Author's notes: Oblivion and all its characters, places, events, etcetera are property of Bethesda Softworks. Special thanks to my beta, Pheonicia, who cleans up my grammar errors and typos.

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Chapter Twenty-One

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"Good…" I could feel the spell pulsing pleasantly between my cupped hands. "Concentrate…" Martin's hands moved away from mine, the reinforcing feel of his magicka – which oddly enough reminds me of Cyrodiilic brandy (which I despise on all but the worst days), red light as if from a fire, and a sensation like something soft dragged across the skin. It's very odd.

I actually asked him about this, when we started- though I didn't give specifics. He says all mages have earmarks to their magicka, and that mine had a distinctly Nordic feel to it. When asked 'what's that supposed to mean?' he just chuckled and admitted he felt 'wind and rain' in my magicka. I think he was omitting a few key details too (not that I wasn't either) – but that's just me. I also suspect mages can't feel their own magical signatures.

At first I found it highly uncomfortable, like having a stranger sit down beside me and wrap an arm around my shoulders. After a few days, though, I got used to it. The signature's actually rather pleasant, once I stopped to think about it.

In the two and a half weeks which have elapsed since I closed my second Gate, Martin and I have established a sort of regimen. We'll spar for an hour at least during the day, he's supposed to run through the basic forms before he goes to bed every night, just like any novice. I'm pretty sure he does, as he's not a slacker, but I'm not supervising.

For an hour or so I study magicka – though the whole hour isn't devoted to casting. I don't have that kind of duration. On that note, Martin has never magically run me into the ground, just to find my limits. I suppose he thinks it best to teach me the mechanics, letting duration take care of itself. Before I go to bed – usually while I'm in the bath, actually – I'm supposed to practice calling my magicka, just as far as my fingers, to feel it tingle in my hands, ready to take shape. I can't wait to learn how to keep the bath warm with a well-placed spell.

However, during the day, we experiment with magicka. Usually the spells aren't remotely helpful in the real world – except perhaps the magelights, which I can now conjure competently – but they're interesting, amusing, or otherwise distracting. Apparently my attention span is factored into the lessons. I know more about the theory than I can actually put into practice.

Still, it's nice to sit on the library floor ensconced between bookshelves, where I don't get deprecating looks, or Cyrus (my evil twin) and Caroline (the adult supervision) teasing me about being a Mundane. The spell flickered, my hands stiffened, like trying to shield a candle's flame from guttering out.

"Easy." Martin intoned.

Easy for you to say – drat for letting my mind wander. The spell evened out and I took a hesitant breath – I find I hold my breath when trying to force a spell not to fizzle on me.

"Good. Make it blue."

"Why blue?" My concentration wavered as Martin laughed. It took some effort not to open my eyes as I stabilized the spell.

"All right then, make it green."

"I like blue better." I responded, smirking with playful contrariness. Why shouldn't I feel playful – I'm doing magicka! Consistently!

"Keep that up and I'll have you make it green with blue sparkles. Change the color – it's white now."

Of course it is – my lights are always white to start with, it's the easiest color to conjure. Magically lazy, perhaps, but I concentrated nonetheless, grinning at the idea of green sparkles. This is the mage's equivalent of running through swordsmanship forms before bed. You cast a light and make it do things. As I'm next to a Mundane, it's still a real challenge for me, but one I enjoy. Changing the color of the light is a show of will, and of mental imagery.

Martin hinted the more I do this, the easier it'll get. We'll see.

Gathering my focus again I let the concept of 'blue' and 'things that are blue' flow from head to hands, infusing the light, which buzzed softly between y hands, like holding a warm, vibrating stone, only somewhat less solid. Blue. Bluebells. The sky. The sea. Markos' favorite shirt. Martin's eyes.

"Good – look."

Opening my eyes, one then the other in case I needed the close them quickly, to reestablish focus. Cupped in my hands flickered a cheerfully blue ball of flames, a lovely shade of forget-me-not blue. It's so petty! Yes, it's true: I like watching the magical lights.

I know – simple pleasures for simple minds.

The spell fizzled and the light went out. "Oh dammit!" I groaned, snapping my fingers into my other hand, as if one were flint, the steel, and my hand a way to catch the sparks. The white light immediately blossomed in my hand. Martin watched carefully, from what I could see of his face in my peripheral vision he wore a look of approval. I closed my hands together. When I separated them, I held a little ball of white light in either.

"It's getting easier," Martin noted, scooping one of the lights from one of my hand, like using a spoon to scoop butter from the tub.

"Yeah," I nodded and bit my lip, eyebrows knitting together as Martin casually blew on his light – well, it's still mine – and I felt that funny sensation of something silky running along my spine as the light turned sunny yellow with fizzling orange sparks.

Focusing again – hard to do as long as he asserts his own magicka against the spell I started, as opposed to reinforcing a spell which lacks the distracting magical earmarks – my white light turned ruby-red. I've noticed the difficulty of a color depends on where it lies in the spectrum, red the easiest after white, violet the most difficult. Blues, though, defy this convention, as the closer they are to grey, the easier they are to cast. Martin says it has to do with my magicka. He also says you can tell a bit about a mage by the color of his or her magelight before they tinker with it, and by which colors come easier.

Rain and wind, right.

I'm not sure what his dark red light means.

"Ahem, if you don't mind," I addressed the light and snapped my fingers a few times, yellow glitters of light appearing in the red. "There we go."

"Good." Martin reached over with his free hand, and poked the light, which immediately changed to green with orange spots.

Spots.

"Oi! You're breaking the rules! Cheetahs have spots, lights don't!" This was where I lost concentration last time. Struggling to focus, to change the color back to red was like pressing against a brick wall. Then suddenly, the 'wall' gave way, and the light exploded back into red with golden sparkles. "Hahahaha…" I chortled, breathing a little harder than I would have liked.

"You're getting much better," Martin nodded, holding out the light.

I didn't take it back, but leaned forward and blew into his palm, the light blowing out like a candle flame. Grinning I did the same for mine, feeling the flow of magicka into my hands stop. "Thanks." I flexed my fingers, feeling the trail of magicka race from my elbow – which is where I start to feel it – to my fingers. "You ready to get some fresh air?" I asked, getting stiffly to my feet.

It's nice to practice magicka in the library, but in reality, it's not the most comfortable place.

I noticed I wasn't the only one warding off stiff muscles.

Strolling towards the great hall, Cyrus appeared from the wing where the barracks was located, carrying along, heavy-looking package. "There you are – I've been looking all over for you." he set the package on the table. "Bumph asked me to take this up to you."

"How's she doing?" I haven't seen Bumph for about two days. She's cranky when she's hurt, and she's still recovering from her injuries. Right-Wind did lose his eye, though he maintains it's not as bad as it sounds. He's hoping some squirt in the Mages' Guild might come up with a magical alternative, one of these days. None of us have discussed the Gate.

Right-Wind and Bumph swore up and down my brothers wouldn't hear a word about 'Ailirah' and 'Oblivion Gates' in the same sentence. My parents, too, weren't to hear about it either.

"She's doing better – rattling around on her crutches and smashing stuff. You know how Orcs are when they're hurt and feeling cagey. She was shouting at Right-Wind when I left."

Cyrus tends to drop by when he goes into Bruma, but I don't or can't, for whatever reason. It's really nice of him, but I also think he just likes Bumph and Right-Wind. They're good people. "See? I keep telling them they've got to tie the knot one of these days," I remarked blandly, fumbling with the twin that held the heavy paper wrappings closed.

It hit me – I know what this is…my fingers shook in anticipation.

"Where's Martin?"

"Getting geared up," I answered. "Speaking of which – you feel like playing guinea pig today?" Jauffre and I have a silent but not unpleasant war going on about my refusal to wear my Akaviri armor unless I'm reminded of it – though it's less important since I explained I was going to get killed if I ever had to do anything in it. It's too cumbersome, so now he corrects me about it when he doesn't have anything else to say – I think it's his idea of a running joke, but with his sense of humor so noticeably undeveloped, I'm not so sure.

True to form, I wore my chainmail today. My latest justification is I supposedly never know when Martin will want a swordsmanship lesson, and it's easier for him to see what he's supposed to do when I wear my chainmail – that's the other part of the thing, I come up with smartass justifications for my lack of uniform. Jauffre hasn't come up with an argument for my last excuse, but I got kitchen patrol for five days for my cheek – which means he couldn't come up with anything, and is simply a bad loser.

Cheer up Jauffre, it's just a game.

It was worth it though – Caroline and I snickered about it later.

Cyrus chuckled humorlessly. He's my favorite candidate to help demonstrate concepts, so Martin can watch what it should look like before he tries it. Cyrus says he gets tired of being wailed on, in the name of education and suggests I take a turn as the guinea pig.

'After all,' he'll grin in that cheeky way of his 'I've been fighting with a katana a lot longer than you.' Good times.

The paper wraps of the package –and Cyrus peering interestedly at it I started on the silk wrappings.

My eyes glowed as I folded back the silken wrappings around the new sword. In the excitement of events, in getting Silent Partner back, I completely forgot that Einar set out to forge me a new weapon…and what a weapon it is!

I could feel the tingle of magicka lying dormant in the blade, ice magicka, if I'm not mistaken, and I'm sure I'm not. The blades honed keen and sharp, glittering coldly in the light of the great hall. On the blades, etched with the elegant script Einar usually marks his works with was the name "FROSTREAVER". It's an old name, and references the fact that it's the frost damage that will most likely kill you. Apt, very apt.

"Wow…" Cyrus goggled. "Are you planning to finish this war all by yourself?"

The grip was set with decorative blue glass, even as I lifted the weapon, I felt perfectly balanced with it. It wasn't one jot heavier or lighter than Silent Partner, nor longer, nor shorter. It could have been Silent Partner's prettier twin, only made to deal with Daedra, for the metal was a different blend, as was the magical damage it would deal. I tested the grips again – despite the decorations in the grip, they caused me no trouble, none at all. Beautiful and functional!

"Oh Daddy…" I breathed, hefting the weapon experimentally.

"Looks like you've found the love of your life, 'Lirah." Cyrus teased.

Oh yeah. Bring on the Daedra – hell, bring on all the bad guys! Cyrus is right, I think I'm in love…

I stopped and squinted. Etched near the hilt on one blade was a…

Stylized. Dancing. Chipmunk.

Daddy!

I can't believe that – still, it is funny. 'Hey did you hear, Lord Dagon got his ass kicked by a dancing chipmunk with a bigass sword'. 'No! Really?' Yeah – that's going to go over really well. Chuckling at the play of images in my mind's eye, I leaned Frostreaver against the table so I could settle Silent Partner in the silk wrappings and tie it up securely. It's always good to have a fallback.

"Ailirah?"

Martin reappeared, without his gear. He examined Frostreaver for a moment, nodding approvingly before looking back at me. "We may, will, need to cancel sparring this morning. Jauffre wants to see you," he beckoned that I should follow him.

Hmm – I'll bet Jauffre didn't expect Martin to play messenger.

"Let me put Silent Partner up, and I'll be right there," I promised, taking both weapons awkwardly in my arms before heading for the barracks.

The barracks is a long room, divided by wooden screens, men on the left, women on the right. With floors covered in thick mats. With Blades trickling in, we've pulled the bunk beds out of storage so it's less quaint and a little more practical.

I also took the opportunity to change into my Akaviri cuirass, tightening the fastenings awkwardly as I walked myself and Frostreaver to Jauffre's office. If you look at the great hall, there are doors on all four sides. Heading from the entrance straight back leads to Jauffre's office, the library on the right, and the armory to the left. The armory actually opens onto a hallway that leads off towards the barracks, which shares the same side of the building (and down a flight of four or five stairs) with the infirmary – useful, huh?

Jauffre opened his mouth to say something, but closed it when he realized I was both in uniform and carrying an unfamiliar weapon. Even someone who's only seen Silent Partner a few times would spot the differences between it and Frostreaver. They look alike and yet they don't. "Frostreaver – a gift from Daddy," I announced to the room at large, which consisted of Jauffre standing behind his desk, Martin sitting comfortably in a chair, his two bodyguards (I think he had a word with Jauffre about four being two too many), as well as a skinny Blade younger than myself, still bearing signs of travel.

He was goggling at Frostreaver, ignoring me.

"What's wrong?" I addressed Jauffre.

"Baurus is requesting assistance, in the Imperial City." Jauffre announced neutrally. "You must go with all speed – he's currently stationed at Luther Broad's Boarding House in the Elven Gardens district of the Imperial City. You're well-acquainted with the situation, and therefore well-suited to helping Baurus deal with it."

I looked from the messenger, to Jauffre, then to Martin. I could tell he did not like the idea of sending me, but I think this is more chivalry than practicality. I'm all for the idea – I was there to see some of the start of this mess, I'd like to be one of the ones to keep seeing it, making sure everything pans out in our favor. It also makes sense from the logistic standpoint – I don't know how much the other Blades know, but from what Jauffre's just said I don't think everyone has all the details. I probably don't. "Okay. No problem. Anything else?" I asked.

"With any luck, Baurus will have some information on this enemy. However, keep your head down, and try a little subtlety," Jauffre advised.

We don't do subtlety – but I didn't say this out loud, obviously. "Okay – I'll get my stuff together and get going." Turning, I withdrew, sliding the door shut softly behind me. What makes more sense is I'm easily recognizable – redhead with a Tang Mo sword? How many of those are running around the Empire? I'm starting to feel as if there's a bull's-eye painted on my back.

Still, I'm not complaining. Better me who's ready for it than someone who's not.

Struggling to loosen my armor as I walked, my nerves began to hum. This is it – back in the field. I'm so glad – the Blades are under orders not to wander too far away from Cloud Ruler Temple while things are so unstable. It's nice to visit Bruma, but I'd like to stop by Chorrol to talk to Uncle Modryn, or head back down to Leyawiin to see my parents. You know – thank Daddy for this gorgeous sword! I could take out half of Oblivion with this thing!

Even if it's got a dancing chipmunk on it. Maybe no one but me will notice.

Abandoning my Akaviri armor, as well as anything that might identify me as a Blade, which meant my old clothes and my trusty chainmail. It was strange seeing myself in the mirror hanging on one of the sections of screen, looking like the me I remember, instead of who I'd begun to look like, these past few weeks. I look more like my real age, for one thing.

I couldn't help but notice my hair has picked up a little sun, lightening at the crown of my head. For a moment – just a flicker. For a moment, I thought I caught a red reflect in my eyes. On closer inspection, however, there was nothing amiss, just the usual earthy brown.

Hmm. Whatever. Trick of the light, I suppose. Nords and Imperials don't have red eyes.

I left after securing from Caroline and Cyrus a promise they would keep training with Martin in my absence. It'll be good for him to have all of them, really, to have something else to focus on, rather than a friend walking into potentially mortal peril. I'm not that worried, but it's easy to say that before the trouble starts.

What worried me was walking into the Imperial City only to find myself arrested again. Though I suspect more than hope the Blades have had a couple words with the city watch, so I shouldn't have too much trouble.

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