She's impatient, so despite the advice to murder the Bosmer while he's estranged in Skyrim's wilds, she challenges him at his stand in Whiterun. He doesn't stand a chance – one swing of the blade and he's sprinting for his very life; he recedes into squat, traps his head into his hands, and begs for mercy.
She gives it to him, but not the way he wants. Slash, slash.
A scream –
– and he's serving Sithis.
But very unlike her, she crawls beside his bleeding corpse and watches as the people come and go. They notice his body, place their hands on his heart, wonder to no one in particular – oh my, what happened? – and proceed with their mundane routines.
"Sweet rolls! All fresh from the oven!"
No one cares.
She cradles Anoriath's head into her lap and cautiously pries his hair band from his scalp in a manner to not harm him before smoothing his roots and replacing it. Her calloused fingertips feather the wrinkles outlining his smile and when the sun sets, she drags his body to the holiest place in Whiterun –
– the Shrine of Talos.
She splays his body before the dedicated priest, he being too occupied with his lecture to notice the duo. Yet that is not enough, no. The need driven from the core of her spine requires that she grope into her satchel to arrange a tact Nightshade flower onto his chest. She abides the need.
And when the breeze lifts the flower and splashes it into the stream that flows through the city,
. . .she comes undone.
We often do not recognize the love we have for another until it is too late.