Days pass, most of them spent sleeping or eating. Eventually, I am able to rise to my feet without flares of pain jolting every nerve. The violent growling of my stomach is what wakes me this particular night and I head in search of food. Judging by how far down the wicks of the candles around me are, as well as the hushed atmosphere, I know it is either very late or very early.
The Great Hall is deserted, with the dim fire only lighting the area immediately surrounding it and casting the rest of the hall in thick shadow. Sadly, the large pot usually hanging over the fire is missing and my stomach groans in disappointment. My eyes scan the room a moment as I try to work out where I can scavenge food at this hour. There is nobody around to ask, unless I talk to one of the sentries outside. I hesitate, not ready to face Bruma's bitter climate just yet and worried such triviality may be considered a waste of their time.
I begin to wander the temple in search of anyone else that may be awake, heading firstly to the West Wing. As the large wooden door leading to the wing opens, I catch the murmur of voices, happy to ignore them until the use of my name seizes my interest. I freeze to listen, but am too far away to hear properly. I cup my ear to ascertain the location of the voices and follow them upstairs, towards the Grandmaster's bedroom. The guard usually stationed between the bedrooms of Jauffre and Martin is nowhere to be seen, alluding to the seriousness of the conversation of whoever is inside.
Butterflies flit around my stomach at the thought of eavesdropping and I glance behind me to ensure nobody is coming. Reaching the top of the stairs, I lean against the wall, not getting too near in case the bedroom door suddenly opens. I recognise the voices as Jauffre and Martin.
"It's dangerous, Martin!" The Grandmaster's tone has difficulty maintaining its respect as it cautions the heir.
"Why?"
"Have you forgotten who she is-what she is?"
The words sting and my shoulders droop a little in the shame ever lurking beneath the surface, needing no more than a gentle nudge to resurface.
"She is the Hero of Kvatch!" comes Martin's angry reply. "She delivered the Amulet of Kings to you, rescued me, closed two Oblivion Gates, as well as cleaned every last sodding inch of this place-"
"And she is a Mythic Dawn acolyte who secured the death of hundreds of civilians," Jauffre states, cutting off the eventual Emperor's words. "You're civilians!"
Martin's tone turns dark. "I'm fully aware of that, Jauffre," he replies after a lengthy silence.
"Forgive my blunt words, Your Highness, but you're letting recent events blind you from the truth. She is dangerous."
"I am sure you are more than fully aware of my own past; I do not see any qualms over that-or is that because you have no choice?"
"Your past misdemeanours hardly match hers," replies Jauffre, his words echoing earlier sentiments made by me. "And, whatever your history, there is no mistaking your honourable intentions now."
"What of Linny's?" Martin counters. "Surely she has shown more than enough intent to redeem herself?"
A deep sigh before the Grandmaster continues. "You cannot save every lost soul that crosses your path."
"Perhaps not, but what kind of priest would I be if I didn't at least try?"
The words obviously strike a chord with the older man. After all, how long did he assume the role of Brother Jauffre at Weynon Priory for before I crashed into his life? Jauffre's tone softens.
"I mean no disrespect, Sire; I simply do not trust the girl."
"Which is why she sleeps in the East Wing, not West," Martin states simply. "I am not asking you to trust her, but she offered to help me open the portal to Paradise and, until that is done, or she decides otherwise, I will not turn her away."
I want to hear the rest, but steps approaching the interior of the bedroom door have me fleeing back to the Great Hall. My heart races and all thoughts of hunger are temporarily forgotten. I was never under any illusion that Jauffre held me in great esteem, but to hear him attempting to convert Martin's impression of me so ardently...
Indignant resolve rises within me. I will prove the old bastard wrong! He already knows what I am and what I've done. All there is left to do is show him that I can change, move on from that dreadful past and honour the final request of Uriel Septim.
"Close shut the jaws of Oblivion!"
Martin approaches me the next day as I scoop spoonfuls of steaming oatmeal into my mouth, a triumphant expression on his face. Dim sunlight filters through the windows of Cloud Ruler Temple's library, tiny glittering dust particles dancing about in the beams. He parks himself in the seat opposite me before speaking.
"I have some good news, Linny!" he declares, his mood uncharacteristically cheery.
"You do?"
"Yes," he smiles.
His face seems to lose a decade and I find my own mood elevating in response. Since our first meeting, I cannot say I have come to know him as a particularly joyous person. A mischievous humour uncovers itself every now and then, but I've never seen anything like this. I wonder what has changed.
"I've deciphered some more of the ritual," he continues. "It puzzled me exceedingly and I ended up getting so frustrated, that I even turned to Jauffre for help, but he managed to solve it! You see," Martin switches to teaching mode now as I listen intently. "Azura's Star provides the first part of the ritual: blood of the Daedra, but the second is intended to counteract the first: blood of the Divines. This is where I got confused. How do you attain the blood of a god? That is where Jauffre came in. He spoke of a secret passed down from Grandmaster to Grandmaster about Tiber Septim."
"Septim? You mean...?" I ask.
"Yes. If the tales are true I am a descendant of his. He ruled Tamriel centuries ago and earned a place among the Nine Divines for his deeds before and during his reign. Apparently his armour is locked away in a fort called Sancre Tor."
Martin then launches into his tale, recounting the entire life of his ancestor, from his birth in Atmora to his death after a reign of over eighty years. Most of the references to people and places are lost on me, but I still sit enraptured, mainly because of the level of animation his entire body displays as he speaks. It shouldn't surprise me, really-he is a man of the church, after all, and this is a God he's talking about.
"Wow," I eventually breathe. "To think, you're related to a God!"
"So the stories say," Martin replies.
I give him a weary look. "You cannot seriously doubt that anymore, can you?"
"It is a big concept to grasp."
"You don't fool me, Martin Septim," I tease. "You are more than happy to use your title when it suits you."
He raises an eyebrow at me before hastily changing the subject. "Well, in any case, I need to move quickly if I'm to retrieve that armour."
I sputter a laugh. "Oh, even you cannot get Jauffre to agree to that."
"I know," he concedes with a heavy sigh. "Would be nice to think I could get out of this place for a while, though."
"Until the hordes of oblivion are stopped, there is no way anyone is letting you step a foot outside these walls, because, unless you have your own bastard child hidden somewhere, you are the only one who can wear that amulet."
Martin gives me a roguish look. "You know, it could be possible given my youthful...dabblings."
"Well, until that child comes forward, you will have to settle for sending someone else to-where was it-Sanky...Sankeetor?"
"Sancre Tor," the priest corrects.
We sit for a while in companionable silence whilst I finish my breakfast and he drums his fingers against the table. I try to fathom his thoughts and wonder who he might send. Should I volunteer? Would He-Of-Little-Faith-otherwise known as Grandmaster Jauffre-condone it? I have sworn to prove my loyalty, so what better way than this? I ponder for a few minutes before speaking.
"Would you let me go?"
Martin breaks out of his daydream and studies me. I see a brief flash of hesitance dart across his eyes. Will that be a no? He was happy to send me into a lair of vampires for a relic, so why not for this? I cannot imagine many of the undead residing in a place holding something so holy.
"I don't know, Linny," he responds. "According to Jauffre, those who have tried to explore it have never returned. I worry it may be a little too much for you."
"You're right," I concede, my voice thick with sarcasm. "After closing two Oblivion Gates, I can see how exploring a decrepit old fort may be a challenge."
"Drop the attitude," warns Martin, wagging a finger at me reprovingly. "Or you can forget the Alteration lessons."
"Seriously, Martin," I plead. "I offered to help, so let me."
He rubs his chin thoughtfully.
"You should speak to Jauffre first, find out more about the place before you decide to really go through with it."
"Alright," I agree, dropping my spoon into the empty bowl before me.
"Sancre Tor?" Jauffre seems a little mystified by my interest. "What would you like to know?"
He is currently stood in the armoury, overseeing the training of a couple of Blades. I was hesitant to find him after what I heard the previous night, but he doesn't display any obvious signs of hostility.
"Well, Martin was talking about it and Tiber Septim. I was just interested."
Jauffre sees right through me. "You want to retrieve the armour?"
I nod sheepishly. "I offered, but he told me to speak to you first."
"Linny," I prepare myself for the refusal. "Venturing through that fort is no mean feat. Its exterior is guarded by several of the undead-"
"Vampires?" I gasp, accidentally cutting him off. They are the only undead I know of so far. I dread to think what else there might be.
"No," explains Jauffre, patiently. "These are skeletal warriors, with goodness-knows-what guarding the inside."
"Oh." Perhaps this isn't such a good idea after all.
"You may have faced many Daedra, but the undead are a different breed of enemy altogether. They cannot be killed in the old-fashioned way; you need a particular kind of weapon for that."
I chew the inside of my cheek. Maybe Martin was right; this is too much for me. Oh, come on, Linny! Where's your sense of adventure? Being closely guarded by my sanity, that's where. Surely any one of these Blades would be willing to escort you; it is to help their Emperor, after all. After Caroline, I can't bear to put anyone else in that sort of danger simply to aid me. It's not you they're helping, it's Tamriel. But they wouldn't need to come, were it not for my ineptitude. Don't be so bloody self-pitying!
Jauffre is watching me whilst I continue my internal argument, an odd expression on his face. My quarrels are mute anyway, unless Jauffre does let me go. If not, Martin doesn't seem willing to argue my case this time.
"I want to help," I affirm, although my tone could do with being a little more assertive.
Jauffre stands beside me, introspective for quite some time. "If you are determined, I will not stop you; Martin would only argue anyway. I will, however, need to give a full briefing on the fort and items you'll need to take with you."
That seems fair enough to me and we agree to meet in a few hours. I return to Martin to relay the news.
"If only he had known of my own reservations about this," he remarks. "I would rather you didn't go but, if you must, I don't want you going alone."
"Your faith in me is truly flattering," I quip.
"I just don't want to see you return in the state you did a few days ago," he counters and, for a brief second, a strange look crosses his face.
Martin's fears are assuaged when Baurus attends the briefing, offering his services. Clearly the prospect of exploring a place holding such significance for the Blades is too good an opportunity to miss, even if it does mean helping me. I've not spoken to the Blade since that spy revealed my role in Kvatch and his body language does nothing to solve the enigma; I will have to wait for time to tell if the brief hope of civility between us has been irreparably dashed. Jauffre begins with the history of the relic we wish to retrieve-the armour of Tiber Septim. It is an ancient relic of the first Emperor, bequeathed to the Blades in honor of their role in his victory at the Battle of Sancre Tor. The Blades built a shrine in the catacombs of Sancre Tor, on the spot where Tiber Septim received the blessing of Akatosh. The Armor has been there ever since and the shrine was a place of pilgrimage for all Blades, until it was besieged by evil.
"What evil?" I ask, when his tale is concluded.
"I do not know," Jauffre admits. "The catacombs of were sealed by the first Grandmaster. The four mightiest Blades of Tiber Septim's day, Alain, Valdemar, Rielus, and Casnar, went to Sancre Tor and never returned."
Baurus, Martin and I glance at one another uneasily and I swallow the nervous lump in my throat. Would anyone blame me for backing out? No, I cannot; I have sworn my services and aim to deliver. Besides, Baurus is going with me and, whatever I may think of him, his battle expertise is undeniable. The rest of the meeting is spent describing the layout of the fort and what we can expect when we enter, although the old man confesses most of his knowledge is based on guesswork, as he has never entered the place himself.
I insist on leaving as soon as possible, before my resolve falters. Jauffre provides me with a new set of light armour-leather, as before-and a silver short sword, as vampires are the only undead normal weapons can slay.
"Linny," Martin hails me in the Great Hall as I prepare to leave.
"Yes?" I turn to face him as I secure the sword belt around my waist.
"Remember the spells you've learned," he says. "From what Jauffre says of this place, I predict they will come in very handy. And be careful-you have aknack for finding trouble."
"I cannot promise anything," I reply teasingly. "But will do my best."
000
Sancre Tor is located roughly halfway between Cloud Ruler Temple and Weynon Priory. Locating the entrance to the fort, hidden amidst the numerous ruins of stone scattered about the place, seems an impossible task. The aforementioned skeletal warriors only increase the impossibility as arrows fly past and several of the creatures leap towards us wielding longswords and axes. As hoped, Baurus quickly disposes of the soldiers, whilst I concentrate my fireballs on the archers. I am surprised by the ease of the exercise and would love to say it is down to my ever-improving skill, but that would be a downright lie; Baurus is to thank and I know it.
After almost an hour of searching the mulitiple crumbling stone edifices, we eventually locate the entrance to the fort. Using the ancient metal key given to him by Jauffre, Baurus unlocks the door, motioning for me to slowly open it, so he can enter and ensure the way is safe. With a low whistle, he signals for me to follow and I shut the door behind me, handing the key back to him.
An ethereal turquoise glow permeates the corridor and we allow our eyes a few moments to adjust to the gloom. As we traverse the winding corridor, we come across several luminous beings floating in the air. Baurus immediately raises his katana into a defensive position, but I gaze in wonder at them, touched by their beauty. My admiration ends when the one closest throws a ball of white magicka our way. We both duck to avoid the attack and the Blade is about to charge the ghostly visage, when I grab his arm.
"Jauffre said normal weapons wouldn't work, remember?" I remind him, before reciprocating the ghost's attack with my own brand of Destruction. The spirit emits a high-pitched shriek of pain before advancing on us. I throw another, but it manages to dodge, falling right into the path of Baurus. He swipes at our opponent and another shriek marks its death, as it shimmers and its particles disperse, leaving behind a slushy pool of grey.
"Jauffre gave you a silver sword, too?"
"Dagger, actually," he replies, holding it out for my inspection.
The commotion has alerted the attention of a couple more ghostly creatures and we ready ourselves for the brawl. Judging by the previous enemy's performance, these beings are deadly, but not too bright, making them easy targets.
A more difficult enemy presents itself when we open the gate to enter a large chamber. Baurus tells me to hide in the shadow while he captures the creature's attention. As soon as it spots him, the massive helmeted skeleton hurtles towards Baurus, wielding a shield and long, elegant blade. It lunges for him and the ring of clashing metals echoes throughout the chamber. The Blade manoeuvres the skeleton until its back is facing me and I leap from my hiding spot to swing at the enemy, beheading-or beskulling- it first time. The bony form instantly collapses into a dusty heap and we both catch our breath.
"Are you alright?" I ask, waving my hand in front of his face when I receive no reply.
His eyes are locked on something behind me and I turn to see a translucent radiance surrounding the mound of bones we have just felled. The radiance starts to solidify into a humanoid form, whilst retaining its transparency, and I gawp helplessly as the ghostly projection of a soldier standing before us.
"I was Rielus," the spirit's unearthly voice is contemplative, yet commanding. "Loyal Blade of Emperor Tiber Septim. I do not know how long I have been dead. It feels like an eternity. I was one of four Blades sent to the catacombs by Tiber Septim to discover the source of the evil infestation. We were captured by the Underking Zurin Arctus, and bound to haunt the catacombs after death. A spell was also put on the passage to the tomb where the armour lies. Approaching it is impossible without freeing all of the Blades."
Leaving us with those words, the spirit turns to walk away. I try to grab its arm, but my hand passes right through. Baurus steps beside me.
"Let's follow; he may lead us to the armour."
Following the path of the ghost as best we can (Rielus has a nasty habit of walking through walls), we enter a massive circular hall. Doors are spaced along the hall's circumference, with a long bridge leading towards a raised platform surrounded by water. Ahead, we see the Blade's ghost kneeling before a diaphanous cloud of aquamarine light. This must be the spell the ghost had spoken of. After a few moments of observation, Baurus and I begin our search for the three remaining undead Blades.
Entering the first door on our right throws us into the path of another skeletal warrior, armed with a large axe. A key, attached to a threadbare rope around its neck, clatters against its ribcage as it advances on us. Baurus finishes it quickly, removing the key before studying it. Neither of us has any idea what it is for, but we decide to hold on to it just in case it proves to be of some value to us. That value is made immediately clear to us when we come across a dead end; the locked door situated in the wall ahead the only means of progress.
As we continue, the barred cells lining the walls either side of us lead me to the conclusion that this area was some sort of a prison once upon a time. A haunting howling of wind follows us as we walk and a chill that has nothing to do with low temperatures runs through me. The Skeletal Blade is ahead of us and, once defeated, we learn he is Valdemar, second of the four Blades trapped in Sancre Tor.
Eventually, Baurus and I complete the extensive task of locating the final two Blades, earning several cuts and bruises for our trouble. The gash decorating Baurus' forehead troubles me most, especially with the amount of blood lost from it.
The four otherworldly soldiers-Alain, Valdemar, Rielus, and Casnar-kneel before the ghostly barrier, their backs facing us. For a while nothing happens and I glance warily at Baurus, but his eyes never leave the Blades. The sight must hold great significance for him, seeing the huge sacrifice these men made for their order-his order. During our first meeting, I took an instant dislike to the crotchety, red-skinned man but, the more I get to know him, the more respect I gain for him-even if he wishes my leap off Cloud Ruler Temple had been successful. I know now that much of his acrimony towards me is bred from his duty to protect his masters.
As I glance back at the deceased Blades, I see the vaporous obstruction start to fade, until it disappears completely, revealing a long path ahead. The four ghosts rise, but remain in place as Baurus and I head towards the tomb awaiting us.
The armour of Tiber Septim sits reverently atop a small octagonal stone pedestal. To look at, the armour does not strike me as anything special, but it seems to carry a weighty presence and I cannot help but sigh in admiration at finally laying my eyes on the relic. Baurus steps forward to retrieve the armour, placing it in a large sack before hoisting the sack's handle over his shoulder.
Exiting the tomb, we see the four Blades still holding the positions in which we left them. One of the ethereal apparitions, Alain, who we found in the fort's catacombs, steps forward with a grateful smile.
"Thank you," he says, his quiet, melodic voice filtering through the air like feathers in the wind. "You have freed us from our torment, for which we shall be ever grateful. We go now, finally at peace, to enter Aetherius, where our curse shall be lifted for all eternity."
Alain steps back to rejoin his comrades and, in unison, they all throw their heads back to face the ceiling, their palms outstretched as a beatific smile graces each countenance. Their glowing forms start to fade and eventually disappear, leaving Baurus and I alone in the Entry Hall.
My mind takes a while to absorb the proceedings. I slowly turn my face to Baurus and see his expression mirroring my own, although his eyes are wide.
"To the end of my days," he says, his voice brimming with reverence and awe. "Nothing I achieve shall ever match this."
His glassy gaze informs me I have lost him for now and it would be unfair of me to interrupt such a momentous occasion for him, so I stand and patiently wait. Eventually coherence returns to the Blade and, with a quick shake of his head, we start the journey back to the fort's entrance.
"I'm glad you came with me," I tell him as the hazy afternoon air embraces us, uncertain what his reaction to my gratitude will be.
"Believe me," Baurus says as he locks the entrance to Sancre Tor. "After what we witnessed, the pleasure is all mine."
I watch the Blade, still mystified by his estimation of me. There have been no overt displays of hostility, which could be a good sign, but the words exchanged as we ventured through Sancre Tor are the most conversation we've had since embarking on this mission. Patience is a virtue, so they say. Right now, that is a phrase I have a hard time believing.
000
Pale blue slowly rises from the horizon, subtly merging with the indigo of night to signal the arrival of dawn, as Baurus and I climb the steps of the Blades' fortress. The unusually clear sky is not unwelcome, as the past few weeks have had a constant curtain of snowflakes falling from the now scarce clouds stationed above.
"Here," says Baurus, offering the sack containing Tiber Septim's armour to me as we enter the Great Hall. "Tell Martin to be careful with it."
I nod and take the handle from him before he heads towards the West Wing. The weight of the armour is immense; I don't know how he managed to carry it so far! The faint glow of daybreak is not enough to relieve the omnipresent gloom of the hall and I initially walk past the sleeping form slumped in a chair surrounded by several book-laden tables, doing a double-take when my mind acknowledges what my eyes just saw.
I step closer to discover the form is actually Martin, his chin resting against his chest as his head rises and falls with the steady breathing of slumber. The image brings a smile to my face and I move closer, quietly dropping the sack on the small circular table nearest me. His left arm hangs limply at his side and I retrieve the book lying open on the floor beneath his dangling fingers. After placing it on the large table before him, I study Martin's still face. Even in sleep, his face is lined with angst; I cannot imagine how much of a burden this colossal task must be for him. A few months ago, he was a humble priest and now he is the heir to an empire, trying to stem the tide of evil threatening to engulf it. My chest feels heavy under the weight of the sympathy I carry. The irony that someone so reluctant to carry the role is perfect for it doesn't escape me, even though the motivation to do so well is probably born from his desperate need to help others, rather than honouring the title.
I crouch beside his chair and spend several minutes simply watching him. It seems that even in sleep, he cannot fully forget his troubles, as frowns frequently cross his brow. Without even realising what I am doing, my hand extends to lightly brush away the tendrils of hair hanging in front of his eyes, before caressing his forehead with my fingers. What exactly I hope to achieve with the gesture, I don't know, but it seems to alleviate some of the tension, as the recurrent frown disappears and he lets out a soft sigh.
I know that chair cannot be comfortable and, as content as he seems sleeping in it, only utter exhaustion would have enabled him to do so. My hand falls from his face to his shoulder to give a gentle shake. A few murmurs leave his lips and his body shifts position slightly, but he fails to wake. I shake a little harder this time, and his eyelids flutter. Progress, I suppose. I call his name as I nudge him a third time and the lids reluctantly open.
"Good morning," I say with a smile as his eyes finally find mine.
"Mmm...whtimeist?" is his sleep addled response as he rubs a hand over his yawning face.
"Pardon?"
Martin slowly straightens in his chair and runs a hand through his hair to chase away the last remnants of sleepiness, before attempting to speak a second time.
"I asked what the time was." His voice is still thick with drowsiness.
"Dawn," I reply, pushing a few books out of the way to perch on the edge of the table.
He looks around the room and I cannot help but find it endearing to watch him fight off the clingy stupor. After extending his arms forwards to stretch, he looks around the room.
"Have you been up all night reading again?" I ask.
"The Xarxes won't decipher itself," he replies.
"You're always telling me to rest. You should start following your own counsel."
"My task is somewhat less perilous than yours," he remarks. "Speaking of which, did you get the armour?"
"Yes I did," I affirm, smiling with pride. "And not a limb broken!"
Martin laughs. "Well done."
"Thank you, although Baurus is the one who deserves the praise, really," I admit.
"Then I shall have to thank him. Now," Martin's eyes dart around searchingly. "Where is the armour?"
"Oh no," I say, imitating one of his famous finger wagging gestures. "No armour until you have some decent sleep in a proper bed."
"We don't have time-"
"The world won't end in a couple of hours," I interrupt. "And if it does, you are only half way through deciphering that ritual, so there is no way you could have stopped it, anyway."
Martin throws a half-hearted glare my way before his eyes find the sack beside me. Quick as a flash, he leaps out of the chair, his arm stretching to clasp the handle.
"Hey-" I manage to grab his wrist and yank the sack from his fingers, but, as I slide off the table, his free hand wraps around mine. I teasingly hold the sack of armour behind my back and try to pull away. He makes several attempts to reach round for it, but I just about manage to swing it out of his way.
"Linny," Martin growls, aiming to be authoritative, but the smile tugging at the corner of his lips ruins the effect. "As your Emperor, I order you to hand me the armour."
"Ha," I counter, as he once again yanks me closer to grab the sack. Once again, the attempt is thwarted. "You've had no coronation yet and I'm no Blade, so I do not have to obey."
"I could use The Voice of The Emperor on you," he warns.
"What's that?"
"A spell to make you do whatever I want," he replies with a wicked grin.
"You wouldn't dare!" I challenge.
His face leans nearer. "Wouldn't I?"
I give a gasp of mock outrage, but he isn't smiling now. My own smile fades as he stares at me with those mysterious caesious orbs and I cannot describe the expression swimming within them. I find my own emerald eyes unable to break contact as a tug at my arm brings me even closer, pressing our bodies together. His head leans further towards mine and I feel his warm breath brush against my face. My breathing starts to become irregular as I wonder if he was being serious. Is there such a spell and would he really use it on me? His face is mere inches away and I feel the hand holding mine (which still grips his wrist) loosen and slip around my waist. My mind screams in panic and my pulse races, but I cannot seem to find the will to move as his fingers slowly tip-toe across my hip and down my arm until...
"You cheeky bastard!" I yell as the sack jerks out of my grasp.
I take a swing at him, but he dances out of range, his guffaws reverberating off the walls of the Great Hall. He stops a few feet away, holding up the sack with a smugly triumphant grin.
"That's cheating," I accuse, crossing my arms as I try to regain my composure. My heart is still thudding wildly against my ribcage.
"Sore loser," tuts Martin, shaking his head in mock disapproval.
In the end I settle for poking my tongue out at him; immature, I know, but the only response I can think of.
"Now, now," he chuckles, stepping closer.
I turn my face away, eliciting more chuckles from him. His footsteps come closer and, through the corner of my eye, I see him waving his hand to attract my attention. I do my best to ignore it, tapping my foot on the floor. He starts calling my name with each step and my mouth twists to keep from betraying my mirth. He stops before me, his head ducking and diving as I try to avoid his gaze. Eventually the giggles erupt from my lips and I smack his arm.
"You're such a git!" I admonish. "I was being serious, you know! You need rest. What good would it be if you're just about to light the Dragonfires, when you collapse from exhaustion?"
"Alright, alright," Martin concedes with a sigh. "If it makes you happy, I shall go to bed like a good boy."
I scowl at his derision.
"I mean it," he says, holding a hand up in surrender. "I'll go straight to my quarters right now."
"Hand over the armour," I demand.
"Linny," he gripes.
"I know what you're bloody like; if you take it with you, the temptation will be far too strong and you'll never get any rest, so hand it over."
His eyes narrow, but I stare back defiantly; although, for some reason, my eyes can't quite bring themselves to meet his.
"Fine," he says, reluctantly handing back the sack of armour, an action that proves just how tired he really is.
"Sleep well," I coo as he walks away.
He replies with a dismissive wave of his hand as he disappears into the West Wing. I stand there, my mind a little dizzy from processing what just happened. To be honest, I am still none the wiser; all I know is it will take a while for the peculiar stirring in my stomach to settle.