Another short one I'm afraid :( But points to the first person who guesses the identity of the unnamed man ;p easy peasy lemon squeezy.


Four Months Later

Her blade slid between the orc's shoulder blades with ease and he fell silently. She wiped the blade clean on his shirt and then knelt down, rummaging through his pockets until she found what she wanted. Smiling, she nudged him with the two of her boot and he rolled easily down the hill into the water at the bottom. There would be a little blood on the water, but it would soon dissipate. It was unlikely the orc would be found in time, and that was all that mattered. She slid the paper into a pocket and sheathed the Blade of Woe, turning away from the water.

Now it was back to Falkreath and from there to Solitude, her months of work now on the verge of paying off at long last. The journey barely seemed to take any time at all, and then she was in the sanctuary; home. Astrid was in her room to one side, and she could hear Cicero singing even from here. She turned to meet with Astrid who, despite her many, many flaws, had been of more than a little use these last weeks, planning the most daring assassination the Brotherhood had undertaken in far too long.

"You have it?" she asked, looking up as Iona lowered her hood and pulled down her cowl.

"Of course I have it," she replied, flashing the paper before Astrid. "Have you arranged the getaway."

"It's all sorted. Leave through the upper door and across the bridge. I've… arranged… for it to be unguarded once the alarm has been sounded."

"Good," Iona glanced up from the papers littering the desk. "Keep this up and you may earn favour in the eyes of our mother, to redeem yourself if nothing else. You have the Jarrin Root?"

"Babbette brought it this morning," Astrid replied, handing over a small black pouch. "Are you ready, gourmet?"

"Of course not. I hardly look the part of a chef now, do I?"

"Radiant Raiments will take care of that I am sure."

"Quite. She turned to leave, slipping the pouch of Jarrin Root into her pocket, along with the slip of paper that would grant her access to Castle Dour the following night.


She appeared to be in a plain room, with little in the way of furnishing but for two chairs, a desk and a metronome, ticking away to one side. It must be one of the dreams, she told herself, although she couldn't quite remember what was so important about these dreams.

"You made it!" someone shouted. It was a jovial, accented voice. "I almost thought you wouldn't." A man, dressed in hideously bright colours and beaming fit to burst stepped seemingly from nowhere and settled himself in the chair across from Iona.

"I quite wish I hadn't," she replied, folding her arms across her chest. Her fingers drummed against her sleeve, eyes narrowed above her cowl.

"Well of course you do! You're the listener now, aren't you? Even in your dreams it seems. You've been infected by that little worm of memory, burrowing down where it doesn't belong."

"Who are you?"

"I'm you of course! Hadn't you figured that out yet? Well that is to say, I'm as much you as the you you are right now, understand?"

"Speak more sense or I shall remove your tongue!" she shouted, jumping to her feet and slamming a hand onto the desk.

"With what?" he asked, innocently. Iona very suddenly became aware of just how cold it was in the room. Looking down, she realised that her blade and armour, had disappeared, leaving her cold and vulnerable. She jumped back, eyes narrowed, but no sooner had she done so than was the white leather back in place, the Blade of Woe once more clipped to her belt.

"You'll leave off my tongue," he laughed. "That is, unless you want me to use your intestines as a skipping rope. I've done that before… messy business." He was silent for a while and Iona cautiously resettled herself upon the chair, her hand never straying far from the hilt of her dagger.

"Let me put it plainly. You've appeased deadra all over the place girl, but you're doing it wrong."

"I have no idea what you're talking about," she said, "Can I leave?"

"I wonder what your eyes would taste like if I spread them on toast?"

"Fine. Get on with it."

"The deadra aren't the ones you should concern yourself with – most of them, they're just out to get you. They only challenge you because they have to, because that's the rules."

"What rules?"

"THE rules, the only rules, the rules that matter." He waved this aside as though it was a moot point. "You went out of your way to appease Hircine, girl, and that's the closest you went to being right. You have to appease them, without actually appeasing them."

She awoke in a cold sweat, her hair plastered to her forehead, panting in an attempt to regain her breath. Her room at the Winking Skeever seemed small, oppressive and she needed air. She donned her mask and hood (she never took her armour off, not trusting in the security of any building) and headed through her window, not wanting the clientele downstairs to talk any more than was necessary about their strange visitor of the night.

There was a decided calm to all the major cities at night, and this was the time she enjoyed best, with the moon shining down upon the streets, creating dark shadows and easy hiding spaces. She glanced up and down the street and finding it deserted, moved through the night until she was at the door to Radiant Raiments. She knelt down, extracting her picks from the lining of her cloak, and began to work, her fingers dancing as though they had been doing this for years, not mere months.

After a few minutes, the lock clicked and with an easy push the door swung open. She stepped inside and headed instantly to a dusty corner, leaving mere seconds later with the tunic and hat of a chef tucked under one arm. She closed the door behind her and headed back to the Skeever, the memory of that night's dream already fading away.


Lydia was nearly dead on her feet when she dragged herself back into Breezehome. The official search had been called off long ago, an announcement made about the passing of the Dragonborn, a nation in mourning, but still she couldn't bring herself to give up. She could have stopped and lived an easy life for many years to come (Iona had left her both Breezehome and Vlindrel Hall, not to mention she was the only person other than Iona herself with a key to the underground mansion), but she just couldn't believe Iona was actually dead.

The Blades had given up long ago. Delphine had even expressed astonishment that it had taken so long, and Esbern had told her in an unsettling calm and collected voice that in the entire history of the Blades, Iona had been the longest lived Dohvakiin who actively fought dragons.

And eventually, even the Companions had admitted defeat, leaving only the housecarls, who dropped away from the search one by one, returning to houses that were now their own and the large fortunes contained within.

Which left only Lydia, and a faint hope even she was beginning to lose faith in. Wood elves were not common in Skyrim, and she had followed every lead that seemed even vaguely promising, turned over every rock and stone but it had all yielded nothing. The house was cold and it took her a little while to light the fire. When finally some semblance of heat was coming from the hearth, she fell back into a chair and put her face in her hands.

She jumped at a knock on the door, head snapping up. Sighing, she stood and slid the bolt away to see who was calling at such a gods forsaken hour of the morning. A courier, of course. He was shivering in the rain and held out a small roll of parchment. Lydia took it and flicked a Septim his way, closing the door as she unrolled the parchment.

Another sighting, just as unlikely as the last. At least, this was the thought that crossed her mind until she read the details.

Wood elf. Height matches description. Female. Cowled, hodded. White leather, red cloth. Asleep between Falkreath and Solitude. Dreaming.

Her breath caught in her throat as she remembered Iona's fears before they headed away to the hunting grounds – the assassin in white leather, and the possibility that this was her own future. The letter didn't say where the elf had gone from here, but this was a start, and one which was a damnsight more promising than anything else she had seen for a long time. She headed to the trapdoor and descended, donning her gauntlets as she did so. She stifled a yawn as she turned to the door which would take her to Proudspire Manor and Solitude.


"That makes no sense." She started to see that she was back in the dream, back exactly where she had left off.

"It does! Pass their tests in the technical sense, but find your own way around them. They want you to be this. Others don't"

"So what do you want?"

"Me? I want a new skipping rope, but that's beside the point." He leant back, propping his feet upon the table between them. "The only real question is, what do you want?"

"I don't…"

"You want knowledge. Or at least, you did before that little maggot crawled up your brainstem. I'd wager there's still something worth salvaging in that sack you call a head."

"Are you done insulting me?"

"No, I don't think so." He was laughing at her, his lips curled in a self-satisfactory smile. "I think you're off again though. Don't do anything too stupid."

Iona moved straight out of bed and splashed her face with cold water. This was it. Today was the day on which everything rested. Win or lose, rise or fail, it would be decided today in Castle Dour.

When the evening came, she was ready. She wore her armour beneath the chefs tunic, having deliberately snatched the less revealing male option from the store the previous night. She had stitched a thin white veil to the brim of her hat that morning, and if anyone asked, she could simply claim to be making an effort to maintain her anonymity, which was of course the truth.

As darkness began to fall, she headed to Castle Dour. Commander Maro glanced at her writ of passage and then at her chefs attire before waving her in. Smiling a little, she headed to the kitchen, where the Redguard chef was waiting. The fool would probably have believed anything Iona had said, she thought, dictating the ingredients to a recipe the idiot had probably made a dozen times. Finally, when the time came for the secret ingredient, Iona dropped in the Jarrin Root. Everything was ready.

"I'll carry the tureen, you just go ahead and be… well brilliant," the girl gushed (Iona had already forgotten her name), taking the lead, soup in hand. The kill was close now, Iona could feel it. The blood in her veins seemed to be rushing, her heart beating unusually fast. She almost held her breath as Titus Meade, an insufferable fool of an emperor, took the first sip.

Jarrin Root has many wonderful properties, not the least of which was the way in which it slowly paralysed every muscle in the body. She watched as the emperor began to choke, began to try draw breath into lungs that would not move, finally collapsing into his unfinished soup.

Chaos, naturally, was the only thing that could follow. Iona had already spotted the door and was outside before anyone even realised quite what was wrong. The bridge was unguarded as Astrid had promised, but something didn't seem right.

The sharp shnk of steel as it left the scabbard, straight ahead. Looking up, she saw Commander Maro's crowing face peering down at her. Two figures, brandishing both swords and torches ran from the tower towards her. "That man," Maro said leaning against the stone of the tower top, "Was by far the most insufferable decoy the emperor has ever employed. I must admit, I am glad he's dead… more so that you killed him though. You seem surprised?" Iona couldn't say how he knew this – the veil did, after all, cover her face in its entirety, but she let him drone on. The longer he spoke, the longer she had to find a way out of the trap she had found waiting for her. "Well so was I when a member of your… 'family', came to me with the plan. This is our deal – an exchange. We get you, and the Brotherhood gets to continue its pitiful existence. Personally, I think a better idea would be for me to kill you, and then butcher all of your little friends."

"Have fun trying," she shrugged. "I've heard assassins can put up a bit of a fight."

"Your sanctuary burns as you speak!" he shouted. "You killed my son, assassin. All of you! Kill her, and make sure there's nothing left to bury."

Iona reached into the pocket of her tunic, through the hole she had torn earlier and withdrew the long blade at her hip. Even once the Penitus Occulatus ahead of her threw their torches to one side, the blade seemed to gleam wickedly in light that just wasn't there. "Baptised in blood, and in fear," Iona whispered, launching into the attack.