A/N: Reviews are always appreciated, o reader mine.


The soft crunch of pine needles under their feet is the only sound, save his own breath, that breaks the silence. Oddly enough he realizes only his boots seem to make any noise on the forest floor at all, the witch's bare feet leaving no sound or trace of her passing. The witch – he still didn't know her name – glances back at him every so often, as if she's expecting him to run. In truth, he had already considered it. In the end, however, his curiosity had won out. There was also the fact that she had saved his life. Still…

"So who – or what – am I fighting?"

Her stride never falteres, but she does give him a searching look over her shoulder.

"You'll find out soon enough."

He frowned at that cryptic answer.

"Will you at least tell me your name?"

"Illia." She gives him a questioning look.

"Varo."

She hums an affirmative noise, and nothing else. Unsure what else to say, he decides silence might be the best for now.

Cresting a hill, they are suddenly greeted with the sight of a small fort nestled at the base of a mountain. It takes him a moment to recognize the utilitarian building style of the Imperial Legion, with the curtain walls all but hugging the stout keep in the center, broken only by rounded flanking towers spaced a hundred feet apart. The main gate seemed to be missing the thick wooden doors that would allow the fort to seal itself from outside attack. He could also make out younger trees and shrubbery growing right up to the vine-covered walls, instead of the barren space of two hundred feet that was standard Legion protocol.

In all, definitely a Legion fort, but one that had been abandoned for some time.

He noticed Illia watching him wryly from the corner of his eye. "Expecting a cave? Or perhaps a shack in the woods?"

Her tone is dry, but he can see the edge of a smirk on her lips.

"Well… you said it, not me," he chuckles. She makes an amused huff and continues with him still in tow.

Soon enough, they are approaching the decrepit walls, and he quickly spots a figure strolling along the dilapidated battlements. It pauses as they get closer, clearly seeing them, before turning away for a few moments and calling out something. By the time they make it to the open gate, a trio of robed figures are waiting for them. They all wear faded black robes with equally black hoods pulled over their heads, leaving their features in shadow save for the central figure. An elderly Imperial woman, watching them closely with pursed lips and narrowed eyes.

A slight touch on his wrist brings his attention to the witch at his side.

"Let me do the talking and play along," she murmurs, pulling up the hood of her cloak.

Varo and Illia slow to a halt twenty feet away, the older Imperial woman in the shadow of the gate looking them over critically. Streaks of silver pepper her dark hair, and her cold blue eyes seem oddly familiar. The reason why clicks when she settles her gaze, sharp and inquisitive, on Illia and speaks.

"Daughter. I was about to come looking for you."

Illia's head is bowed in the picture of submission. "I didn't mean to worry you, Mother, I just- "

"I was not worried, fool girl," Illia's mother snorts, before setting her sights on Varo.

"Now tell me, who is this strapping young man you have brought?" Her smile is off, as if unpracticed. He opens his mouth to reply but is beaten to it by Illia, who gives him a quick glare with her eyes that shuts him up.

"This is Varo. He's accepted your terms and payment has been agreed upon."

The man himself managed not to overly react to that mysterious statement, choosing to save the obvious questions for later.

The older witch smiles. "Excellent." She turns and motions to the inside of the fort, and the keep in the center. Her eyes stay on Varo, and he tries not to shift uncomfortably in her scrutiny. The way she looks at him is almost… hungry. "Come. I'll have you fed and shown to your room. I think we will get to business in the morn."

He nods, not trusting himself to speak. Satisfied, the older witch and her two companions make their way back into the fort. Varo makes to follow their example before a soft hand grasping his makes him pause.

Illia's eyes are on the interior of the structure, but her words are undoubtedly for him.

"Remember our agreement," she whispers softly, before releasing him and making her way inside. He stands outside for a moment longer, too many questions running through his head. He settles for something along the lines of damn witches.

He found he didn't have as many answers as he'd like and gave a sigh only the forest witnessed. Making sure his armor was tight, he stepped into what felt uncomfortably like the lion's den.


The supper was tasty enough, a simple but hearty rabbit stew with slightly-stale black bread that sat well in his belly. The palpable aura of tension at the table made the meal markedly less pleasant, with Illia's eyes set firmly in her bowl the entire time while her mother, Silvia, barely took hers off Varo. He'd felt like he was being dissected in the old witch's gaze, like she could read his thoughts by staring long enough. Perhaps she could.

In addition, he'd met the other witches as everyone ate together – the two that had flanked Silvia earlier and one more, all Imperial women. They had not even bothered him with a glance in his direction, and he was happy to return the favor. The only other company seemed to be a handful of guards, men covered in rough leathers and worn furs that never moved from their vaguely glassy-eyed, statuesque vigil. To say he felt uncomfortable would be like saying Ulfric Stormcloak was only slightly miffed at the White-Gold Concordat. Every bite he ate felt like it was being studied, and when he declined a goblet of wine Silvia seemed oddly irritated.

He'd put that out of his mind in favor of other concerns, and he'd been more than glad to retire to his 'room'. Said room had obviously served as storage at some point with the sharp smell of some herb still lingering in the air. Still, he decided, it brought a welcome privacy to ponder the situation he found himself in as he closed and latched the door shut.

He settled on the single straw mattress, the only furniture except for a low chest against one wall, idly inventorying his belongings as he let his mind wander.

Too many unknowns to him – that he knew for certain. One of the only things he knew for certain, really. The situation might have been funny if it wasn't himself stuck in the middle of it. Reining in his thoughts, he recalled a lesson from one of his old instructors – a perpetually-scowling Nord with a burn scar marring one side of his face. He was known lovingly as fucked-face when he wasn't around, and Centurion when he was.

Always assess the situation before acting. If you can't do that, make a damn good guess and keep your guard up.

Well, Illia was on his side – or was he on hers? Really, what did she care about him at all? For all he still knew, there might be a boiling cauldron waiting for him with that fragrant half of a slaughterfish in the next room. He rubbed his face with his hands and sighed into his palms. The only thing he could do was wait – he doubted he'd be getting any sleep despite his exhaustion – and stay vigilant. Hopefully he'd get his answers sooner rather than later.

Feeling the need to relieve himself, he opened the door as quietly as he could and glanced warily at both ends of the hallway. The sparse torchlight left much of the corridor shrouded in dancing shadows, but the acrid smell of burning, oil-soaked cloth was almost comforting in its familiarity. He was unsure where the privy was, of course, but at worst he could ask one of the guards, right?

He'd only been wandering around for a handful of minutes when the growing murmur of conversation reached his ears. He slowed to a stop just outside of a room the voices seemed to be coming from, the crack of the open door spilling a thin sliver of unnatural blue light into the hallway. Refraining from peering in, he leaned against the wall nearby and listened in.

"- but again, well done, daughter. Such a fine subject will no doubt make for a bountiful source." He frowned at the words, easily recognizing Silvia's gravely tones. It seemed that she was conversing with her daughter.

A murmured affirmative from another speaker seemed to confirm that, and there was a pregnant pause before the older witch spoke up again.

"What has you so despondent, Illia?"

"Its nothing, mother."

"You're not doubting our work again, are you, girl?"

Silence, broken only a drawn-out, exasperated sigh. From whom, he wasn't sure.

"Or have you taken a fancy to this one, hmm?"

There's a sharp intake if breath, from Illia he assumes. The thought rose unbidden to himself; did she really desire him? He quickly glanced down either end of the hallway to make sure it was clear before he resumed his eavesdropping.

"-nothing, I-I…"

"Hush, daughter, I would not begrudge you that, he is such a… virile young thing. A far cry better than those drunkards we usually must make do with. You are free to take him as you wish, but do not forget his fate on the morrow. I do not think it would be so bad to leave him with one last fond memory, no?"

"Yes, mother."

"Good girl. Now do go on, I have much to prepare this night."

The corridor was deserted as Illia left the room and closed the heavy wooden door. She paused for a long moment just outside her mother's 'study', fingering the sealed vial hidden in her sleeve. The decision came easier than she'd thought, and she quickly makes her way down the hallway. Distracted, she doesn't notice the figure standing just beyond the torches' light.


Things were not as they seemed, though that had been apparent from the very beginning of… whatever this was. He'd hoped for answers in listening in on Illia and her mother, but all he found were more questions and a reason for the uneasy feeling in his gut that had haunted him since he'd stepped into this tower.

The only certainty he knew right now is that he needed to leave, preferably immediately. He had given his word, but… in the end, he'd rather lose his honor than his life. Not that this was the first time he'd broken his word. His lip curled at that thought, and he tightened his sword belt with a little more force than necessary.

His room is dark, but the motions of preparation were ingrained enough in him to be muscle memory at this point. His possessions were still limited to his clothes and armor, along with the blade currently sitting at his hip. The witches had provided him a thin shirt and breeches for sleepwear, but he hadn't touched the threadbare clothing. A part of him wondered where they had gotten them; from the guards, perhaps? Though with what he had heard, the reason could be more sinister than he'd like.

A noise at the door draws him out of his thoughts quickly, and he refrains from cursing under his breath. Had they heard him after all and were coming for him early?

He ducked into the corner as the latch lifted and the dim light from the hallway flooded into the room. The door, swinging inward, provides a perfect barrier of concealment from the intruder, who quickly closes said door quietly, as if not to wake him. As if they were expecting him to be asleep in the first place.

When fighting mages, the trick is to close the distance as fast as ye can. Even a novice destruction mage can wipe out a handful of men before they know what hit them, and a trained Battlemage can decimate whole cohorts if not stopped fast enough.

With that thought in mind, and before the intruder's eyes can adjust to the dark, he grabs the witch – which he can tell from the… chest – and bodily throws them against the wall. He pins the slim woman against the stone with his own bodyweight, left arm pressing into her windpipe and holding the point of his blade against her belly with his right.

"V-Varo! It's me!" she sputtered, and he recognizes his midnight interloper as Illia. He doesn't move to release her.

"What are you trying to do, witch?" he hisses coldly, face only inches from hers. "Stab me in my sleep?"

He eases the pressure on her throat as she shakes her head frantically. He doesn't miss the way she trembles against him, but he does his best to ignore that.

"Its-I needed to give you this." She raises up a vial filled with a dark liquid, as if the sight of it alone was explanation enough. Confused, he moves his left hand to gently grasp her neck, retaining control over the situation even as he stepped back slightly.

"Antidote for t-the poison" she stammered meekly.

"What poison?"

"The one slipped in the wine."

The wine? He'd noticed it almost as soon as he first entered his room, the silver pitcher and matching goblet sitting on the nightstand next to the bed. The dark crimson liquid smelled sharp, and he'd refrained from drinking any. The silverware seemed far too expensive for a handful of witches in a dilapidated fort to own, and he'd promptly poured out the wine into a large crack in the stone floor in the corner.

"I didn't touch the wine."

Illia visibly deflates, breathing out a relieved sigh. "Thank the gods. You're smarter than I thought, Varo."

He blinks. Unsure whether that was a compliment or not, and not wanting to waste time figuring that out, he decides to move on. His blade presses further against her abdomen, reaffirming her attention quickly. "Talk. Now."

She takes a deep, shuddering breath. "My mother practices magic – old magics, that deal in blood. We lure in travelers like yourself to use in dark rituals. Needless to say, the… subject usually doesn't survive."

"And you thought to do the same to me?" he snarled cruelly.

"I-No, no, please – I spoke truly when I said I needed your help! I need your help to stop my mother!"

She still wouldn't meet his eyes, her own downcast as if waiting for the floor to swallow her up. "You want me to help kill your mother?" he said slowly.

He watched her mouth open, as if to rebuke him, but her lips close just as quickly. He wonders if that is a tear glistening in the low light, snaking its way down one cheek. His hand is halfway to intercept it before he realizes and stops himself.

"Yes," she whispers, almost too low for him to hear. "She's… too far gone. It's the only way."

"And why should I believe any of this?"

He imagines she looks surprised. He would be. However, he needs to test this… her. This could be simply a part of the 'routine' these witches had been doing. That he could believe. The rest… well, there was a distinct lack of trust going around. He reminded himself that it wasn't entirely out of the question to just knock her unconscious and slip out.

"B-because it's true!" She sputtered.

He leans forward slightly, bringing them to eye level. "And how do I know that?"

"I – well, you have to- "

"What? Trust you? You sneak in here in the dead of night with some potion and that story and expect me to just go along with it?"

"I - y-yes?" She says weakly.

He gives her a long, searching look, and he doesn't miss the way she seems to curl in on herself at his scrutiny.

"Please- "

He sheathes his blade and snatches the potion out of her hand. He raises it up to her lips. "Drink this."

She blinks owlishly at him and the vial, confused.

"But it- "

"Drink it so I know it's not some poison, and I'll give you the benefit of the doubt."

She looks uncertain but surprisingly accepts a mouthful without much hesitation. She swallows, and for several long minutes they simply stare at one another, Varo wondering if she'll end up foaming at the mouth before dropping dead and Illia… he's not sure what she's thinking. He's not sure he wants to know, really.

He eventually releases her when she doesn't drop dead, and she gives him a cautious half-smile that he almost returns before reminding himself he's still suspicious of her. Her smile fades slightly at his stoicism, but she turns toward the door.

"We should… go now. While she's not expecting us." He nods, carefully following after her.

Yet again.