the gift she had received from Lady Unara of House Redoran, what seemed a lifetime ago.

Her eyes flickered up to Kaidan, whose expression had not changed. She slowly shook her head. “I… I do not understand. This is my necklace, yet…”

“When we took the carriage to Whiterun after fleeing Solitude, we were waylaid by more assassins,” said Kaidan. His voice was uncommonly flat, almost to the point there was no emotion behind it at all. “You were still unconscious—Lucien protected you while Inigo and I fought them off. When we emerged victorious, we discovered two of the three were in different outfits, yet attempting to accomplish the same goal: to reach you. There’s no doubt in our minds, Gwyn. They’re working together.”

Pieces began clunking into place. Gwynileth exhaled sharply. “The Dark Brotherhood and the Morag Tong… have joined forces. For the contract on my life.”

Kaidan nodded. A sour twist took over his lips. “And what’s more, our battle with them was interrupted by a dremora. There was a sigil upon its armor, one that I am more than familiar with. You remember who I… used to follow before?”

Gwynileth nodded somberly. “Mehrunes Dagon.” Even the walls shuddered at the daedric lord’s name.

“Aye. We couldn’t inspect the dremora’s corpse further, as of course it turned into ash. But… combining the sigil with the presence of the dremora gives me enough to speculate who was behind its summoning.”

The last of the sun’s rays seeped into the window, enveloping their room in further darkness. Gwynileth shivered where she sat and rubbed her hands against her arms. She had not forgotten what Kaidan had told her about the woman from his past, the one who had escaped certain death when their cult had been destroyed: Rosalind.

Seeing her shiver, Lucien immediately turned to the small hearth and summoned a fire from his fingertips.

“Then you know she’s alive?” asked Gwynileth, swallowing hard. She had known there was the possibility that Kaidan’s former lover still drew breath, but she had never truly dedicated thought to how she’d feel if their paths ever crossed. She was uneager to have the experience.

“That’s the proof we don’t have,” Lucien piped up, speaking for the first time. His usually kind eyes shot a brief spurt of disapproval in Kaidan’s direction. “But it’s the proof we’ve been searching for… and more accurately than that, proof that her goal is bodily harm done to you.”

Kaidan frowned. “You don’t know her as I know her, Lucien. If Rosalind wants to get to me, she’ll do so by going after Gwyn. She’s vindictive and cruel, and I doubt time has tempered her worse qualities. Fortunately, Inigo has helped me take an initiative.”

With that, he opened his other hand. Sitting within it was a black torc, decorated with sinister-looking red swirls.

“This is a key to our previous hideout,” he said. He spoke with disgust, tongue and eyes alike spitting flames. “Inigo gathered the ingredients to infuse it with the appropriate magicks, which will bypass any locks she might have put on the door. If we wish… we could go scout the place ourselves and find out what’s there.”

The silence was overwhelming as Gwynileth processed the new information. She had promised Kaidan support, should he ever attempt to pursue and eliminate Rosalind as a threat, yet that had been when all was light outside, and it was only her and him sitting amongst pure white snows. Now, with the surrounding darkness for company, she was a little more unsure…

And that was without the selfish note that Gwynileth did not want to cross paths with any former lover of Kaidan’s. Now that they were even closer, she did not want to poison their current relationship with her jealousy.

Gwynileth found herself gripping her hairbrush tightly, grimacing as she pulled—perhaps a bit too roughly—on the snaggle it was caught on.

“If I am understanding correctly,” she said, “we know for certain that the Dark Brotherhood and the Morag Tong are actively working together, and we suspect that Rosalind is alive, and wishes vengeance upon you. And their common goal is… to kill me?”

Gwynileth surprised herself with the relative strength of her voice while she spoke. Fear still sparked her heart at the thought of the Morag Tong, yet as she sat with her three close friends, all of whom had proven time and again that they would accompany and defend her until their ventures were over… she did not find herself succumbing to fear.

“Yes. We found proof of the Dark Brotherhood’s and Morag Tong’s alliance on the bodies of the assassins outside of Solitude,” said Kaidan. He withdrew something from within his pocket at the same time Inigo took something from his own knapsack. Each of them held out their possessions: two pieces of paper. “This came from a Dark Brotherhood pocket. Perhaps it’s best you read their orders for yourself.”

He extended the paper in her direction, biting his bottom lip. Gwynileth took it gingerly, unable to conceal the shake in her hand, and unfolded it.

When she laid eyes on the penmanship, the first thing she thought was that she knew the handwriting upon it. She blinked and studied it again—and was suddenly certain that yes, she knew those familiar loops, the elegant script. How many times had she seen poems praising the silver sands of Morrowind in that same hand, or elegant odes dedicated to the color of her own eyes?

Spikes bit the corner of her eyes. There was a significant part of her that wanted to break down bawling, to sob in a way that would wrack her chest and send hiccups of dismay flying from her lips. Because it hurt. It hurt so much to know that he wanted to kill her. Her humiliation was apparently not enough, nor was her disappearance. She knew how poorly her flight would’ve reflected upon him and his family—not to mention her own—but to only be satisfied with her very life?

They had been friends once.

Yet even so, as Gwynileth gently caressed the words, Your task is to capture or kill the Dunmeri woman who wears the following pendant, with shaking fingertips, all she could do was sit, stare, and allow only a few sparse tears to trail down her cheeks.

Something soft wrapped around Gwynileth’s feet. She blinked and glanced down to see Inigo had drawn closer, his tail curling around her ankles.

“Are you all right, my friend?” he asked softly. It was the only thing he had said throughout the conversation.

There was so much affection in Inigo’s voice, it nearly dried the last of Gwynileth’s tears on its own. With a small yet meaningful smile, she murmured, “I will be. The identity of the man who hired these assassins was not necessarily a surprise, but… it still stings to have it confirmed.”

Utter silence occupied the space between them. Gwynileth knew she should be forthcoming.

With one deep breath, she relayed, “These orders… they come from the man I was engaged to. The one who raped me.”

Lucien and Inigo started at the bluntness with which she spoke, and Gwynileth could not blame them. She had not told them of the reason behind her night terrors, because previously, she had not been ready.

But as she accosted them with serious gazes and read their reactions in their faces—horror, anger, and surprise, before finally settling on determination—she knew they would not treat her any differently than before. And that was all she could ask of them.

Soft footsteps broke through the ensuing gloom, and then Kaidan was sitting next to her upon the bed, his fingers gently unfurling her grasp upon her hairbrush. Gwynileth had not realized how tightly she had been holding it until he took it from her… and then he started to gently comb through the last section she had missed, his fingers brushing against her temple.

“He will never step close to you again. I won’t let him.” While it would’ve been all too easy for Kaidan’s voice to be harsh, it wasn’t. Instead, he was calm and composed, his tone soft as he spoke. “And I won’t let my past anywhere near you, either. No matter what, Gwyn… I’ll do everything in my power to protect you. Not just because I owe you a debt, or because it’s always been the Akaviri’s duty to protect the Dragonborn… but because I care about you, more truly and deeply than any other in this world.”

Between Kaidan’s declaration, how lovingly he was brushing her hair, the way Inigo had rested his head against her knee, and the way Lucien approached and split a strawberry crostata for them to share… even though Gwynileth knew she had every right to be afraid with these new revelations about her pursuers, she wasn’t. Because she had her friends.

“I do not know what I have done to deserve your affection and your friendship, but I will always strive to be worthy of it,” she murmured.

Her words were met with an agreeable silence, but in truth… she hadn’t needed them to respond. The way they continued to sit by her side said more than enough already.

Chapter Text

Just as Gwynileth had both feared and expected, entry to Sky Haven Temple was a hard-won prize.

Lucien had been correct in his warnings about the Forsworn; they were every bit as cunning and battle-hardened as he had declared. Most of them wielded crude yet sharp axes in each hand, and unleashed wickedly quick attacks that Gwynileth found herself far too close to comfort for. Many times did she find herself being protected by Esbern's lightning magic, or by Kaidan's nodachi, or by Inigo's arrows—yet she was always able to repay the favor, either by pushing enemies away with Fus-Ro-Dah or by healing lesser wounds here and there.

After a fairly grueling battle, however, they proved themselves the victors. The camp of Karthspire was relatively well-established, and fortunately had plenty of supplies they could take to refresh their own stocks.

Once they had sufficiently prepared themselves for the next leg of the journey, it was into the actual ruins of Karthspire they went. The cave was damp and had clearly been occupied by the Forsworn as well, based on the straw beds and still stewing cooking pots that were left behind. Gwynileth could hear Esbern scoff at the way they had desecrated what he considered a momentous place of history.

The deeper they went into the tunnels, however, the more obvious it became of the cave's importance. Puzzles awaited the group that, if left unsolved, barred access into Sky Haven Temple. It took some brainpower from Esbern and Lucien to crack them—yet solve the puzzles and continue on they did.

It took approximately six hours for the group to earn their way past the remaining traps and giant spiders that guarded the temple. The prize for their efforts ended up being a sufficiently defensible fortress and a large mural, upon which was depicted the original war against Alduin, his downfall… and a prophecy of the future, which included his most recent resurrection.

Gwynileth gently set down her torch and approached the wall, fingertips extended. Her eyes widened to behold the craftsmanship; not a single chip or detail was out of place. The stone was both tapestry and story, and clearly made with the utmost care in mind.

"My tutor would have loved this," she heard herself muse, voice bouncing off the walls and back into her own ears. "Danilo was always praising artistic depictions of history."

Esbern chuckled at her awe. "Sounds as though he and I might've had many a long conversation around a fire."

Somewhere to her right, Lucien made a general noise of agreement.

"Now then, let's see… look there, Gwynileth—here is a fragment of a great battle that took place hundreds of years ago. See how the Akaviri tribesman are wielding their spears as the first line of defense for the Dragonborn?"

She did indeed see what Esbern was mentioning. Lined in perfect formation were carvings of a dozen men, all wielding spears, all with markings upon their foreheads. The mention of the Akaviri also summoned Kaidan to her side—as Gwynileth reached forward to caress the details of their faces, she felt his hand slide around her waist, his cheek rest atop her head.

For a few simple moments did Gwynileth stand, listening to Esbern relay his assumptions and hypothesis of what each segment of the mural might be. Lucien would chime in now and again, providing an Imperial student's viewpoint. Such conversations might've lasted hours, if not for Delphine.

"All right, Esbern, I think we get the point," she sighed, crossing her arms. "I think the Dragonborn is going to need some rest after expending all her energy with Shouts."

The reminder set Esbern to coughing. Though it was dark, Gwynileth's vision was still sharp, and she could not help being charmed by the light shade of pink the elderly man's cheeks became as he spluttered, "Of course, of course…" He cleared his throat. "Allow me some time to finagle the details of this mural. Why don't you visit me tomorrow afternoon, and I will have more detailed information for you?"

Gwynileth smiled and nodded. On one thing, Delphine was certainly right: the day had been long, and she was overdue for a change of clothes and a long night of sleep.

Yet before she could retire for the evening, Inigo and Lucien approached, and managed to convince her to tour the mountainous overlook just outside.

Seeing as she was never one to refuse her friends, Gwynileth did so. For being abandoned over centuries, the overlook had withstood the weather well. A blacksmith's forge remained, scuffed but salvageable, underneath the rock. Far below, one could see the main road leading west towards Markarth, many dirt roads splitting into separate pathways from it. Grass, trees, and flowers grew on the side of the mountain; the Blades' new hideout almost reminded Gwynileth of a garden sanctuary back in Morrowind, the type that only the rich and prosperous could ever afford.

"Look, there is even a grindstone!" exclaimed Inigo delightedly. The sharp sound of stone against steel reverberated mere moments afterward; his childish delight at such a commonplace object set Gwynileth to giggling. Even Lucien stopped penning his daily reports to inspect the quality of the Khajiit's blades.

It was a picturesque moment, one reminiscent of the usual nights around the campfire. Gwynileth spent a few precious minutes sitting amongst the overgrown reeds, listening to her friends speculate what else might be written on that giant stone wall inside, and what they might need to defeat Alduin. Their guesses ranged from ancient magic to a secret weapon to a really large bird; the final suggestion caused her to burst into laughter once again—

"It's good to hear you laugh like that."

From the shadows appeared Kaidan, whose own lips were curled slightly as he took in the expression on Gwynileth's face. Before she could realize what she was doing, she was reaching for his hand and bringing his knuckles to her lips.

The ghost of his smile grew wider. "You feeling all right?"

His question was not unfounded; the hard-won battles earlier had seen Gwynileth utilizing her Shouts more than usual which, if she overused them, often caused great fatigue, or sometimes even a bloody nose. "I feel much better now. You don't need to worry."

"I always worry." Kaidan squeezed her hand and glanced up towards the moons hovering above. "But I'm glad to hear it. You need your strength."

That much became certain when, the following afternoon, Esbern approached the group with his newfound conclusions. The ancient Nords had used a Shout to defeat Alduin, he said, but what that Shout was specifically… he could not discern from stone and steelwork alone. They needed an expert's help.

Lucien heaved a dramatic sigh at the implication. "Does this mean we need to climb the Seven-Thousand Steps again?"

Unfortunately for him, the answer was a resounding 'yes'. Considering the importance of their task, it was only the next day that the group returned to Ivarstead, somehow managing to avoid distraction during their journey, and the day after that saw them hoisting themselves up the mountainside to where the Greybeards lived.

Surprisingly enough, Lucien and Inigo were more chipper than Gwynileth expected them to be, considering the trek ahead. But the morning had been a soothing one, quite warm and sunny, and it helped that a stray kitten decided to visit Lucien during his morning reflections. The appearance of a cat always put the Imperial scholar in a good mood.

Kaidan, on the other hand, looked as though he had hardly slept. Even during the most dangerous portions of the slope, Gwynileth noted that he kept glaring at something within his palm, something that he carefully kept out of her—or anyone's—sight.

"Are you all right this morning, Kaidan?" she murmured, positioning herself at his side.

"Aye. Just didn't sleep well," was the answer. The dark circles under his eyes certainly attested to that, though the weight in her stomach stated he was not being entirely truthful.

Gwynileth nodded slowly. They had made a long trip yesterday after all, and it wasn't as though the Seven-Thousand Steps were an easy hike. She merely offered him a slight smile and continued the climb, knowing his eyes were upon her back as she went.

While Gwynileth rather thought the Greybeards might have been happy to hear of a potential solution to the prophecy detailing the literal end of the world, Master Arngeir's reaction threw her off deeply.

"A violent Shout to be used against dragons? Who taught you such things? Who could've—oh, of course. The Blades!" The elderly man scoffed, full of distaste. "They've always corrupted the Dragonborn from their intended purpose. Am I correct?"

Even though she knew confirming his suspicions could only flare the man's temper further, Gwynileth also knew that to lie would burn all of their trust. "Yes, you are, Master."

Master Arngeir sniffed. "While I appreciate the honesty… I cannot help you."

It took plenty of arguing, pleading, and eventual interference from the four other monks, but at last, Master Arngeir relented. Only after teaching Gwynileth the three words to the Clear Skies Shout did he allow her and her friends to go on their way, with a begrudging wish of good luck for the ascent of the Throat of the World, where the leader of the Greybeards was patiently waiting for her.

The journey up the Throat of the World was even more perilous than that of the Seven-Thousand Steps, and that was saying something. Ice wraiths this high up were both far more plentiful and far more savage than their lower counterparts—the only upside Gwynileth could find to this was that their teeth would make wonderful potions of invisibility. They were hardly the only obstacles, however; there were also wolves, trolls, and extra difficult storms that flooded the peak of the mountain. The chill was intense, and Gwynileth couldn't help wondering what sort of person would comfortably make their home so high up in the air, so far away from civility…

Finding out a sagely dragon was the leader of the Greybeards, however, was a most surprising twist.

Yet that dragon was an amazingly insightful individual. Gwynileth found herself fascinated by him from the moment he first landed ahead of her; she was ashamed to say she'd drawn her bow on his first appearance, not having realized he was friend over foe. Yet, graceful as he was, he did not hold it against her—in fact, all he did was laugh.

"Drem-lo-lohk. Greetings. I do not blame you your reaction, Little Dovah," said Paarthurnax, whose voice was deep enough to cause the pebbles by her feet to rumble. "But I am one for talking, not fighting. I am Paarthurnax. What brings you to my strunmah—my mountain?"

And thanks to Paarthurnax's wisdom, Gwynileth had a new direction: to retrieve an Elder Scroll, the power of which would allow her to transport herself back in time to view the Dragonrend Shout the ancient Nords once used, and learn it herself.

Just the mention of an Elder Scroll was enough to make Lucien gasp. Sparks illuminated his eyes as he cried, "I know a number of scholars who studied Elder Scrolls in depth! A few of them are here in Skyrim; the College of Winterhold will host them! I simply cannot believe we might get to clap eyes on one… they were once held in the Imperial Academy, you know, but one day they just disappeared. Do you think I could… hold it, once we obtain it? Just for a moment!"

Despite the ready complaint of their overworked legs, the descent down the Throat of the World and the ensuing Seven-Thousand Steps was far more lighthearted. Inigo was whistling a jaunty tune as Lucien rambled about all the studies his father once made on the Elder Scrolls; Gwynileth truly was interested in his stories, but she could not help noticing Kaidan's face was only growing stonier over the course of the day. Not even the revelation of Paarthurnax being a dragon had elicited much of a response from him…

Gwynileth had hoped that a good night's sleep would assist in getting everyone back to normal, but she herself was not able to find it. Just like before, in the Ivarstead Inn… her sleeping mind did not allow it.

Instead of memories of her assault, however, different nightmares plagued her: nightmares of being captured and thrown into a cage, of being burned alive, of a four-armed gargoyle stripping her very soul from her body, its deep, rumbling voice cackling as its talons pierced her skin in a dozen different places. Somewhere far off, she could hear Kaidan calling her name. It was clear by his intonation that he too was in agony, yet she couldn't do anything to save him. She couldn't even save herself—the stench of blood was overwhelming—

Gwynileth awoke with a sharp gasp, in a cold sweat. She swallowed hard once, twice, before realizing she had launched upright in bed, her legs already free from the sheets.

Before she could get to her wobbly feet, she stopped. She had not forgotten what she had done the last time she had slept in this inn, her midnight flight into the river… before she did anything else, she needed to ground herself.

A deep breath filled her lungs, her diaphragm. As she closed her eyes, the remainder of her senses opened. In the next room over, she could hear Inigo's comforting snore. Soft creaks of the wooden walls signaled the wind was blowing. The candle upon her nightstand was still lit, and had perhaps one more hour of wax remaining.

It would be enough time for her to partake of a small goblet of mulled wine to soothe her nerves and get back to sleep.

With this in mind, Gwynileth donned her simple traveling clothes and crept out of her room.

One glance revealed it was deep into the night. Candles flickered to allow light towards the privy, and the windows outside were black as pitch. No patrons were at the bar, nor at the dining table; Wilhelm had long since gone to sleep, and Lynnly's lute was resting against one of the rocking chairs in the lounge. Crickets chirped outdoors, signaling spring's ready return; she could not help smiling as frogs soon joined the chorus. That was an animal that rarely, if ever, made an appearance in Morrowind…

"Gwyn?"

Gwynileth gasped and nearly dropped her candle. Standing against a post, still clad in his armor, was Kaidan. The table next to him had two mugs tipped on their sides. A third was sitting upright, golden liquid to its brim, and a fourth was in his hand.

"Kaidan," she returned. Any alarm she'd felt at being caught off-guard swiftly melted away. She gestured loosely to the mug in his hand. "Having a nightcap, are we? Happen to have any more?"

Her lackadaisical manner earned a smile. "Aye, always do. Come here."

She obeyed the summons, trying not to make it too obvious that she was admiring him in the low light of the room. The subtle lights of candles always served to highlight the amber of his eyes, which had always been one of her favorite things about him. When Gwynileth grasped a spare mug from his hand, her heart leapt to feel his fingers brush against her own.

Upon taking a sip of the liquid within said mug, however, Gwynileth's face puckered. "Ugh. I don't understand how you can enjoy this."

Kaidan chuckled at her obvious disgust. "What? Honningbrew is the best mead around. Too rugged for your refined palette?" He wrapped one arm around her shoulder and pulled her close, lips finding her temple.

"Indeed. I'll turn you into an enjoyer of mulled wine if it's the last thing I do," retorted Gwynileth, trying not to grin too widely. She knew this Honningbrew brand was his favorite, however, and so, despite her distaste of the mead within her goblet, she raised it again to brave another taste.

"In your dreams, sweetheart."

While the teasing term of affection might've caused joy to infest her heart any other night, the mention of dreams made her scowl. The nightmares were still far too fresh; she could still hear Kaidan's desperate voice, filled with such pain. She prayed to Azura she would never find out whether that was what he would sound like, when in such torment…

"Everything all right?"

Gwynileth blinked and raised her gaze to Kaidan's. His brow was furrowed, the way it always was whenever his concern was directed to her. She shrugged and smiled sideways. Braved another sip—the damn draft was simultaneously too sweet and too bitter.

Ironically enough, her non-answer was answer enough for Kaidan. His lips thinned. "I see. Nightmares about him again?"

"Nightmares, yes, but… not about him." Gwynileth sighed and turned towards the foyer. So many empty chairs and empty tables; she knew it was due to the hour of the night, but the sight was still a tad melancholy. "They were different this time. You were in them."

"Me? Oh bollocks, what did I do."

The sight of the stone gargoyle flooded Gwynileth's head, as clear as if it were a reflection in the looking-glass on the western wall. Her grasp over her mug tightened. "You were… screaming for me. We both were being tortured. I felt like I was on fire, like a dozen swords were piercing my skin. This giant creature made of stone was trying to rip my soul from my chest, and was just laughing all the—"

A sudden crash made Gwynileth yelp and dart to the side. The mug that had been in Kaidan's hand had collapsed to the floor, amber liquid splashing across the wooden floorboards. A split second passed before she gathered her senses enough to seize a nearby cloth and begin mopping up the spilled drink.

Fortunately, not much had been left within the mug, which meant Gwynileth was able to retake her place by Kaidan's side in the next ten seconds. But when she noted the troubled look upon his face, the way his fingers were clenching over thin air… it was her turn for her eyebrow to furrow.

"Kaidan?"

His gaze had flown a thousand yards away. Gwynileth could practically see the great effort he took to return to the present. "Aye, I'm here. I'm fine, I just…"

He did not finish his thought.

Moments passed in gentle disquiet. The night was no longer so black, but was starting to turn the color of twilight seas. If they were to get any rest before the morning, they would need to take advantage soon—and based on how Kaidan had not gotten comfortable at all, and had, in fact, been drinking all evening, Gwynileth figured he sorely needed it.

A flash of old memory ran through her mind: a thunderstorm in Nerussa Estate, zaps of lightning screaming through the windows, welcoming her back to the waking world after a dream she could barely break. Her mother appeared at her bedside when Gwynileth called.

With her there, Gwynileth was not afraid of the demons in her dreams. With her there, she was able to sleep in peace. And when her mother no longer performed such a task to keep her comfortable, it was Anya who took her place, keeping the nightmares at bay.

"Come with me," she said softly, taking Kaidan's hand at his side. He raised an eyebrow but did not protest as she led him across the foyer. As they drew closer to her room, however, she could sense his uncertainty grow.

"Gwyn, are you sure you… what are you doing?" he asked bemusedly.

"Trust me," she said. She pushed the door open and gestured him inside.

Kaidan glanced between her and the room, inside which was precious little: Gwynileth's knapsack, a wardrobe, and the slightly disheveled bed with three handmade quilts upon it.

She gestured to the bed. "Sit. But no armor on the bed."

He shook his head in amusement, yet followed her instruction. The way Kaidan doffed his armor had always fascinated Gwynileth; normally, it took more than one person to fasten a suit like his, but he, having been trained for battle since he was twelve, did not need the help. His gestures were smooth, methodical—and though it was dark inside the room without her candle, her Dunmeri vision allowed her to see the stability of his fingers as they worked through the leather straps, three mugs of ale be damned.

Once his armor was sitting in the corner of the floor and he was cautiously sitting upon the bed, Gwynileth carefully placed herself behind him—

"What are you doing?" he started to ask again, yet she shushed him by placing her hands upon his temples.

"I used to suffer horrid nightmares as a child," she said softly. Her fingers slowly, carefully trailed through the roots of his hair; she could feel him stiffen underneath her touch, as though unsure how to interpret it. "My mother would do this to help me sleep, whenever I was horridly afraid."

Kaidan exhaled sharply; whether it was a scoff or a laugh, Gwynileth could not tell. "But you're the one who had a nightmare, Gwyn."

"I was tonight," she replied. "But I suspect last night, they visited you instead. Why else would you still be awake?" Her fingers gingerly pressed against his temples, moving in slight clockwise circles. A curl threatened to seize her lips at the way he unconsciously melted underneath her palms. "If you're to be my shield, it would hardly do for you to be deprived of sleep, would it."

There was no answer. Kaidan was quiet as she continued working her way from his temples to the back of his neck, precisely placing her thumbs and sliding across his skin. The muscles at his shoulders were almost unbearably tight; she took great pains to work her way across them, the exact same patterns she had memorized being etched onto her own skin when she was young. Even as the seconds ticked on, Gwynileth could feel his breathing grow deeper, less regimented.

A little bit of light started pouring in through the window, allowing Gwynileth to see him clearer. His eyes were closed, as though he were on the verge of falling asleep directly where he sat.

Determined to let him rest, Gwynileth carefully repositioned herself and lay him atop her bed. It was very rarely that she ever got to see this side of him; sweet, vulnerable. He was a man who had grown up not knowing what it was to let down his guard. There was no telling when next she would get to see this again, and so she wanted to commit it to memory: the way his dark hair was splaying about the pillow, the peaceful neutrality within his face.

Gwynileth smiled and leaned over him, pressing a swift kiss to his cheekbone. Then she stood, preparing to take a walk, take advantage of the early morning air—

"I don't deserve you, Gwyn."

She stopped, her hand upon the doorknob. The way Kaidan had spoken… almost sounded like he was on the verge of tears.

When she glanced back to him, his eyes were barely flickered open, yet one of his hands was reaching for her. Upon seeing the surprise in her face, he started to retract it—

Gwynileth reached out and seized it, interlocking his fingers with hers. She knelt beside the bed again; so much affection was welling within her chest, she thought she might burst because of it. "You deserve the utmost of my efforts, Kai."

He chuckled. The sound was still wet. "Kai now, huh."

"Mmhm. If you get to have Gwyn, then… it seems only fair that I get to have Kai."

"Fair enough." Kaidan's lips twisted, his nose scrunched. It was the look of a man who wanted to ask something, yet wasn't sure if he should. Right when Gwynileth was about to ask him to speak his mind, he blurted out, "Would you let me hold you tonight? We… never know what tomorrow's going to bring."

The request was a sweet one, one that Gwynileth trusted was as simple as he stated. Besides, on one thing he was certainly correct: there was no telling what the dawn would have in store.

Instead of answering verbally, she lifted the blankets and sidled atop the mattress. With two people upon it, the bedposts creaked slightly in disagreement—but the sound was swiftly banished from her mind as Kaidan wrapped an arm around her back and pulled her close to his chest. Without his armor on, he was so warm. Safe.

Safe… was a very valuable thing to be, considering the circumstances she had first met him under three months ago.

She sighed contentedly and nestled into his neck. And with the warmth of his body, the quilts, and the blaze of her heart, Gwynileth closed her eyes.

Chapter Text

Thanks to the screaming of everyone’s legs, it was quickly determined the following morning that the group would take a carriage to Riften, and then a carriage to Winterhold so they might pursue their lead on the Elder Scroll.

“Remind me never to eat three sweet rolls before climbing the Seven-Thousand Steps ever again,” groaned Inigo, one paw resolutely positioned on his belly. “I still feel like I will throw up if I see another set of stairs…”

After a somewhat hearty breakfast—minus Inigo, who groaned at the sight of smoked meats and turned aside—the carriage driver allowed them to board. Fortunately, it was a beautiful morning for travel; with the onset of the year’s fifth month, children everywhere were revitalized and resolved to play games outside. All along the main road to the east, laughter, barking dogs, and busy sawmills could be heard.

“You know, on second visit… maybe the Rift isn’t so bad,” declared Lucien, a smile on his face as three young boys attempted to chase the carriage.

Before any time had passed at all, the group was escorted back into Riften. There was no sign of the Thalmor present, which eradicated many of Gwynileth’s worries—yet as they disembarked the carriage and enquired for one bound to Winterhold, they were met with an unfortunate answer.

“Apologies, miss, but my carriage don’t go that far north,” lamented the driver. He gestured sadly to his horse; one look at the poor creature stated her days of traversing through snowdrift and wind were long past. “You’ll have to wait for Bjorn to come back.”

Waiting one day wouldn’t be the end of the world—and the prospect of seeing Bjorn again, the same man who’d driven her to Falkreath when first she stepped foot in Skyrim—would be a welcome thing, too.

So the group decided to spend a day recovering from their sore muscles, catching up on much needed sleep, and otherwise attending to their own errands. Inigo and Gwynileth proceeded around the town square, visiting stalls and purchasing groceries that would be needed for the next few days on the road.

“Ooh, look at this one, my friend,” said Inigo, pointing towards a choice cut of meat. “We could make some delicious roast with this. Top it with some parsley and butter, and we will dine like kings!”

Gwynileth grinned. “I see you’re feeling better, as you’re back to thinking about dinner.”

“What can I say, I am a simple man.” Inigo’s ears twitched playfully as he regarded her; then he returned to the vendor across from him. “I will take four of these, please.” As the meat was packaged up, Inigo blinked. “Hmm. I hope Lucien’s frost spells will be as strong a preservative as I am thinking.”

“If you have any ice wraith teeth, that’ll work just grand!” exclaimed the vendor with a grin. He gestured loosely over to the Dunmer woman on the opposite side of the market. “Marise is actually looking for some, if you happen to have any spare.”

Which, funnily enough, Gwynileth certainly did thanks to the group’s venture up the Throat of the World the previous day. She wasted no time in traversing over to Marise, who seemed positively delighted to welcome a fellow Dunmer to her stall.

After receiving thanks and a minor reward for her help with the ice wraith teeth, Marise made a mention of Balimund, the blacksmith, needing some fire salts…

Which, coincidentally, Gwynileth also had on hand.

The next hour progressed with her doing what she could not during her first visit in Riften: assisting the people who lived in the city. The people who, even though they lived under the uncertain rule of the Thieves’ Guild and the Black-Briar family, brightened considerably as she assisted with their minor inconveniences. Inigo popped after her, cracking jokes and purchasing little trinkets or souvenirs from each of their stalls; the two of them quickly gained plenty of positive attention from those within the market square.

While Gwynileth’s alchemy pouch was feeling significantly lighter by the time she finally decided it was time to head towards the Bee and Barb for a suppertime meal, her heart was far fuller for it. Over the course of a single hour, she had parted with five ice wraith teeth, ten pinches of fire salts, twenty deathbells, twenty nightshades, twenty nirnroots, a chunk of gold ore, a mammoth tusk, and three flawless amethysts.

Yet what she had sown in the name of goodwill, she and Inigo reaped that night at supper. They were local legends within the Bee and Barb; Ingun Black-Briar paid for their drinks, and Talen-Jei declared their meals were on the house. The bard played cheery music, whatever Inigo wanted to request, and all was merry and bright.

It was like a party, a thing Gwynileth had not been part of since the 1^st of Morning Star. She found herself laughing and exchanging cheers with her newfound friends—never mind the fact she only ordered jazbay tea—and before long, Balimund had persuaded her into sharing a joyful dance in the midst of the tavern.

Clapping and cheering filled the room as others began to join in the mirth; golden light from the sunset cascaded through the windows. Inigo was playing card games with Madesi. Gwynileth remained dancing for quite some time, and Lucien was grinning as he played on one of the bard’s spare drums.

Yet Gwynileth could not help noticing Kaidan keeping to himself in the corner of the room, nursing a mug of ale in the shadows. Every time she would catch his eye, he would offer her a plaintive smile… yet he never approached, nor did he interact with anyone else in the town, despite his love of the city.

Just as she was resolved to force Kaidan to share a dance with her, however, a somewhat familiar voice began saying, “Look at you, lass, making a name for yourself as Riften’s new benefactor—with riches you reportedly stole from the Thalmor, no less. The Gray Fox would be proud.”

It was that red-haired man, the man who gave her information on Esbern’s whereabouts only two weeks prior: Brynjolf.

He grinned sharply and extended a solitary hand. “A dance, milady?”

Despite Brynjolf’s sarcastic tone of voice, Gwynileth was certain of his compliment’s sincerity. As she had once told Lucien, she herself was an admirer of the Gray Fox: he who stole from the rich to give to the poor. To be likened to him, even in passing, was an honor she was proud to receive.

It was for that reason that she raised a delicate eyebrow, gazed him over once, twice… and then acquiesced. “I suppose one wouldn’t hurt.”

“I’m honored.”

When Gwynileth took his hand and the bard began playing yet another jaunty tune, however, she could feel Kaidan’s gaze on the side of the room grow pointed.

Brynjolf was amazingly coordinated; perhaps not so surprising considering his ‘profession’ required great dexterity. He spun Gwynileth this way and that in time with the music, his hands always maintaining a respectful space. She had not expected those same hands to be as warm and gentle as they were.

“You know, I am genuinely impressed by what you’ve done today. This city hasn’t been so lively in… quite a time,” said Brynjolf.

“Well, with your guild protecting it, I can’t imagine why not,” Gwynileth drawled. While Brynjolf was clearly no threat, she was certain he wanted something from her. A man like him wouldn’t stop simply to have a pleasant chat, much less invite her to dance.

Her skepticism made his lip curl, revealing those perfectly white teeth. “Got us pegged there. But believe me, I genuinely want Riften to thrive. My guild’s success is based on two things: Lady Luck, and the people’s morale. No good spirits means no traders, and no traders means no pockets to pick. It’s that simple. And you, my dear Dragonborn, are very good for people’s morale.”

This seemed a bit of a strange compliment. Gwynileth was not sure whether to thank Brynjolf for his assessment. She spun underneath his raised arm and nearly staggered back as he leaned forward, close enough to kiss her if he wished.

"And that is why I want to give you some important information, free of charge.” The man’s reddish curls brushed Gwynileth’s forehead. “Watch yourself beyond city walls, lass. Someone’s paid the Dark Brotherhood a handsome sum for your heart—the bounty’s more than an honest thief like me might see in his life. And there’s a bonus for them if they bring it within the month; the 29^th at latest, if my sources are worth a damn… and they always are.”

Her birthday; her wedding date. This was no coincidence. Brynjolf would have no way of knowing the importance of the 29^th of Second Seed; that in itself was testament to him speaking the truth.

All the joy that Gwynileth had gathered earlier in the day washed away like the tide. Shivers trailed up her spine; she stopped dancing, took one step backwards. Shadows filled the marrow of her bones.

Jenithar was determined to make her pay.

“You all right there, lass?” Brynjolf asked softly. He held out a hand once again. A softer song was now playing; it matched the somberness of Gwynileth’s heart.

Even though she wished it was Kaidan asking her the question, Gwynileth did not wish to feel alone in that moment. She reached out and took his offered hand, squeezing it tight. Other dancers were forced to maneuver around them, yet her eyes remained upon Brynjolf—the man who owed her nothing, yet whose gaze was full of concern nonetheless. “You have my thanks for the warning, Brynjolf. I knew they were after me, but… only now do I realize how desperate they are.”

“Aye, and desperate means dangerous,” Brynjolf said sagely. He bowed his head and, with a dramatic gesture, prepared to step aside—

“One question, if you please,” exclaimed Gwynileth. After seeing Brynjolf pause, she dug around in her pocket, in the hidden buttoned compartment where her most valuable objects were stored. She withdrew a royal diamond and flicked it in his direction, the gemstone making a high arc and sparkling as candlelight met it.

Brynjolf caught it without effort. He twirled it this way and that, appraising and admiring the gem. “This is a pretty prize. Must be a loaded question. What is it?”

“You obviously know the Dark Brotherhood well. Do they ever ally with other organizations for a contract?”

The question made the thief snicker. “Never, lass, and I doubt they ever will. They compete with other guilds often, however. And a target like yourself, well… I wouldn’t doubt multiple groups want your pretty head.” He pocketed the diamond with a wink. “To that end, I recommend you collect that dashing bodyguard of yours—the one who’s been glaring at me the last five minutes, and doesn’t know the meaning of the word ‘smile’—and get him to sober up. If he keeps inhaling his ale at the rate he has been, he won’t be able to…”

Yet Brynjolf paused. He sniffed once, twice. His brow furrowed, and he held out his arm as if to push Gwynileth behind him.

A split second after, Gwynileth smelt it too.

Sulfur.

A portal of shadow and pitch erupted on their left side, blocking the main door. Screams erupted throughout the Bee and Barb as out of the portal emerged a daedra, its claws extended, pointed teeth directed straight for Gwynileth’s neck—

Brynjolf snarled and leapt forward, withdrawing a pocketknife from his tunic with a simple flick of his wrist. The knife landed in the daedra’s throat; thick, black ichor spouted onto the floor, onto Brynjolf’s arm, onto Gwynileth’s dress.

“Gwyn!”

The daedra gurgled. Blood mixed with spittle as the daedra glared into Gwynileth’s eyes. She hated that the color of her eyes and the color of this monster’s were near the same.

Then it collapsed to the floor: dead.

Footsteps stormed forwards, and then Kaidan was standing next to her, his eyes locked upon the corpse in horror. Gwynileth had never seen such a haunted look take him over before; the disbelief invaded the very hollows of his heart.

Brynjolf grunted as he knelt down and swept the knife from the beast’s throat. Only after cleaning his weapon on the assailant’s robes did he prop himself back upright and shrug towards Talen-Jei and Keerava, the two proprietors of the tavern. “Sorry about the mess. Couldn’t be helped.”

The two Argonians offered halfhearted reassurances of not to worry, thank you for taking care of it, though their eyes remained wide as saucers as they stared at the daedra’s carcass, which was slowly dissolving into ash.

Gwynileth could feel everyone’s gaze migrate to her. It was obvious they were all flabbergasted; whispers began to break amongst the throng.

"I didn’t… I couldn’t…”

Kaidan swallowed hard and ceased speaking. His hand was clutching the hilt of his nodachi so tightly, his knuckles were white. Gwynileth reached for his hand, and while her fingers successfully freed his grip from his weapon, he didn’t even acknowledge the contact.

Brynjolf cleared his throat. “Well, as I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted by that beast…” He stepped ahead of Kaidan, forcing him to meet his eyes. “You’d best sober up, lad. You’re traveling with the bloody Dragonborn. If you want to keep her safe, you’ll need your wits about you. Good luck, lass.”

With a final nod and a comradely—or condescendingly, depending on how one wanted to look at it—pat upon Kaidan’s chest, Brynjolf sauntered towards the back door and departed.

Music began to start back up within the Bee and Barb now that the commotion was over. Talen-Jei had approached with a broom, and started sweeping up the ashen remains of the daedra’s body, for ash was now all that was left. No sign of the horns, teeth, claws, or black robes it was wearing… if there had been any evidence leading towards who had summoned the daedra to attack Gwynileth, the time to seize it had already passed.

“Let’s sit down,” she offered softly, gesturing to the staircase. She knew their rooms were upstairs. “We have some things to talk about.”

“I heard what Brynjolf said,” Kaidan replied bitterly. “I know that asshole of an ex-fiancé is sending those bastards after you.”

But Gwynileth shook her head. “That’s not what I want to discuss. Would you come with me? Please?”

If Kaidan had been considering rejecting her request, any resolve for him to do so evaporated at the inclusion of her final word. He sighed—a slow, defeated sound—and then nodded. At long last, his fingers interlocked with hers: the first real sign of life he’d exhibited since the attack.

With this newest sign of acceptance, Gwynileth led the two of them up the rickety staircase. A few gazes followed after them, curious yet light. They were paid no mind, and eventually, the low roar of the tavern faded to a dull hum.

Once the two were sitting in chairs within Gwynileth’s small room, she exhaled slowly and said, “There’s something you aren’t telling me.”

Kaidan did not react to her matter-of-fact tone. His amber eyes were trailing across each facet of her face, as though he had never truly had the time to study her before.

"Kaidan.” She leaned forward, reached for his hands; they remained grasping his knees, grip so tight his knuckles were stiff. “Talk to me? Please?”

“What’s there to talk about?” Kaidan leaned backwards, away from her—even this miniscule amount of distance ushered a knife into Gwynileth’s already fragile heart. “I couldn’t protect you. Brynjolf had to do my job for me. What fucking good am I if I can’t protect the thing that matters most?”

The torment in his voice was palpable, and it was clearly real. The fact that Kaidan’s accent came out in further force than usual was proof.

Gwynileth shook her head. “You cannot expect to see steel in every shadow. The fact of the matter is that the threat was dealt with, and I am well… but you, clearly, are not—and despite your words, I suspect the reason is not due to tonight’s events.”

Her words seemed to strike a chord within him. Kaidan grit his teeth and glared into his tense palms. Somewhere outside their room, a rickety floorboard creaked, signaling others were ascending the stairs to bed in neighboring rooms.

The lack of a window in the room made their surroundings feel much too small.

“Why, Gwyn? Why… did you choose me?”

She blinked. The question was as sudden as it was strange; yet the way Kaidan was looking at her, appearing so at odds with what he expected the answer was and what he wanted it to be, made her heart soften.

“So many reasons,” she answered. The corners of her lips flickered upwards into a weak smile. One hand squeezed the inside of his wrist. “You are kind—far kinder than I had any right to expect during my flight to this country. I admire your skills, the way you always wish to better yourself, the determination you possess when you set your mind to something. You’ve made me laugh when I desperately needed it, brought me courage when I thought there existed none, and when I think of what brings me the most strength, you are the only picture I can paint. And that’s without saying I find you beautiful, Kaidan—so beautiful I can sometimes barely look at you.”

Gwynileth swallowed hard, realizing how desperately she was waxing poetic. Her eyes flickered to his: those amber eyes of his now sparked with so much life. “Why wouldn’t I choose you?”

Kaidan chuckled and breathed out through his teeth. “That’s… some high praise coming from a woman like you. I wish I could see myself the way you seem to.”

There was more truth to his words than perhaps had been intended. Gwynileth could sense the doubt, the uncertainty, swirling around him with his remark. She rose to her feet and stood over where he sat upon the bed—her fingers delicately lifted his chin, and upon seeing the way his eyes widened, any lingering fear melted from her body.

“You will someday,” she said, smiling. “I know it.”

The next thing Gwynileth knew, her lips had found Kaidan’s. The warmth of his breath mingled with hers; his lips were soft, cautious—as if he could scarcely believe she wanted to kiss him.

She would not have that. If he was filled with doubt, then she needed to be true to her course, her feelings, her actions. If she chose him—which she had done readily, and would do so over and over again—then she needed to be certain he knew it.

Gwynileth had never kissed a man for more than a few seconds at a time in her life, but… there was no better time than the present. She gently pried his mouth open with her own; her action was met with a startled groan. The taste of that damned Honningbrew was on his tongue, yet even as she teased it with her own, the flavor grew sweet. His hair was soon mixed between her fingertips, pulling him ever closer—

“Fuck me, what have I done to…”

Whatever else Kaidan wanted to say was lost as Gwynileth practically settled herself atop his lap. There was no ignoring the fact that this was the most she’d ever initiated such blatant romantic gestures—but here, in this moment, she wanted to.

In the arms of the man who made her feel safest, she wanted to.

“Everything.” Her fingertips trailed the design of the crimson tattoo detailing the right side of Kaidan’s face; she’d never asked what it was for, but based on the way he scowled at it in the looking-glass at times, based on the way he never brought it up… Gwynileth knew it was associated with the Blooded Dawn. “You’ve done everything to deserve being happy.”

“No I haven’t.” Kaidan lowered his head. “There’s a lot I have to atone for still. It’s why I can’t…”           

That word again. Can’t. He fell silent, not allowing his thoughts free.                   

Gwynileth placed a feather-light kiss upon his lips once more. “You can, if you allow it of yourself. Do you… not believe that you deserve to be happy? Why?”

“Because it isn’t over.” Kaidan sighed; his fingertips seized Gwynileth’s waist so tightly they almost hurt. “That dremora was proof. The past isn’t through with me yet, Gwyn, and as long as it lives, my crimes follow my every waking moment. As they damn well should.”

With that, he carefully lifted her from his lap and placed her back atop her bed. He spoke no further, nor offered any further explanation; Kaidan didn’t even look back at her as he simply exited the room and gently shut the door behind him.

The silence left in Kaidan’s wake was deafening. Blood rushed through Gwynileth’s ears; she could barely hear the quieted commotion occurring downstairs.

She had known that he’d not always been on the ‘straight and narrow.’ He had confessed as much himself, during their wintertime conversation outside of Windhelm. No specifics had ever been discussed, but… if Kaidan had been attempting to make up for it for so long, why was it he could not yet find forgiveness for himself?

“I don’t understand. What are you still hiding from us, Kaidan?” she whispered to herself. “What are you still hiding from me?”

It was the question she had wanted answered when she’d pulled him into her room to talk, and while Gwynileth had at least received one layer of its answer, she was still left with many, many more.

A gentle rap at the door broke her concentration. Before Gwynileth could even allow her visitor entry, the door creaked open to reveal Inigo, blue ears pressed flat against his head. As he stepped forward, the sound of amusement flooded up from downstairs: the Nords’ booming voices and the Argonians’ raspy laughter alike.

“Something is wrong with Kaidan, isn’t there?” murmured Inigo. He closed the door behind him and stood ahead of Gwynileth, forcing her to meet his piercing gaze. “He just left the Bee and Barb. I could smell fear on him. He has never given off that scent before.”

The validation made Gwynileth’s nerves worse. She relied on Kaidan for so much. If he was unwell, or was keeping secrets, then… what was she supposed to think? Did he not trust her to stand beside him, the way he had so loyally done for her?

She knew she was getting ahead of herself with that spiral, but… the thoughts were hard to shake. Nonetheless, resolved to give the situation the benefit of the doubt, Gwynileth breathed deeply and replied, “Whatever it is, I’m going to find out. If Kaidan thinks he isn’t allowed to have our help with his own problems, then I’m determined to prove him wrong.”

Inigo nodded resolutely. “I agree, my friend, and I speak for Lucien, too. We’ll figure this out.”

Chapter Text

For better or worse, becoming Riften's newfound confidante allowed the group an audience with Jarl Laila Law-Giver… and based on the expectancy with which the steward, Anuriel, delivered the summons, it did not seem like an audience to be refused.

So it was that when the sun was just creeping over the tops of the trees, Gwynileth, Kaidan, Lucien, and Inigo stepped foot inside Mistveil Keep. The Jarl's palace was a grand structure built partially from the stone of the Rift and partially from grand mahogany beams; a great banquet table demanded attention as one stepped through its threshold. Even early in the morning, golden platters of food were host to succulent breakfast fruits, meats, and cheeses. Fires roared in the east and west hearths—and sitting above the table, green eyes gazing down upon them, was the Jarl herself upon her throne.

"Please, join me for breakfast," declared Laila, proffering a small smile. "There's something I must ask of you, and plenty reward for it if you accept."

Though the request was asked in a roundabout way—the way requests always were when it came to political correctness—the ask itself was rather simple. A skooma operation had flourished in recent months underneath the Jarl's very nose. This operation wreaked havoc on the fishery's workers, emptying their pockets and decreasing their productivity. Riften's trade was suffering now that the skooma operation was in full swing, and despite Laila's attempts to staunch it, its headquarters had remained undetected…

Until now.

"My guards won't be able to get close to it without the operation's leaders being tipped off," said Jarl Laila, twirling a bite of blueberry crepe upon her fork. "But you, a group of adventurers new to my city? You might be able to put a stop to it."

While Gwynileth would've been more than happy to accept immediately, the hardened look upon Inigo's face made her take pause. She had not forgotten his story, told the first night he had joined their group: a story of skooma addiction and a former best friend, forever silenced by Inigo's own hand.

She would not put him in such a compromising position if he was not ready.

Silence reigned for a long moment, save the sound of the palace dogs happily chewing upon some grilled fish. Gwynileth could not keep herself from studying Inigo's demeanor; the Khajiit's whiskers were twitching, and his ears were pointed somewhat sideways…

But then, Inigo nodded resolutely. His yellow eyes met hers. "I know this operation well, my friend. It is the same one that once ruined my life. I want—no, I need—to stop it."

There was no doubt in his words. Gwynileth smiled. "Then we shall stop it."

The warehouse in question was a ramshackle building on the waterfront, close to Riften's docks. Only a single guard was posted outside, though based on the array of orcish weaponry hanging from his belt and the ripped muscles across his body, it would not be free access inside.

"Allow me," said Inigo, stepping forward.

He did not wait for any of the others to protest before sweeping forward, low to the ground. The barrels arrayed along the docks were enough cover for Inigo to creep forward, one yard at a time, until—

"OI!"

Shink.

Inigo's ebony sword sheared though the iron armor the bodyguard wore as though it were made of flimsy paper. A streak of red spattered against the front door of the warehouse; the body slumped to the ground. Inigo himself stood upright, tension eminent in his bearing, as he jerked his head towards the door and merely declared, "Let us go."

Clearing out the warehouse itself turned out to be a fairly quick job. Dozens of tiny glass bottles littered the floor; Lucien took it upon himself to seize a nearby broom and begin sweeping. Gwynileth took care to package up and dispose of the spare moon sugar, while Inigo and Kaidan scoured the building for additional information on the skooma's suppliers.

"Here," declared Inigo, pointing at a map so hard, his nail punctured the parchment. "Cragslane Cavern. Might we postpone our trip to Winterhold to take care of this, my friend?"

While the dragons were certainly an issue, never once had Inigo made a request of Gwynileth or the remainder of the group. It would hardly be right to refuse him, especially when the matter was so near to his heart.

Apparently Lucien and Kaidan came to the same conclusions, because only after a brief detour to Mistveil Keep to inform the Jarl of their progress, the group was trudging north, past the greening trees.

The trip itself was uncannily quiet. Gwynileth didn't necessarily mind the silence, yet as she was able to hear birdsongs in unusual clarity, she came to realize how accustomed she'd become to Inigo's and Lucien's banter behind her, lighting the way to their next adventure…

And that was without mentioning a shadow still perched on Gwynileth's shoulder—because the shadow still sat upon Kaidan's. She had not forgotten the events of the previous evening, even though her primary focus was currently on her Khajiit friend.

Raindrops had just begun to spatter atop their heads when the group reached Cragslane Cavern. It was a fairly unassuming den: cages sat outside the entryway to the cave, cages hosting rabid wolves or fighting dogs. Some barrels full of supplies, potions, or alcohol were strewn about without rhyme or reason. A few sentries with bows had been posited as lookouts, but Inigo's, Kaidan's, and Gwynileth's arrows combined were more than enough to eliminate the operation's first line of defense.

"Shall we, Inigo?" asked Lucien. He spoke in a forcibly bright tone of voice.

Inigo settled his shoulders, the ebony armor landing with the slightest clink. "Yes, I am thinking we shall. Come, my friends!"

For better or worse, clearing out the head of the operation was one of the easiest things Gwynileth had done in recent memory. The skooma manufacturers were woefully unprepared for their base to be assaulted, and even if they had created better ramifications, they were obviously not fighting men. A few surrendered with only a few swipes of her blade—others were screaming for Talos the moment arrows began peppering down upon them. The fighting wolves and canines provided more difficulty than the men did, likely because the poor beasts had been rabid and starving by the time they were mercifully put down.

All in all, by the time Inigo led their adventuring group back through the gates of Riften, only four hours had passed since the breakfasting hour with Jarl Laila. Whispers had already begun spreading through the streets of the skooma dealings being cut short.

"Keep this up, and you'll end up being our new Thane!" joked Brand-Shei, as Gwynileth nodded towards him.

Though the remark was made in jest, his words ended up having some merit. Jarl Laila was quick to reward the group with a satchel full of royal gemstones, a thousand septims—and upon Gwynileth in particular, the title Thane of Riften.

"Thank you for bringing our city a semblance of hope," the Jarl stated, severe green eyes softening. "It has been a long time since we've remembered what that feels like."

Not even Kaidan could keep a stoic expression as Gwynileth appraised her new weapon—a gift from the Jarl's personal stores—with such ardor.

The mood was much lighter by the time everyone was settled into Bjorn's carriage that afternoon. The rain had already stopped—perhaps a good omen. Inigo's ears were sticking straight up again, and he was humming an improvised tune as he glanced over the scenery… yet the way his tail continued swishing told Gwynileth there was something on his mind.

"How are you feeling, Inigo?" she asked.

The Khajiit cocked his head sideways before shrugging. "It is silly, but I do not know how I am feeling. I feel as though I should be furious about how long the operation was open, but I am not. I feel like I should be relieved it's been stopped, yet I am not. In truth, I do not feel much different than usual. It is a little… disorienting. Perhaps once we are settled into the inn in Winterhold and I have a plate of salmon steak ahead of me, I will feel better."

"A good meal will certainly help, but… there is no way you should feel, my friend," said Lucien, offering a plaintive smile. "You've just confronted a big piece of your past! There's no right or wrong way to feel about that."

Inigo made a noise in the back of his throat. "Perhaps not. I think I feel better knowing it is done, but there is no escaping the choices I made when I was addicted to the skooma. Now is just a matter of… moving forward, once and for all. Forgiving myself for what happened to Vornil—for good."

Kaidan chuckled from where he sat within the carriage, arms crossed against his chest. "That part is easier said than done, isn't it, Inigo?"

There was great purpose within his voice. The way Kaidan and Inigo shared a look next rather reminded Gwynileth of the men who liked to share war-torn stories: the kind of men who knew exactly what the other was saying, without explaining a single word.

"Yes. But I am on my way to doing it," said Inigo. And with that, he positioned himself in such a way to watch the landscape ahead of the carriage, and did not say anything more about the topic.

As the minutes turned into hours, the air surrounding the carriage grew colder, and the foliage turned from green to white. Snow flurries began trailing from the clouds above the further north they progressed—the two horses drawing the carriage did not seem bothered by the chill, yet Gwynileth found herself shivering before too much longer. Seeing as much, Lucien retrieved a snow bear pelt from their packs and offered her a place underneath its warmth alongside him.

"We look like a pair of helpless chicks," she laughed, as she and Lucien huddled together underneath the setting sun.

"Yes, well, that may be because some of us do not have fur to keep us warm," declared Lucien, shooting their compatriot a knowing grin.

Inigo shrugged. "That is one nice thing about Skyrim. I do not shed so often anymore."

The off-handed remark was enough to set Gwynileth to laughing for minutes afterward.

Winterhold was reached before the eastern horizon turned fully black. While it would've been all too easy to turn in for the night and leave their visit to the college for the following day, the distant roar of a dragon was enough to convince the group to try a nighttime visit to the university's scholars.

Fortunately, the college's professors were in the mood to entertain visitors. Lucien heartily greeted a number of the mages inside: Faralda, the tutor of Destruction Magic, was a family friend. Mirabelle was also a former coworker of his father Davidicus's—both women were valuable voices when it came to discussions of magicka's true nature, or so Lucien told Gwynileth as they toured the college's hallways.

The sight of their library nearly made Gwynileth stop straight in her tracks. It was the grandest selection of books that she had seen since she last visited House Telvanni's archive, back when she was a small girl. Floor to ceiling bookshelves lined every spare piece of wall possible. Floating magelights twinkled left and right, providing plenty of light to read and study. Displays of original historical books were kept behind glass cases. Books, tomes, scrolls, dissertations; all of it was readily available, protected by the watchful eye of Urag gro-Shub, the librarian.

"It's beautiful," whispered Gwynileth, spinning on her heel. She had never been a perfectly straight-laced student, but the possibilities of what knowledge lay untapped around her was dizzying.

Lucien sniffed proudly. "Isn't it just? Oooh, come here, Gwynileth, take a look at this—"
"Oh, great. Another one obsessed with books," sighed Kaidan, somewhere behind them. But neither Gwynileth nor Lucien decided to pay his semi-teasing remark much mind, instead choosing to dart towards the golden countertops with drawings of dartwing anatomy recreated in painful detail.

After a fair bit of meandering around, however, Gwynileth returned to the topic at hand: the potential location of an Elder Scroll, or the location of someone who might know where one might be. To her dismay, there was precious little on the subject… and one of those tomes seemed like utter nonsense scribbled onto a few yellowed pages.

"Excuse me—who wrote this tome?" she asked Urag, gesturing to the weathered book.

Urag took one look at it and snorted derisively. "Work of Septimus Signus. He's an eccentric fellow at the best of times. Found some giant Dwemer artifact in a hovel up north and packed everything to go study it. Haven't seen him in over a year."

The extended absence of the author was concerning, yet Gwynileth knew better than to underestimate a determined scholar. Lucien's tenacity was proof of that demographic's resilience…

"Thank you for the help," she replied, and then she turned back to the meager pile of accumulated books for anything else that might be useful.

Even with four pairs of eyes scouring the depths of the library, however, nothing else of note was accumulated. With each passing minute, Gwynileth's frustration grew—this was the only lead they had, and despite Lucien gently reminding her that the Elder Scrolls were a finicky subject due to their elusiveness, her patience was not helped.

"We must find something, Lucien! We must!" she insisted as a hiss. Nearly two dozen books were strewn about, lying open here or there. The last of the college's students had finally trickled out of the library to their dorms, yet she herself was nowhere near close to turning in. "This is the only chance we have to know where to go next…"

Inigo shuffled in his seat. "Well, what about that Septimus fellow the librarian mentioned? He might know something. We could search for him to the north."

"And freeze our bums off?" exclaimed Lucien. "Pfah. It's doable, I suppose, if we stock up on some frost mirriam and utilize our flame spells effectively, but… I don't fancy balancing on ice caps in the middle of freezing waters. We'll need to borrow a rowboat. Do we know where we might do that?"

As Inigo and Lucien continued brainstorming with one another, Gwynileth noted movement from the side, from the shadows. When she glanced over, she noted Kaidan rising from his chair and starting to move towards the grand doors of the library balcony.

Part of her figured it would be wise for her to let him go. This was hardly his area of expertise, after all, and they had journeyed long and far. Yet… Kaidan had barely spoken throughout the day. The bags under his eyes had only grown darker over the past three days, and he was tenser than usual, like a cat waiting to pounce.

She knew confronting him in this state would have the potential to backfire, yet Gwynileth couldn't let this go. Not anymore.

So she rose to her feet and followed.

The scene outside was beautiful, with both moons winking down at her from above, countless stars accompanying them. Aurora borealis stretched as far as the eye could see, from east to west and back again… yet the outside air had also been far brisker than she prepared for. Gwynileth immediately began coughing and sputtering, feeling the icy air prickle the back of her throat. She could sense rather than see Kaidan's thin smile at her rather inelegant approach.

"You should get back inside where it's warm, Gwyn," he said. "We both know you'll freeze to death out here."

She smiled, a faint yet still warm gesture. "I won't if you're here to keep me warm."

Her poor attempt at a flirt was met with a gracious chuckle. "I'll do what I can to protect you, little dragon."

The nickname was new, yet it restored a semblance of life to Gwynileth's otherwise worried countenance. Despite his affection, however, there was still something missing to Kaidan's voice: any life, any inflection at all.

Gwynileth stepped forward, joining him at the edge of the balcony. The entire village of Winterhold was visible below, not that that was saying much. Winterhold itself was rather small and outdated; the only reason it remained as a main provincial hold of Skyrim was likely due to the college's existence.

"Look at all those people," said Kaidan, shaking his head. "Just going about their little lives. They have no idea what lurks beyond their city gates."

The bitterness in his voice was near tangible. Gwynileth exhaled slowly; a brief cloud appeared ahead of her lips. "Do you speak of the dragons?"

"Dragons, aye, and countless other dangers besides. We've traveled together long enough for you to have seen more than most, but even so… there are things out there you've never even dreamt of."

He spoke with a promise sincere enough to make shivers crawl down her spine. But Gwynileth was no stranger to the depths and depravity of dark magick; her people were oftentimes drawn to it. Nor was she ignorant to the dangers that daedric lords posed, because she grew up in Morrowind, where many worshipped those types.

She knew what they were capable of, and how spiteful a slighted 'lord' could be—and so she centered herself and declared, "You refer to Dagon, and the followers whom you once resided amongst, don't you."

The fact she spoke as a statement, and not a question, was clearly not lost on Kaidan.

"Tell me what you're thinking, Kai," she murmured, one hand reaching to cover his own, already so pale and cold covered by swirling snow. "You have lifted countless burdens from my shoulders to share the weight upon your own. Will you not allow me to do the same for you?"

Her plaintive request was met by a brief silence. Gwynileth could feel his fortitude waver, as surely as the wind did as it swept left and right, howling along its own current.

"I need to go after her. Rosalind."

Kaidan spoke so quickly and shortly, the only reason Gwynileth knew she'd heard him correctly was due to the thinness of his lips, the hardened glaze in his eyes. "You want to…"

"I can't stop thinking about what happened in the Bee and Barb. We have too many enemies that want to hurt us—hurt you—and all we've been able to do thus far is survive. I can't stand the thought of anything happening to you, Gwyn. I want to lessen the danger if we can." Kaidan finally stopped, as his words had been hurried. Then he swallowed. "I want to go after her, and stop her once and for all."

Gwynileth blinked and studied his expression. Her time as a noblewoman seemed like a lifetime ago, yet the skills she had honed over her twenty-five years of life had not dissipated so easily. She narrowed her eyes, and was suddenly able to see the uncertainty, the anxiety, within the depths of his own.

Kaidan was not a man normally prone to such deep concern. Seeing it now meant only one thing.

"You want to go alone," she murmured.

He chuckled and turned his gaze towards the heavens; high above them, the borealis gleamed green and pink. "You're far too good at reading me already. Within the next five years, I won't be able to have a single thought without you knowing it."

The mention of a far future together sparked a small fire within Gwynileth's breast, yet all too quickly was it snuffed out by the severity of the topic at hand. "Please don't distract me, Kai, not with something this dangerous. Tell me truly: am I right?"

The sound of hushed footsteps upon stone flooring approached. Gwynileth knew Lucien and Inigo had finally noticed their departure.

"I—yes, Gwyn. I want to go alone."

Gwynileth swallowed hard and turned away from Kaidan, betrayal swirling in her gut like a poisonous toadstool. Her mind's eye flashed back to a brighter scene: one of soft snows and a puff-pastry with butter and jam, and Kaidan's gentle smile to make her warmer than she'd been in over six months.

"I thought you promised we would do it together," she said. She almost winced at how close her voice was to cracking.

"I know. But… like I said, I've been thinking. If there's even the slightest possibility that Rosalind is working with the people from your homeland, having you accompany me would be nothing short of a death sentence for you. It'd be better if Inigo and Lucien stay to protect you, and I… face what I've needed to face for years."

Some things—some feelings—simply transcended logic, time, and space. Based on the hollowness within Kaidan's face, the bitterness within his voice, Gwynileth was certain that he wasn't telling her the real reason for his change of heart.

She sighed and turned towards the railings of the balcony, knuckles turning silver as she grasped them. Their wintry surroundings were bitter and harsh, yet even here, a persistent green moss was draped along the stone: Hanging Moss, an ingredient used commonly in poisons that slowed magicka regeneration.

Gwynileth inhaled sharply—never mind the frost—and seized as much of the moss as she could. The plant was soft, squishy, within her hands, between her fingers; then she whirled back to face Kaidan. "And have us split our strength? Hardly. Kaidan… I may not have grown up a seasoned warrior, but I have grown strong. Inigo and Lucien have grown strong. We have journeyed together for months, overcome countless obstacles, and I won't let the unknown throw us into chaos. As I told you in Windhelm, I am going with you."

For better or worse, Kaidan had grown just as adept at reading Gwynileth's face as she had become at reading his. "You don't know what she's capable of!"

"If I cannot eliminate one conjurer, or necromancer, or whatever-the-hells she is, then what hope do I have against Alduin the World-Eater?" demanded Gwynileth. She threw the moss to the ground ahead of her feet—she could feel Lucien's and Inigo's panicked gazes darting between herself and Kaidan, but she didn't care.

She couldn't find the strength to. Not when Kaidan was looking at her like… that. So very cold and closed off; so very unlike him at all.

"You've much to learn still." Kaidan's voice was clipped. "Stay safe today so you can deal with the dragons tomorrow."

The wind that next blew through the college grounds was so harsh, Gwynileth's hair stood on end. She blinked once, twice—and finally realized that yes, she was seeing Kaidan correctly. The chill in his bearing was not simply in her imagination, but truly there, ahead of her.

"I want to go with you!" she pleaded, staggering forward. "I… Kaidan, I've never felt as safe as I have by your side, no matter the dangers we encounter every day. But the way you're acting… it frightens me."

"Good. You should be scared."

Her blood froze. "What?"

"You should be scared! Of me!" Kaidan's voice rose to a volume that Gwynileth had only once heard—when she'd been pierced by that poisoned arrow, and nearly lost to the waters of Clearpine Pond. "I'm a fucking monster, Gwyn! I tortured and murdered innocent people for a daedric lord's amusement. I pillaged and destroyed and poisoned everything I touched, and I've never atoned for it. There's so much I need to pay for… I thought adventuring with you, I could make something good of myself. Become a fucking hero or something. But no—turns out no matter where I go, ashes of the past follow after me. So just… let me lay them to rest. Please."

The pure desperation in his final word nearly caused Gwynileth's heart to shatter where it beat. She swallowed hard, feeling spikes bite at the corners of her eyes. "You are more than your past, Kaidan. We all are. And you deserve the chance to put it behind you—you just do not have to do it alone."

"And risk Dagon getting his hands on you? You told me of your nightmares yourself—of him trying to rip your very soul from your chest. His sights are set on you, Gwyn, and he'll try to get to you through me. You're the last fucking thing I have that's worth protecting, but I won't let him have you. So just let me go. It'd be fucking easier."

For the first time in a very long while, Kaidan had forsaken the barrier he normally erected to hide his emotions. Mania shone through the lines of his face; fear infested the deepest facets of his voice. The disgust he harbored towards himself was suffocating.

But he still didn't understand that he was so much more than what he saw himself as. Terror was overriding any sense of logic or reason. He was trying to push her away to keep her safe, and taking her agency away from her as a result.

After what she had suffered the previous year, her agency was one of the most treasured things she owned.

Gwynileth opened her mouth—

"You should never have let yourself get close to me anyway, Gwyn. You deserve better than me. I'm no better than your fucking ex-fiancé. Know why?" He stepped forward, eyes blazing. "That night, at the farm—the last raid I went on with the Blooded Dawn—the people I called friends took the two young women who lived there and raped them nonstop for three days. They were screaming through their gags, begging to be killed. One of them locked eyes with me, and you know what I saw when I turned aside? A living corpse. Because I was her last hope, and I didn't do anything. I just let those cultists rape them until they got bored and finally killed them by carving Dagon's symbol into their chests. Why the hell would you want to attach yourself to someone like me? You of all people? Why, Gwyn?"

The revelation of what had truly happened at the farm caused all the blood to drain from Gwynileth's face. She had sometimes wondered, in the darkest hours of the night when her mind refused to let her find rest, what he had referred to when talking about that raid. She had known it haunted him, yet never thought he'd ever reveal the truth.

Yet despite her wonderings, she had never pictured something like this.

"You should hate me. You should…"

Kaidan's voice broke.

Gwynileth stood still. The outside air was not so jarring anymore, not when she was battling the chill inside her now instead.

She stood there, thinking. Was Kaidan right? Was she supposed to hate him, for what she had suffered? For the sake of all the women among Mundus who carried the same pain she had, for the sake of what others might expect her to feel… should she hate him?

There is no way you should feel, my friend.

Lucien's words, from earlier that very day, echoed within Gwynileth's head. She breathed out, realizing the truth, the plainness, of those words—and she directed her thoughts to how she did feel rather than how she should.

And she realized: despite the agony of Jenithar's betrayal, despite the fact that she would never be the same due to his actions, Gwynileth could not find it within herself to hate Kaidan for what he had just confessed. Far from it.

That man—the man whom he had once been, and clearly hated and reviled—was not the same man that stood ahead of her now. Even though she did have more reason than most to be disgusted… when she searched the innermost crevices of her heart, she found no hatred waiting for her there.

All she felt was the same worry she'd felt before, now mixed with understanding.

She finally glanced up into Kaidan's face again, and was no longer surprised to see how deeply he was spiraling, unraveling, before her very eyes.

"You were a different man years ago, and that man, whom you fear and despise… I do not see him ahead of me. My loyalty is to the man I met in Falkreath; the man who has protected and cared for me, who has put the lives of others ahead of his own. For that man, the man I know you to be… I would do anything. Even confront a daedric lord."

The sound that emerged from Kaidan's throat next could only be described as a sob. He lowered his head, balled his fists—punched the railing next to him one, two, three times.

"I've done nothing to deserve this forgiveness," he hissed through his teeth. "I didn't even get to bury their bodies…"

Gwynileth glanced to the doorway leading back inside. She did not see Lucien or Inigo nearby, yet she knew they were there.

"You've done more than you realize," she said slowly, inching forward. Her hand raised, tipped Kaidan's chin upwards; she could not see it in the darkness, yet Gwynileth could feel a hot trail of tears upon his face as her thumb caressed his cheekbone. "It is as Inigo said earlier. All we can do is move forward, strive to be better, and forgive ourselves for the choices we once made. And if you cannot yet do that, then… at least let me come with you to fight Rosalind, so you can live to atone, and someday bring yourself peace."

The wind had lessened with her words. Through the quieted storm, Gwynileth could still feel the poignant beat of her heart, ringing through her ears. Waiting for Kaidan's answer.

He finally gave it, nearly collapsing as he did so. "Aye… you… you're right. I just… I'm sorry, Gwyn. Have the nightmares stopped for you?"

"They have," she answered, pushing his dark hair behind his ear, "though I suspect they have not yet stopped for you."

Kaidan shook his head. "They've gotten worse. And there's always a voice in my head. Hers. Or Dagon's. Telling me… reminding me. Of what I was."

"Then let my voice drown theirs out." Gwynileth leaned forward, pressing a soft kiss underneath his jawline. "You are far more than they reduce you to, and you deserve a chance to forgive yourself. We'll go back to that hideout to finish this as soon as you're ready."

Whether it was her hand upon his cheek, the calmness of her voice, or the quieting of the demons within his head, Gwynileth was not sure—yet for the first time in several days, a soft, genuine smile finally cracked over Kaidan's face.

"If someone told me you'd become so strong-willed in so short a time, I might not have believed them." He reached forward; strong fingers gently brushed Gwynileth's temple. "But… all right. In truth—and may I be damned for my selfishness if any harm comes to you—I do want you there with me."

Gwynileth returned his smile with one of her own. "Good. Then let's set out tomorrow."

And with that, she knew their plans were set.

Chapter Text

Getting Kaidan back to the Winterhold Inn was a bit more of a challenge than Gwynileth had expected. The emotional turmoil of the previous week had clearly impacted him more than he'd let on prior to that night; upon seeing how shakily he was walking, Gwynileth took it upon herself to visit the college's professional alchemist and commission a potion intended for dreamless sleep.

"Here, Kai," she said quietly, once they were settled back into their rooms. She placed the small bottle within his palm, her fingers wrapping around his own for but a brief moment. "This should help you sleep well tonight."

And though part of her worried it would be too overbearing, Gwynileth remained at Kaidan's bedside for three hours to ensure the potion would take effect.

The nightmares, however, seemed determined to find a new target: which they found in her.

Visions of Jenithar, of dremora clawing at her chest; whispers of the sins she'd committed by betraying her family and her homeland. She saw visages of her parents in her dreams, their voices and expressions utterly heartbroken… begging her to come home.

The Dunmer value family and loyalty above all else! they wailed. Come home, Gwynileth. We were only ever looking out for your future.

Gwynileth could barely stomach more than a few hours of disturbed rest at a time. And upon finally committing herself to waking, she understood—and could barely fathom how he'd weathered—the doubt and pain that had festered within Kaidan's sleeping mind. Even one night of those nightmares, never mind seven in a row, was enough for her to want to tear her hair out by the root.

Even so, if it kept Kaidan safe, at least for a little while, then Gwynileth would bear it.

Due to the nightmares, she woke early in the morning, just before the sun could creep in through the windows. The Winterhold Inn was still chill and dreary with the dark hours, and upon finding herself the only one within the main foyer of the building, she decided to get a head start on what little research they'd completed the previous night.

The fishermen in Winterhold were more than happy to rent Gwynileth a small rowboat for a few short hours, and so she took it upon herself to traverse north, amongst the looming icecaps and frigid waters. Small canals made steering difficult yet still possible, and after all the time spent honing her archery and skills with the blade, Gwynileth's muscles did not cramp or protest the effort as much as she had feared they would.

It was only thirty minutes of rowing later that she spotted another snow-covered rowboat docked at a tiny pier, ahead of a Dwemer mechanism that looked vaguely like a door. Upon recalling what Urag had stated the previous evening, about how Septimus Signus was studying a Dwemer artifact, she could only assume she'd found the place.

And she was correct. Upon entering the little hovel, Gwynileth was met with a somewhat livable ice cave complete with a cooking pot, stacks of dry wood, a bookshelf with dissertations and notes, and Septimus Signus himself… though the man was rambling to himself, and was barely comprehensible as he addressed Gwynileth.

"Blackreach!" the man managed to croak out, when she asked him about the location of an Elder Scroll. "The Dwemer, the Tower Mzark, holds what you seek. Here, take these!"

He pressed a golden bauble into her left hand—his own were frigid and wrinkled—before pressing a red cube into her right.

"A key into the underground city, is this," said Septimus, gesturing towards the golden sphere. "Alftand is where this must take you. And this—" He gestured towards the ruby-colored cube, which had intricate Dwemer runes inscribed upon each of its six sides. "—is for transcribing the Elder Scroll. Bring me its knowledge, for I must know it."

His assistance and request both relayed, Gwynileth was able to grab little more information from the maddened man. Though she had plenty of questions left unanswered, she at least had a solid destination, which was more than she had the previous evening: the Dwarven ruins of Alfstand, and a submerged Blackreach beyond.

The sun was glowing faintly over the eastern horizon by the time Gwynileth returned to her little rowboat and began the journey home. She hoped her friends had not yet awoken, for as she seized her oars, she realized she failed to leave a note regarding her whereabouts…

Fortunately, it appeared she had no reason to worry. When Gwynileth docked the boat and thanked the fishermen for their assistance, they waved and jovially declared, "You have a friend who wanted to speak to you, Miss Nerussa! Over by the dunes to the east."

They pointed in the direction outside of town, which Gwynileth found odd. She rather hoped it wasn't Kaidan, having awoken before the potion's effects were promised to wear off. He needed the sleep more than anything—and she rather thought it wouldn't be Lucien either, considering how deeply her Imperial friend detested the cold. Perhaps Inigo wished to talk?

There was only one way to be certain, and so Gwynileth thanked the men for relaying the message and set out east.

Sunlight streamed over the horizon as she set off on the elevated pathways. The ice persisted so far north, despite the spring months; Gwynileth found herself grumbling under her breath as her footing slipped and slid here and there upon the cobblestones. She could hardly understand how sure-footed the Nords always seemed to be, when traveling all across the countryside like this. Even after three to four months, she still struggled to navigate sometimes.

At last, a silhouette appeared amongst the swirling snow. Gwynileth couldn't make out their shape at such a distance, and it appeared they were cloaked anyhow…

Her chest tightened. The possibility that an assassin had disguised himself and lured her out here simply by being friendly with the townsfolk was not zero.

Yet just as Gwynileth withdrew her enchanted dagger, the cloaked figure turned around and lowered their hood. Their hands raised above their shoulders—the universal gesture for peace—and as they slowly neared where she stood, she nearly staggered in the snow upon finally reading and recognizing their face.

"Danilo?"

It had been years since last she saw him in person, but Gwynileth still knew—this was Danilo, her private tutor from ages sixteen until twenty, a man who had only ever been sweet and good to her. Even now, six years later, he still wore a kindly shine within his ruby-colored eyes.

Was it fate or chance that, only mere days after she had thought of him ahead of Alduin's wall, he stood ahead of her once again? If there was one thing she was coming to terms with, it was that concepts of 'fate' and 'destiny' were far more prevalent in her life than she had ever expected.

"Gwynileth," Danilo greeted with a smile. "It's so good to see you unharmed."

Though he took a step forward, Gwynileth did not rush forward to meet him. "Danilo… what are you doing here?" She wished she could be more relieved or happy by his presence, but the fact that someone from her past had caught up with her in her new life was unnerving at best, and outright dangerous at worst.

Danilo seemed to recognize her reservations. He stopped, and stood still. "Your absence in Morrowind has not gone unnoticed, and the waves of its political games have reached new heights. The balance of power among Houses Nerussa and Hlaalu in particular has been upset—surely you know of the danger you are in, even this far into Skyrim?"

"I am not unaware. And I have prepared in the meantime."

"That is well and good, but I fear you do not know the heart of the matter." Danilo reached into an inner pocket of his robe before withdrawing something. He extended it towards her: an envelope with the Nerussa wax seal, broken. "This was recovered outside your family's estate. I would only recommend reading it, however, in the light of a roaring hearth while surrounded by trustworthy allies."

Gwynileth's mind returned to her three friends with this last; her three friends who were perhaps waiting for her back in the Winterhold Inn.

It would be wise to return to them, there was no refuting that logic. They would always be stronger together than apart—a fact that Gwynileth was slowly becoming more comfortable accepting, despite how deeply she still feared they would come to harm with how doggedly her past trailed her heels.

She reached out and gently relieved the letter from Danilo's hands. As they always had been, his nails were perfectly cut, his hands soft. He had always had an instrumentalist's hands, yet he chose not to wield a lute, but a quill—and how that quill had written such stunning lines of poetry, some in dedication to Morrowind and its natural beauty… and some, dedicated to Gwynileth herself.

Danilo's ability to paint landscapes with words had been one of the things that once attracted her to him, when she was younger and more impressionable.

And those sentiments of ages past only made her more wary of Danilo's presence now.

"What are you doing here? Truly doing here?" repeated Gwynileth. She accosted the man with a piercing stare, one she knew he would recognize. The paper was cold within her hands. "Out of all people, Danilo… why is it you? You are no warrior, nor politician; rather a scholar, with his nose perpetually stuck in a book. Additionally, you were dismissed from my personal service when I was twenty, over five years ago. So I ask again: what—or rather, who—has brought you here to me?"

The corners of Danilo's lips flickered upward. "Is it so hard for you to believe there are people back home who care for you?"

"Yes." Gwynileth pursed her lips. "The only person who genuinely loved me in Morrowind died in my arms at dawn on the 27th of Morning Star. Do not insult me with such paltry attempts at sentiment, Danilo. You will find I am not so naïve as I was as your student."

Something changed within her tutor's face. A flash of light, of pity, transcending across his expression; there one moment, then gone the next. "There is at least one other besides myself who loves you, Gwynileth, and I am here at their behest. To warn you of the storm coming your way."

Gwynileth narrowed her eyes, inspected him from head to toe. There was nothing immediate in his bearing that signaled he was lying, and as she scanned the horizons with her sharp eyes, she saw no shadows nor scouts lying in wait in the snow. As far as it seemed… Danilo was being genuine.

"There is more you are not telling me. I know that much." She took a few steps backward, careful not to take her eyes off her previous tutor. "Come with me to the inn, then, if you wish to speak more."

Danilo smiled at the offer, even though her voice was not as gentle and inviting as it had once been. "I would be honored, Lady Nerussa."

Gwynileth shook her head at the title. "I am no lady anymore. Gwynileth is fine now."

They crept through the dunes of snow, the tall banks soaking the hems of their cloaks. Gwynileth did not dare let her previous tutor out of her sight for more than a few precious moments at a time; whoever had sent him here clearly knew her well enough to know that she would not attack Danilo without provocation.

The knowledge they held of her was dangerous, and the fact that his patron was not yet named, even more so.

Gentle rays of white sunlight saw them back to Winterhold, as did jovial jeers from the fisherman returned to town with their fresh hauls of fish. A few attempted to entice her and Danilo into purchasing their catch, yet Gwynileth only waved them away with a tight—yet still hopefully kind—smile before holding open the door leading into the inn.

A blaze of light and heat washed over them as they exited the dry cold of the outdoors. Gwynileth exhaled sharply and glanced across the foyer; a curtain of relief draped over her shoulders upon noting Lucien, Kaidan, and Inigo already sitting at one of the round tables, steaming omelets and bowls of fish soup sitting ready to be eaten.

"Ah, there you are, Gwynileth!" exclaimed Lucien as she stomped the snow from her boots. "We were concerned when we saw you were gone, but… ah…"

He trailed off upon seeing Danilo standing alongside her, and it was not as though his surprise was misplaced. The presence of another Dunmer—a surprising new face considering the town within which they resided—was certainly reason for him to take pause.

Gwynileth offered him a slight smile. Though the unknown still caused worry to knot within her stomach, seeing her friends waiting for her around the roaring hearth made her feel much more at home. "This is Danilo, a man who was once my private tutor. He brings news of my family, what is happening in my homeland, and danger that we know not of. I would have you bear witness to his reports and provide your thoughts… if you would be kind enough to grant them."

"Of course," said Inigo, immediately rushing forward to grab a fifth wooden chair. He waved the two Dunmer over. "Sit, and let us eat and speak."

Within only another couple of minutes, the inn's waitress placed a fifth breakfast ahead of Danilo, who was explaining how his benefactor sent him forth with the intent of warning Gwynileth about the schemes forming within her home country of Morrowind.

"As I said before, Lady—rather, Gwynileth. Morrowind's balance of power teeters precariously upon a rope. Houses Redoran and Telvanni await the victor with bated breath as your parents and House Hlaalu cast blame upon each other for your sudden disappearance." Danilo gently swallowed a spoonful of fishlung soup, either oblivious or unbothered by Inigo's shocked exclamation across the table. "Sadly, it seems as though one of these houses only cares about preserving their status as Great."

Kaidan snorted derisively. "As though we'd expect anything else out of snotty nobles who deal out death while they themselves are cloaked by shadow. They don't have the honor to try anything above the table—er, no offense, Gwyn."

Gwynileth couldn't exactly begrudge Kaidan his scathing sentiments. His words were also met by a curt nod from Danilo, who said, "Your contempt is justifiable. But to raise the curtain of their stage-play… Gwynileth, it is time you open the envelope I provided you."

The envelope had been twirling between her chilled hands the entire conversation, heavy as a block of lead. She had an idea what she might find inside, yet her heart leapt into her throat at the idea of confronting its contents directly.

Still, knowing she could not merely pretend it didn't exist, she sliced it open only to find three papers waiting within.

The first was fairly lengthy, written in cursive script that Gwynileth did not recognize and could only barely read:

House Hlaalu is devastated to hear of the absence of its future daughter-in-law, and has heard the rumors of her presence in the neighboring country of Skyrim. In an effort to return her home, House Hlaalu has dispatched all able bodies to escort her homeward in good health and high spirits, so the country of Morrowind might see a joyous wedding between Gwynileth and our son, Jenithar, ere the year's end.

House Hlaalu has also heard of sorrowful rumors passed amongst the winds, claiming the Lady Gwynileth's departure was, in fact, an effort to escape her bond to our son. We naturally must refute such claims, and establish our belief that it was by Lorth and Nihali Nerussa's own actions that their daughter fled their mansion, her birthright, and the impending marriage between our houses. An unfair amount of expectation was placed upon the young woman's shoulders in her parents' tireless quest for power. Gwynileth Nerussa holds House Hlaalu's sympathy and well-wishes for whatever new life she has decided to claim, should she prefer to remain in Skyrim rather than return home.

Plastered upon the bottom of the page was a charcoal stamp of two scales: the telltale sigil of House Hlaalu. Signatures of many were scribbled alongside the sigil, perhaps listing the others of the House who agreed with such lofty sentiments.

Gwynileth's lips twisted downwards; pretty words from manipulative people, just as the nobles of her homeland had always been capable of crafting. Seeing how Inigo's whiskers twitched with curiosity and Lucien leaned forward to read the text, she placed the letter upon the table so they might see what she had just beheld.

The second letter was certainly from Nerussa Estate. Gwynileth recognized the stationary as one of her mother's beloved imports from Cyrodiil: golden filigree swirled around the edges of the parchment, the top of which was drawn a perfect red rose. It read:

We, Lorth and Nihali of House Nerussa, cannot begin to describe the sorrow we feel at the loss of our daughter Gwynileth. She remains one of our greatest treasures: a woman of scholarly prowess, of great kindness, and of soft heart, and we desperately await the day she may decide to return home.

Rumors have swirled surrounding the nature of our daughter's disappearance, and for the sake of transparency, we shall confirm one thing: Gwynileth's departure was indeed a voluntary decision made by desperation. It has recently come to light that House Hlaalu's prodigious son, Jenithar, has confessed to abusing our daughter to the point of hopelessness; as parents, such news—and guilt at our own wrongdoing—swings into our hearts with the weight of a grand pendulum.

House Nerussa kindly asks for privacy and understanding as we attempt to establish the current whereabouts of our daughter. Gwynileth, should ever you read our missive: you will always be welcomed back home.

Tears—always tears now—began to prick at the corner of Gwynileth's eyes. Too late. Her family, her parents, had heard her pleas and said what she had desired to hear too late.

Her new life in Skyrim alongside Kaidan, Lucien, and Inigo, had given her everything she had been looking for: friends, family, love, purpose. And that was without mentioning the destiny she was now honor-bound to see completed as the Dragonborn.

After placing the second slip of parchment upon the table, only the third piece of paper remained, which was much shorter. Simpler.

If our daughter has deserted us, then she willingly abandoned her family. On our honor, she must be ended. See to it the Dark Brotherhood takes care of her.

What tears still lingered in her eyes froze, all but turned to ash. Gwynileth's breath halted. The yellowed parchment was stamped with her father's noble seal: a red wax styled in the sigil of a feathered quill wrapping around the blade of a sword. There was very little room for doubt that the seal had come from her family's home, and yet…

"You see something wrong with this third missive, do you not, Gwynileth?" asked Danilo, his voice barely breaking through the tensely settled silence. His ruby eyes softened at the perturbed furrow to her brow. "You know it to be true. What is wrong with it?"

Her eyes perused the text once, twice, thrice more. The sigil seemed genuine, but—as her gaze scoured the letters one final time, she knew what egged at the edges of her brain.

"This is not my father's handwriting," she said at last. "It is close, but… it is not his, nor my mother's. Someone somehow acquired the sigil of my house and forged this order in an attempt to implicate my parents in my murder." She practically threw the page upon the table, as though the parchment itself had scorched her. "My parents… they never wanted me dead after all. They never—does this mean—they truly miss me?"

She sank within her chair, her breakfast completely forgotten. As a wretched sob lodged within her throat, Gwynileth was kept sane only by the supportive presence of Kaidan's warm hand at her elbow, his thumb caressing soft circles against her skin.

Her final, desperate lifeline against the swirling maelstrom within her chest.

Danilo nodded somberly, apparently moved by her desperate relief. "Your parents have not desired your death at all, Gwynileth."

"Then it is Jenithar who pursues me," she whispered, casting her forehead into her hands. "That missive you found, Kaidan, upon the Dark Brotherhood's possession—"

"It is not Jenithar Hlaalu who has ordered your demise either." Danilo spoke swiftly, but not sharply. "It was he who recovered this forged missive and prevented it from being discovered in an incriminating place within your parent's halls."

The admission swept away what little air Gwynileth had left in her lungs. While the inn was bright with sunlight cascading through the windows, the shadows in the corner seemed to loom ever closer at the idea that her previous betrothed was actually attempting to help her, after all he had done to the contrary.

"What?" she cried, breathless. "You claim that the man who—Danilo, you do know that he raped me, do you not?"

"I do know this," said Danilo, pushing back his plate and turning so that he faced her directly, hands clasped within his lap, "and I also know that he has promised to do whatever it takes to keep yourself and your parents safe as recompense for his actions. He has gone so far as to admit to his crime amongst the Grand Council, and within the same breath, sworn to leave you be in relative happiness and safety."

The words rung like a sepulcher tone within the dead air of the inn. Gwynileth's jaw dropped, her gaze glossily fixated upon the barely-touched plate ahead of her. The thought that Jenithar was actively protecting her family from the wrath of his own… it beggared belief.

She could not forget the day preceding the night he had assaulted her. It had actually been a beautiful day; they had been enjoying themselves, reveling in the other's company. In the light of the midsummer sun, they had attended an afternoon play, danced to the music of a traveling troupe in the city streets, cooked a homemade dinner together.

Flour had ended up in their hair. They were laughing. It had been a perfect day.

Until late in the evening, when her family's mansion was empty aside from themselves, and Jenithar offered her an unassuming mug of mulled wine—a recipe of his grandmother's, he had said, to which he'd added something special for the occasion. He omitted telling her what that addition was, but she had drank anyway… because Gwynileth had trusted him, the man she could see herself falling in love with and starting a life alongside.

Too late did she find out. Sweetbarrel flowers; known to boost one's libido and conquer the usual inhibitions.

An addition he'd made after she had expressly stated her wish to be intimate only following their potential marriage.

Too late, once again. Just as Gwynileth had been too late in discovering the sweetbarrel blooms, Jenithar was now too late to make amends. For despite the atonement he seemed to seek now, there would always be the wonder within the deepest crevices of her mind: was he only acting to clear his own name? To seek forgiveness for the sake of staving off social isolation? How was she to ever know whether he was genuine?

"But it cannot—he must be the one hunting me." The words flew from her lips before she could fully process them. It stung to know how wretched she looked ahead of the man who was once her tutor, the man who once gifted her sonnets and flowers. "Mustn't he… Danilo?"

Danilo's countenance melted at the whisper his name had become. He reached out as if to take her hand before remembering himself and retracting it once more. "It is his House that hunts you, Lady Nerussa. Following Jenithar's confession, word spread to the populace. Contrary to what you believe, you were—and still are—beloved by many a common man. None have forgotten the kindness you bestowed upon your family's servants, or the grocers or seamstresses your family visited. Your popularity has garnered great sympathy towards your parents, which in turn has seen the balance of power teetering closer towards House Nerussa retaining its status, while House Hlaalu faces immense pressure. Many have called for them to be demoted as a Great House permanently."

"A thing unprecedented," whispered Lucien, speaking up for the first time in nearly an hour. His silence was so uncharacteristic, Gwynileth nearly jumped in the air at the sudden sound of his voice. "Morrowind is indeed fond of its games of power, but to completely unseat one of its greatest players…"

Danilo nodded in Lucien's direction, a spark of approval lighting his eyes at the Imperial scholar's cultural knowledge. "Exactly the reason House Hlaalu wishes to see you dispatched, Gwynileth, and more besides—they intended to frame your family for the crime, to rob them of the people's sympathy and keep their supposedly rightful place in the Grand Council. Both the Dark Brotherhood and most of the Morag Tong are in their pocket."

Kaidan frowned heavily at such words. Though the dark circles underneath his eyes had lessened due to his first good night's sleep in over a week, the lines at the corners of his mouth were as severe as ever as he said, "We already knew such things. Both organizations have already attacked us, and we've stayed them off thus far. But…" He paused a moment, narrowing his eyes at the Dunmer. "What do you mean, most of the Morag Tong is in the Hlaalu's pocket? Why not all of them?"

At the astute question, a slight curl began to take over Danilo's lip. "Because a small sector of the organization, a sector loyal not to the family, but to Jenithar, has splintered. That small section has kept tabs upon your movements, Gwynileth… and has done what they can to thwart the Dark Brotherhood's attempts to pinpoint your location these last few months."

Gwynileth stared into the grain of the wooden table for a long while. The assassination attempts when she had first arrived in Skyrim had been swiftly enacted, and overwhelming—the attempt on her life while she bathed at the lake, the poison within her drink whilst sheltering at the Bannered Mare. Such blatant attacks had lessened of late, that was true… but Gwynileth had taken that as a lucky blessing. Never in a thousand years would she have assumed the reasoning behind it was due to Jenithar Hlaalu's protection.

"You're saying the man who hurt our friend is the reason she stands here unharmed," said Inigo, his voice a low growl, his ears pressed flat against his head. "I do not know if I believe such things, myself."

"If it is further proof you require, I have nothing tangible—but I do have a warning," said Danilo, who reached for his cup of tea and sipped at its contents. "The Dark Brotherhood is on the move. After its first three failed attempts and a new deadline of your nameday, the leader of the organization itself is spearheading your contract. She is closing in on your position, and despite my best attempts, I have failed to throw her off your trail."

"You—you have failed?" repeated Gwynileth, all of her worry returned in one grand rush.

"Yes. You are not the only one to have studied a blade in this short amount of time, Gwynileth." Danilo's eyes sparkled when she met them; a sweet memory of them sitting in her family's library, half-eaten sweets and a dozen books strewn about them, flooded to mind. "When I heard Jenithar Hlaalu was assembling a small force to protect you… I could not sit idly in my study without regret."

A harsh silence once again settled around the table. Gwynileth could scarcely believe what she was hearing: that the man who once taught her arithmetic and philosophy had taken up a blade in her name, for her protection.

The truth of the matter behind it all was proving to be overwhelming. She could not decide whether she believed each word she had been fed, even though it was someone she cared about delivering the news.

Despite her reservations and newfound uncertainty, however, Gwynileth kept her voice strong as she sighed and stated, "Then it was Jenithar who sent you to me. Jenithar who is your named benefactor."

Another nod. "The very same."

"In truth, Danilo… I do not know if I believe all of what you say. But I suppose there shall soon be a chance for me to find out for myself, if the leader of the Dark Brotherhood is indeed on her way." Gwynileth stood from her chair, escorting herself towards the window of the inn. It was so bright outside. Two children were building a horse made of snow in the streets; quite the stark contrast compared to the heavy conversation at her breakfasting table.

"Promise me you'll be ready for her," said Danilo, though when Gwynileth turned to face him, he was not looking at her—he was looking at her three companions. "This woman, Astrid… she is not to be trifled with. Even the best of the Morag Tong have referred to her only as a blade in the dark."

Each of them exchanged swift looks; they did not speak, yet everything they needed to say was present.

"We'll be ready," said Kaidan, seizing his mug and downing it in one final go. "For Gwyn's sake."

The conviction within his words was more than enough to assuage Gwynileth's worries. She smiled warmly at him and could barely keep herself from melting upon being met with such ardor of his own.

Light returned to the corners of the inn, and shouts of the fishermen outside brightened the air. Gwynileth exhaled slowly, rubbing her arms, banishing the last of her lingering chill.

"Very good, then. I will hold you to it." Danilo raised his mug in Kaidan's direction before defeating the contents within it as well. Then he stood up, the wooden legs of the chair squeaking somewhat against the cold wood. "Thus I shall leave you… at least for now. Be safe, Gwynileth. Azura's blessings upon you, and may this new life lead you to what you desire."

The sentiment was appreciated, but Gwynileth could not keep herself from smiling as she thought once more on how this new life had already seen her to what she desired. But she did not speak as such aloud, instead choosing to say, "Thank you, Danilo. You be cautious as well. I am not the only one playing with fire anymore."

He exhaled through his nose; a surefire laugh, had he allowed it. Then her tutor raised the woolen hood around his head, strode towards the door, and was lost to the tepid snowfall of the outdoors.

Chapter Text

All was quiet for a brief moment following Danilo’s departure. There was no pretending his revelations had not alarmed the small group; before that morning, they had operated on a day-by-day basis, simply praying they did not run afoul of any wayward assassins during their already dangerous journeys.

Yet now, having cleared the fog of mystery away from their appearance… there was much to consider.

“How are you feeling about all of this, Gwynileth?” Lucien asked quietly, biting the inside of his lip. His blue eyes were wide, alight with obvious concern.

There was no correct or proper answer to such a question. “In truth, I do not know,” she ended up responding, for that was answer in itself. But she squared her shoulders as she continued. “But I cannot allow these new truths to distract me from what it is I must do next, which is retrieve the Elder Scroll from the inner earth of Blackreach.”

Though Lucien’s curiosity was immediately piqued by her mention of the underground caverns, Kaidan did not allow him to begin his tangent. “We will need to keep vigilant if the Dark Brotherhood’s very leader is after you. Should we not wait for her and prepare?”

“If she is as good as Danilo said, she will notice our fortifications and refuse to show herself until we are once again on the move,” retorted Inigo, his tail swishing restlessly around the legs of his chair. “Our eyes will need to be open at all times from this point forward. I would recommend against camping in the open, and would go so far as to say we should all sleep in one room whilst we take shelter in inns.”

“While normally I would love to call you paranoid… you have a point,” Lucien said begrudgingly. He sighed and shivered. “There are spine-chilling rumors passed along about the Dark Brotherhood down in Cyrodiil, and I’d rather not risk finding out whether any of them are true. Should we huddle together so often, not allowing an opening for her to strike—that would be best.”

It was not often her three friends were of a similar mind, and Gwynileth knew better than to argue once their decisions were made. A small smile graced her face for the first time in minutes; it was softly she said, “Thank you—all of you. But we will not be at full strength if Kaidan’s nightmares are not eradicated. Despite the severity of these new revelations… I still feel as though a visit to the Shrine of Mehrunes Dagon should be next on our list.”

“With us traveling by foot, it would be impossible to reach the shrine in one day. Even reaching Dawnstar from this distance would be risky, as the carriage doesn’t travel from Winterhold—only to.” Kaidan shook his head, a rueful twist overtaking his lips. “No, Gwyn. I appreciate your concern, but it would be wiser to reach Alftand and descend into Blackreach from there. It will be difficult for the assassin to follow when we leave no tracks behind us.”

As badly as Gwynileth wished to fulfill the promise she’d made Kaidan the previous night… she knew he was right. Her own sentiments did not matter when circumstances became dire, and dire they had indeed become.

“We will attend it as soon as possible,” she said bitterly, unable to meet his eyes. “Until then, I will ask the College’s alchemist to prepare as many sleeping draughts as possible for you.”

She could feel rather than see the warmth Kaidan was offering, but he said no more on the matter.

With little else to keep the group sheltered within Winterhold, the end of the lunching hour saw them out of the small city, their bags newly weighed with sleeping draughts, spare potions, and extra rations. While Gwynileth would have also preferred to replenish her quiver of arrows, there was neither blacksmith nor fletcher in such a town, which meant she would need to make do until they either reached Dawnstar, or she could scavenge usable arrows during their journey.

Travel ended up being far more brutal so far north. The day was bright, the light assaulting Gwynileth’s eyes as it reflected the pure-white snows. She relied on Inigo’s pristine vision more than she cared to, especially considering the threat she knew was following—and the difficulty of seeing went without mentioning the bitter chill biting through even the thickest of their snow-bear pelts. The cold cut straight to the bone; Gwynileth and Lucien couldn’t stop shivering even though they tried.

On the bright side, traveling so far to the north allowed constant views of the ice caps and the ocean. Gwynileth found herself smiling despite her discomfort; during her life in Morrowind, despite living fairly close to the shore, excuses to see the ocean were few and far between with all the instruction and duties she had been expected to attend.

Yet here, in freedom, she could spend as long as she liked viewing the waters. There was something harrowing about a tide that would push and pull as it pleased, guiding ships to their next destinations… or even to their demises. The closer they drew to the sea, the colder the air became due to the floating icecaps, the air searing Gwynileth’s nose and lungs. Such chill was a thing unknown in Morrowind, but she was growing more used to it.

Despite the struggles of the venture, the group reached the entry point of Alftand as the sun was setting. It had been a precarious journey up the slick mountainside, but they were graced with the sight of weathered Dwemer ruins before too long.

“It seems we are not the first ones here,” mused Lucien, kicking at the ruined remains of a tent. Scattered notebooks, quills, and even a tattered blanket still sat within its refuge, bleached by sun and wind. “I suspect scholars like myself have come before, searching for answers…”

His final sentence reminded Gwynileth of the promise she made: to help him view the ruins of Dumzbthar, whenever they were able to locate them. She smiled and placed a hand upon his shoulder. “Would you like an opportunity to study them for the evening? We might make camp and trudge inside tomorrow.”

Lucien proffered her a grateful smile in turn, yet shook his head. “It would be far more comfortable for us to find a safe place within the ruins to turn in for the night… not to mention safer.”

While Gwynileth could not deny he had a point, her lips twisted downwards. Should each of their decisions hinge so heavily upon the threat they now had a name for, it would grow old swiftly.

For now, however, there was nothing to be done—so she nodded.

Fortunately, the moment they were out of the reach of the gales, a semblance of warmth greeted them. Gentle light from ancient Dwemer lanterns guided their descent; golden mechanisms gleamed, somehow untarnished even after hundreds of years, as they passed.

“Any insights, Lucien?” she found herself asking.

“Oh, plenty,” was the immediate promise. His eyes were wide as saucers, taking in the sights the ruins of the Dwemer had to offer. “Look at the heavy base of these pillars! One can only wonder whether its design is due to structural necessity, considering how deeply underground we are, general balance, or pure aesthetic…”

The sound of Lucien’s voice reverberated upon the hallways for minutes more, pausing only when he asked Gwynileth for her own observations or insights, or when a new theory had just tickled his brain. The sheer delight her friend possessed for old secrets and discoveries never failed to make her smile.

“Let’s make camp here,” said Kaidan, after ten more minutes of venturing forth. He gestured to an open room of stone, within which some Dwemer beds sat. They did not look terribly comfortable since the beds themselves were also carved from rock, but their own blankets and bedrolls would certainly soften them up.

Inigo nodded. “I agree. And there is only one entrance—perfectly defensible! Plus, should we enable that trap I see along the edges of the door, we may even have advance warning if nasty machines take a midnight stroll.”

Lucien started at the mention of a trap, nearly tripping over his own feet. “Pfah! Thank you for pointing that out, Inigo, I’d never have seen it if not for your eyes.”

“You might have seen it if your nose were out of your book,” sighed Kaidan, though there was no genuine malice within his voice; only a fond sort of exasperation.

As it was, Lucien simply made a stinky face in Kaidan’s direction—laughing, Gwynileth took it upon herself to usher them inside so she might rearm the trap in question and get a good night’s sleep.

The following day saw the group traversing through a seemingly impossible labyrinth of metal and wheels. Though they’d adventured grandly in the months it had been since they began traveling together, never before had Gwynileth ventured to brave a setting of Dwemer ruins… and the initial experience was proving to be just as interesting as she’d both expected and feared.

Dwarven automatons were still active even after hundreds of years; whenever one of their party members drew too close to one, it would spring to life, gears whirring. Arrows swiftly proved to be of little use, forcing Gwynileth to utilize her spells. Kaidan and Inigo were able to hold the vanguard, same as always… though at times, Lucien could be seen scribbling in his notebook rather than fighting.

Their progress was slow, yet it was sure. One by one, mechanic bodies littered the ancient tunnels and their way was cleared. Countless resources were located within each room: arrows, dwarven metal ingots, curiosities, and far more. Lucien’s pack quickly became too heavy for him to carry, which led Inigo to assist with the weight distribution—even Kaidan became encumbered by some of the artifacts that had been located.

When at last the group reached the end of the labyrinth, they found the mechanism leading into Blackreach guarded by a grand brass centurion. As Gwynileth neared its leg, steam jetted forth—with a horrid creak and many ensuing clanks, the centurion broke free of its restraints and bore down unmistakably towards her.

“B’vek,” she muttered, fingertips sizzling with lightning. “Suppose there’s no way down except through.”

Little else needed to be said. Kaidan charged forward, nodachi aloft—and Inigo was not far after, ebony blade extended. Bolts of ice flew from Lucien’s hands, for not even he could ignore the danger of this particular threat, and lightning strike after lightning strike danced from Gwynileth’s fingers. She could feel the sparks arcing across her wrists, down her arms; such surges of power were mildly intoxicating. There was a reason many of her countrymen became so enamored by destructive forces.

Yet at last the automaton fell, the same as the ones that came before. Gwynileth stood ahead of it, salvaging what gemstones had been loosened from its large frame and placing them in her pack, before facing what looked to be a descending staircase.

The golden bauble given to her by Septimus Signus seemed like it would fit right into the slot of the keyhole. She placed it gently and twisted.

A harsh grinding of stone against stone crashed amidst the chamber. Before Gwynileth’s very eyes, a set of stairs appeared ahead of her, leading down into what seemed a bottomless abyss.

Her friends stood beside her, eyes wide at the sight. Kaidan placed a hand upon her shoulder and moved to take point position as always.

It was a long journey into the heart of Blackreach, accompanied only by eerie silence and the soft scuffle of their own footsteps. The spiral staircase was barely wide enough to fit two people at once—more than once, dust rained down upon their heads.

But the sight awaiting them at the bottom of the spiral more than compensated for the discomfort of the descent.

“It’s beautiful,” murmured Inigo, whose yellow eyes widened with delight.

And Gwynileth could not disagree. Past the door leading into Blackreach, a myriad of color met her eyes. The caverns of the underground world sparkled with various mycelium and crystal, so many and so much that it seemed a perpetual rainbow hung above their heads. It was cool, but not cold; the sound of rushing waterfalls in the far distance provided a comforting droll. Even close by, within a small creek, Gwynileth could see luminescent fish swimming about in its shallows—aside the brook, new plants and fungi grew, reaching up towards what would’ve been the sky.

A road of gold brick was paved beneath their feet. In the far distance, they could all see the spires of Dwemer towers gleaming. One of those towers, Gwynileth knew, would house the Elder Scroll she had been tasked to retrieve.

“Blackreach. I’ll be damned—Brynjar really was telling the truth,” murmured Kaidan. Not even he seemed immune to the majesty of the underground city. “It actually exists.”

“Well of course it exists,” Lucien retorted, clapping a comradely hand upon Kaidan’s arm. “There have been countless eyewitness accounts and dissertations on the founding of Blackreach already. Irrefutable ones, too!”

“But barbarians can’t read, remember?”

“Oh, for crying out—” Lucien cast Kaidan a greatly unamused look; the other man had started chuckling to himself. “Enough of that, would you? Let’s press on!”

If their progress had been slow during their exploration of the Dwemer ruins, it practically ground to a halt as they went through Blackreach. Lucien was not the only one wanting to explore or study; Gwynileth was fascinated by the aquatic flora nearby, picking at the glowing toadstools and crimson nirnroots for the sake of her alchemical experiments. Inigo was also attempting to catch the tiny fish in the stream by hand, claiming he could ‘hardly help himself.’ Only poor Kaidan seemed to have any eye for their goal, and Gwynileth couldn’t keep herself from giggling at the exasperated look upon his face as he struggled vainly to keep his compatriots in check.

After an hour of sidetracking, however, the group reconvened and agreed to push forth, visiting the Dwemer structures within sight in hopes that one was the Tower Mzark. The first ruin they visited seemed like a grand palace, though it was guarded by Falmer; such enemies were not new to Gwynileth, though she highly disliked them due to the sounds of their war cries, their persistent poisons, and their mutilated faces.

Yet even after defeating them—not without a few nicks and cuts—and scouring the premises, no Elder Scroll awaited.

The next building was a small one; an underground shrine, guarding rusted weapons and plaques. A few pots held crimson nirnroot within, of which Gwynileth elected to take one or two sprouts… but other than that, it was featureless.

At last, on the outskirts of Blackreach, they located a third building. It was small—perhaps a laboratory that once belonged to a renowned alchemist, based on the alchemy stations, ingredients, and scholarly certificates that occupied it. It made for a good place to camp for the night as well, being well-fortified and within a rare area where no chauruses were scuttling about.

As Lucien sat upon the bed to scribble in his notebook, Inigo sharpened his sword, and Gwynileth began a few rudimentary potion experiments, however, the danger of the reality they would return to above ground was finally addressed.

“Gwyn… now that we know the Hlaalu bastard has been following your movements… what do you want us to do should he ever appear?”

The question stopped the gentle grind of Gwynileth’s mortar and pestle. She blinked, eyes locked on the turquoise haze of her concoction, seeing yet not processing. Quietly, she answered, “Danilo made it seem as though Jenithar swore to never follow me.”

“Yet him even having your location warrants concern.” The sound of rustling belongings crashed through the newfound silence, and suddenly, Kaidan’s hand was at her shoulder. “I do not want to alarm you, Gwyn, but… despite his supposed good intentions, he still has power here. He knows where you are, while you know nothing. This revelation is a slight to your safety that I will not ignore.”

Gwynileth set down her tools, hands shaking. She had been able to push aside her concern throughout the day for the sake of locating the Elder Scroll, yet the fact of the matter was… her past was not so far behind her as she had hoped.

Kaidan’s hand upon her shoulder slid across her arm to seize her own now resting upon the cool stone table. The reminder of his steady presence helped settle her nerves.

“This is how it feels knowing we are soon to confront Rosalind, is it not?” she said softly, and without looking over her shoulder. “A past you would rather leave buried, intent on dogging your very heels… this is how you felt too, isn’t it, Inigo?”

At last, she faced the remainder of the room. The quarters did seem far too cramped to accommodate four people, but in light of their task, they needed to make do. Despite the darkness of Blackreach and the dim lights of mycelium lanterns, Gwynileth could still pick out the yellow pinpricks of Inigo’s eyes steadily observing her on the opposite side of the room.

The Khajiit nodded at her question. “It is. It is uncomfortable to feel and face, no?” He cocked his head sideways. “You have the strength to do it. If I could, then you can, my friend.”

His words were, thankfully, helpful. She looked to Kaidan next.

“I’ll be with you,” he said softly, raising the hand upon the table to his lips. A gentle kiss was placed upon Gwynileth’s knuckles; the kind she only thought existed in fairytales, after her assault left her broken and bitter. “Just as you promised you’d be there with me. So we’ll face them together, if and when the need arises. Aye?”

Here at last, after what had seemed like agonizing days of Kaidan’s withdrawal from her, Gwynileth could see the usual warmth and adoration in his gaze. Even amidst the dark of a literal underground city, he could bring such light.

“Right,” she whispered, swallowing hard. Gwynileth leaned back, her head lightly brushing against his shoulder. Her hands had stopped shaking.

“So I ask again, Gwyn: what would you have me do, if he should dare show his face?”

It was not a question she had ever wanted to ponder. When she had run away all those months ago at Anya’s behest… Gwynileth had never expected to lay eyes upon Jenithar Hlaalu again. She had prayed he would become little more than a bad memory, a nightmare—yet fate had determined this was a nightmare that would follow even unto her waking.

But despite all the fear she felt at his name, all the anguish and betrayal that still swirled within her gut at the recollection of his deeds…

“I would have him explain himself,” she answered, and the volume of her own voice proved she spoke true. “Jenithar is and was many things: a soldier, a politician… someone who loves with his whole heart. If Danilo spoke truly, it sounds like he is attempting to atone—and should even a fragment of our understanding be true, and Jenithar happens to face me once more, I would not repay his efforts with death.”

A slow drip. drip. drip. of water broke the stillness of Gwynileth’s voice. She could feel the startled gazes of her three companions behind her, as though waiting for her to change her mind.

Yet that did not happen, and so it was Kaidan who said, “Then we will support you as much as you need, so you too can finally lay your past to rest.”

The encouragement meant more than Gwynileth could say. With a small smile, she squeezed Kaidan’s hand and gazed past him, towards the man who’d been scribbling in his notebook only a few minutes prior. Gesturing to the glowing mushrooms upon the alchemy station, she asked, “Would you like to help me write potential new formulas on these local ingredients, Lucien? I daresay I’ve found a few recipes for potent antidotes already…”

“Yes, please!” exclaimed Lucien, promptly bounding off the bed and to Gwynileth’s other side, quill already put to parchment. “Have you used the chaurus antennae yet? I hear they’re particularly powerful as a stamina poison—”

“Well, I’ll let you two get to it,” said Kaidan, with a swift kiss upon Gwynileth’s temple. “I’ll go exterminate a few beasties lurking near the hut then, shall I? Inigo, do let me know when these two finish their experiments. It’ll smell like farts until they’re done, as it always does…”

“Excuse me?” Gwynileth laughed incredulously, but she could say no more as Inigo’s ears flew flat upon his head.

“What? Do not leave me here with that smell! I will come with you. Squishing spiders sounds more fun than breathing in farts.”

Neither Gwynileth nor Lucien had time to say anything before the door opened and the two warriors exited, letting only a brief ray of turquoise light traipse into the small abode. Once they were gone, the sounds of their voices carrying further away, all was quiet save for the few concoctions left bubbling upon the station.

It was Gwynileth to speak first, shrugging and stating, “Well, to catch you up, I’ve begun by grinding the crimson nirnroot into a fine powder. I believe it will react with the—”

“You know, Gwynileth, I’m very proud of you.”

She blinked at the sudden statement. Lucien himself seemed surprised he had uttered it; he took a step back, his eyes wide within the dim light. But in that awkward silence, he cleared his throat and, despite the tips of his ears reddening, continued to speak. “We’ve known each other quite a while now, haven’t we? And in the time since… you’ve grown a lot. Not literally, of course, but mentally. To be honest, the first few days we knew each other, I was rather uncertain our deal of you protecting me while I conduct my research would work out. Yet here we are, and you’ve done more than just protect me—you’ve been a good friend. A delightful friend who’s helped me learn how to fight not just for myself, but for the sake of others. And now… you’re learning how to protect yourself in perhaps the way that matters most. It’s likely to be one of the hardest things you’ll ever do, but you still intend on seeing it through. So I’m proud of you!”

Lucien cleared his throat again, looking rather lost before shooting her a winning smile. “I’m not very good at speaking from the heart, but I felt as though it deserved to be said!”

Gwynileth’s throat tightened; she had never before thought of what painful healing and progress she’d been making was anything except for pathetic, and yet… the way Lucien spoke made it seem like her efforts were almost noble.

“It is just what I need to do, for my own sanity,” murmured Gwynileth. Her eyes fell upon the mixture yet unfinished: a sorry pile of goo the color of a robin’s egg, bubbling under a cauldron of heat.

Lucien shook his head, the corners of his lips drawing ever upward. “And that is exactly why I am proud. Not everyone would be able to name what it is they need to do for themselves in order to heal from a trauma like yours. To face it, recognize it, and name it… is a feat of strength all in itself.”

Though Gwynileth was not fully certain of Lucien’s words, she was sure of the sentiment behind them. There was no doubting that he was indeed proud, the way he looked at her now.

“Thank you, Lucien,” she said quietly.

His smile grew wider; before she could stop him, one hand was ruffling chaotically through her hair, making her splutter as strands of black fell over her face. “That’s what I’m here for! Moral support, grand theses, and the occasional fireball.”

The return of his usually flippant demeanor told Gwynileth that it was time once again to get to their alchemical work. With the gentle bubbling of the station as their company, they began poring over old notes together, debating on which ingredients to whisk together first.

Chapter Text

Despite the size of their temporary quarters, Gwynileth slept well that night. There had been enough potions of dreamless sleep for each of them, and enough still for at least another week—it was a good thing too, as they all knew the following week would be eventful at best.

The laboratory, once the abode of a renowned alchemist named Sinderion, soon fell behind the group as they traversed once more across the fields of Blackreach. It did not take long for them to reach the next Dwemer tower; as they approached, Lucien stopped short, holding a hand as if to stop Gwynileth in her tracks.

“This is it,” he said softly, reverently gazing upon the structure. “The sheer aura of magicka around this tower… there can be no doubt! The Elder Scroll is here!”

So into the Tower Mzark they went, finding no enemies but a grand room with golden mechanisms and a gorgeous planetarium of the night sky: an oculory. Three beams of light dipped into the room, rebounding off of the aquamarine mirrors. Sitting proudly in the midst of the oculory was a sealed container—one that Gwynileth felt herself drawn to, for an inexplicable yet unmistakable reason.

“I think I see what must be done,” said Inigo, pointing a jagged claw at the beam of light. “We must chase the pretty lights to a designated position. Then, perhaps the egg will open!”

With four brains to work with, it took little time for the puzzle to be solved. Golden buttons would move the light when clicked, yet the click of merely one button would move all three beams. Nonetheless, with Lucien’s observations and Kaidan and Inigo’s encouragement, Gwynileth was able to seize a pattern that allowed the lights to fall upon their designated positions.

At the last, after a brief rumbling within the tower, the light fell upon the gilded container. It slowly creaked open to reveal yellowed parchment curled around a golden scroll.

They stood, stunned, for a long moment. But it was Gwynileth to first step forward, one hand extended.

The touch of the Elder Scroll was, oddly enough… just like touching the stationary at home. It was a bit cooler than had been expected, perhaps from the many long years it had slumbered underneath the reach of the sun—yet when she raised it from its resting place, she realized how very heavy it was.

“Azura’s breath!” she gasped as the scroll nearly fell from her hands. “It weighs far more than expected!”

Lucien chuckled at the revelation. “Well of course it does, it has thousands of years’ worth of knowledge stored within it!” He inched forward. “Would you mind terribly if I take a peek at it? Not until you do, of course! But… well, think of the possibilities, Gwynileth!”

She couldn’t help but laugh at the genuine stars within her friend’s eyes and swiftly promised that yes, assuming he was willing to accept the risks of reading the scroll, he would be welcome to be blessed with a portion of its accumulated knowledge… but first came the necessity of leaving the tower, and putting Blackreach behind them. And after inscribing the Elder Scroll’s knowledge into the red cube that Septimus Signus had provided her with, they began to do exactly that.

It was a short trip through the underground city, yet a poignant one nonetheless. Gwynileth made sure to gather as many spare crimson nirnroots and wisp wrappings as she could; Lucien made some final documentations of the Dwemer ruins; Kaidan and Inigo took in the sights, bows in hand. But with their purpose complete, there was no further reason to linger—and so they took a lift back to the surface of Mundus, with the intention of returning to the Throat of the World.

When sunlight once again graced their eyes, each of the four groaned and shied away from it. After spending over twenty-four hours underground, it was even more blinding than usual when reflected off the snows.

“My eyes!” Inigo cried, squeezing his hands to his face, “I have been blinded! Curse this wretched sun!”

Gwynileth was not faring much better. She dug her feet into the snow, wincing as she threw her hands to her eyes. Not even Kaidan was able to restrain a few choice swears, though normally he was the last of their group to complain about travel or changes in terrain.

When they had recuperated enough to gaze further than a few paltry meters, they took measure of where they were. Upon recognizing their surroundings, however, Gwynileth stopped short and murmured, “We are but a few leagues from Dawnstar.”

From the height they stood at, having somehow emerged at the near peak of a mountain, the ocean was gleaming to the north. Not far westward sat the swampy marshes signaling the province of Hjaalmarch; to their south, a series of stone mausoleums and labyrinthine passages were sitting dusted in snow.

Kaidan staggered forward. “We’re only a half-day away from that place…”

He did not need to specify what he meant. To have emerged so close to the Shrine of Mehrunes Dagon seemed like a fated sign; though he had mentioned the import of Gwynileth’s task in retrieving the Elder Scroll, the fact of the matter was that had been completed, and once she took it to the Throat of the World, there was no telling when next their entourage might find themselves within reach of ending Kaidan’s misery and laying his past to rest, once and for all.

Knowing this, Gwynileth reached for his hand, slipping her fingers in between his own. “Would you like us to proceed there now?”

Kaidan thought on such a question for a long, tense moment. The war of his thoughts raged clear behind his eyes; the other two waited, respectfully averting their gazes—Inigo even decided to gather a snowball and throw it as far as he could down the mountainside. 

“Are you certain you all wish to accompany me?” Kaidan asked at last, his voice barely audible over the harshness of the howling wind. “I am asking not a small favor, but a life-threatening one. Rosalind is dangerous. Far more dangerous than any of the necromancer wretches we’ve faced in caves past.”

“Perhaps she is, but you are my friend. Of course I will go,” said Inigo, without time for even the slightest hesitation.

Lucien nodded and smiled in Kaidan’s direction as well. “You needn’t even ask, old chap. My spells are yours.”

Upon hearing the other two’s answers, the man looked towards Gwynileth, concern shining clear within his amber eyes. “Gwyn?” Her name was soft, as though he only just gathered the strength to say it.

Her grasp over his hand tightened. When Gwynileth ran her thumb along Kaidan’s palms and over the inside of his wrist, she could feel the thud of his steady heartbeat underneath. Smiling, she said, “You already know my answer. And you also know that nothing will ever change it.”

A sudden gust of wind blew through the still, wintry air. Though Lucien shivered and shied away from the gale, Gwynileth could not help but smile as it sent Kaidan’s dark hair tumbling around his face. With a slight giggle, she reached up, tucked the haphazard strands back behind his ear, and concluded, “Let’s finish this. You have earned the closure.”

“I’ll know I’ve earned it once it’s over,” said Kaidan. But he did not fight such sentiments any more than that, and began to lead the way through the dunes of snow.

Despite the resistance of the weather, the journey to the shrine of Mehrunes Dagon did not take long at all. An anticipatory mood had settled across them all, but it was not full of fear; rather, a steely determination that they had found during countless battles before, knowing they could rely on their comrades.

When they were an hour away from their destination, Kaidan began to speak of what they should prepare for inside.

“Expect dremora. And plenty of them,” he stated in a deadpan tone. “Conjuration is her strongest school of magicka, but Destruction isn’t too far behind. If we have any potions to rebuff fire or lightning spells, it would be best to divide them up between us before we get to the shrine.”

“I’ve a half-dozen ready to go,” said Gwynileth, swinging her pack over her shoulder and beginning to root through it. A soft clinkclinkclink of rustling glass bottles sounded; then she held out a reddish vial with a triumphant, “A-hah!”

“I can ward against her Destruction spells as well,” Lucien stated. Though he shivered next to Gwynileth, his voice was full of resilience, and he did not let his complaints of the cold be known. “Trust me to provide you with that shield when you need it.”

Kaidan raised an eyebrow as he glanced to the scholar, yet upon being met with only steel in return, he nodded. The corners of his lips turned upward. “Aye. Then I will.”

Mercifully, the remainder of the trek to the shrine itself was uneventful. There were no wolves, nor rampant undead; not even a hoard of bandits were scouring the mountainous caves. Gwynileth was grateful for the ease of travel, because it meant the group was able to conserve their strength for when it mattered most.

Yet once the ascent was underway, everything became eerily quiet. Now that she knew the dark importance of the place, Gwynileth could no longer revel in its beauty. Instead, the shrine’s sheer magnitude made her hair stand on end; her eyes were fixated on the obsidian sculptures carved into the mountainside, wondering just how many of them were accurate in their macabre depictions.

For better or worse, she was not the only one disquieted. Inigo’s ears were twitching, and Lucien was chewing the inside of his lip—a stark contrast to the fascination he had worn while scribbling in his notebook the previous visit.

The only one who seemed completely unfazed by the surrounding scenery was Kaidan… though Gwynileth couldn’t help noticing the way his hand never left the hilt of his nodachi.

And then they were once again facing the grand shrine dedicated to Mehrunes Dagon himself. It seemed like a lifetime ago they had last been here, though it had only been a few spare months. The altar with its black decorative spikes still sat, the same as it had a month and a half prior. Looming over their heads was the gargoyle still holding onto its four weapons. It seemed more foreboding than before; Gwynileth could not help feeling as though it was actively watching her every movement.

"Gwyn?” said Kaidan. He gestured to the side. “A word?”

She met his summons without question, just far away enough not to be overheard. Upon noticing how pale he was, she murmured, “You feeling all right, Kai?”

“In truth, no. I’m terrified something’s going to happen to you,” he sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “But you were right about one thing—we are stronger together than apart. Therein lies my concern, though. I know how that woman works. Before she instigates a fight with us, she will do what she can do turn us against one another.”

Gwynileth blinked. “You mean she is well-versed in Illusion spells?”

"No. She’s well-versed in sheer manipulation.” Kaidan sneered at the word and shook his head in disgust. “Rosalind’s favorite games were those of the mind. She would tell people what they most feared to hear, and see how long it would take to break their mind and spirit. With what horrors she knows about me… I would not put it past her to resurface those crimes for the sake of tearing us apart.”

Cruel, underhanded tactics for the sheer sport of it had no place in the world. And though there was still much that Gwynileth did fear, much that she did hate—Kaidan was not one of them. He had already been as honest as possible in telling her what, exactly, he and the Blooded Dawn had been and done.

There was little more she could ask from him than the trust he placed in her by telling her of his worst moments.

“Words cannot erase deeds and memories. She will find my stubbornness far more difficult to break through.” Gwynileth squared her shoulders, vying to showcase the depth of her loyalty. “I hope you can say the same?”

Kaidan chuckled at the twist of her lips. “I certainly can. I just—I may need you to remind me why you stay, when all this is over.”

“I’ll remind you every day for the rest of my life if I must.”

Such words had rather escaped before Gwynileth could think about them, yet even once they were said, she could not begrudge them for escaping. Especially not when Kaidan’s face brightened like that in reply.

“Every day?” he repeated. One hand raised, placed underneath Gwynileth’s chin. “Is that a promise, little dragon?”

She smiled at the warmth of his smile, the warmth of his hand gesturing her to look upwards into his eyes. “Every day, yes… for as long as you would have me.”

“Every day. I like the sound of that.”

Before she could respond, Kaidan leaned forward and cast Gwynileth into a deep kiss; a gesture of appreciation yet a deep melancholy, as though it were the last time they would ever get to indulge in the closeness of the other’s company. And when he pulled away once more, with just one more chaste kiss to her lips, Gwynileth found herself thinking there were not enough days in a lifetime for her to spend by his side and be sated with the time they were gifted.

With nothing much left to say, she gestured to their right, where the deep maw of a mountain cave was waiting.

Kaidan took the first step, but paused just before the darkness could reach out and swallow him. He glanced over his shoulder, casting a look towards Inigo, Lucien, and Gwynileth all in turn, before simply saying, “Everyone—thank you.”

He was graced with three grand smiles; they each knew all they needed to say was within those gestures alone. And then they trudged on.

The cave mouth was neither steep nor extensive, but it was dark. A slight crack echoed through the tunnel as Lucien summoned a minor Candlelight spell to help himself and Kaidan see. Stalactites of silver ice hung from the top of the ceiling; frozen water droplets shimmered on the sides of the tunnel. It would’ve been a beautiful sight, were it located anywhere else.

After a few minutes of careful progress, ahead of them stood a grand black door, the torc of which was missing.

They stared at it a moment.

“Inigo?” asked Kaidan, emotions carefully concealed.

Inigo stepped forward, the stones crunching underneath his boot, and withdrew the torc he had been safekeeping. He pressed it into Kaidan’s hands, yellow eyes flaring.

Kaidan’s grip tightened around the contraption, distaste practically emanating from him in waves. Before he slid it into place, however, he said, “There’s a strong chance Rosalind will conjure dremora to block our exit. Lucien, Inigo, would you be willing to prioritize the threats should they appear?”

Developing a strategy was a wise decision. Gwynileth was confident in her friends’ abilities—Inigo’s mastery of archery was clear, and Lucien had grown far more adept with his spell-casting—and she knew Kaidan would need to be on the forefront of the fight, considering he knew best what awaited them beyond that door.

Lucien and Inigo seemed to come to the same conclusions. The faint light of the Candlelight spell was just enough to highlight the golden tones of Lucien’s hair, of the severity in the lines of their faces.

“We can. But be careful. Magic is not the only dangerous thing in the hands of one such as her,” said Inigo. His claw lightly trailed the string of his bow; an arrow already sat within his palm. “You take point, Kaidan. We’re right here with you.”

Kaidan nodded. “Again, thank you. Don’t forget to use anything you have to protect yourself from fire. Your potions, your spells and enchantments—use it all.” He inhaled deeply, a furrow to his brow already appearing simply by looking at the door. “You ready, Gwyn?”

She centered herself, knowing there was no better time to end this. “Always ready.” Then, before she could lose her nerve, she gently seized the torc from Kaidan’s hand, maneuvered it into the door, and pushed it open.

The door gave way with a curtain of dust trickling down atop their heads and the horrendous screech of stone against stone. Six months ago, Gwynileth might not have even possessed the strength to push it aside—yet now, she stood tall in the entryway to the following room, vying not to reveal the confusion within her face.

Sitting behind the blackened door was a lounge the likes of which she would’ve seen during an afternoon social with the Telvanni family in Morrowind. Red flames flickered from torches along the walls. Plush, red furniture sat within the room, enough to seat a half-dozen men. Bowls of fruits sat upon the main table… yet on the dressers surrounding the room, bowls of dismembered hearts and other organs revealed the truly sinister purpose the chamber existed for.

Kaidan stepped forward and withdrew his nodachi, the sharp sound of steel crashing back into their ears. “Come out, Rosalind. I know you’re here.”

All was quiet for one moment, then two.

Then a sly peal of laughter met Gwynileth’s ears; the sound of melted caramel, a voice she would have associated with only the highest nobility back in her home country.

“There you are, Kaidan. I was starting to think I’d have to come collect you myself.”

A tall, slim woman appeared from beyond an obsidian column. Robes of black and red swept around a shapely figure, yet it was her face that most sufficiently captured Gwynileth’s attention. She was beautiful. There was no other word to describe her: golden hair the color of a sunflower, a strong jawline, high cheekbones, eyes practically made of sapphires.

She was so very unlike Gwynileth at all.

“So it really is you,” growled Kaidan. His nodachi raised higher and was positioned in front of Gwynileth as he took one more step forward.

Rosalind nodded, apparently charmed by his anger. Her lips were as red as the blood within the bowls upon her mantels. “It is indeed. But you don’t seem surprised.”

“I might’ve been if you weren’t so damn obvious, sending dremora to do your dirty work for you. You’d even kill me by proxy.” Kaidan no less than spat his final sentence; it was impossible for Gwynileth not to notice the vitriol within his voice. Rarely at all had she ever heard him so passionate.

The fact that it was for this witch, of all things, made her stomach churn.

“Kill you?” Rosalind seemed scandalized by the mere thought. “No, darling, never kill you. Maim you, perhaps. Incapacitate.”

Gwynileth glanced sideways to Kaidan. It was clear Rosalind was taunting him, doing what she could to send him off-balance—and while her own choice would’ve been to charge directly forward and silence the woman once and for all, she knew that was not her choice to make.

“And to think I was hoping you’d be as happy to see me as I am to see you. Clearly, you are not.” Rosalind sniffed and shifted her weight, the black fabric of her dress swirling smoothly around the floor. “I won’t deny I’m surprised to see you’ve brought the Dragonborn and her entourage not as an offering, but as enemies. I expected better from you, Kaidan.”

“You’ve earned nothing from me except my blade. The sharp end.”

“As if you’re any better?” Rosalind raised a lofty eyebrow and turned towards Gwynileth conspiratorially, as if they were simply two best girlfriends gossiping over afternoon tea. “Can you believe him, Dragonborn? Talking as if he’s so high and mighty, as if he’s completely absolved of all the sins of his past. Has he told you what he once was?”

Gwynileth’s gaze turned back to Kaidan. His face was made of stone; every muscle of his body was tense, coiled, ready to strike. Yet when she met his eyes, a curtain of desperation shone through them so swiftly, it reminded her of a shooting star.

She turned back to Rosalind. “I do know. And I also know reminiscing on the past only leads to ash and pain.”

The woman clucked her tongue in seeming disappointment. “Those who do not know their history are doomed to repeat it. Kaidan murdered, tortured, and stood by while women and children were burned and raped. As someone who is supposed to stand for the people, can you truly absolve him of these things? Many would cry for you to abandon him, Dragonborn. Why don’t I save you that eventual headache? You could… give him back to me.”

Her final words were spoken with a lilt to her eyebrow; a surefire sign of her verbal trap.

Gwynileth did not see, but could feel Kaidan’s constitution waver aside her at the reminder of his past, and Rosalind’s final suggestion made him tense. She, however, merely squared her shoulders and declared, “By his own admission, I know of what Kaidan has once done. We all have a past, Rosalind, and we all eventually have a choice: to either continue committing transgressions, or attempt to pay for them. Kaidan has proven time and again that he has chosen the latter. Thus, I care only for the man he is: a man who cares deeply, who wishes to do good, and who has sworn oaths to that effect.”

Another peal of derisive laughter rang about the room. “What, did he pledge his sword to you? He was once my weapon too, you know. He swore his soul to Lord Dagon, and his body… he swore to me.” She grinned, sharp as a shark’s. “You don’t know him as I do, do you. You poor thing. I wondered what he saw in Skyrim’s newfound paragon, and now I know: someone naïve and foolish enough to actually believe his farce of being a hero!” 

Rosalind’s derisive mirth crashed through the chamber, rebounding off the rocks, attempting to worm its way into Gwynileth’s heart. Everything about this woman was repulsive, condescending; she had not forgotten what Kaidan had said about her. But there was no denying her power—Rosalind was indeed perceptive, worming her way underneath Gwynileth’s skin, her hecklings snappish as a whip.

And the way Rosalind carried herself… she was so strong, and she stood so tall. She knew how powerful she was, what she was capable of, what she wanted.

When Gwynileth compared herself—fractured as she still was from being raped, only just coming into her own, still uncertain of her own power—she could not help feeling so terribly small.

A nagging thought invaded her mind: why had Kaidan chosen her? What did she even have to offer?

Rosalind’s red lips spread into a leer. “Oh, you darling thing. I can read the pain etched into your face like a storybook. If it’s any consolation, I can tell you all about Kaidan’s past—and all of the nights we spent together—as I rip your still beating heart out of your chest. That way, at least you may die finally knowing him the way I do.”

The cruel rise of her eyebrow told Gwynileth exactly what sort of knowing she meant. A stone fell into her stomach at the insinuation, because… it was true, she did not know Kaidan in that way. She was not ready for such things. After all she had done to heal, to simply live her life, day to day—as deeply as she cared for him—she hadn’t been ready.

“I’ll split your skull before you get near her!” roared Kaidan, blade aloft—

“There! There’s that bloodthirsty man I knew!” Rosalind shrieked with glee, clapping her hands together; even her nails were scarlet, the perfect color of blood. She pointed a single finger towards him. “Despite your so-called atonement, your very nature bleeds through. You will only ever be a man steeped in sin, Kaidan. Lord Dagon will be sure you remember it!”

Kaidan winced at the mention of the daedric lord.

“Enough, Rosalind!” bellowed Gwynileth. She raised her bow, reaching for an arrow sitting within her quiver—

“You know, I’ll be doing you a favor taking him from your side, Dragonborn.” Rosalind cocked her head sideways, a faux sorrowful look sitting upon her face; such a mask didn’t seem to suit her well. “These men… they only ever take what they want, don’t they? At least, the brutish, stupid ones do. The smart ones wait and gain your trust—until eventually you give them what they want before disappearing, stealing away your heart as well. I think you’re smart enough to know which of these types Kaidan is, Dragonborn.”

The reddish lights of the room seemed to swell, growing larger and larger, threatening to swallow Gwynileth whole. Yet what she felt was neither fear nor doubt over Kaidan’s intentions, for one simple reason.

She had chosen to trust him, despite her previous scars. She made the choice to give him her heart, imperfections and all, with the bright, burning hope that he would not break it.

That was the closest she would ever get to healing: trusting someone the way she had once trusted Jenithar.

And so, she was not afraid. If anything… what Gwynileth felt on Kaidan’s behalf was outrage.

“You are right about one thing, Rosalind. There may be some people out there who only take and destroy. Some may even lie and cheat to manipulate others, and win what they desire.” Gwynileth clenched her fists, her eyes spitting flames, and took a step forward. “But Kaidan is not one of them! He will never be one of them! And neither will Lucien, Inigo, or myself! The only one here with such a pitifully black heart… is you.”

Flames spat from Rosalind’s eyes at the impassioned voice Gwynileth spoke with; the voice with a dragon’s strength that echoed around the grand chamber, crashing back into their ears like a cathedral or a cavern. With each iteration, the blonde woman’s eye twitched.

Then she turned towards Kaidan once more. “This is your last chance, Kaidan. You know what I am capable of. But if you simply surrender yourself to me… I will spare these fools you travel with. We might start over, you and I, and rebuild those joyous days we spent in Lord Dagon’s blessings.”

Kaidan laughed. He glanced towards his three comrades at his side. “And substitute a real, genuine love for a parody of one? Hardly. I told you before—the only thing you’ll receive from me is the sharp end of my blade.”

What little decorum had been left upon Rosalind’s face promptly vanished. Suddenly, her beautiful features had twisted; with such lines, such hatred, aging her so, her appearance reminded Gwynileth of one of the hags in the Forsworn’s towers.

“So be it!” she spat. A flare of light from her palms saw Lucien’s hands crackling behind them. Once more did Rosalind point in Kaidan’s direction, her snarl disturbing the timbre of her voice. “Then it is up to me to kill you. And when I do, you will know once and for all that you cannot escape your past, Kaidan! The first oaths one swears are always the ones that mean the most. Your body and sword are mine—and I am here to collect!”

As Rosalind raised her hands, the red flares of the room burned ever brighter. Flames flickered through her fingertips, additional fire being drawn from the torches upon the walls.

And then everything burst into a barrage of firestorm and ash.

Chapter Text

“Fus-Ro-Dah!”

As the smoldering embers hurtled towards Kaidan, Gwynileth rushed ahead of him, an action of sheer instinct more than anything else. A jet of pure force flew from her mouth, crashing into the oncoming flames, roiling against the stone walls. Spurts of dying flame tore to the side, knocking into some of the plush furniture; as soon as the elemental torrent was gone, Kaidan rocketed forward, blade high in the electric air.

A haze of smoke rose throughout the room as Gwynileth made use of her arrows, each one tipped with poisons to halt magicka regeneration. With Kaidan taking point, his enchanted armor providing additional protection, Gwynileth was free to do what she could to whittle away at Rosalind from the backline—and though she could not see them, she knew Inigo and Lucien too were fighting, for she heard the khajiit’s telltale combat laughter and the sound of spells being cast from the scholar’s hands.

The challenge of the fight became immediately obvious; with her golden laugher ringing like a sepulcher bell through the air, Rosalind would teleport this way and that, spells slinging from her hands with deadly precision. It was all Gwynileth could do to summon wards and glyphs to protect herself and Kaidan from the adverse effects, yet when she herself attempted to attack, Rosalind’s robes rebuffed the projectiles, its midnight fabric glistening as though blessed by Mehrunes Dagon himself.

Right as Gwynileth came to that conclusion, the stone walls began to shimmer and change. Dremora began pouring forth, fire dancing through their veins. The sheer number of them was enough to snatch the breath from Gwynileth’s chest; by the grace of Azura herself, she was dexterous enough to dodge their claws and dance out of range of their deadly explosions.

“Behind me, Gwynileth!” cried Inigo, teeth bared as he wielded not just one, but two ebony swords in his hands. “I will take care of these nasty beasties!”

And so he did—with the dedicated upgrading of his sword and the enchantments borne within them, his beloved swords sheared through the dremora as though they were paper. Yet Gwynileth knew what would happen once they died; she seized Inigo’s arm and yanked him behind a nearby black pillar of marble as the dremora’s body exploded, the force of the blast nearing lighting Inigo’s tail on fire.

More dremora began to appear from the walls—

“I think not!” cried Lucien. He clapped his palms together, casting a swallow of sound between them, and pointed towards the nearest charging devil. “Banish! Be gone from here!”

An aura of sizzling magic stunted the creature’s advance; arcs of lightning crossed over its limbs, yet still it persisted.

Lucien inhaled deeply, the reserves of magic within his body swirling icy-blue over his silhouette. “Banish! I said banish, damn you!”

With his third exclamation, a portal of sinewy black energy swallowed the dremora whole, leaving nothing behind.

He huffed. “There! About time.”

Two more rattling explosions proved Inigo was doing his part at keeping the conjurations at bay. With such a threat largely under control, Gwynileth returned her attentions to Kaidan, who without her healing and protective spells, was struggling. His skin seared with burns and fire; blood coated his hands, his face. Desperate to even the odds, Gwynileth inhaled and bellowed, “Fo-Krah-Diin!”

A jet of frost erupting from her mouth, lashing forward like a whip. All the dremora within its trajectory were struck—grizzled shrieks sounded as their bodies dissolved into ash, their natural resistances nullified and tearing them asunder.

The tip of the icy whip caught Rosalind’s shoulder, ripping into her flesh like a lance.

Gwynileth coughed. A faint, metallic taste danced atop her tongue. She inhaled once more as Rosalind pointed a slim finger in her direction.

“Feim-Zii-Gron!”

A great sphere of flame erupted over where Gwynileth’s head was located. It would have scorched her instantly had her Shout been a single second later, yet the fire did not burn her, nor did it even touch her—her body was halfway between the real world and that of shadow, tucked away in a safe ethereal pocket.

She used her temporary invincibility to draw forth, not even needing to evade the dremora’s claws or Rosalind’s frantic spells. Yet as each second passed, the hint of blood within her mouth turned into the smell of blood, migrating into her nose… and at last, Gwynileth was forced to let the Shout fall to the wayside.

As soon as she emerged back to true reality, she released a bolt of lightning. It struck Rosalind’s heart—the other woman gasped, her eyes flashing red.

“Impedium Cor!” bellowed Rosalind.

A stinging sensation erupted across Gwynileth’s flesh, positioned above her heart yet swiftly transcending each vein, artery, and capillary. She wailed as her bow fell from her hand, as her very body attempted to betray her by sinking to its knees.

“No!” Kaidan’s voice was nothing short of tormented. “Gwyn!”

Rosalind screeched with delight. “Bring the Dragonborn’s heart to me! Keep it intact!”            “Protect Gwynileth! Keep the dremora off her!” screamed Inigo. He and Lucien had taken point position, standing ahead like a protective barrier. Even through her murky vision, she noted the crackles of lightning flying through Lucien’s hands, the swirl of Inigo’s swords cleaving through those left standing.

Yet despite their best efforts, another swarm of dremora flooded the chamber, their eyes black as pitch. Gwynileth inhaled deeply, struggling to clear the clouds from her vision. Her heartbeat was swimming within her skull, demanding to be addressed, to be surrendered to. Each of her limbs was unbearably heavy, drawing her towards the stone and earth below, as though the ground would open its arms to her. If she closed her eyes… there would be a semblance of reprieve.  

Yet that was not an option. Ahead of her, hazy though her vision was, her friends were fighting. Kaidan was doing all he could to defend himself against Rosalind’s magic—even as she blinked, a wretched arc of orange flames licked at Kaidan’s neck, searing his skin.

Gwynileth refused. She refused to fall here, and leave her friends to fight alone. She was the godsdamned Dragonborn, set to fulfill a destiny none other could claim.

Failure here was not an option.

A swath of surging energy began blazing within Gwynileth’s belly, imbuing her with some sort of strength that she had never felt before. It frightened her as much as it amazed her, yet there was no time to consider what such unbridled power meant, where it came from, or what consequences giving into it might have.

Despite the numbers arrayed around her, despite the closeness of the fighting quarters… her sword was so light in her hand. With a scream that pierced the back of her throat, Gwynileth hoisted her blade; it cut through the flesh of the oncoming dremora as scissors would through fabric. Gravelly screams rent the air, piercing her head, yet she did not stop for a moment. The dremora could barely even touch her somehow, as though she had become a whirlwind of steel and spite itself—

Until she, Lucien, and Inigo stood alone amidst a mountain of ash and sizzling embers… while on the far side of the room, Kaidan was poised above Rosalind, breathing heavily, his nodachi mere centimeters above her breast.

But even with blood bubbling out of her mouth to match the color of her rotten lips, Rosalind was laughing. “If you kill me, Kaidan, the rest of this cave crumbles down atop you. Its existence is bound to me, as I am to Lord Dagon. Will you send us both into oblivion, for the sake of your newfound oath?”

For the first time in long, heavy minutes, silence reigned within the chamber. Kaidan had stilled, rigid, for a moment. His black hair fell across his face, concealing whatever expression he might’ve worn. “Are you all there?”

“We’re here!” exclaimed Lucien.

“Yes, my friend,” Inigo answered.

Gwynileth swallowed past the lump in her throat, past the fatigue battering her very bones. “Yes, darling. We are.”

Kaidan glanced upwards, a curl haunting the right side of his lip. Sweat beaded his forehead; the crimson tattoo upon the side of his face was spattered with blood. Despite the situation, the horrendous battle, everything that had happened… there was peace within his expression. A peace Gwynileth had never seen him wear.

He locked tired, adoring eyes with her.

“Get out of here, little dragon,” he said.

All of the breath evaporated from Gwynileth’s lungs. “What—”

Before she could say any more, Kaidan lowered his nodachi, piercing Rosalind’s heart, skewering and scattering it into fragmented swatches of crimson on the carpeted floor.

Everything started to rumble around them. Rocks and dust and stalactites began raining from the ceiling. The crackles and crunches of shifting stone was near deafening—Gwynileth shrieked and leapt to the side as a chunk of the chamber’s bricks landed a mere meter from where she stood.

She turned towards the tunnel, at the far end of which, her dunmeri vision located a pinprick of the day’s fading light. Yet as she called Kaidan’s name and glanced over her shoulder, she realized he was simply standing tall, pushing his fallen hair back over his head, watching her with that same sad smile.

She knew that smile. It had formed upon her own lips before, during her worst days.

There was no time for thought. Gwynileth whirled towards Lucien and Inigo and bellowed, “Get to the exit!”

“What? No!” retorted Lucien, clasping her arm. “We can’t just let you—”

“Trust me!” she wailed. “Please, please just trust me! Get to the godsdamned exit!”

Though it was clear Lucien wished to protest further, the collapsing chamber did not leave him any time to do so—and neither did Inigo, as the khajiit clamped a paw upon Lucien’s arm and almost threw the small scholar over his shoulder.

“You’d better come back! Or else I will have many things to say to you as I kick your corpse!” roared Inigo as he took off, ignoring all of Lucien’s desperate protestations.

Cracks and fissures were beginning to form within the rocky ceiling. Only precious seconds remained before the entire cavern would come down upon them. Gwynileth could feel blood and bile rising in her throat; the battle against Rosalind, that wretched spell, had sapped nearly all of her strength.

Yet she had enough power for one more Shout, at least.

“Tiid-Klo!”

The air grew fuzzy and rich around her; the falling rocks slowed to a tenth of their previous speed as she barreled further into the room, towards the man whom she trusted beyond anything—and beyond anything else, she could not leave behind.

Her hand lunged out, reached for his own. The moment her skin made contact with his, Kaidan’s expression slowly began to change; not even he was immune to the effects of her Shout. Yet as she struggled to pull Kaidan after her, the exit slowly, painstakingly slowly, coming into view… the air began to waver.

It took all of Gwynileth’s self-control to maintain her focus and not swear aloud, never mind the tears pricking the corners of her eyes. But she hadn’t learned the full Shout to slow time yet, the last word was still out in the world somewhere, which meant any minute now, its effects would—

With only a half-dozen meters to go, time returned to its usual speed. The fuzziness within the air melted away; rocks cascaded down like hail pellets, one immediately crashing into Gwynileth’s shoulder. She hissed and yanked on Kaidan’s arm, forcing him to follow her footsteps.

Kaidan blinked rapidly, stumbling after her before realizing what was happening. A wretched sob left his mouth. “Gwyn, no! Why didn’t you go!”

Yet she refused to let go of his hand. Gwynileth glared over her shoulder at him, and based on the way he winced, she knew her eyes were hot. “Like hell I’d leave you, you fucking idiot! Wuld-Nah-Kest!”

With her fingers tightly grasping his, both Gwynileth and Kaidan were launched forward by the force of her Whirlwind Shout. They flew out of the chamber, back into the tunnel they had traipsed through merely ten minutes before—Kaidan yelped and nearly staggered to his knees as they came to an abrupt halt, his armor disheveled and his hair falling ahead of his eyes.

The doorway to the hideout’s chamber was completely blocked… yet the rocks were still coming.

A wad of copper flooded Gwynileth’s mouth. All she could smell was blood. She knew what that meant, but they were not out of danger, and she would be damned by Azura and all Nine Divines thrice over before she left the man she loved to be buried by rubble.

Somehow, after spitting the hot, sticky blood from her mouth, she managed to Shout. “Wuld-Nah-Kest!”

Once more, the two of them were propelled by an unseen force, one that pushed and pulled Gwynileth’s body in the desperate direction of safety. The sound of crunching stone was one she would hear in her nightmares forevermore; the shimmering water droplets upon the cave walls glimmered even brighter than they had before due to the tears in her eyes, and then—

A blinding curtain of white blocked her vision. Gwynileth collapsed on the icy ground outside, armor pressing into her muscles, body graced with the warm sunset glow. The searing white lights faded into comforting colors of orange and gold across her eyelids; somewhere beyond the light, there was a fuzzy emerald green of the Pale’s pine trees.

“Kaidan,” she wheezed. A cough wracked her ribs; droplets of red wet sprinkled the ice underneath her. “Kaidan…”

“Gwynileth!”

A pair of paws seized her arms and assisted her in sitting up straight, yet Gwynileth could barely even register Inigo’s presence. Her hazy gaze frantically searched for Kaidan—it took her a moment to recognize he was kneeling, his head lowered, and was staring at the ground as though he didn’t realize it was truly there. Lucien was already at his side, tending to the wounds and burns he had sustained.

The cave mouth was covered by rubble and the last depreciation of dust. No one would ever descend its depths again.

The moment she knew Kaidan was safe, Gwynileth rolled over and retched. Blood and bile flew past her mouth; her body had expended far too much energy with that many Shouts in a row, and the spell that Rosalind had managed to land upon her during their confrontation still had lingering effect. With the adrenaline gone, her reflexes were sluggish, her limbs nonresponsive… there was no telling what the damage might be.

Birdsongs and soft whistles of wind were a strange juxtaposition to Gwynileth’s spattered vomiting. She felt Inigo’s paw take her hair, pull it back—a gesture Anya used to perform for her, whenever she fell ill.

She was so grateful for him. For Anya. For them both.

At last, however, with ice flurries surrounding her face and a canteen of water being extended her direction by Lucien, Gwynileth was able to compose herself and clean up. Her stomach felt ravaged; her chest was hollow; her limbs were heavy, as though they didn’t quite belong even though they were attached to her body.

“Gwyn, I—you—you’re alive…” Kaidan’s disbelieving voice shattered the stillness.

She inhaled slowly. Raised her chin. “B’vek.” The feeling of ice cold air hitting the back of her throat was mightily unpleasant. Then her gaze turned towards Kaidan. And while she still felt so much love in her heart, there was something else bubbling there, too. Something unfamiliar. “Yes, I am. And so are you.”

The tone of her own voice told her what that mystery feeling was.

She was so, so angry.

Kaidan did not seem to pick up on said anger. He staggered to his feet, relief finally and completely flooding his being. “Rosalind hit you with one of her paralysis spells—in all the years I’d spent with that fucking cult, I’ve never seen anyone survive it. But you… you’re incred—”

“What the hell was that, Kaidan?” shouted Gwynileth. Her knuckles clenched, fists balled at her sides so tightly her fingernails made indents within her palms. “Did you plan on dying in there? Did you see this as some sort of—of noble sacrifice, without thinking of what and who you would be leaving behind?” Her breath hitched; a small, pathetic sound. “Well?”

Kaidan stared at her, one hand pausing from where it had been about to brush a piece of his hair behind his ear. “Noble sacrifice?” he repeated, astonishment in every facet of his voice. He scoffed. “I wish I could ever live up to something like that. No, Gwyn… death is simply what I deserve. And I was willing to accept it, if it came to that.”

If Gwynileth had been hoping his answer would bring her some peace, it did anything but.

“You are not the only one who gets to say whether you live or die anymore,” said Inigo’s voice, somewhere beyond Gwynileth’s immediate vision. “You swore yourself to the service of the Dragonborn. And she not only wants your help, Kaidan. She needs it.”

A harsh silence fell over the group at the impact of Inigo’s words.

“I wanted to die once,” Inigo continued to say. He too took to his feet, meeting Kaidan’s startled gaze on equal ground. “Before meeting you all, there was nothing I wanted more than to rid the world of my own perceived evil—because I had killed Vornil. Killed the only person, other than my brother and my parents, who had ever given me anything at all! What kind of man was I, that I could do such a thing?”

“You didn’t murder dozens of innocent people!” Kaidan burst out.

“Once you kill one innocent, what’s the difference?” Inigo roared straight back. He stormed forward, ears pressed flat against his head, his tail puffed out—never before had he yelled like so. Never before had Inigo ever raised his voice above a delighted shout when fighting spiders. “Your hands are stained—so are mine! But we have a higher calling now, to help the Dragonborn. To do right by the people who still live. Do you not see, my friend? This is our atonement! Anything less would see you running from your sins, not paying for them.”

A harsh wind blew over the group, disturbing the flurries of ice and the last of the remaining dust from the cave’s collapse. Gwynileth inhaled sharply, her sobs barely held back, her body practically breaking apart at the seams. The world had begun spinning around her; the ground was reaching up with its claws to drag her deep underground. Another hitched breath escaped her lips—even that still carried the metallic tang of blood.

“Kaidan,” she cried, her tears finally trailing neat lines down her dusty face, “I can’t do this without you. Please… please don’t leave me behind.” She sniffled, and suddenly her words were barely intelligible, her sobs felt like a hammer being taken to her ribs, but Gwynileth simply couldn’t stop. “It’s thanks to you I’ve even made it this far—I can’t live without—not after all I’ve—I love you, Kaidan!”

Kaidan’s eyes widened. He staggered where he stood, nearly collapsing to his knees, as he gasped, “What do you—you wh—”

Yet he did not finish his sentence. Despite the swimming and general haziness of Gwynileth’s vision, she had still been able to see something fly from the nearby foliage and embed itself within his neck.

“Kai!”

He stumbled. Hit the icy ground without a sound. His eyes had closed.

Gwynileth screamed. “No!”

Inigo and Lucien sprang into action, but weary as they were, too late. Two more projectiles flew forward, one after the other; the first embedded within Inigo’s chest, the other within Lucien’s shoulder. Both of her friends also sunk to the earth, the ebony bow clattering upon the ice, and a lightning spell fizzling out of existence.

“No, no—” Gwynileth’s breathing grew shallow. Her head had already been pounding, but now her brain felt like it was tearing her apart. “Lucien! Inigo! Say—say something!”

But no response came.

“Say… something…”

A soft crunching of footsteps through deep snow broke through the dread quiet. Gwynileth could only barely turn her head enough to see who was drawing near; when she saw who it was, all she could do was laugh.

“Of course,” she muttered bitterly. “Should’ve known… Blackreach wouldn’t be far away enough from the likes of you.”

A slim figure had emerged, dressed in black from head to toe save for a pocket within her mask that allowed her to see. Piercing blue eyes, dual daggers strapped to her hips, a bow stored upon her back. The picture-perfect vision of a master assassin—and this one had a red handprint upon the breast of their uniform.

“And therein lies the truth of how I found you. It wasn’t Blackreach that gave you away, Dragonborn,” said the assassin: the woman who could only be Astrid, the leader of the Dark Brotherhood. She cocked her head sideways, amusement glinting in her gaze. “It was this place. Your patron has eyes and ears about, but so do I. I knew you’d come eventually. All I needed to do was wait.”

Gwynileth exhaled. She was spent. Utterly, entirely, and irrevocably spent. Her body toppled sideways to the ground, her cheek landing against a pile of feather-soft snow.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. The faces of her friends flashed through her mind; all three of them, silenced so quickly. It seemed so long ago that she had been pleading with them in the Bannered Mare in Whiterun, to let her flee Skyrim in favor of Cyrodiil. She had been petrified of getting them hurt, yet chosen to hope instead and stayed… and now… 

“I got you killed after all. I’m so… sorry…”

A calloused hand met her torso, prompting her to look upwards. The silver flash of a dagger met Gwynileth’s eyes, hovering over her chest—she knew whatever lay beyond the knife would be the final sight. Her final sight.

The sky was so much bluer here than it had ever been in Morrowind.

A flash of light, of silver descending, and—

No pain. No sudden gasp or further choke of blood. There was nothing at all, save for a muffled thump from somewhere above her.

Gwynileth opened her eyes—even though she hadn’t remembered closing them—and gaped silently.

An arrow was protruding from the heart of her would-be assassin. Astrid’s eyes were wide in shock, as though she had never in a million years expected to be ambushed the same way she had ambushed Gwynileth herself. Her fingers loosely trailed the tip of the arrow, speckled in ruby-colored blood.

And then she tipped over, wordless: gone.

Gwynileth couldn’t keep up with such chaos. Her eyes were already closing as more crunches, more footsteps in the deep snow, drew nearer.

Then a voice was speaking.

“Bring her with us. Carefully, please. She is spent after that battle within the cave.”

It was a familiar voice, one that she was certainly dreaming. Her body was giving out, surely; her mind playing tricks on her. Wasn’t it?

“My lord—what should we do about her companions?”

“We have not the manpower to transport them. When they awake, should they prove their fealty to their Dragonborn, they will come.”

Not dead. Not dead?

Relief flooded Gwynileth’s veins; she could process no more, she could hear no more, she was so very tired.

She gave up.      

Chapter Text

Gwynileth awoke to a pounding in her head she had not suffered since the last time a plague visited Nerussa Estate. It demanded to be suffered, each intake of breath sending a sharp stab to the front of her forehead. Though she had barely woken, she winced and threw a hand in a futile attempt to stifle the pain.

A soft breath from close by alerted her to the fact she was not alone. Though lights still swam past her closed eyelids, she found enough strength to whisper, “Who… is here? Kai…?”

Yet as soon as she said his name, she knew it was not him. A flash of recollection pierced her fragmented memory—of a dart embedded within Kaidan’s neck, sending him tumbling to the ice underneath his feet. Lucien and Inigo following suit, barely able to stand and defend themselves in the aftermath of confronting Rosalind…

“Do not strain yourself overmuch, Gwynileth. Focus on breathing, in and out. Do this five times for me, if you please.”

Danilo’s voice. Once an echo of a life long passed, now a reality for the second time in a meager week. But he spoke softly, soothingly, and despite what tidings he had relayed during their last meeting, Gwynileth still trusted him.

So she followed his instruction without complaint. One breath soared in through her nose, then out of her mouth. Her ribs were heavy, closing in over her heart. Then a second breath; and the weight of her bones seemed to grow ever lighter.

When at last all five had been taken, the swirling glare no longer pierced her head. Her eyes flickered open to take in her surroundings.

As she had expected, Danilo perched aside her. His ruby eyes were sad, yet his lips still proffered a hopeful smile. Gwynileth herself had been laying in a small but comfortable bed, quilts of clear Morrowind make tucking her in as though she were a young child. The room surrounding her was rather small and cozy, yet a second glance around revealed how rich its patron truly was: a down-feather pillow underneath her head, a golden bowl of fine fruit upon a nearby table, a slight haze of lavender incense wafting through the room.

“Where are we, Danilo?” she asked softly. “What all has happened? How long have I been—”

Her questions were gently halted by Danilo raising a hand, his smile growing upon noting the energy with which she was speaking. “It’s all right, Gwynileth. You are safe here—I would swear my very life upon it. To answer your first question, we are nestled within an abandoned cottage to the south of Dawnstar, and the west of Whiterun. This has been our base of operations since we arrived in Skyrim.”

The immediate and honest answer did serve to settle part of Gwynileth’s frying nerves. She nodded slowly, testing how it felt to do so, before clearing her throat. “What happened, Danilo? Were you there when…”

Danilo nodded gravely, the flickering light of the nearby candle highlighting the recent lines upon his face. “I was indeed. Myself and a few others knew of your imminent arrival to the Shrine of Mehrunes Dagon, and if we had gathered knowledge of it, we suspected the Dark Brotherhood had, too. So we waited to intervene once its leader dared show her face.”

“Which she did. And she—my friends—what happened to them?”

That question was the one Gwynileth feared the most. She feared what the answer might be: what fate she had wrought upon them simply by existing.

“The darts that pierced them were not lethal,” said Danilo, though it was clear he chose his words carefully. “The Dark Brotherhood sector here in Skyrim, scattered as it already is, does not have the means to either purchase or craft such potent poisons. Those darts were laced with toxins intending paralysis only—not death.”

Gwynileth had no reason to believe such things. Yet even so, something deep within her chest told her what he spoke was truth.

“Then… where are they?” she asked.

Even the shadows grew darker at such a question. Gwynileth’s heartbeat leapt into her throat as Danilo shook his head and murmured, “We had to leave them behind. If we were to save you, we were required to move immediately.”

She had known that would be the answer. The fact they were not present at her side was proof of it. But the fact of the matter was, Gwynileth had not been torn from her friends since she had met them; despite having faced far greater dangers, knowing they were not within range of her call made her breaths come in short, desperate gasps, try though she might to keep them under control.

“Kaidan…”

His name escaped Gwynileth’s lips without truly meaning to, but it was too late to take it back. Her fingers grasped tighter over the blankets around her body; they were far plusher than the blankets she had grown used to while camping.

“The man with the tattoo,” said Danilo. Half a smile curled at the corner of his lip. “He cares for you greatly, does he?”

Despite how dearly she once regarded her tutor, Gwynileth knew it could be dangerous to divulge such intimate information. Five years had passed since he had been a close confidant, after all—and now, he was in the service of Jenithar Hlaalu, whom she did not and could never trust again.

She remained silent instead.

Danilo, either not wishing to pry or knowing he would never receive a verbal answer, returned to a previous topic. “To answer another of your questions—three days have passed since your intrepid battle within that daedric lord’s mountain. Your body had nearly given out with all the force you had exerted during such a fight. I heard your Shouts even from where we were perched in the shadows. There is no longer any doubt of the people’s claim that you are their Dragonborn.”

Three days. Gwynileth’s mouth dried at the thought. The last thing she had remembered was her friends dropping in the snow… there was no telling what they had thought upon waking and finding her gone. Neither was there any knowing how long it would take for them to find where she had been kept—if they attempted to search for her at all, and didn’t simply presume her dead.

“When they awake, should they prove their fealty to the Dragonborn, they will come.” Gwynileth repeated the last sentence she had heard before falling into darkness, and met Danilo with piercing crimson eyes. “This is a test on their behalf too, isn’t it.”

Whether it was the fact she spoke as a statement and not a question or the heat of her gaze, Gwynileth didn’t know—but her words caused Danilo to chuckle and lean back in his chair.

“This land has indeed opened you to pragmatism,” he mused. “Back when we studied philosophy and the stars, you had such idealistic views for how you would run your House, when your parents saw fit to entrust you with it.”

“A dream long dead, belonging to a girl who only ever believed in the best of people.” Gwynileth laughed, the gesture hot and spiteful. “After what Jenithar did to me… I could no longer hold such a creed in my heart.”

It seemed as though Danilo wished to say something in response, yet for better or for worse, he kept the uneasy peace.

Gwynileth took the opportunity to study her environs once more. Surrounding her was a building of wood—across the room sat a rocking chair and a dresser, upon which the lavender incense burned. A pot of tea was sitting upon the dresser’s surface. Next to the rocking chair was a window, shielded by a woolen curtain. Sunlight peeked out from beyond the drapes, signaling the time of day to be morning or afternoon. It was warm where they were; no frigid winds, no blowing snow. It almost felt like the onset of summer, despite Skyrim’s usually inhospitable climate.

And when she closed her eyes, opened her senses, she could hear signs of life somewhere downstairs; the creak of a wooden floorboard, the hushed whispers of uncertain voices.

“You were not the only one lying in wait for the Dark Brotherhood’s movements,” said Gwynileth, her voice low. She sighed. “He’s here, isn’t he, Danilo.”

She did not need to specify of whom she spoke.

“Yes, Gwynileth. He is.”

A bitter laugh broke through Gwynileth’s lips. Her entire purpose in traversing a part of the Padomaic Ocean was so that she would be far away enough from Jenithar Hlaalu to never see his face again—to never be within reach of him, to escape her forced bond to him.

Though it had only been three months since her departure from her home, she had grown so much in the meantime. Her strength of arm and of heart had been tested and improved; she had found purpose in her destiny and happiness in her adventures with people whom she loved.

Yet despite all that growth, fate saw fit to reunite her with the reason for it all. Some sick, twisted cosmic joke, if one were to ask Gwynileth’s opinion.

“And he wishes to speak with me, I presume,” said Gwynileth despite knowing what the answer would be.

Danilo nodded curtly. “He does… but only if you would be amenable to seeing him.”

She sighed once more. A memory of Blackreach swam to mind; of Gwynileth declaring that she would at least hear Jenithar out, should he find her and wish to explain his actions, or apologize for his crime.

Listening to him didn’t warrant her forgiveness. But at least she might find some strange measure of closure in laying her hurts out to him—and perhaps after their conversation was over, Jenithar Hlaalu might finally and truly leave her be.

“Give me a half-hour to collect myself, and then see him in.”

Her ready answer clearly surprised Danilo, for the mer’s eyebrows flew upwards upon his forehead. “You are certain, Lady Nerussa?”

As soon as he asked his question, Danilo blinked rapidly and began uttering staggered apologies for the misnomer. But Gwynileth merely smiled at the slip of his tongue and held up a hand, answering, “It’s quite all right. Lady Nerussa would never have agreed to such a parley. But Gwynileth… she just might.”

Such certainty was in her reply that Danilo doubted no more. An honest smile overtook him then, pride gleaming within the depths of his eyes. “To offer such a mercy towards a man who wronged you so irreparably—your spirit has grown strong. Very well, Gwynileth. I will deliver your tidings and send Master Hlaalu your way in the allotted time.”

There was nothing left to say, and so it was off of the bedside stool that Danilo stood, bowed lightly in Gwynileth’s direction, and departed. The door closed behind him with a gentle click, and then all was silence.

Gwynileth sat for a moment, contemplating the odd situation she found herself in. Never in a thousand years might she have predicted the week’s twists and turns. How quickly her life seemed to change these days…

Her legs swung out of bed, her feet touching the cool wooden floor. When she attempted to stand, she was delighted to note her legs were not so wobbly as she had feared. Gwynileth gave herself a once-over in the looking glass on the far side of the room—her bracers had been removed, as had her greaves, but the remainder of her armor had remained upon her person undisturbed. Its dried speckles of mud and blood had rather ruined some of the bed-sheets, a fact she lamented with a click of her tongue.

When Gwynileth glanced towards the dresser, she noted something she’d failed to see before: a bucket of warm water, a bar of soap, and a soft dress of deep red folded aside it.

It felt like ages since she had last been awarded a proper bath. The luxury of soap was one she would take advantage of, even if there was no tub to soak in. Gwynileth seized the bar and wetted it, slowly driving away all of the remnants of her battle from days past.

She could not help but chuckle upon noticing the purple color of the soap. Lavender had always been her favorite scent, and clearly, Jenithar had remembered that as well.

Over her arms, her legs, her face—Gwynileth took precarious care of her skin, testing how each of her muscles felt. The entirety of her body was sore, not that that was anything new. A particular movement in her arm made her wince; something in her shoulder was certainly unaligned. But considering how difficult the battle against Rosalind had been… to host no other injuries was a small mercy.

Finally clean, Gwynileth eyed the scarlet dress sitting in the corner. It was a beautiful garment, yet… after everything that had happened, the new identity she had given herself… was it even something she would wear anymore?

She pursed her lips. Despite her growth, vanity was still her chosen vice. To that end—just because she was the Dragonborn didn’t mean she had to give up who she had been before, if that was something she wished to keep of herself.

Gwynileth quickly yet carefully put on the dress, her fingers just as dexterous with its laces as they had always been… then, with that said and done, it was simply a matter of sitting upon the bed, her hands folded within her lap, and waiting.

Only a few minutes later, a soft rap was sounded upon the door.

“Come in,” said Gwynileth, though her heartbeat echoed within her ears.

The door squeaked open, revealing sunlight from open windows within the hallway. Inside the room stepped Jenithar Hlaalu, a velvet cloak of olive green around his shoulders and a golden brooch clasping it closed. Yet that was where the finery stopped—underneath the cloak, a sword was strapped to his side, and he wore armor of traditional Dunmer make. He was not as meticulously kept as he had been in Morrowind, either; a ghost of a beard decorated his cheeks and chin, and dark bags sat underneath his eyes.

Yet he still smiled, hesitant though it was, upon seeing Gwynileth sitting upright and none the worse for wear.

“You’re all right?” he asked quietly.

Gwynileth nodded, swallowing hard. “I am. You have my thanks for that.”

“If nothing else.” Jenithar exhaled sharply. His hands flew behind his back, perhaps so Gwynileth would not see the way they were incessantly wringing. “I…”

A brief silence settled between them. Somehow, Gwynileth noticed that all the previous sounds of life within the house had completely quieted, as if the very walls had suddenly sprouted ears.

“I know you’ve been looking out for me,” she said. “Danilo mentioned as much. It also sounds as though you have spared my parents a great amount of humiliation and disgrace. Those are things worth gratitude as well, but Jenithar… why?”

“Because it is only the slightest bit of action I could take to make up for what I have done to you,” was the immediate answer, and spoken so quickly that Gwynileth nearly missed it. Yet Jenithar cleared his throat and cast his gaze to his feet before continuing. “I know it falls immensely short of the mark. It always will. Yet even so, I… could not stand idly by, even should my efforts never bear fruit.”

His words were eloquent, just as they always had been—but Jenithar still had not answered Gwynileth’s true question. “Yes, Jenithar, but… why? Why has the guilt eaten away at you so, when it would have been infinitely easier for you to let me flee, and never think of me again?”

Jenithar chuckled in disbelief, his ruby eyes flickering to Gwynileth’s face once again, a hopeless smile pulling his lips. “I did not pursue marriage with you simply because of my parents’ will. We had been friends for years before, had we not, weathering storms of political intrigue, dancing in ballrooms, reading aloud in dark libraries? And in that time, I… fell in love with you, Gwynileth. I love you still.”

For better or worse, the response was not unexpected. She had steeled herself to hear it; they had indeed been friends once. Close friends, of many long years… the kind of friend Gwynileth had always thought to treasure.

But then there had come a beautiful evening, a horrid assumption, a series of miscommunications… and it snowballed into her broken heart and her shattered trust.

Ah! Jenithar, please—don’t! Stop!

How often her own words echoed in her own ears. It was too easy to hear how her pleads could be misconstrued. Did that mean she was partly to blame for what had happened?

When she asked the question aloud, in the darkness of her own room and with only her handmaiden for company, Anya had always said no. No, the fault did not lie with Gwynileth—it would never lie with Gwynileth. And Anya would relay it every time with such strength.

But her ready defense did not stop the nagging at Gwynileth’s subconscious at times.

And now, seeing Jenithar’s remorse firsthand, with a clear mind and no fear left to spare for him, Gwynileth could not help but wonder it again.

“I know you do not feel the same. Or if you did, then it was by my own actions that I lost your love.” Jenithar did not step forward, allowing her a modicum of personal space—it was a gesture that Gwynileth appreciated. “It is what I expected, in truth. Would you… answer me a question?”

Gwynileth met his gaze once more. Though she knew she technically did not owe Jenithar Hlaalu anything, not even now… she thought it would be the kind thing to allow it.

“Yes,” she answered. “What is your question?”

“I have heard tales of your exploits from the people of this land… of your strength, the veritable dragons you have felled, and the constancy of your three companions. I have heard of the man with the crimson tattoo that you travel with, and how he is never without you, nor you without him.” Jenithar swallowed hard. Shifted his weight. “Gwynileth… is he good to you?”

He spoke with such softness. She almost couldn’t bear it.

Yet she had promised to answer his question.

“Very,” she whispered past the lump within her throat. She wrung her hands together, though her gaze remained stagnant within Jenithar’s own. “He has protected me every day he stands at my side, listened to my fears and reassured me when they struck. He has cleaned my wounds, trusted me with his past, and sought to make my every day as beautiful as the one before it. I… do not wish to picture a day without him.”

For better or worse, Jenithar did not outwardly react to her answer. They simply remained still, he in the doorway, she sitting upon the bed. A slight gust of wind brushed the woolen drapes aside, ushering a glint of white sunlight to fill the room.

But then he nodded. “Good. I had hoped as much for you, as I have already failed to bestow you such care myself.” Jenithar cleared his throat again—and despite everything, a twinge of sympathy emerged within Gwynileth’s breast upon noting the way a film glossed over his eyes. “Your companions were spotted by my scouts a half-hour ago. They should be here within the next few minutes. When they arrive, I will need to speak to you as a group.”

Gwynileth blinked, surprised by such a declaration just as she was relieved by it. To hear Danilo attempting to comfort her was one thing, but to have it corroborated by Jenithar—that her dear friends were in fact alive—was a newfound relief on its own.

“Very well. Then we shall speak,” she replied.

Another silence appeared; this time, not so tense, but heavy, just like her hands and legs. Gwynileth winced as a piercing pain traipsed through her head, descending her neck.

“Are you all right?” asked Jenithar, looking as though he wished to take a cautious step forward, and was forcing himself not to.

She nodded, though her slim fingers were placed to her forehead. “Fine. Still working through the aftermath of the battle, I suspect.” Upon noting her backpack within reach, Gwynileth reached for its pouches and began rummaging for some of her healing potions. She withdrew her ingots, her gemstones, the flowers she picked on Skyrim’s roadsides in an attempt to get at her potions—

“Still picking every dragon’s tongue bloom you find?” asked Jenithar with a twist of his lips.

She shot him a look, albeit not one too terribly sharp, if only because he was right—dragon’s tongue flowers had been such rare commodities in Morrowind. “And what if I have, hmm? I’ll have you know they make wonderful soaps when combined with the right animal tallow.”

Her response caused him to chuckle.

At last, however, Gwynileth found what she had been searching for. When her hand clasped around the smooth glass of her potion flasks, she popped open the cork and quickly downed a high-quality health potion. The lingering throb within her head promptly lessened; yet at the raucous sound of a door slamming somewhere downstairs, the pain threatened to return.

Such discomfort, however, was immediately cleared upon hearing a familiar voice shout, “Gwyn!”

Gwynileth launched to her feet, eyes widening. “Kaidan!”

“Feel free to wait in the drawing room,” said Jenithar, glancing over his shoulder downstairs. He did not raise his voice overmuch, knowing that he would be heard. “Gwynileth and I will come down to meet you. I’ve something to discuss with you prior to your departure.”

“Like hell we—”

“It’s all right, Kaidan,” Gwynileth called. Her throat was incredibly tight, she was so relieved to hear the sound of his voice. She had feared, upon closing her eyes the last time, that she would never hear it again. “Are Lucien and Inigo with you?”

“Yes, my friend!”

“You bet!”

She exhaled slowly, her knees wobbling underneath her. Gwynileth took a seat again upon the bed that had housed her the prior three days, a rush of tranquility finding her—because the truth of the matter was, Jenithar had killed the leader of the Dark Brotherhood, her friends were alive, Rosalind had been taken care of… for all intents and purposes, many of the obstacles in their way would hinder them no more, and she could soon return to what was important: fulfilling her destiny as Dragonborn, to eliminate Alduin the World-Eater.

It was a destiny she would now meet with open arms. Yet first… she would need to regain the last of her spent strength, in preparation for what might be one of her final treks to the eternally wintry mountains of High Hrothgar.

“Jenithar,” she said, her eyes flickering open. “Would you help me downstairs? I do not know if…”

The remainder of the words refused to eke out, if only because Gwynileth hated admitting how helpless she still was. Much of her strength had not yet returned to her, yet despite her rather stubborn nature, she knew if she were to attempt to descend the stairs without aid, there was a likely possibility she would stumble and only injure herself further.

As it was, the unspoken request seemed to surprise him as much as herself. “Are you sure that is what you wish?”

Months ago, Gwynileth would have hesitated. She would’ve rather cut off her own hand than willingly take his within it again. And while there was no salvaging what trust had once existed, for her own sake, there could be acceptance in the life she chose for herself in the aftermath.

“Yes, please.”

She reached out to him, palm facing the ceiling, and waited.

Jenithar seemed to notice her fortitude, and took a cue from it. He stepped forward, slipping his hand within hers—Gwynileth was startled to notice her own palms were far more calloused than his now—and carefully helped her rise.

With the aid of another, Gwynileth was steady on her feet. A small smile graced her lips as a semblance of confidence returned to her bearing.

And with nothing else for it, she took a step forward.

Chapter Text

Though her progress was a mite slow-going, thanks to Jenithar’s assistance, Gwynileth did not stumble or fall as she traipsed the narrow hallways or the winding stairs leading down into the drawing room. She could hear the sound of armored boots pacing downstairs and bit her lip—Kaidan had always been impatient when it came to her own protection.

The moment Gwynileth reemerged, a flurry of movement livened up the room. Sweeping forward, amber eyes full of concern and no small amount of relief, was Kaidan, whose hand swiftly found her cheek as he tightly said, “Thank Akatosh. Gwyn, you… you’re all right?”

Gwynileth smiled, feeling the gesture stretch widely across her face. “A little dizzy, still, but… I’m fine.”

He spared her the slightest sigh of relief, yet it was stopped as his eyes fell upon Jenithar. Heat and anger blazed through him. “So you’re the bastard who—”

“Despite everything, Kai… Jenithar saved me. He saved all of us, ahead of that cave,” interrupted Gwynileth. She could hardly believe she was defending the man who had been the catalyst for all this: for her fear, her flight from Morrowind, her nightmares. Yet despite her own emotions, the fact remained that without him… the leader of the Dark Brotherhood would have killed her. “For that, if nothing else, he has my thanks.”

Kaidan seemed as though he wanted to be cross a while longer, yet upon beholding the sincerity and patience within Gwynileth’s crimson eyes, what reasons he fostered seemed to crumble into ash.

“Aye, you’re right in that,” he finally admitted, loath as he was to do so. He nodded curtly towards Jenithar, and gently relieved her ex-fiancé of Gwynileth’s arm. “You mentioned you wanted to speak with us?”

Jenithar was quiet for a brief moment, his gaze flickering to the way Kaidan’s thumb was gently trailing the inside of Gwynileth’s arm. Something seemed to weigh upon his shoulders with the realization—but just as swiftly as such muted sorrow had appeared, it was gone.

“Yes,” he finally answered. “Let us sit and gather a meal first. I understand you’ve traveled a long way to find us.”

Somewhere behind him, Inigo sniffed. “You’ve no idea. My nose still aches from tracking our friend by scent…”

Gwynileth couldn’t help but giggle at such a report. She looked back to the blue khajiit, gratitude shining plainly upon her face. The arm not already tied within Kaidan’s reached out to grab at his paw—and Inigo did not waste any time in squeezing her hand, his yellow eyes brightening as he did so.

Within moments, the four of them were shown into the dining area of the cottage. It was a quaint setting: Jenithar, Danilo, Gwynileth, Kaidan, Inigo, and Lucien all situated around a humble round table. A few of the other Morag Tong defectors were already serving up bowls of a familiar dish, one Gwynileth hadn’t partaken in for far too long.

“I cannot decide which is more surprising,” Gwynileth said, as she seized her spoon and dipped it into the bowl. “The fact that an ash yam soup is ahead of me, or the fact that I am so very excited to eat it.”

Danilo chuckled at her mild jest. “You’ve been away long enough for such fare from home to be a novelty?”

Gwynileth paused, her soup spoon halfway to her mouth. “I’ve been away from Morrowind long enough, certainly. Although… I wouldn’t say I’ve been away from home.”

While her three dear friends beamed, there was no ignoring the slightly sorrowful downturn in Jenithar’s and Danilo’s lips at her words. But Gwynileth would not let herself feel shame for her own sentiments—as she was coming to discover, life and happiness were ever suited to change on a whim or a dime, whenever they pleased.

A few minutes passed, during which time the soup was consumed. Jenithar also insisted on breaking out a bottle of red wine for the special occasion. Lucien and Inigo both accepted a small drink, though Gwynileth wriggled her nose and only accepted water instead.

Only when they were all sufficiently fed and watered, however, did Jenithar elect to relay his business.

“I’ve news on the whereabouts of the Dark Brotherhood’s Sanctuary, and how to get inside it.”

That in itself was shocking. Gwynileth had not even known there was a headquarters for the organization—assassins were not exactly the type to band together in great numbers, from what little she knew of them. And only a short hour or two ago, Danilo had been mentioning that the Dark Brotherhood within Skyrim was a weak sector, one barely capable of crafting or purchasing paralysis poisons to assault her with.

“How in Mundus did you come by that information?” asked Lucien with shock.

“I sent one of my best to don one of their uniforms and scout ahead. He was able to uncover a surprising amount of information and send it by bird to me before finally being discovered.”

Gwynileth knew she shouldn’t be surprised to hear the spy had perished in the attempt to gather information, but… something swirled within her gut. The entire reason Jenithar was even present in Skyrim was for her protection. And based on the way he had spoken, as though he were unaffected by the loss of the man under his command—it made her wonder just how many loyal soldiers had come with him.

Just how many had lost their lives for her sake.

A hand gently latched onto hers underneath the table, fingers intertwining within her own. The corners of her lips flickered morosely upwards. She wished she could take more comfort from Kaidan’s gesture.

“I see.” Lucien’s voice broke through the throng at last. “A dangerous ploy, to be certain. But I suppose if it got you the desired result…”

Jenithar nodded. “It did indeed. To that end: I intend to infiltrate their Sanctuary and exterminate the remainder of the Dark Brotherhood’s denizens. Only once that is done—once I know much of the peril directed Gwynileth’s way is destroyed—can I return to Morrowind for good. As stalwart companions of hers… I would request your help, if you could spare it.”  

Inigo slurped up another spoonful of soup before cracking his knuckles in preemptive excitement. “You do not need to ask me twice! But I cannot help wondering—you have an impressive array of soldiers still at your command. Why is it you need our help?”

“Because while we don Morag Tong uniforms, we are no soldiers,” answered Danilo. He sighed and leaned backward in his chair, allowing the sunlight to fall warmly upon his face and shoulders. “A farmer, a scholar, two blacksmiths, one new recruit to the guard, and Jenithar Hlaalu himself. We six would be no match for the assassins still lurking within their southern sanctuary, whereas the four of you… have seen more than your fair share of battle in the time since Gwynileth’s arrival.”

There was no arguing that point. Gwynileth’s mouth had already soured by the news that just one had already perished under Jenithar’s command. She did not wish to see more suffer the same fate.

“And we’re just supposed to trust you?” said Kaidan, whose lips were thin.

“Have I given you reason not to?” Jenithar accosted Kaidan with a steely gaze as he folded his fingers together, calmly placing his fists atop the table. “I could have easily killed you when you were unconscious in the snow, and lied to Gwynileth by saying it was the Dark Brotherhood who did the deed. But here you sit, unharmed and reunited.”

The three of her friends exchanged looks. There was no ignoring that Jenithar spoke truly on that, at the least.

“When would you be setting out?” asked Gwynileth.

But Jenithar shook his head. “I would ask you to remain, as you are the target they wish to dispatch, Gwynileth. I would only bring your friends to—”

“Either all four of us accompany you, or none of us do.” Gwynileth smoothed the napkin that had been sitting daintily aside her and placed it in her lap, accosting the mer with a deadly calm. “You have stated that you wish to keep me safe, Jenithar, and I do not doubt such a wish. But I have long since surpassed the luxury of simply sitting on the sidelines and letting others fight my battles for me. Every fight I partake in now is training for the greatest one I have yet to face: that against Alduin the World-Eater. And that is without mentioning… I would never choose to leave my friends behind. After all we have weathered together in the short yet chaotic months it has been, they are my family now.”

Dead silence settled around the dining table, and was heard within the nearby drawing room as well. It was obvious the other members of Jenithar’s entourage were listening; Gwynileth could all but hear their stillness, the sharp intakes of breath they left behind.

It was Lucien who spoke first, dabbing at the corner of his eye with a handkerchief. “Oh, Gwynileth… that might be one of the nicest things I’ve heard in ages…”

She smiled in his direction, knowing the scholar had picked up on what she was trying to say. Where she was from, family was an immensely important commodity; little to nothing held more importance than one’s flesh and blood in Morrowind. To scorn one’s family was inconceivable at best, and traitorous at worst. Honor killings were not a thing unheard of in her home country because of those values and, in retrospect, what she had done by fleeing the Nerussa Estate would have certainly warranted her death in the eyes of some of the traditionalists.

But she had done it anyway, and with little regret to boot. Thus, for her to declare a new family—a group of people who had earned her love and loyalty—was an immense compliment to the members of that family.

Jenithar seemed to recognize the depth behind her words, too. His ruby eyes widened a fraction of a degree—truly the only hint of surprise he had yet shown.

“I see,” he said at last, voice soft and gaze unmoving. “If you are truly that determined, then… I will not stop you. It is your choice, Gwynileth. All I can do is trust in the strength and loyalty of your friends, for them to be your shields should it be required.”

The words caused the corners of her lips to turn upwards. How many times had Kaidan declared he would be exactly that: her shield?

As it was, Kaidan took the opportunity to say as much. “You’ll not need to worry on that point. That’s been my promise to the Dragonborn since the day we met.”  

Jenithar’s heated gaze once more fell over Kaidan, as though inspecting him… before moving towards the resolute expressions upon both Inigo’s and Lucien’s faces as well. Then, for the first time since her three friends had arrived within his outpost, he graced them with a small smile.

“I believe you.”

It was decided fairly quickly thereafter that they would meet ahead of Falkreath’s gates in five more days, seeing as Gwynileth was still recuperating from the aftereffects of Rosalind’s paralysis spell, and Jenithar wished to let the remnants of the Dark Brotherhood fall into a lull of false security following the death of their leader. Enough time would have passed for them to start thinking about their next steps, but not enough for them to sufficiently regain their bearings.

“Rest well in the meanwhile, Gwynileth,” said Jenithar, as she and her friends made to depart the cottage. “I know you may not wish to hear it, but… I do worry about you.”

Such sentiments were odd to behold, if only because prior to the last week and a half, Gwynileth had been certain that Jenithar wanted her dead—that he had been the one to loose the assassins after her. To have been so incredibly wrong… was still a surprise, and a surprisingly welcome one, at that.

Jenithar Hlaalu was many things, but a man of hatred was not one of them.

The afternoon awaiting the group was a gentle one, even for Skyrim. Gwynileth breathed deep of the fresh air surrounding her person; gentle winds caressed her skin, pushing her dark hair all around her body. She could not help but smile at the resurgence of the sun—for the first time in weeks, a semblance of lightness was back in her shoulders.

“Thank you for finding me,” murmured Gwynileth, as she marched in-between Kaidan and Inigo, with Lucien on the khajiit’s other side. She cast them all a sweet smile. “I can only imagine how difficult a task it was. Are… are you all healed from your wounds by now?”

“We would’ve weathered a lot more in order to find you, my friend,” Lucien replied, reflecting that same smile her direction. “In truth, we’re still a mite banged up ourselves, but… it’s nothing a few more days of bedrest won’t take care of.”

Inigo nodded. “Yes, I am in agreement. We are lucky our home in Whiterun is so close by. We can take a carriage to Falkreath the morning of, too, to spare us the walking.”

He spoke truly. Even as Gwynileth narrowed her eyes and gazed eastward, she could see the hazy outline of Dragonsreach beckoning them homeward—and even further beyond sat the stone-cold mountains that housed High Hrothgar. Simply looking at the mountain ranges seemed to make the Elder Scroll within her knapsack grow all the heavier.

Her destiny could wait another few days. After all, if she were to push herself before her body could recover, then that supposed destiny might just be cut short.

Only another hour saw the group returned to the fortifications of Whiterun, the guards of which immediately opened the city’s grand gates upon their approach. Though Gwynileth knew she had been named Thane months ago, she was still bewildered by all the respect they offered her with their strong salutes.

“Come on, Gwyn,” said Kaidan, who had not once released her hand throughout their journey back to Whiterun. The corners of his lips flickered upward. “You need to rest.”

“I’ve done nothing but rest for the past three days,” she huffed.

“And you need more of it.”

Though she knew he spoke only with the best intentions, Gwynileth could not help but roll her eyes good-naturedly as Kaidan escorted her down the street.

Breezehome sat closely to Whiterun’s gates, which was a relief to everyone’s aching muscles. As soon as the door was shut behind them all, a collective, heavy sigh broke the foyer—and then Inigo was stretching, saying, “Blast it, it is my turn to cook, isn’t it.”

“That it is, my friend, that it is!” chirped Lucien, who was already headed for the enchanting table ducked away underneath the stairs. “Shall we just leave you to it?”

Inigo huffed and grumbled to himself as he stalked into the kitchen, the telltale rattling of pots and pans telling his traveling companions that he was hard at work.

The following few hours were filled with an unusually domestic bliss. As Lucien hummed and hawed over his studies and enchantments, Kaidan quietly sharpened his nodachi by the fireplace, and Gwynileth took it upon herself to read some of the books that she had picked up during their many adventures.

It had been a long time since she could simply relax for an evening in a place called home. Even though it was the second time she had taken refuge in the building, Gwynileth could still hardly believe it was theirs. Despite its fairly small size, the house had everything a homeowner could need: a foyer, three bedrooms, a kitchen, an alchemy and enchanting table—even a garden outside. Once Alduin was defeated and her friends were ready to put a break in their adventures, she could truly start a life here…

“Gwyn, there’s something I wanted to ask you about,” murmured Kaidan, quiet enough for his voice to almost be drowned out by the sizzling meat and sauce within the kettle. He gestured towards the side door leading out into Breezehome’s garden: a place of peace and plenty. “Mind if I take you outside?”

A few weeks ago, such a request would have made her nervous. Now, however, it only made her smile. Gwynileth wordlessly shut her book and followed his summons, allowing Kaidan to open the door to where bushels of flowers and a wooden trellis awaited them.

Dragon’s tongue, blue, yellow, and purple mountain flowers, even a patch of deathbells or two—the flowers Gwynileth had carefully cultivated during their last visit to Whiterun had sprung to life in the time since. She was grateful gardening in Skyrim seemed such an easy endeavor, compared to how finicky many of the plants were back in Morrowind.

Upon hearing the door creak shut again, Gwynileth turned to Kaidan. In the low light of the setting sun, she could see adoration and unease alike in the sharp lines of his face.

“What is it you wish to talk to me about?” she asked.

Kaidan exhaled slowly, his eyes locked within her own before falling to her lips. “Did you mean it?”

Gwynileth blinked. “Mean what?”

“Back at the shrine.” He swallowed hard; his fists clenched at his sides. “When you said that… you loved me.”

The recollection of what she had rather angrily blurted out whilst fully disheveled, covered in blood, and with sick piled in the snow next to her, made heat return to Gwynileth’s face. The fact that she was in love with Kaidan was a thought she had secretly harbored for what felt like ages on end, yet she had only chosen to give it voice in that particular moment—in retrospect, the timing of such a confession was absurd at best, and insulting at worst.

“W-Well, I didn’t mean to blurt it out so carelessly,” stammered Gwynileth, who had begun shifting her weight from foot to foot. “I had imagined saying it with a bit more… tact, first. But I was angry and frightened, and… it just sort of—flew out.”

The admission sounded even more pathetic than she had anticipated. She winced; she’d only been gone from Morrowind for a few short months, yet in the time since, it seemed Gwynileth had lost much of her eloquence.

“But did you mean it?”

Gwynileth was surprised by the quiet desperation Kaidan spoke with. Though her face flamed silver, she plucked up her courage and glanced upward all the same—

And was startled by the flush occupying Kaidan’s own face as well. She could wrack her brain all she liked, but Gwynileth had never seen the man with anything reminiscent to a blush on his cheeks. It was an amazingly soft picture of him… one she wished to carry with her forever.

Memories of her journey with Kaidan came flooding to the forefront of her mind. She had not forgotten how hopeless she had been when first he’d found her—she owed everything to him, for teaching her how to survive in the wild, how to properly wield a bow, for choosing to accompany her during her travels. There was no forgetting how she’d made him laugh with her ridiculous jokes after their initial visit to the Shrine of Mehrunes Dagon, nor the look on his face when beholding her in that crimson-colored dress in Solitude.

And that first kiss they’d shared, outside in the rain, had been everything she thought it would be.

She reached for Kaidan’s hand at his side, gently raising it so he might place his palm upon her cheek. The warmth she felt upon doing so was just the same now as it had been back then—after their first fight against a dragon together, covered in soot ahead of Whiterun’s decimated watchtower.

“Yes, of course I meant it,” she whispered, the corners of her lips flicking upward. “I love you, Kai.”

Kaidan stared at her for a long, languid moment. Fireflies had started gleaming here and there with the onset of the dusk; just enough light to see the surprise, adoration, and delight mingled within his face.

“Say it again,” he said quietly, fingers trailing the bow of her lips.

The request was so sweet and plaintive, Gwynileth couldn’t help but laugh. “I love you. And I will say it as many times as you wish to hear it, every day you ask it of me.”

At long last, a smile found its way onto Kaidan’s face—and it grew into a relieved grin as his fingers migrated to the side of her face, gently brushing against her temple. As he shook his head, he said, “I would’ve never thought someone as good as you could ever love someone like me. But I suppose… there’ll be plenty of time for me to get used to believing it, eh?”

The way he stated, so matter-of-factly, that they had so much time remaining together was a balm to Gwynileth’s nerves. The remnants of the Dark Brotherhood still stood in the way, as did Alduin the World-Eater himself, and yet…

If Kaidan believed that they would make it past all that, then Gwynileth could too.

“I’ve never been good at… expressing how I feel,” Kaidan continued. His gaze flickered downward, as though he were uncertain—yet upon feeling Gwynileth raising his chin and seeing her smile, he seemed to find courage. “But you make me want to try. Your presence has brought a light to my life that I never knew existed. I’ve always wanted to do better—to be better—and when I’m by your side, I feel like it’s more than possible. As long as you’ll have me, Gwyn… I want to be wherever you are.”

“Forever.” Gwynileth beamed up at him, the way he looked upon her so softly. “I would have you with me forever.”

She needed say nothing more. Before Gwynileth knew it, Kaidan’s lips were gently prying hers apart. He was warm standing across from her, one hand still devastatingly light upon the side of her cheek—

Yet such gentleness hardly lasted for long. As though the realization that he had found her, that they were together in safety for the first time in weeks, began settling in… his kiss grew deeper. Gwynileth inhaled sharply as her back met one of the posts of the wooden trellis behind her, as Kaidan stepped forth to place his body flush with her own. He tasted faintly of the mead he liked so much, the honey dancing from his tongue to hers—the other hand upon her waist grew tight, as though she would float away if he did not keep her feet upon the ground.

Then he pulled away, leaving an aching emptiness in the space he had just occupied. Gwynileth’s eyes fluttered open once more, vying not to pout at his sudden disappearance.

“Tell me one more time,” said Kaidan. His mouth twitched up into an almost mischievous smile. “Then I promise, I’ll believe it.”

Gwynileth shook her head, though it was hard not to reflect such a deep smile at the care and love she was receiving through his gaze alone. “I love you—so, so much.”

Her words were met with a gentle breath, a low chuckle… and the response, “I love you, too.”

She blinked. Warmth was draping her shoulders, her chest, trailing down her stomach. Had Gwynileth ever truly heard those words from a true romantic partner in her life?

Her mind whirled. First, she thought of Danilo: her private tutor, with whom she had shared plenty of long conversations, sleepless nights, and aged bottles of wine that she’d smuggled from her family’s cellars. Theirs was not so much a romantic relationship as it had been a deep friendship—love that had never been stated.

Then there had been Jenithar, who had courted her for months prior to the evening that sent their friendship crumbling into dust. Yet not even he, as mired in Morrowind’s traditions as he had been back then, had ever spared a conversation to how he’d truly felt about her. The only time he had sought to tell her what she meant to him was earlier this very day… when it was already too late.

No; this was the first time in her life that Gwynileth had ever truly been told she was loved.

“Kaidan—”

She had already told him she loved him; how could she respond? How could she possibly show a deeper affection than what she had already offered?

As it was, Kaidan seemed to read the conflicting emotions within her face. “You don’t need to prove it to me any more than you already have, Gwyn. I already know.”

“Do you?” she whispered, her throat tight.

He nodded before placing his forehead against hers, wrapping his arms around her waist. Standing like this, Kaidan was so close, and Gwynileth felt so very safe; there was little more she could ask for in that moment, save a surefire promise that they would indeed have forever to spend following the end of her destiny.

“Okay,” she said at last, swallowing past the lump in her throat. And thanks to his reassurance, she knew that was all she needed to say.

They stood a brief moment longer, enjoying the onset of the spring’s evening, keeping themselves concealed from passers-by with the wooden trellis’s walls. But even as the seconds ticked by, an enticing smell was beginning to emerge from inside Breezehome… and based on the way both Kaidan and Gwynileth cast a sideways glance towards the house, she knew they were each starving after their venture back to Whiterun on foot.

“Food?” asked Gwynileth, raising an eyebrow.

“Food,” said Kaidan. “I’m so hungry I could eat a horse.”

The answer caused another laugh to fly from Gwynileth’s lips. “We need to keep up our strength anyhow. I’m sure Inigo will have made us something filling.”

Kaidan made a noise of general agreement as he stepped away from her, placing one hand back upon the door that would lead them inside. “Aye, and we’ll actually have a means of storing the leftovers now instead of leaving it out for the wolves. He always cooks for a whole damn village…”

There was no arguing with that. As Kaidan opened the door for her, Gwynileth beamed and stepped inside the house, where Inigo and Lucien were already calling out for them.