Chapter edits include grammar, dialog tagging, extra description, and giving Mehra a little more appropriate reaction to certain things.

You resolve to continue pushing yourself. Perhaps there's more to you than you thought.

3E 433. House Telvanni Council Chambers.

"It seems that this Council cannot agree. Master Neloth, you haven't spoken yet. Your vote will decide the outcome on whether we shall indict Aryon on count of corruption and inappropriate relations, or if we will accept his bid to be promoted to Archmagister."

Neloth fought the urge to sigh – 'inappropriate relations'. Really, everyone had an affair with an apprentice every so often, and these fools didn't want to admit it. The hearing was a front for more ambitious intentions.

After a very public hearing with various 'witnesses', it became quite clear that this was not a trial on whether Aryon engaged in improper relations with his apprentice, so much as it was a trial to find something – anything – that would bar him from taking the position of Archmagister.

And it wasn't only other Masters who had an issue with him – a modest amount from the ranks came forward in opposition. Neloth stared at the Mouth who addressed him and frowned. This entire meeting was ridiculous, and they dragged the two most important remaining members of the Council out for it – himself and Divayth Fyr. He wasn't certain what caused Fyr to finally join the Council, but there he was, in the midst of everyone he shunned. Maybe it had something to do with the upset that the Nerevarine caused within the House.

The Mouth looked at him expectantly, likely awaiting some sort of additional revelation or evidence. Neloth scowled; this entire thing was a waste of his time.

Neloth scowled. "I think my fellow House members have an unhealthy obsession over where Master Aryon puts his prick."

A murmur rose up from the observation gallery. Good; at least they were listening to him.

"Is she a Redoran woman?" Neloth asked. "Is she a Hlaalu woman? No? Then why do you care? Heroes disappear quickly anyway."

Aryon appeared relieved, yet still dissatisfied. He continued to maintain that he was innocent, despite evidence to the contrary.

"I concur," Divayth nodded. "As I said earlier, Master Aryon is qualified for the position. Regardless of his relation with his former apprentice, I doubt we shall see her again. Heroes disappear. I counsel Master Aryon to forget Master Dreloth."

Aryon threw his hands up in frustration. "But we never–"

"Furthermore," Neloth interrupted, "if she turns out to be with child, I think marriage to the shrew would be a more fitting punishment than sanctions."

He turned to level Aryon with a glare. "You want to be Archmagister?" he scoffed. "Then, fine! I don't give a damn! I want peace and quiet from you lot."

The twinge of pain in his leg was sudden, but not unexpected. Neloth winced and leaned heavily on his cane. These fools wasted his precious time and energy. This meeting would have him exhausted for days.

The Mouth overseeing the trial nodded and crossed her arms. "To confirm; it appears that Master Neloth and Master Divayth Fyr have given assent to Master Aryon's claim over the position of Archmagister. A majority Council approval – a vote of two in this instance – will promote Master Aryon to Archmagister."

Therana was mad; her vote didn't count. Neloth glanced over at Dratha, who glared back at him. She was highly opposed to Aryon taking the position, though it wouldn't effect her in the least. He scowled; her reasoning likely had to do with Aryon's gender more than his abilities.

Neloth grunted and waved his hand. He didn't care; he wanted to be sitting in a comfortable chair back in his tower. Even as Archmagister, Aryon couldn't make him do a damn thing he didn't want to do.

"Then it is settled," the Mouth declared. "We hereby throw out the case of corruption and promote Master Aryon of Tel Vos to the most high position of Archmagister. Master Aryon, step forward."

Neloth watched as a stunned Aryon took the vow of Archmagister. All around him, the lesser-ranked members of the House scowled; the man would likely be assassinated within a few months. As soon as the vows were completed, the Council dismissed and Aryon's supporters stepped forward to congratulate him.

Neloth wasn't surprised that Aryon's former apprentice was nowhere to be seen. The nasty thing disappeared as soon as she rid Morrowind of the Blight, likely because she had difficulty coming to terms with doing something helpful for once in her life. The brat had problems – problems that Aryon didn't have a hope of sorting out regardless of how he constantly doted upon her.

Shaking his head, Neloth turned from the crowd and hobbled his way down the aisle to get back to his tower. He watched out of the corner of his eye as Divayth Fyr cast a recall spell and disappeared without a trace.

Neloth pursed his lips. He figured he ought to do the same to avoid conversation and raised his hand to cast the spell.

Where was his mark, anyway?

His hand fell to his side. Well, he certainly couldn't cast a recall spell if he didn't remember where he placed his last mark. Even if it were inside his tower, it had been so long since he used it that he could end up recalling inside a wall.

Better to walk, then. He'd have to make a new mark as soon as he was back in his tower.

Neloth hobbled toward the entrance of the Council chambers. With each step, the twinge in his hip worsened until it felt as if his body were rejecting his leg. He ought to do something about it, really; all it would take would be a pentacle, some soul gems, a dagger, a bit of blood from himself, a hapless volunteer –

Oh, that was a messy bother.

Grumbling, he continued onward, pleased that the crowd parted at the very sight of him walking past. Many bowed in deference.

"Great Master," a woman said, "it would be my honor to escort you to your tower, should you wish it."

Neloth glanced over at the young beauty who bowed at the waist, her arm crossed over her chest. What would she want with an old man like him aside from power? There were so many young wizards out there who would be able to give her what she desired. Besides that, he was much too old to entertain women–

Escort him. She offered to escort him because he was feeble.

Clenching his jaw, Neloth ignored the woman and continued to make his escape. He reached the entrance of the Council chambers and stepped out into a damp and dreary Sadrith Mora. People scuttled out from under the Council chamber's massive awning, ignoring everyone around them in favor of getting home. Rain; no wonder he ached so much that day.

"Master Neloth!" a voice called.

Neloth scowled and prepared to leave the awning. The desire to get away was stronger than his desire to stay warm and dry. As soon as he had his hand on the nearby railing, a set of footsteps drew closer. Neloth sighed; it was too late.

"Master Neloth," Aryon said, "I appreciate your vote. But in regards to Mehra, you must know that I never –"

"Then you missed an opportunity," Neloth chuckled. Really, the woman was so power hungry that it was a shock that she hadn't had her hands on every member of the Council.

"She is like a child to me," he replied. "The thought never crossed my mind."

Neloth sighed, leaned on his cane, and stared out at the scrambling, waterlogged city. Like a child? Did Aryon even know what he was saying? Did he lose sleep over this person? Did he personally attend to her injuries? Did he provide for her? Did he discipline her?

Did he blindingly love this girl, then? If he did, Neloth felt nothing but pity for Aryon for holding the deepest attachment for someone who would die and be gone forever.

"Magister Aryon, have you ever had children?"

"I have not, Master Neloth."

"Then do not concern yourself with orphan girls," he replied. Without having children, it was impossible for Aryon to understand. Well over two thousand years later, Neloth still remembered the bottomless heartache–

"Master Neloth, are you alright?"

"I am old," he spat.

"You can fix that," Aryon replied. He crossed his arms over his chest and cast a downward glance to his cane.

"A patch, Master Aryon," Neloth grumbled. "It is but a cosmetic patch."

He felt old. He ought to stay old. Maybe it was his time to wither. At the same time, he couldn't leave the House in disarray as it was.

"I do not know your intentions," Aryon said, "but I do appreciate what you said today. And I appreciate your support."

His support? What support? Someone had to do say something, and neither he nor Divayth wanted to be Archmagister, and he sure as hell didn't want Dratha taking the position. But that didn't mean that Aryon had more pull than he.

"I'll have you know," Neloth groused, "that you are on a short leash in your position. When the first crisis comes along, you damn well better handle it, or I will get Divayth and we shall handle you ourselves."

"You and Divayth talk?"

Damn. Neloth forgot to use the man's title.

"No" he grumbled. "But we aren't enemies."

"He was my mentor, you know," Aryon said.

Neloth rolled his eyes. "Mine too, so get in line. Tread carefully, Archmagister. And keep your pet on her leash."

Aryon nodded, looked at the ground, and stuck his hands in his pockets.

"That's fair," he said. "But even though Mehra somewhat listens to me, I do not control her, especially not now. Even so, I would not send her against you. I want to work with you, but I will not be a puppet."

He looked back up to Neloth with a clenched jaw. His stern gaze made Neloth chuckle. Aryon had fire; he'd give him that.

Still, he faced an uphill battle in getting the House to cooperate with him, and Neloth had no plans to make it easier on Aryon.

He had to earn his rank, the same as everyone else.

4E 201. Whiterun.

Mehra traveled the long road back to Whiterun and completely ignored the Brotherhood Sanctuary outside of Falkreath. Commander Maro wanted to destroy the assassins, but apparently didn't think it worth the resources to see the job done. Either that, or he couldn't spare the manpower. She hoped it was the second – the Dark Brotherhood was a threat, and if they knew that he was aware of their password, he was next.

She would be foolish to step foot into the assassins' nest alone without some serious training.

Trudging absent-mindedly through the streets, Mehra made her way back to Jorrvaskr. A group of barbarians were essentially her only positive contacts, and the only people she considered more than just business partners. They were good people and they paid for her work.

Mehra pursed her lips and stopped in her tracks. One couldn't defeat dragons with money. She had to do better, and a steel sword wasn't her answer.

"Thinking about something, dear?"

She jolted and turned to see the old woman she healed on her first visit to Whiterun.

"Oh, I didn't mean to startle you," the seer said.

What was her name, again? Olava?

"It's no problem," Mehra shrugged. "It's true though; I do have a lot on my mind."

The old woman stepped forward and put a comforting arm around her shoulder. "Did you see it, then? The tower in the ash."

Mehra froze. Did she really foresee her meeting with Neloth?

"Oh, don't be alarmed, dear," Olava chuckled. "I see many things. I may not understand their meaning, but I pass messages along when I see them. There is no danger in the choices you have made so far, but soon, you will have to make difficult decisions. Keep your resolve, dear. You will be lucky in ways you never imagined."

"I've made some very stupid and dangerous decisions," Mehra protested.

"Well, don't we all?" she said. "Sometimes, we play into the hands of the powers-that-be. I suspect you to be in less trouble than you think you may be."

"Forgive me if I remain skeptical of that one," Mehra replied, glancing to the side. She killed the leader of the Dark Brotherhood, after all.

"Focus on your training. For out of that will blossom something fragile which I cannot name, for fear of destroying it before it has a chance to grow."

"Oh?"

"You'll get no more from me other than that," Olava smiled. "Now please, don't let me keep you."

With that, she shooed her away. Mehra continued on her way to the Companions, skeptical of the entire thing. Yes, she encountered a tower surrounded by ash, but such things were common for Dunmer. And really, what was the use of a vision if it may or may not come to pass? Mehra wanted facts, not visions. And the current set of facts told of many obstacles for her to overcome.

The glow of the fading sun at her back set Jorrvaskr in a wash of color. There was something about the sight of the ancient boat on the hill that made her feel safer than she had in centuries. At the very least, she had the Companions, and perhaps, knowing that they supported her was enough. Trudging up the stairs, Mehra opened the door to see the group of sweaty warriors talking loudly at the table as they drank and had their evening meal. Unbidden words came to her mind:

Northern barbarians.

Mehra squashed the thought. The Companions proved that there was more to them than drinking and fighting, and given her past, she didn't deserve to be included in their number.

Really, what was she doing here? What was she doing anywhere?

The memory of Neloth's scathing diatribe came back to her, and it took all her strength to approach the table. The Companions greeted her with wide smiles and offered her a place to sit, with none of them wise to her uncharitable thoughts. Aela stared at Mehra, her chin resting on her hand and a frown on her face.

"What ails you, shield-sister?" she asked.

Mehra's chin quivered and she bit her lip. She wasn't sure what parts of her past she ought to share but she had to tell someone something.

"I need a drink," she sighed. "Make that a few drinks. It is a long story."

Farkas slid a large bottle of mead across the table and winked. Shaking her head, Mehra took a long drag, and told them a half-truth. She was a member of House Telvanni from Morrowind, and had been incarcerated. And though she deeply repented of her crimes, she forgot most of her skills and had lost all of her ambition in the process. Not a mention of her age, of course; a two-hundred and thirty three year old wizard would be young, yes, but not as young looking as she.

Then, she described how she met a well-respected member of her house who knew her from before, who saw that she let herself go and told her to suck it up and get back to her training.

And Mehra agreed with him. She didn't want to excuse herself. But the words stung and she was so deep in her pit that she didn't know how to get out.

The Companions listened in silence until the very end. By that time, she was quite drunk, and she hoped that everyone else was equally so.

Aela weaved in her seat as she leaned across the table, as Vilkas stared after her with a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"What you need," Aela slurred, "What you need, is practice. You need to do the spells thing. There's a college –"

"Yeah," Farkas murmured. "Winterhold."

Aela turned to shush him, her arm sliding across the table.

"M' talking," she chided. "Now you go to Winterhold and practice. You're good. You can do annnny thing. Come back here for swords."

Kodlak frowned as he stared across the table at nothing, his bearded chin resting on his palm. He toyed with a butter knife, turning it on end to tap against the table. A telltale flush of pink dusted the small part of his cheeks that showed.

Mehra stared at him and sobered; he didn't like magic. Without a doubt, he'd kick her out with the knowledge that she was a wizard in disguise.

"We are not magic users," he said. "But you've proven yourself honorable and you can fare well in a fair fight with weapons. You know much, and haven't used it for ill gain. Aela is correct. Go and study, and continue with virtue."

Vilkas fidgeted in his seat. "Forgive me, but I did not expect you to say that."

Mehra nodded in agreement and the pleasant feeling from the mead returned slowly. If she had the Harbinger's blessing to study magic elsewhere, then certainly it was a good sign.

"I trust my instincts," Kodlak shrugged. "This one's a keeper."

Farkas nodded in agreement while Athis shook his head off to the side.

"Telvanni? Really?" Athis asked. "Why did you join here, then?"

"I'm a spellsword," Mehra smiled. "Spells and swords."

Athis nodded, and Mehra noticed for the second time that he was actually quite handsome. The errant thought sobered her; she had to switch to water, and fast.

She turned to look at everyone at the table. "Telvanni is a bad word in some circles. Please don't tell anyone about this. I'm trusting all of you."

If she were honest, it wasn't so much that House Telvanni was a bad name, so much as it had to do with the Nords' distrust of magic. She didn't know what the people of Whiterun would think, much less anyone in the other holds.

"I don't care who you are," Farkas shrugged. "You can fight like hell and that's good enough for me."

The others nodded in agreement, while Njada openly scowled. As the conversation changed and Mehra sipped on a tankard filled with water, she couldn't help but notice that Njada kept her angry gaze on her. Eventually, it was too much, and Mehra excused herself to get some fresh air out at the forge.

Standing up, she grabbed the back of her chair for balance as wave of dizziness hit her. She was far more drunk than she thought. Mehra shuffled her way across the great hall, took the stairs up from the dining area, and walked out the back door into the cold night.

Mehra sucked in a breath and exhaled deeply, her breath turning to steam in the air. The air was so fresh, here, and she could see all of the stars. She looked up toward the sky and froze mid-way at the sight of something very out of place at the forge.

A man stood on the ledge in front of the forge, his unmistakable white hair glistening in the moonlight. He wore a two hundred years out of fashion woodsman cape, in a length shorter than his hair. As he turned to her, his boots made a soft crunch against the gritty stones lining the forge.

He was a real, physical entity. He couldn't have made such a noise if he hadn't actually stepped on the path around the forge. It was an intentional noise; he was never really loud like that, especially with his footsteps.

"Erich," she breathed. The barely perceptible word caught in the air, turning to mist in the cold.

He turned his eerie eyes toward her and smiled. "Hey, dartwing."

Mehra swallowed and attempted to stuff her feelings back down. This wasn't Erich. It couldn't be him.

"It really is me," he said. "Come here. Let's chat. We should catch up."

She nodded mutely. Her shaking legs took her through the training yard and up the stairs to the ledge on which he stood. Ever the gentleman, he took her hand and helped her balance as she sat down on the ledge before sitting next to her. Mehra peered up into his amber eyes and frowned. The color was correct, but it was off, somehow. It was luminescent– glowing in the moonlight, or perhaps, giving off its own light. And his pupils–

His pupils were slits.

Demon.

Mehra recoiled in terror.

"Sheogorath, then?" She breathed.

"I chose it," he said. "Just listen to me."

"Why should I?"

The daedra scowled. "You damn well know why."

Mehra shrunk back in fear. Would Azura save her from this? The least terrifying thing Sheogorath could do to her was kill her, and here she was, questioning him.

His expression softened, and he sighed. "Dammit, I just – I just want you to listen, please."

He ran his hand through his hair in frustration.

"I'm listening, then," Mehra mumbled.

"Excellent!"

The sudden shout made her jump and he burst out in laughter.

"Weren't expecting that, were ya?" he laughed. "That's the mania. Or the dementia. Or, perhaps, both? Anyway, the answer is that I am Erich Heartfire. I am also Sheogorath. We are the same."

Mehra sighed. "That doesn't explain much."

If she heard him out, maybe, he'd let her go. She didn't really buy what he was saying about how he was somehow Erich.

"Well, it's quite simple really," he shrugged. "I freed Jyggalag from his curse and became the new Sheogorath."

What? That made no sense, but this was Sheogorath, after all.

"And Jyggalag is?" She asked.

"Prince of Order. Boring fellow. I mean, really boring. He was so boring – or was that powerful? – that the other Princes cursed him to be Sheogorath. We broke up and went our separate ways about two centuries ago. Mantling, dear. It's all in the mantling."

Mehra furrowed her brow, glanced at his eyes, and quickly looked away as fear gripped her once again. How could she know this was the truth?

"So I am Sheogorath," he said. "I am also Erich. Does that make sense, dartwing?"

Dartwing. That was his name for her. Nobody else could have known this name. If this Jyggalag was a real Daedric Prince and an enemy of all the others, then she could see them banding together to curse him. After all, the opposite of order was chaos– madness.

Mantling made his story plausible. Erich – or what was left of him – was really there in front of her. Mehra turned to him, her hand drifting up to cup the side of his face. She always said that he'd get himself into serious trouble someday.

"My god, Erich."

"I can be if you want me to," he chuckled.

Mehra snorted. "Get in line. There's a half-dozen of you wanting a piece of me, including Akatosh."

"Dragonborn?" Erich asked, his expression suddenly serious.

Mehra nodded, afraid to voice her fears out loud. He certainly spoke the way she remembered, and it felt so natural to speak freely with him.

"Twice isn't right," he frowned. "You did your job once already."

She waited for him to wrap his arm around her, but the touch never came. They changed too much in the past two centuries to warrant picking up where they left off. And even if they did, she needed to know if he still had any affiliation with the Dark Brotherhood. The Prince of Madness had nothing to do with such things, but she knew better than to assume.

Mehra unsheathed the dagger at her side and showed it to him. Erich stared down at it, sighed, and gave the hilt a loving stroke.

"Blade of Woe," he said. "Lucien gave that dagger to me. Looks like it's in excellent condition."

"Do you want it back?"

Erich shook his head. "I'm sure you'll have better use for it than me. And I like the idea of that blade going on an adventure again. I trust you with it. It's a very loyal dagger."

He knew the blade – yet more evidence that this was Erich. Still, they had to air their grievances and conclude it, for better or for worse. Their fight over his Black Hand robes festered within her for two centuries.

"So, Listener," Mehra said. "Do you talk to a certain 'Woman of the Night' anymore?"

She was leery of even using the Night Mother's name in conversation, for fear that her vengeful spirit would track her down by the mere utterance of her name.

"Oh," Erich chuckled. "We broke up. Don't worry about it. I'm seeing other people now."

Mehra sucked in a breath and shook her head. She was glad that was out of the way, but she still had a big problem.

"Well, I am worried," she admitted. "I killed their current Listener."

He let out a low whistle. "Yeah, that'll do it. Then again, you may have been unwittingly used as a purification tool."

Mehra furrowed her brow.

"Oh, yes!" Erich laughed. "You know that she wouldn't let her current Listener get killed if she was truly happy with them."

"Then I'm unhappy with it," she replied. "I'm sick of powerful entities using me to do their dirty work."

Erich sighed and lay down on his back against the hard stone, cradling his head in his hands. He looked like he did when she first met him, but there was something about him that was infinitely more beautiful, and infinitely terrifying.

Divinity. Erich ascended to godhood. He knew secrets and held power that no mortal was meant to bear. Perhaps, Jyggalag trusted Erich when he allowed him to take over the title of Prince of Madness. She couldn't say.

Mehra thought back to when she saw him in the Blue Palace. He was very confused when she mentioned his mortal name.

"When you made your decision to become Madgod," Mehra asked, "Weren't you afraid of being unmade?

Erich closed his eyes. "I think that at the time, I wanted to be unmade. For a while, I was; I forgot my mortal name until you reminded me of it."

Mehra pursed her lips and stared up at the sky. Her rashness and inability to compromise or talk things out drove a man to attempt to unmake himself.

"It was a lot of things," Erich said. "You were right about the Brotherhood. I questioned the authority and power of the Night Mother long before you found out. How could she claim to love her children, yet allow them to suffer and die without her intervention?"

Mehra nodded. "I think a lot of people ask those kinds of questions. I've been asking them a lot more, lately."

He screwed his eyes shut and laughed. "You're so serious, Mehra."

"I've got a lot to be serious about."

Erich grunted and nodded. Pursing her lips, Mehra glanced over at him.

"You wouldn't happen to know anything about these dragons, would you?" she asked.

"Nothing useful," he replied. "I haven't been in the loop for a while."

She nodded quietly. It was worth a shot.

Erich turned toward her, looking her up and down.

"You're always lovely," he said, "but –"

"I'm in bad shape."

He cringed and nodded.

Mehra shrugged. "It's the truth," she said. "I spent the past two hundred years in an Akaviri prison. I went on a murder spree there. When I was locked up, I had a lot of time to think about how I'd chosen to live my life. I have many regrets. The Companions suggested I go to Winterhold to train. I think I might have to do that, honestly. I've forgotten nearly everything I learned."

Something she said made him tilt his head to the side. Perhaps, she reminded him of something.

"Winterhold," he mused, "I fought with my parents to apply there. My cousin got in, but they just didn't like magic. It didn't matter what Auntie did for –"

Erich squinted up at the sky. "Forgot his name. You'd think I'd remember it. Ma wanted me to try. Da wasn't into it at all. His word was law. That cousin, though; he was a good egg."

"Can't remember his name either," Mehra admitted. "But I remember that, and your parents."

She knew the rest of the story. He ran away from farm life to the Imperial City and lived on the Waterfront. Eventually, he stole from wealthy people to support himself until he found legitimate work doing salvage. Fate led him there, the same as it dragged her to Morrowind after she committed a string of murders in Daggerfall.

A long silence filled the air as a gust of a cool breeze blew by. Erich closed his eyes and breathed deeply. After some time, he opened his eyes to stare at the night sky.

"They're mud in the back of my mind," he whispered. "I look into the window of Erich's past life and see from the outside. There is no pain here."

Mehra leaned back and stared up at the sky as well. Erich's implications were plain to her: Their time together meant nothing to him anymore. He was a new entity altogether.

It was better this way.

It stung more than she cared to admit.

"Ivarstead's very superstitious," Erich said, "with it being at the base of the mountain there. Everyone was wary of the Greybeards."

"Still are."

He nodded. "Sounds about right. Nords change slowly. I suppose I'm the exception."

Erich turned to her, his expression sad. "Mehra, you must know that I'm not remotely the man I once was. We can't go on as we were."

Mehra closed her eyes and nodded. She knew this. It made sense, and it hurt. But, he couldn't pretend to be a mortal any more than she could pretend to not be Dragonborn. This was how it was, period. Even back then, they were kidding themselves that they could make it work, given how important and different they were. So, in an odd way, things hadn't changed all that much.

Opening her eyes, she watched as lights snuffed out one by one inside Jorrvaskr. The Companions were settling in for the night.

"Hm, you need to sleep, don't you?" Erich mumbled. "Haven't needed to do that one in a while. I do it for fun, sometimes."

"I should," Mehra replied. "I've got to leave for Winterhold tomorrow."

He sat up and flashed her a brilliant smile. "You'll do just fine. I'm certain of it. And when I'm certain of something, well – let's just say that I know a lot more than I used to."

Erich winked, stood, and offered to help her to her feet. His huge Nord hand encompassed hers, the callouses on his fingertips scratching along the top of her hand. He wore gloves with the fingertips cut off – part of his assassin-thief's attire – and she wondered if it was out of habit, or if he put on an appearance for her.

"I'm also certain that you're going to sleep well tonight," Erich added, his voice a low murmur.

A wave of drowsiness hit her the instant he words left his mouth. Magic, perhaps? Daedric persuasion? Her eyelids fluttered as she fought to keep them open, even as an arm wrapped around her shoulder. Erich held her as he levitated them over the ledge of the Skyforge to land gently on the ground of the training yard.

As he drew her in for a hug, Mehra wished that he didn't have to smell so familiar.

"Go on to bed now," he said.

Mhm, yes. She was going to bed. Mehra stepped back and shuffled toward the awning, intent on getting inside, going downstairs, and falling face first into her bunk.

Mehra blinked hard and the implanted suggestion dimmed in her mind. She ought to say goodbye, at least. Turning around, she found that Erich was gone. Mehra slumped and trudged back toward Jorrvaskr.

Though the drowsiness lay thick in her mind, Mehra couldn't help but smile. There was someone watching out for her.

Maybe the old seer was right. Maybe she would be lucky, after all.