This is a sequel to my previous five stories, and, as such, might be difficult to understand without some context.

My Imperial Dragonborn, Clelia "Clea" Orsino, and her companion, Illia ("Lilly"), had aided the priest Erandur in getting rid of the Dawnstar citizens' nightmares prior to completing their mission to kill Alduin. Additionally, our two heroines turn out to be practically irresistible in the eyes of more-or-less disturbed villains - Clea, to Miraak, and Illia, to Ancano. The results of those attachments have varied greatly: Miraak was killed at the summit of Apocrypha, while Ancano joined the group as husband and brother-in-law, respectively, the ragtag family of three taking refuge in Raven Rock for the foreseeable future. Enter the shadow of Miraak looming just over the horizon, and we're left with the premise for a new fic.


She is sharp; sharper than the edge of her sword, than the light reflecting off the Sea of Ghosts on those clear Tirdas mornings when the world is frozen solid and shimmering so brightly, it hurts his eyes.

(It's the only home he's known, yet he never could get used to seeing so much ice everywhere, endless fields of white. The cold seeps inside the people of this land, moulds them, leaves them angry, snapping at each other like wolves. Has it found its way into his soul, too—is that why he's like this?...)

Oh, that's just grand. Get a hold of yourself, old man. Folk don't come to you for that, and you'll need every measure of sanity to handle today. Rustleif is supposed to be stopping by, and Lady Mara knows he's more than willing to go on and on about his marital problems until midday at least.

First, though, there is a missive to read. It's been sitting on the table since last night, taunting him. "Later," he's been saying to himself, "after I've finished the rites, and made a fresh pot of tea, and tidied up the main hall. Just a little bit later."

What would his brothers say? A former agent of the Dreamweaver, involved in the most subtle and treacherous of tortures, scared out of his mind by the words of a woman.

A friend, he corrects himself. Yes, Clea's called him that from the beginning, she has; believed him to be wholly repentant of his past sins. She lent her hand to his mission with few questions asked. Quick to confide in him. Too quick. Her emerald gaze much too eager to latch on to his and cling to it for dear life.

They'd stayed awake 'till dawn, telling stories of happier times, trying to get a genuine smile out of poor, skittish Illia, who was hugging her knees to her chest like a child (they did, they laughed and laughed, and it would have been impossible to say which one of them had needed it more desperately than the other two). All too soon, however, he was standing on his front steps, bestowing the Divines' blessings upon their journey. It was then he saw the mirthful sort of awe in the Dragonborn's eyes when she looked at him, and he knew.

He's tried to fool himself, of course. As if that's worked for him before.

Then, the letters started arriving. The unopened one he now clutches in his hand is the eighth.

He always replies just a bit later than he should, keeps the tone cordial yet restrained, and, Kynareth preserve her, so does she, in her relentless entreaties.

Only somewhat shaking, he rips the seal open.


"My Friend,

The situation grows dire. I hope you will forgive me for being quite so abrupt, but the presence I've mentioned in my last message (which went unanswered) will not relent, drawing nearer instead. I am frightened for our safety, and my new brother-in-law has undoubtedly taken notice. I have reason to think he has doubled the wards surrounding our house, and is increasingly wary of me, to the point of finding any number of excuses for me and Lilly to not be in the same room together. This morning, he's—rather firmly—expressed his belief that I ought to pay a visit to some of my relatives. Surely they haven't heard from me in a while, he said, and the fresh Cyrodiil air might bring some welcome colour to my complexion.

I trust I needn't tell you more. If it weren't so distasteful of me, I would fill the rest of this page with a hundred different pleas, while wishing then, at least, I would find some understanding in you, one of the two people my entire world revolves around. That you would come to my aid, as I have come to yours.

I should apologise for the excessive pathos—I haven't found merely an hour of restful, uninterrupted sleep in more than a week. That is, however, irrelevant.

Anything but being parted from her. You know this.

That ounce of care you've ever felt for us may ultimately guide you towards a resolution. I, for one, pray that it will.

C."


Judging by its numerous creases, Erandur must have, at some point during the following week, crunched the parchment tightly in his fists. Said parchment now rests on the bottom of his satchel, slowly taking in stale seawater atop a plank of the Northern Maiden that has been placed just slightly askew.


This will be my first multi-chapter fic! It's not finished as of yet, but I will do my best to upload a new part as soon as possible. Hip hip hooray for longer stories!

(This first chapter is fairly short, in keeping with my usual MO, but the ones to come should prove more substantial.)