He laughed before he charged me. He always did that. Laughed. Cackled, really. Maybe because he knew how much less of a target I was than a dragon. He could shout me to death if he really wanted and he reminded me of that often.

I sidestepped the blade. Just about my only advantage was how much faster I was than him, smaller too. Sanguine knew that. He never brought it up, though. At least not in a good way.

"You're too skinny," Sanguine would scoff at me across the large oak table. He slid me a fat slice of horker meat. I tried not to smell it. "Put some meat on your bones."

I leaped towards the framing of the house and climbed. By the time he had regained his footing, I had made it to the balcony, swaying my sword over him. "Looking for someone?"

"Innocence," he boomed, "Get down here and face me like a man!"

"But, Dragonborn, I am not a man." I twirled my blade in my hand, as one would do a staff.

"What have a told you about sass, Innocence?" Sanguine grunted with a fire in his eyes, slamming his shoulder into the supportive wooden beam.

"Sanguine?" I asked when the veranda shook. "What are you doing?"

"And don't." Slam.

"Ever." Slam.

"Call me." Slam.

"By." Slam.

I fell as the balcony collapsed beneath me. When I opened my eyes, Sanguine was holding the tip of his Skyforge sword to my armored chest, only barely out of breath. "Don't ever call me by my name, my Innocence, or this blade will be in the dirt underneath you, painted in your blood." He got up and brushed himself off. Then, like the hero he was, Sanguine said, "I am to be addressed as Dragonborn, nothing less."

...

"I hate Windhelm," Sanguine, or should I say the Dragonborn, said as we rode past a local farm house. The man and woman, both tending to their cabbages, waved at us, or should I say waved at Sanguine. They never waved at me.

"But sir," I chuckled passively, "We've only just past Whiterun." He scowled. Whenever Sanguine would reprimand me in public, most people wouldn't say a thing. That or they would join in. But occasionally someone would show me compassion. They would always tell me the same thing. They would tell me that some people had been through so much in their lifetime that they couldn't take much more. I could believe that. When it came to the Dragonborn, he had lived enough life for 30 men. Probably more. Sanguine had fought more dragons than I had ever had the pleasure to see. But, Talos, how I loved seeing them. Giants. Wingspans the size of the solitude gates. Scales as bright as the Dawnstar bay. They were beautiful, really. Until they were trying to shout your head off your shoulders, that is. But still, in those moments, dragons had a terrifying loveliness about them. I had told Sanguine this once.

"That's a rather odd way of thinking," he scoffed, then smiled, "Especially for an insignificant mutt girl whose parents were both slaughtered by a dragon." That was the end of that.

He grunted again, "I hate Windhelm. I hate the Stormcloaks," and so began another one of the Dragonborn's famous monologues. "Always messing with the Emperor's law. If you hate Skyrim so much, go to Elsweyr. Drink Skooma and get drunk off your asses, that's about the only thing you're good for. Why, I'd say that I hate Stormcloaks almost as much as I hate the Thieves Guild. And I hate the Thieves Guild almost as much as I hate that Stendarr forsaken Dark Brotherhood." These types of conversations were always the same. Complain about evil. Fight evil. Kill evil. Be courageous. Yes, nothing mattered more to Sanguine than the destruction of all un-good. But still, he was bound to be a soldier of the law. And according to his oath, he was swore to help and protect any citizen of Skyrim, no matter what organization. Which is why he scoffed when he saw a broken-down carriage in the middle of the road.

"Ah! Bother and befuddle! Stuck here. Stuck! My mother, my poor mother, unmoving. At rest, but too still."

"Problem?" I asked before Sanguine could take the opportunity to smite the poor man. He wore jesters clothing and his voice was shrill and sharp. If Sanguine weren't in his Imperial armor, he may just have killed him for disrupting our travels. He was like that. Always threatening to cut off my head whenever I burnt the dinner or didn't polished his Dragon Priest masks quite diligently enough. I had seen Sanguine terrorize others too, but most weren't quite so fortunate. Sanguine had killed quite a few of his annoyances and if he wasn't in Legion attire, I was sure he would do it now. I could only wonder why I wasn't six feet under by now.

The man looked at me as if he was looking at another person for the very first time. His wide eyes gleamed, almost with a certain realization. He must have been crazy or at least very desperate. After what felt like an awkward eternity, he spoke.

"Oh, poor Cicero is stuck, can't you see? I was transporting my dear, sweet mother. Well, not her. Her corpse," he giggled. "She's quite dead. I'm taking mother to a new home. A new crypt. But... ah! Wagon wheel. Damnedest wagon wheel. It broke, don't you see?" I turned to face Sanguine whose face was shriveled up in disgust.

"Why don't you go along, Dragonborn," I reached for the hilt of my sword. "I'll take care of this." He smiled. That was really the only way to make him happy. Let the death of the unworthy reign. He nodded and rode ahead. I released my sword. I had no intention of killing anyone today.

"Is there some way I can help?"

"Oh," his face beamed, and I was finally able to study him. Sharp imperial curves, tan skin, and laugh lines that looked like they had been etched there with a dagger. His cheekbones danced with him. It was quite refreshing from the normally hard-faced Sanguine, who didn't quite know what a laugh was. "Oh, yes! Yes, the kindly stranger can certainly help! Go to the farm, the Loreius Farm. Just over there, off the road. Talk to Loreius. He has tools. He can help me. But he won't. He refuses! Convince Loreius to fix my wheel! Do that, and poor Cicero will reward you. With coin! Gleamy, shiny coin!"

I rode back to the farm we had passed earlier, not because I wanted his money, but because I would hate to think that poor, yet undeniably insane, man would be stuck in the middle of the road. With the smell of a rotting corpse came wolves. And with wolves came trouble. Hopefully, the farmers would remember that I was with the Dragonborn and would change their minds.

"Oh, for the love of Mara, what now?" asked the farmer before I had even greeted him.

"The, um…" How had I already forgotten his name. "little man really needs your help with his wagon."

"That Cicero fella? Ha! Tell me something I don't know. Crazy fools already asked me about five times. Seems he's not satisfied with my answer. Why can't he just leave us alone?"

"So, what's the problem?" I asked, utterly deterred. For someone who asked not one minute ago for the love of Mara, he had little compassion in his voice. So, Cicero may seem a bit looney. He was still a person. "I'm sure he'll pay you."

"Pay me? You think this is about money? Have you seen the man? He's completely out of his head! A jester? Here in Skyrim? Ain't been a merry man in these parts for a hundred years. And he's transporting some giant box. Says it's a coffin. Says he going to bury his mother. Mother, my eye. He could have anything in there! War contraband, weapons, Skooma! Ain't no way I'm getting involved in any of that."

"He's a stranger who needs assistance. Please, help him!" I was starting to get angry now. So angry that my eyes started tearing up. I whipped them quickly.

"And just who in Mara's name are you, anyways, hmm? Coming here and telling me my business. And for what? A... a fool?!"

I was reaching for my sword now. "You know you should help him," I said through gritted teeth.

"Look, I-I," he saw the glint off my sword and quickly changed his mind. "You're right. You're right. Fella might be nutters, might not. The fact is he needs help. I turned him away, what kind of a man am I? Look, um, thanks. And I'm sorry for my unneighborly reaction. If you talk to Cicero, you be sure to tell him I'll be down to help soon." He went back into his house and shortly after the sound of metal tools rustling could be heard. I quickly rode back down the road to where Cicero was sitting on the ground, head in hands. He popped up as soon as he saw me. I stepped down from my horse to greet him personally.

"I talked to Loreius, he's agreed to fix your wagon wheel."

"You... you did? He has?" His face lit up even brighter than the first time. "Oh stranger! You have made Cicero so happy! So jubilant and ecstatic! But more! Even more! My mother thanks you! Here, here! For your troubles! Shiny, clinky coin! A few coins for your kind deed! And thank you. Thank you again!" He tried to shove a small bag of septum's into my hands, but I refused.

"It really wasn't any trouble."

"No, but you must take it! Cicero must thank you!"

"I really don't need money right now. Really! I'm swimming in it." By me, I meant Sanguine. He was practically drowning in gold. When it came to money, we were practically married. What's mine was his and what's his was... his. If I came back with more gold than I left him with, he'd be curious as to how I had gotten it. And I didn't feel too much like explaining about how I let the fool live.

"Then what do you need? Cicero can get you anything you want. Gold, fame, revenge! What is it you seek?" He paused, looking deeply into my soul without an ounce of discomfort, as if he had looked into them many times before, "a new life?" I said nothing. I thought nothing. Even thoughts could be dangerous. How could he know? He saw through my stony gaze, turning me transparent. He giggled and slipped something into my open palms. Without warning, he kissed me on the cheek.

"I believe I shall be seeing you again, Dragonborn's apprentice. Soon."