He can't go with her to Sovngarde.

She expected that, really, but it's still unnerving to suddenly be alone. Yes, she owes her life to her Daedric companion on numerous accounts, but that doesn't mean (as he came to agree, eventually) that she can't hold her own behind a blade.

But when she falls back into Tamriel, panting, sweating, dry heaving on her hands and knees, and he has to carry her to her horse, she realizes that getting saved isn't all that bad, even when she knows she can handle herself.

And though he would never admit it, he knows she can. But he still tells her through his actions that she's the most fragile thing in existence, in need of his constant worry and reprimand.

He's terrified that it might actually be true.


As they lie in their shared bed in the half-empty tavern (innkeepers often need only a little coercing to let her hooded friend into the joint, as long as gold is involved), he talks to her differently than he does when they're outside. As though this room can not only hear his voice, lowered though it may be, but also keep the secrets he tells her safe from the open sky.

She still gets shivers when he runs his fingers through her hair, holding the strands up to the light and inspecting them as though he'll find some secret hidden in the way the candle on the end table reflects off of each individual one.

"Do you like my hair?" she lightly teases, shaking her head and letting it fall across her face. His gaze shifts from her shoulder to her eyes, his own softening but unblinking.

"You do realize that you are a work of art, yes?"

She shifts uncomfortably, burrowing deeper into the hay mattress. "You keep telling me that."

"Hair like the sun is something to be appreciated. Perhaps you've taken it for granted."

The Dragonborn turns her head halfway into her pillow, face flushed with guilt she wishes she would stop feeling with every conversation. "It's hard not to get used to something I see every day, you should try it. Every Nord has the same exact hair," she adds, "it's not that special."

"And your eyes," he continues, smirking at her objection but otherwise ignoring it, "a shade you can only find in the skies of Nirn. You know," he digresses, eyes misting over with recollection, "I tried to find that color in Oblivion. Not a single place had it. For a realm so devoted to pleasure, it lacked the one thing that would make me happy." Ignoring her arched eyebrow, he hooks a finger under her chin and pulls it away from the pillow, tilting her face up toward his.

She can't resist looking at him, stubbornly pursing her lips and examining his eyes to find fuel for a rebuttal. What she sees is like gray glass, un-textured and unmoving. She lets him press on.

"Like little blue veins, or rivers," he whispers to himself, smirking as the fire vanishes from her expression, "maybe what stars in the night sky look like when viewed from up close." He leans in, brushing away her hair and pretending not to notice the way she momentarily panics. She can feel her own breath bouncing off of his chin, but the Dremora has eyes only for hers.

When he speaks, it's as though he never paused and isn't any closer to her than is strictly necessary. "How fortunate for me that you are so very different from what I'm used to."

"You're pretty different yourself," she counters with more of an edge than she intends. "Who else do I know with skin like charcoal? And eyes like glass?"

His smirk doesn't falter when he rolls away from her, still taking up most of the bed. "I'm the only one," he concedes, though it doesn't feel like a victory to the Nord.

The Dragonborn wastes no time in turning away to blow out the candle on the end table, settling back onto the mattress next to her sleeping partner and pretending to fall asleep instantly.

In reality, she feels much too exhilarated by the realness of what he just said to sleep.


They decide to build a house in Winterhold. It's a decision more out of necessity than preference. The Dragonborn, having fulfilled what she's been told is her life's purpose, says she wants somewhere safe to return to. The Dremora, feeling at home no matter where he is, agrees.

Winterhold is the most obvious choice. The company she now keeps is by no means socially acceptable, and after yet another run-in with a cast of terrified guards (Arkay keep them, she thinks amusedly), she's terrified by the prospect of having to hide her own companion away from the world.

They find respite at the College, which itself is a host to no small number of socially unacceptable alumni. Her Kynreeve is still subject to baffled, even hateful stares, but here they don't have to worry about unprovoked attack. It's still preferred that they sleep somewhere other than the Hall of Attainment, though.

There is no better place for them. Even the guards that watch the two companions walking between the inn and the College bridge have nothing to say. Not in front of them, anyway. But when the town catches wind that the Dragonborn has contracted a team to build a house in the ruins of old Winterhold, a general unease befalls it.

Watching the foundation of her—their—house take shape, the Dragonborn once says to her companion, "I sense mutiny building."

"You're not talking about the house, are you?" he responds from under his traveling cloak.

"People don't want us here," she states bluntly, if a little amusedly.

He chuckles darkly. "People don't want us anywhere. This is a good a spot as any."

She agrees, and they leave it at that.


Generally, they have to stay off of main roads and away from towns. They have yet to find a carriage that will let her cloaked companion ride, no matter how much gold they offer. She assumes it has something to do with the giant blade slung across his back, nearly as long as any man is tall. Maybe, though, it's because no horse will stay calm long enough for him to get near.

So they travel on foot.

Between the walking that occupies most of their daylight hours, if they can find an inn they stay at it. But they often end up sleeping outdoors, and she would easily bet every last bit of their money that he prefers it that way.

Needless to say, he likes it outside. He likes it everywhere. That's why they're not going anywhere.

Of course, they're moving. Every day they cover land, but not in any particular direction. She wants to be his tour guide for everything her world has to offer, and she likes to think of it as her restitution for so long taking everything for granted, as he so often reminds her. He never bothers to tell her that he's not serious.


When they get back to Winterhold, they're greeted by the discovery that what was going to be their house is now a square patch of smoldering cinders. The builders are all absent, and the block is suspiciously free of guards and townspeople too. Surprisingly, standing next to the burned foundation, the two travelers are the only thing out of place in the dilapidated portion of the town.

All she can think to say when they turn to each other is, "I told you people don't want us here."

They share an entirely inappropriate chuckle, cynical and derisive, which escalates into full-blown laughter, roaring yet muffled by the wind and snow. She collapses onto him, clutching the front of his cloak to hold herself up.

They laugh because there's nothing else to do. By the time they're done, she's shed a couple of tears, and she's not sure whether or not they're from the laughter.


When they finally bed down for the night, it's in an abandoned bandit camp inside of a cave, set into the cliffs surrounding Winterhold. They had no choice but to leave town, since the inn was suspiciously locked when they neared it (even though they could clearly see lights on inside).

They sit on one of the bedrolls, watching a snowstorm rage outside, neither bothering to light a fire. But she can tell that he's not fully invested in snow-watching, because every time she glances over he's staring shamelessly at her. Self-conscious, she begins staring back.

"What? Is it my hair again? I'm taking it for granted by sitting here, not worshipping it, right? Or is it my eyes? My skin? The snow? What, pray tell, am I missing the beauty of here? Is this somehow the most exquisite cave you've ever laid your eyes on? Or is this air particularly nice? Please, let me in on what exactly you're thinking!"

He scowls. "You're not okay, are you?" he finally asks, voice low. The question catches her off guard, and she has to think about what he might mean by it before considering an answer. He saves her by continuing, "You're unused to being chased out of town. I can tell it bothered you."

She scoffs and looks back out toward the snow. "That's ridiculous. Why would I care if a few of the closed-minded rabble disapprove of the company I keep? There are much better places to live."

He remains unconvinced. "Yet you're fully aware that you'll be met with the same reaction anywhere."

"Yes, I am," she cuts in, eyes narrowing in a sidelong glare, "but you fail to realize how little I care."

His smirk returns as he shifts his gaze back to the snow, and he humors her with the slightest laugh. "Your tears earlier said otherwise."


The next morning, a student from the College ventures into town to drop off some enchanted necklaces with a courier, and finds the entire town slaughtered in the streets and in their beds.

The student, terrified, runs back up the bridge to tell the Arch-Mage what happened, and not one person has any doubt about who's responsible.

As he walked away, the murderer remarked that, perhaps, too many people were taking life for granted.


"Did you hear?" the barmaid asks conversationally while handing a loaf of bread over the counter.

The Dragonborn doesn't pause in slipping the purchased food into her knapsack. "About what?"

The barmaid leans over the counter, biting her lip and glancing around as though about to impart some particularly juicy gossip (as though the entire town didn't know already). "Winterhold," she breathes, eyes widening with enthusiasm, "completely wiped out. They were warned about those College types, but finally something did 'em in."

The Dragonborn stops what she's doing and leans in, now entirely concerned. "What?"

"Yeah," the barmaid gushes, ecstatic that she's found someone who hasn't yet heard, "the College swears it wasn't them though, says some Daedric Prince did it." Her eyes are wild with ill-contained laughter. "Can you believe it? But they won't get away with it, oh no, there's a whole team gonna go up there and repay the College what they done. Let's see how those mages like real knives!" She goes back to wiping the counter, gauging her customer's reaction to her news. The Nord is satisfyingly speechless. "But who cares anyway? It was just Winterhold, and a bunch of mages no one cares about. S'what they get for sticking their nose into dark stuff they're not supposed to."

"That's pretty nasty news," the Dragonborn finally responds, turning away with feigned calmness, "I'd hate to live there."

She's out of the city gates in record time, knapsack bouncing behind her, returning at full-tilt to their camp under the cliffs surrounding Windhelm. Her Daedric friend is waiting for her, sword half-embedded in a still-squirming fawn as he turns his head.

She pauses to watch in fascination as he twists the blade, stilling the animal. "That was fast," he remarks, nonchalantly pulling his weapon from the corpse.

"You didn't tell me about what you did at Windhelm," she blurts, slightly breathless from her run. Her cheeks are flushed, her hair wild, yet she still manages to look annoyed.

He freezes, blinking in surprise as she crosses her arms.

"Well?"

"You're very right. I did not." He runs his fingers down the face of the blade, parting the bloodstains.

"Any reason why?"

He smirks and glances up at her, leaning back against a tree. "It didn't seem important at the time." He raises his fingers to eye-level and rubs them together, seemingly ignoring the irritated Nord in front of him.

She stalks over and grabs his raised hand, yanking it away from his face and forcing him to look at her. "I don't know, that whole episode was pretty dramatic, even for you." Her narrowed eyes meet his, and she blows out air. "I told you I didn't care about the ordeal, but apparently you did."

"Aren't you so very glad that I saw through your lie?"

She rolls her eyes. "Not really."


As soon as they're lying back down, this time in Dawnstar's inn, they're again able to speak softly and freely. She uses this time to yawn and reiterate to him how exhausted she is.

He responds by running his coarse hands through her hair.

Her head falls to the pillow, reveling in the contact she is all but used to now. She closes her eyes, but can feel his still on her. The sensation is no longer unwelcome, and she even feels slightly empowered by it. She curls into his body heat (scarce though it may be, it's still there) and feels herself drifting toward sleep.

He mumbles something and she hears it, low and indiscernible, in his chest. Her eyes flutter half-open and she cranes her neck to look at him. "Hmm?"

"Nothing."

She smiles sleepily and cocks her head. "No, what did you say?"

"I asked you how many times you've considered kissing me."

She shakes her head and returns it to her spot against his chest. "Thousands."

He makes a small sound of acknowledgement and continues admiring her hair. She dozes off.