Short again, but I quite like this one :) thanks for reviews on the last couple of chapters, hope this answers any questions xx

Sheogorath is the infamous Prince of Madness, whose motives are unknowable.

When she finally stumbled onto the streets of Solitude, Iona was wounded. Her hand was pressed firmly against a long, jagged cut on her side, blood dripping down her thigh as she staggered against the city wall. The alarm was up in earnest now, and she knew returning to the inn was no longer an option; she had to get out of the city as soon as possible.

If she could make it to the sanctuary, Babette would have something that would help with the pain, ease the healing, but the sanctuary was a full days travel away, and she wasn't sure she could make it that far unaided, and an injured women would draw too much attention travelling publically.

Cursing, she stripped herself of the Chefs tunic and hat, folding her hood up to cover her hair and ears. The gash in her armour was already beginning to knit itself closed, which would contain some of the bleeding, but she kept her hand pressed against it none the less.

She knew there was one place she could go – a place shrouded with cobwebs within her mind, calling to her as though part of another, distant life. Yet she knew she had to go, had to survive for the Glory of the Dread Father and her love of the Night Mother. She stayed in the shadows wherever possible, stopping to allow guards or curious citizens pass before making her way on. After what seemed like an eternity, she finally reached Proudspire Manor.

Jardis would be upstairs, she thought. She rarely came downstairs, rarely used the forge or the various alters stored in the basement. Iona had somehow never got out of the habit of carrying the keys of her life before the Brotherhood, and she fitted the correct one with next to no thought, slipping inside and closing the door slowly behind herself, making as little sound as possible. Slowly, leaning heavily against the wall now, she stumbled over to a trapdoor, fumbling with her keys, her fingers beginning to feel a little numb, her vision blurring. The last thing she saw before she passed out was the trapdoor opening before her.

"You really didn't understand when I said nothing stupid, did you?" He sighed, moving his feet from the desk, drumming his fingers on the top of a cane she was sure he had not held until that moment.

"I did only what was needed…"

"For the Glory of the Dread Father and the Love of the Night Mother, yes, yes I know your little mantra girl. Blood and fear, and all that phooey." He sighed. "You're playing a dangerous game! Why Boethiah nearly put her blessing on you for that – would have done, if that had been the emperor – and that would have been a kiss goodnight."

"You seem to be making a little more sense now, at least."

"Yes… I do that, sometimes." He frowned, looking at something just past Iona's shoulder. She looked back, but could see nothing but the plain stone wall.

"What about you?" she said at last. "What is your test?"

"Ahh, so the mighty listener has finally recognised her company? The cobwebs beginning to clear a little up here?" He leant forward, tapping an index finger against his temple. "It's about time really." He sat back very suddenly and slapped his knee. "I don't have a test. "

"You… don't?"

"Nope. Consider me appeased." He held up his hands as though in defeat, then twirled his staff once and rose to his feet.

"Why?"

"Because I know you, better than those up top would like to think they do. It's like I said, I'm as much you as you are, the only thing that needs to happen for this to be just right is for you to be a little bit more you."

"You're not making sense again."

"I think I'm making perfect sense… but then I always think I'm making perfect sense, so perhaps I'm not the best judge. You that's here and you that's out there are different now, as different as milk and cheese. I mean, just look at you!" Iona glanced down and realised she no longer wore the white leather of the assassin. Instead, the scaled armour she had worn in the hunting grounds covered her thin (dangerously so as of late) form. "I'd give you answers," he said as she looked back up, "But frankly that'd make things boring."

"You know?" Iona asked.

"Aye, course I know. "We all do."

"Hircine…"

"Lied." He shrugged. "He likes games, and this is certainly an interesting game."

"But…"

"And there you go again!" he exclaimed. "Remember, try not to do anything stupid," he shouted, as the room began to dissolve, small butterflies with blue and purple wings flying past her, blinding her. "Sheogorath may be appeased, but that won't make the rest of 'em any easier."

Vilkas splashed water on his face and glanced up at himself in the scratched and discoloured mirror that hung above his basin. He was tired, and it showed, but he was used to it. Sleep had not come easily since Farkas' death and the events that had surrounded it, and even before then the beastblood had prevented him from ever being truly rested. The dreams had begun around that time, and had grown in detail and regularity, always with her face.

Iona, Dragonborn, and whoever else she was. The assassin in his dreams. Sighing, he turned and donned his armour, taking his sword from its stand by the side of his bed. Training was discipline, and it was the only thing holding him together. That had been Farkas' job, before, and now it was something he had to accomplish by himself. Kodlak helped of course, or tried to help, but the old man's mind was turned towards the wolf, and a way to remove them of its control.

The cold night air was a relief, and the rain stinging his cheeks not entirely unwelcome. He stood for a moment, silent in the garden, before moving to draw his weapon. He stopped, however, when he heard footsteps racing up the hill to Jorrvaskr, his hearing enhanced by the blood of the beast running through him. He moved around the hall to intercept their visitor and was almost bowled over by Lydia.

"Vilkas!" she gasped, stepping back and grabbing his arm, "You have to come, now."

"Lydia calm down," he said, not following when she tried to pull him down the stairs. "What are you doing outside? You'll get soaked." So would he of course, but he didn't really care about that.

"Calm down!" Lydia squeaked. "Vilkas, I found her." It took a moment for his sluggish, sleep deprived brain to work out exactly what the housecarl meant, and exactly who 'she' could only be.

"Where is she?" he said at last.

"This way." Lydia turned and ran down the stairs and he followed. They ran through the deserted streets, only stopping so Lydia could unlock the door to Breezehome with shaking hands. The ashes of a fire still burnt slightly in the hearth, but Lydia paid no attention to her surroundings, heading straight for a small, unobtrusive trapdoor.

Lydia lead him through the manor, round corners and through twisting corridors. She finally stopped beside a large cabinet and turned to him. "She's… different," she said at last.

"Different how?" he asked cautiously.

"Well… she's been through a lot over the past few years and I think… I think she might have snapped. She keeps whispering things. Things about the Dark Brotherhood."

"The Brotherhood?" Vilkas' blood ran like ice through his veins, his dreams barrelling down on him, full force.

"And about you. That's why I came to find you. She won't talk to me, but I think she might to you. She keeps asking for you."

"I'll see her," he said after a moment, his mind clouded with visions of the assassin in white, with remorseless eyes and blind fervour. Lydia turned and opened the cabinet. It was empty, and for a moment Vilkas was non-plussed, until she pushed the fake back to one side, revealing a stone staircase.

"I've had some time to look around this place while Iona was… away," Lydia said. "I only found this bit a couple of weeks ago, actually." Finally, they came to a steel door and Lydia slid the heavy bolt out and heaved it open. The room was bright and warm, a large fire roaring in the hearth, a figure lying curled into a ball before it.

A figure in white. She turned at the sound of the door, her unmasked face showing a mixture of fear, caution and hope. As the door clanged shut behind him and Lydia, Vilkas took a hesitant step forward, allowing the light from the fire to fall upon his face.

"Vilkas!" Iona cried, crawling towards him, one hand pressed against her side. "I told Cicero you would come, but he just wouldn't listen, wouldn't accept that his role was nearly over, no. I told him my keeper wouldn't leave me, wouldn't abandon me. You'd never do that to me, would you? Tell me you'd never do that to me?" She had clawed her way up the wall with one hand, her eyes wide as she babbled. She reached out to him and stumbled forwards, catching herself on the table. She stopped for a second and looked up, her eyes narrowed in confusion. "Tick, tick," she whispered. "Like a clock but… not a clock."

"Iona…" he said slowly, trying to keep his tone as level as possible.

"Iona, Listener, first! First listener, first life, you hear me!" she was shouting at the ceiling, flecks of spit flying from her mouth. "I was here first! I didn't ask for this. I wanted the void, I wanted nothing and you gave me this mess!" Vilkas glanced at Lydia, who had hung back in the shadows, and saw the pain on her face. She had known Iona better than anyone, he knew.

"Dragons," she muttered. "Dragons whispering in my head, always whispering, never giving me peace." She had crouched down now, her hand finally leaving her side. The white armour was stained with blood, her hand covered with it. She wove her fingers into her hair and knelt by the table. "Tick, tick, tick. Counting time, but not time. Dragons. Time. Companion?" She looked up at him, betrayal and confusion warring for prominence in her face. "You left us," she said finally. "Joined them. Became their dog." She spat the last word at him and recoiled as he moved a step closer.

"But you wrote the tomes," she whispered, turning her head away. "You wrote the tomes, you told them what they needed to hear. Silence dies. Darkness Rises. Blood and Fear. Sins of the unworthy. My blade… YOU STOLE IT!" she was glaring at Lydia now, murder in her eyes. "You took it from me, what is my own flesh and blood."

"The Blade of Woe," Vilkas whispered. Both Lydia's and Iona's attention snapped to him.

"You remember it?" Iona asked, once again forcing herself to her feet. Now it was hope he saw in her, a desperate need for familiarity.

"The sins of the unworthy," he said bitterly, "Baptised in blood and in fear."

"Yes," she sighed, sagging against the table, eyes closed as in ecstasy. "Forged during the night of our Mother, for the glory of…"

"…of the Dread Father," Vilkas completed.

"My keeper," she whispered, tears rolling silently down her cheeks. "Returned to aid with the work of the Night Mother, to finish the keeping tomes, to serve his listener." There was silence as Iona stared raptly at Vilkas for a moment.

Finally, he spoke. "No," he said simply.

"No?" she looked as though he had slapped her, as though he had punched her to the gut. She staggered back against the wall, eyes darting from side to side as though searching for an escape. "You will not serve the Dread Father as you once did?"

"That wasn't me," he said firmly. "That was someone else, long ago, and he never served the Night Mother."

"He was loyal!" she screeched. "Loyal as any had ever been!"

"But never to her, never to your Dread Father." He took a step forward and she shrank back, crouching into a ball.

"He was loyal," she mumbled. "Loyal as I."

"He was loyal to her, but not 'cause she was his listener."

"Then why? What could inspire loyalty other than that?" She was looking at him over her arm, as though trying to hide her face from him.

"Mara, Iona," he sighed. "You really that dense?"

"Tick, tick, tick," she said again, face buried in her knees. "Tick, tick tick."