There's a strange scent in the air. It cuts through the normal scent of fish and seawater. If she didn't know any better, she would have thought it to be roses.

The young woman sits at the bar alone tonight. Her mug of mead is half empty. She stares into the honey colored liquid, her rippling reflection staring back. It looks as if she hadn't slept in weeks. That's how it feels.

The Argonian woman behind the bar gazes at her with concern. "Having a rough time at home?" she asks in her gravelly tone. The young Nord cracks a sad half-smile.

"You could say that."

She doesn't give details. She never does when it comes to her home life. This time though...this time is more than just "rough."

She senses someone sit on the stool next to her, but she doesn't look. She takes another swig of her mead. The bard is singing a war ballad, she thinks. She isn't used to him actually performing. Most of the time he's either too drunk or too tired to do his job. Picking out little details of her surroundings is how she passes her time at the bar. How many lines are in each wooden plank on the floor, the number of threads in her sleeve, how many people are in here at one time.

The man next to her calls for a mug of ale. He looks at her. She looks back. There it is. That's what she was waiting for. There's that familiar hatred boiling in her stomach.

The sound of his voice sends shivers down her spine. She hates it, yet there's something comforting about it. It brings her warmth and turns her blood to ice at the same time. His face is mostly hidden by a hood, but she recognizes it well enough to know exactly who this is.

"So," she says finally, giving a small huff. "Look what came crawling out of its hole." The hooded man turns to look at her. He appears almost shocked.

"Is it a crime to visit my favorite Dragonborn?"

"Quiet!" she snaps. Her green eyes stare into him as if she was gazing at his very soul. "We both know this isn't just a check-up visit. If it was, you would have come two years ago!" She shakily exhales. She has to clench her fist, digging her nails into her palm as a type of self-restraint. She notices Keerava has hung up her apron and gone upstairs. The only way to get privacy in the Bee and the Barb is to be obviously arguing, it seems. The hooded man leans back a bit and tilts his head.

"I heard you got married," he says. He taps a finger on the bar. "Is it that hunter? Or the Redguard from Whiterun?" The Nord scoffs.

"No."

"Ah! The bear killer, then?" He laughs. "I like him. Good soldier. Not much fun at parties, though. Has some stick up his ass or something." He clears his throat and looks down, suddenly looking a bit sad. "Does he know?"

The Dragonborn blinks. She hadn't been expecting that question.

The answer is a simple one. No, her husband doesn't know, nor will he ever. Not if she can help it.

"Does it matter if he knows or not?" is what she says instead.

The man is silent now. He's pondering something. She hates when he does that.

"I suppose not," he answers. "I'm just thinking it would be awfully awkward for me to visit my son and have your husband demanding who I am." Her anger flares.

"Your son!" She jams a finger into his chest. "You told me it was impossible! It's very possible, in case you haven't noticed. Once you found out, you vanished. No amount of summoning or calling could get you to show up." The Nord glares daggers at him, then holds her mug to her lips before pausing and saying one more thing. "He's my son. Not yours. You have no right to be called his father."

There's silence between the two. She finishes off her mead, and he stares into his ale. He's barely touched it. Normally he would have cleared the mug by now. The young Nord knows that something is wrong just by that one fact. She feels a sting of compassion.

Then he speaks again.

"Just know that I didn't want it to be this way." He glances at her with warm, sad brown eyes. "I've never fallen in love with a mortal before I met you. Had I had affairs with them? Yes. But love...it's a foreign concept to me, Freydis." He stiffens. "I'm sorry. Our child...it wasn't supposed to happen, I wasn't wrong in telling you that. I don't know why it did."

She feels tears in her eyes and blinks them away before he can notice. She almost feels bad for him. But if she dared to let that show, then she would no longer be worthy of the Raven-Feather name. She sighs and rests her head in her palm.

"He's never going to know about you, you know," she says quietly. He nods, taking a small sip from his mug. His face twists in disgust. Doesn't like the taste, I guess, she thinks as she lets a smile play at her lips.

He looks as if he wants to say something, but doesn't. There's just more silence. After a few moments, he stands, setting the mug of ale on the bar. It's still nearly full. He gazes at her, sympathy in his eyes. As she stares back, she notices the flecks of red scattered around the brown. Hmm. It's almost nice to look at.

"It was nice to see you again," he says quietly. He reaches as if he wants to touch her shoulder. Then he pulls back. "Keep him safe."

He turns his back to her without another word, then vanishes out the door.


Sanguine curses himself. He hates how that woman makes him feel. It's something he's never felt until this point, and he despises it.

He can already hear Vaermina and Peryite yelling at him like parents scolding their child.

He counts on his fingers how many times he could have told her. Four. There were four opportunities he could have used. Sanguine groans and pulls his hood over his eyes.

The only thing he has left to do is hope. His powers are weakening by the second, he can feel it. If he has to go through any more of this he may give up entirely. Maybe get someone else to take his place? Sheogorath has done it before, perhaps he could do the same.

It won't work without his powers at full capacity, though.

"Oh, son," Sanguine says, gazing back at the tavern where he left Freydis. "I hope you grow to be just like your mother."