Nariilu knew she shouldn't've told Stormcloak about the Dossier.
Judging from his progress, nearly a third of the way through, and the melted candles in the main room, Stormcloak hadn't slept the night before. He'd been reading it non-stop since she handed it over, and she could only imagine how many waking hours he'd spent pondering the contents since she foolishly told him about it in Riften. He hadn't seemed to move from the chair she'd found him in when she came back from collecting her coin from the merchants the evening before. Lydia reported the cup of tea she'd set beside him after he refused dinner was untouched this morning. Perhaps he rightfully suspected Nariilu laced it with herbs to get him to sleep.
She really figured he'd be unable to continue far into it, though the interrogations came late in the book after a lengthy biography and an even longer section on every single battle Stormcloak had ever participated in. The real troubling content was at the back of the book, where Elenwen picked apart everything in an attempt to figure a way of predicting his behavior.
Nariilu wondered if she should demand he take a break, get fresh air, walk around, do something. He seemed oblivious to her presence. She was doing as much as she could to establish herself in her own home outside of screaming or throwing the cooking pot.
Peering over his shoulder, she caught a glimpse of how far he'd made it into his Dossier. He was just reaching the beginning of the Great War, the first battles he had commanded. They were little more than hindsight analysis; the Thalmor hadn't even known who he was until after he was captured, assuming instead he was just another senator-turned-general, just more skilled than the vast majority. He would reach the battles leading up to his capture soon.
"I'm going to meet with Kodlak Whitemane," she announced. "The Harbinger of the Companions," she added when he didn't react. "I don't know when I'll be back; before noon with any luck." She paused, making sure Stormcloak was still breathing. He was, and she moved in front of him, still no movement except for the slow tracking of his eyes across the pages. "Stormcloak." He turned the page. "Ulfric!"
He startled, then quickly stilled himself and frowned at her. "What?"
"Did you even hear what I just said?"
"You called my name," he answered. His speech was slow. Nariilu bit her cheek at the sight of his eyes, red and ringed with dark circles.
"You need to take a break."
He chuckled once from deep within his throat. "To what? I've nothing to do for the week, unless you command me to run errands with your Housecarl again."
Nariilu crossed her arms. "If you're going to get obsessed over the Dossier-"
"I'm not sure what you expected," Ulfric cut her off. "About this." He gestured with the thick book and shut it, standing to his full height. Ulfric loomed over her with a darkness Nariilu recognized from when he knelt defeated before his throne, before her. "About me."
She paused. "Be careful," Nariilu finally said. She turned and walked out of Breezehome, locking the door behind her. Best to leave him stewing in his own emotions. He'd come to terms with it on his own, she hoped.
Nariilu pushed open the heavy door to Jorrvaskr with a well-tuned creak. In the past, she'd head around to the back of the building to chat with anyone testing their aim with a bow or the sharpness of their sword, but today, like all days since Skjor made her The Offer, she wanted to avoid speaking with any Companion like the plague. And, just as she planned, it was in between meals and the feasting hall was completely empty.
She walked down to the living quarters; Nariilu assumed Kodlak hadn't changed his favorite place to rest, and she found herself correct after she turned the corner. Kodlak sat at the far end of the hall at his little table, reading a book and idly stirring a bowl of something. Nariilu waited until she was closer to call out to him, "Harbinger, I received word you wanted to speak to me."
Kodlak looked up and greeted her with a warm smile, motioning to the empty chair opposite himself. "Nariilu, it's been too long," he said, setting his book down as she closed the rest of the distance between them and made herself comfortable. Nariilu always did appreciate the padded chairs around Jorrvaskr. "I've not seen you around the mead hall in…half a year?"
"I've been too busy to be an active Companion," Nariilu shrugged. She glanced in his bowl; oats and some kind of nut. "I may never find the time again, not that I was ever particularly driven." It was easier to maintain a disconnect from the Companions, to hide just how fond as she grew of them in her brief stint. "I meant to withdraw my membership earlier, but it must've slipped my mind."
"Come, now, we both know that isn't why you left," Kodlak replied. He sounded weary, but not disappointed. Nariilu bit her tongue and waited for him to continue. She almost wished he wouldn't. The sight of Farkas ripping through his own flesh into that thing, of that thing towering over everyone with the same challenging gleam that Aela had sent a fog through her head and a chill down her spine even months later. "Let me apologize on Skjor and Aela's behalf. They never meant to scare you."
"Werewolves," Nariilu heard herself say. The word echoed through the hall, not being absorbed by the tapestries and rugs that usually kept all sound from carrying. She had refused to speak it even in her own mind ever since, instead avoiding all thoughts of the Companions, her friends, that wanted to make her one of those beasts. In hindsight, it was obvious; the wolf armor they all wore, the battle cries that were one step away from howls.
Kodlak smiled sadly. "Yes, every member of the Circle is a werewolf. It's a curse of the Harbinger that goes back centuries. Some take to it more than others."
"Do you take to it?" Her shoulder stung with the memory of being slashed open by Sinding in Falkreath.
"Perhaps once, I did. A long time ago," he answered. "But I grow old, and I often find myself thinking of Sovengarde. I worry that Shor won't call an animal warrior as he would a true Nord."
Nariilu frowned. "But you're still a Nord," she said.
"Lycanthropy is a…gift from Hircine, the Daedric Prince of the Hunt. It draws our souls to him, his hunting grounds," Kodlak said, wincing as he pulled himself straight to better gesture his point. "Even now, I feel Hircine's influence on every breath I take. Some may prefer an eternity of chasing game, but I crave the fellowship of Sovengarde."
They sat in silence for a while. "You're looking for a cure," Nariilu finally spoke.
"Well, yes, but there's no need to worry yourself with the worries of an old warrior," Kodlak said. "Jarl Balgruuf and I discussed the basics of your plan. I have a feeling that's what your armor request is for?" He looked her up and down and broke into a jovial laughter. "Don't tell me you've been hunting dragons and Draugr in robes!"
"My armor was destroyed!" She protested, lifting up her hem to show she was still in her leather boots, as worn as they looked and felt. "But, yes, it is. Are the Companions offering aid?" When Kodlak didn't answer immediately, she added, "It's a non-political goal."
Kodlak laughed again. "I haven't told anyone yet; I'd hate for word to spread before the Jarl wants it to. We'll be protecting the citizens in whatever shape that takes, be it leading evacuations or laying down our lives for others. And, though we may find glory, it shall be your day, not ours." She suddenly realized how effortlessly Kodlak managed to change the subject from…werewolves to Loredas. "Eorlund has your armor ready. Glass isn't quite his specialty, but I believe he's managed."
Kodlak moved with a grunt to stand. "Wait," Nariilu protested. He paused and relaxed back into his chair. "Why did Skjor and Aela want to…" She trailed off.
"You've more than proven yourself, as a Companion and otherwise," Kodlak said, picking a stray hair off of his gauntlet. "I imagine once you saw Farkas take on his Beast form, they figured you may as well be invited to the Circle. I agree with them; you should be a member of the Circle. But no one should be required to change their soul."
Nariilu wondered what would've happened if she had taken Aela's blood that night. She imagined the squirming, roaring dragon souls constantly searching her body for a way out were suddenly changed to running, howling wolves. She decided wolves would be much less of a pain. "Then why did you?"
"I was young," Kodlak answered. He looked off to a place Nariilu couldn't see, a place that was likely decades prior. "Hotblooded and ready to take my glory in blood. I see a little bit of my old self in every Companion." He paused to laugh. "Especially you, Nariilu. You have a hunger in your eyes that you've not learned to satisfy. You never find yourself content with what you've done, do you? You crave more."
Nariilu didn't respond. They both knew he spoke the truth. Kodlak continued, "That makes me even more surprised you refused the call of Hircine. As much as you desire power, you'd refuse the most powerful form of yourself. Tell me, what did you know about werewolves before?"
Only what Sinding had told her as he confessed in the Falkreath jail, and only that he was among the deadliest foes she had fought. His claws and teeth were as sharp as a dragon's, and he was faster than one, too. And even though Sinding regretted what he had done to that child, he couldn't stop himself from trying to do the same to her. "As much as mothers will tell their children to keep them from staying out late," she said.
"The curse we have can be controlled, unlike the wild beasts that roam throughout Tamriel," Kodlak answered. "We can control our transformations, use them to our advantage. None of the Circle are going to steal a child from their bed."
"Then why don't you just not transform any new Circle members?" Nariilu asked. From the fog that covered his eyes at her words, she knew it wasn't a choice.
"Your supposed induction was done without my knowledge. The others know how I feel about the Curse," Kodlak said. "I don't use 'Curse' lightly. In the Second Era, a Harbinger exchanged his soul with the Glenmoril Witches for power beyond his comprehension. Unfortunately, he was hasty, and promised the souls of the Circle to the Witches as well. Until the Curse is broken, every single member of the Circle must be a werewolf and serve Hircine, Lord of the Glenmorils."
"Curses can be broken," Nariilu said without thinking. Not easily, not quickly, and not without pain. A curse lasting perhaps thousands of years, afflicting hundreds of people…Nariilu didn't even want to think about the possibility of Hircine casting the curse himself. But it was a requirement of all curses to have a way of breaking it, a hidden pact that would ensure reversal.
"And I've spent the better part of my life searching for a way," Kodlak frowned. "I've read enough books on curse-breaking, I'd be a master wizard if I had the aptitude. Unfortunately, in all my searching, it seems the only ones who would know are the Glenmorils, on the off chance they've passed down knowledge of a thousand-year-old curse. If only I could ask them and beg for my soul-"
"I could do it for you," Nariilu cut off. "Ask them, I mean. I could pose as a woman trying to join them. They might let me close enough to where I could steal their Books of Curses." And any other forgotten knowledge they'd hoarded. Legend had it that the Glenmorils were able to cure vampires, werewolves, werebears, werelions, were-wereanything. Not to mention the power they once held, bending the wills of those around them to their bidding, transmuting a wealth of gold and gems from dust and stones. If what Kodlak said was true, and she trusted it was, they had the favor of a Daedric Prince, and likely knew of Hircine's secrets, too.
Kodlak thought for a long time. "I won't ask anything of you. But, as an old Nord, not as Harbinger, I'd very much appreciate your help," he smiled, Nariilu smiled back. "You're a member of the Circle in all but name, in my opinion, and I'm sure the others share that sentiment. I hope you'll be around much more now that the war is over."
Kodlak sent her away with a sack full of books on lycanthropy and the Glenmoril Witches at her request. Nariilu managed to slip through the main hall without Tilma looking up from stoking the fire in the center of the hall, and likewise made it up to the Skyforge without seeing any Companion. "Hail, Eorlund," she called once she figured herself close enough to be heard over his forging.
"Your armor is in storage," he called back without glancing her direction. He plunged a blade in water and for a moment Eorlund was engulfed in steam.
Nariilu thanked him and moved past to the small lean-to where spares of weapons and armor were kept. Hers stood out, against the steel and leather of everything else, blue and-black? Eorlund came up behind her. "Malachite handles almost like ebony, but I'm no elf," he admitted. "Moonstone may as well be gold to me. Decoration isn't armor. I used ebony. Your Housecarl provided the ore, and I would've discussed it with you, but since you needed it on such short notice, I hammered out the ebony thinner than usual. It should be about the same weight as normal, and still much more useful."
She picked up the chestpiece as he spoke, inspecting the blend between malachite and ebony. That was the most difficult part of making glass armor; getting malachite and moonstone to meld into almost one solid sheet at the seams of armor. There was a seam visible, but only between the colors of metals, each becoming a dark purple as they met. Other than that, it appeared to be as put together as any standard set. "It almost looks like a sort of steel," she mentioned.
Eorlund grunted in agreement. Nariilu put down the chestpiece and picked up a glove, checking the flexibility in the wrist. Still there, and still lightweight even though ebony dominated the gauntlet. Wow. Eorlund was famous for his smithing even before the Great War, but to alloy two unrelated metals, even one that he was barely familiar with, truly he was among the best smiths throughout history.
But, of course, he already knew it. She thanked him more than usual, and carefully tucked the armor into a burlap sack he provided, though she could likely throw it down the Throat of the World and have a herd of mammoths trample it without even the smallest dent forming. Nariilu left after glancing down to the back of Jorrvaskr; almost all Companions were accounted for, drinking under the porch or brawling in the yard.
She decided she'd stop by Uthgerd's home, a clan home that had once been proud, but was sad and empty even when Uthgerd lived in it full time. It was where she was no doubt staying during her visit to the city. Officially, it was Nariilu's now, though she hadn't decided on a use for the old house yet. She had considered moving into it and renting Breezehome to some merchant, though the thought of moving her hidden chests beneath the floor full of Septims and ancient jewelry and plates of precious metals worried her. Only Lydia and a few of her most trusted knew of them, and she'd yet to find a better place for them, though she based quite a bit of wealth in Solitude if only for appearances. Breezehome hid fortunes once held by Nordic kings and queens of old, made even more valuable by time and scarcity. She almost didn't let it be rebuilt after the siege for fear a worker would stumble upon them.
Nariilu knocked on the door, hoping it was early enough that Uthgerd hadn't gone out in search of a lunch or a drink. She ran her fingers along the keys at her waist as she waited for a response, knocking again when nothing came. Nariilu looked down at her keys to pick out the correct one for the door when it swung open, Uthgerd looking down upon her. "Dragonborn," she acknowledged with a slight tilt of her head, but didn't move to welcome her inside.
"I've come to apologize for my outburst yesterday," Nariilu said. "I hope you know it was directed at Delphine, not you."
Uthgerd snorted. "You act like you're the only one with a temper," she said. Uthgerd stepped back and motioned for Nariilu to come in. "I've broken noses over far less."
"Perhaps now that you've been training as a Blade, you're strong enough to break a nose," Nariilu taunted, placing her bags down by the door. "But I felt your arm before. That little banshee Braith could've beaten you." The house was just as bare as always, though a layer of dust had settled over the room.
Uthgerd slung her arm over Nariilu's shoulder, squeezing enough for it to almost hurt. "And now I'm strong enough to push Esbern off his chair," she said. "A shame I can't travel with you anymore, I almost miss the traps and smell of death from the crypts."
"You will, one day," Nariilu said. "After Alduin is defeated, we'll need to hunt down every last dragon. I'll make sure you're at the lead with me."
"It won't be as fun as watching you trip over skeletons."
They laughed together, teasing each other back and forth and, for a moment, Nariilu was back a winter ago, delving in cairns across Skyrim with her small group of adventurers, pulling cart after cart of priceless goods disguised as simple merchant wares, herself carrying the most valuable prize: a Word of Power.
The joviality was just as brief as it was back then. Nariilu and Uthgerd looked at each other with quickly disappearing smiles as they both remembered their circumstances. Uthgerd, a sworn member of the Blades, with her life on the line by just holding that title, and Nariilu, the Dragonborn and much more, both with a battle for the fate of Mundus quickly approaching. "You're certain Delphine said 'Paarthurnax'," Nariilu finally broke the silence.
Uthgerd nodded. "She made sure I was certain of the name before I left. He was one of Alduin's generals in the Dragon War."
"I'm familiar." Nariilu kept her face firm.
"They say he enslaved thousands and only ate Men. Can you imagine how many people it would take to fill a dragon's belly?"
A dozen, Nariilu thought to herself. She'd never thought to count the bones or armor sets from a fallen dragon. "I'm tired of being ordered around by Delphine," she continued. "With all the history lessons Esbern's no doubt giving you, I'd expect them to at least cover the founding of the Blades in Tamriel. I should be in charge. Without my blood, Delphine wouldn't even have her precious temple."
"She didn't explain anything," Uthgerd replied. Nariilu already figured that. Delphine had more hidden agendas than the Thalmor. "I've asked her about your role. Delphine says you never seemed interested in the Blades as anything other than a means to get to Alduin. She believes you're happier hunting dragons and…" Uthgerd trailed off.
"Go on," Nariilu encouraged. She was already angry with Delphine for her command that she kill Paarthurnax. What Uthgerd reported solidified Nariilu's opinion that Delphine was nothing more than an arrogant, stubborn woman who longed for a past that never existed.
"Delphine said you'd rather play soldier than act like a true Dragonborn," Uthgerd finished. A beat later, she added, "This was a month or two ago after she and I returned from hunting a Dragon near Old Hroldan. She was just upset because the weather was poor and we both knew it'd rise again in a week without you to devour its soul."
"Well, in that case, the message I gave you yesterday still stands," Nariilu said. Uthgerd nodded and smirked. She got the feeling Uthgerd was looking for any excuse to tell Delphine off. Nariilu made her way over to the old table, the only furniture in the great hall of the house and sat down deliberately, Uthgerd following her every move. "Do you want to know the real story of Paarthurnax?"
Uthgerd sat down opposite her. "I had the feeling you were keeping something from me, and I knew Delphine and Esbern were."
Ulfric didn't look up when he heard the door open, when the room lit up. A flash of a pale face out of the corner of his eye let him know it was likely the Housecarl, Lydia, not the Dragonborn. "Still haven't moved?" Lydia asked with a noblewoman's accent. When Ulfric didn't respond, she continued. "There's fresh water from the river in the basin." She set a bag down in the chair opposite him and dug through it. Ulfric ignored her and went back to reading.
He had reached the defense of Fort Nikel, his last victory in the Great War before he pushed to reclaim the crossroads of the Red and Black roads, where he was captured. The Thalmor hadn't realized who he was yet, and the scribe notated the original report completely before continuing on to the hindsight analysis, after mentioning that the Thalmor commander responsible for coordinating the failed assault on Nikel was later killed for 'unrelated crimes'.
There was a long section about Ulfric's defense strategy to draw magic. Iron swords, he discovered after looking at his casualty numbers a little closer, attracted lighting magic. Setting up a field of the near-useless swords far too many of his soldiers carried made it that much safer for anyone to be within range of the Thalmor. Reading page after page of pondering over both how Ulfric had discovered the phenomena and why it worked made him worried the Thalmor had already developed a counter to it.
Ulfric jumped up when Lydia snatched the Dossier out of his hands. "Shut up. You're not getting this back until you eat something," she spoke before he could protest, offering him a small pot wrapped in cloth. "I just got this from the market. I'm under strict orders to not let you do anything stupid-her words, not mine-and I consider this to be stupid."
They had a staring contest for a while. Ulfric felt like he was winning until he realized Lydia looked almost bored, and suddenly he remembered that she'd been serving the Dragonborn since soon after Helgen. It took a strong body to keep up with the Dragonborn, and an even stronger will to not succumb to Sheogorath every time she opened her mouth. Lydia could do this all day, and the smell coming from the pot was becoming harder and harder to ignore.
Wordlessly, he took the pot over to the kitchen table and sat down, unwrapping it slowly. Ulfric heard the book land on his chair with a thud. "It's venison stew," Lydia told him. He stared at the covered pot, all too aware of the things the Thalmor put in his food during his imprisonment. Poisons that made him shiver so hard he bruised himself against the floor of his cell, potions that made his tongue swell in his mouth until he couldn't breathe or speak (one of their favorites to give him, after he Shouted an Interrogator into the wall), shards of glass, metal, splinters that were almost too small to notice before he swallowed them and they shredded his insides.
Lydia uncovered the pot, releasing a cloud of steam. She made a big show of spearing a chunk of meat and placing it in her own mouth. "My Thane asked me to remind you that she could've killed you a dozen times over if she wanted you dead," she said after she swallowed, setting down the utensil beside him and going up the stairs with loud creaks on every step.
Ulfric smelled the stew and waited for it to knock him out. When it didn't, he raised a small bite of some vegetable to his mouth and chewed slowly, thoughtfully, waiting for what tasted like overcooked cabbage to kill him. He swallowed and sat back, listening to Lydia make the Dragonborn's bed. As the stew hit his stomach, he was suddenly overcome by hunger, realizing it had been a full day since he ate.
He wondered why the Dragonborn didn't hire a maid to do her cleaning and a steward to conduct her business. Iona and Lydia both seemed to preform those jobs instead of protecting the Dragonborn, as a Housecarl was expected. Instead, the Dragonborn sent them on errands and wandered around on her own. Ulfric supposed not much was a threat to her, but, especially as duels in the street were outstandingly rare nowadays, even compared to in his own youth, Housecarls were more and more for protection on the road and for affirming a Thane's status than anything.
And it's not like the Dragonborn was a model Thane; she was rarely in any one city for long. Though Breezehome seemed much more lived in than Honeyside, Ulfric attributed that to Whiterun's central location in Skyrim. It would be easy for her to stay a few nights in Whiterun on her way to just about anywhere in the country. In the Empire, all roads lead to the Imperial City; in Skyrim, all roads lead to Whiterun. The bowl emptied itself easily and Ulfric returned to the Dossier.
Nariilu was rather satisfied with the long lie she told Uthgerd about Paarthurnax. Starting with how he lived deep within the Druadach Mountains near Solitude in a valley only accessible though a hidden cave for fear of men and dragons alike, and ending with how his cruel legacy was one of slander created by Alduin, in an attempt to save face for having a weak, crippled brother sympathetic to humans. She was sure Paarthurnax would correct her immediately if he had heard, insisting that no, he truly had been that evil and much worse.
But Uthgerd didn't know the difference and agreed that a dragon with a lame wing in self-imposed isolation didn't pose a threat to anyone. Nariilu even threw in an anecdote about testing his power by purposefully letting her guard down and dropping her weapon 'accidentally'. If he hadn't attacked her when she was alone and unarmed, he knew he was far less powerful than she and, therefore, no threat to anyone. Dragons always attacked, even without an advantage, Uthgerd mentioned.
She claimed she took pity on the old Paarthurnax, and kept him around for that, and his and Alduin's mutual hatred of the other. "I wouldn't be surprised if he lie dead many times over in his valley, killed and resurrected by Alduin for his own cruel enjoyment of torturing the weak," Nariilu said. "Perhaps killing him would be a mercy, now that I think on it."
"He might as well be dead," Uthgerd agreed. "I'll let Delphine know."
"Don't mention the truth to her," Nariilu warned. "Someone as stuck in their ways as she will be slow to handle the truth of the matter. Alduin's lies are well documented as truth. Just say I found and killed him before your message came to me."
Nariilu picked up a selection of pastries from the market, a sweet treat to improve her spirits. She'd bring the leftovers (if she didn't finish them all that evening) tomorrow when Farengar taught her, J'zargo, and Danica Pure-Spring how to cast the soul wards. Magic was draining, and a nice apple tart would improve the mood for everyone. Farengar would be exhausted after two full days of training everyone, and though they were all resting a day before beginning the casting process, Nariilu wondered how useful he would be in the fight. She'd seen fully trained Battlemages collapse in battle from magickal fatigue, and she knew he'd never seen real combat.
She returned to Breezehome and placed the pastries down near the hearth to keep them warm, noticing that Stormcloak had relocated to the far table. It was colder there, away from the fire, but the weather never seemed to bother him, and he was more out of the way over in the corner rather than in the center of the room. He didn't glance up and was still reading his Dossier.
She supposed he would be immovable until he finished. He was now closer to halfway. If Stormcloak hadn't hit the interrogations by now, he would within the hour. After those would be a brief section on the Markarth Incident and an account and analysis of his time as Jarl since, followed by an even shorter description of the Civil War, before Nariilu's interference, of course, and instructions for how to discreetly proceed. The last section was made up of unbound parchment shoved in between the last page and the cover, Elenwen's hasty description of Helgen and marginal notes about dragons.
Stormcloak would be finished by the day after tomorrow, she decided, and there was no use in trying to rip him away from his past until then. She stomped up the stairs and laid her armor out on the bed. She'd never had a full set of the stuff before. She had never found the time or reason to get glass boots to finish her set; leather boots suited her just fine, and were cheap enough she didn't mind throwing out a pair every time she was soaking wet, or covered in blood or whatever sludge was in the bottom of crypts and ruins.
Spread out, she could truly admire how the malachite seemed to bring out a cold ocean's blue swirling in the ebony, meeting the darker cobalt in a crash of indigo even in the warm light of candles. Gods, regular glass armor looked absolutely childish next to this. It was styled more like the armor Farkas and Vilkas wore than the elven-style glass, but if anything it looked to offer more protection with its long skirt of ebony and malachite mail and plates instead of their layered leather skirts. Eorlund was more of a master than all the stories smiths traded about him.
She smiled and pulled the chest from under her bed with a heavy scrape, grunting under the effort. Reaching under the bed, Nariilu felt around for the hidden hollow knot in the wood that hid a key to a few of her chests. She opened the chest and frowned. She'd have to make room for Kodlak's books. She sifted through them and chose one, A Complete History and Culture of the Glenmoril Wyrd as Collected by a Former Wyress, to keep out of the chest. Nariilu pulled out some of the more irregular dragon bones laying crosswise in the chest and stacked up the scales into neat piles. She wasn't sure if they had fallen when she pulled out the chest, or if she had tossed them in haphazardly.
She wasn't sure how to make the goblets fit after she tucked the books in between some dragon bones and burial urns full of jewels. It was a choice between keeping out the large dragon bones, less likely to be stolen if some idiot thief did break in if for only how damned heavy they were, and a set of eight goblets, beautifully inlaid with rubies and delicate etchings of gold and silver, easily worth a thousand Septims each. The bones were more or less useless, Nariilu couldn't recall why she took so many bones and scales from her early dragon kills, but she placed them back inside the chest and arranged the goblets on her dresser.
The book wasn't as interesting as it should've been, and instead read like any Imperial scholar's history tome despite it's outlandish content. Nariilu often found herself distracted often, with the nagging thought in the back of her head that she really ought to draft up a will and figure out someone she wouldn't mind giving her wealth to.
J'zargo was the best choice, she supposed. He could fund a lifetime of magical research with her wealth and leaving money to a partner was the typical thing to do, even though they were only casually together for their hectic lives and the general attitude towards Dunmer and Khajiit in Skyrim, let alone together. Since she and J'zargo had no official partnership, Nariilu figured that, legally, Aventus and Sophie would get it once they became of age if she didn't specify otherwise.
Then again, if, in whatever afterlife she ended up in, she could watch Nirn from beyond, it would be far more entertaining to watch everyone fight over it. Lydia and Jordis were the only ones of her Housecarls that knew where her secret stores were. Mralki would demand even more blood money for his son once he got the news, even though she had paid every Septim he asked for and more if only to alleviate some of the guilt she carried.
Others had less solid claims on her wealth, ranging from taxation from the Holds (maybe even in the Imperial City, she thought) to whatever Dunmer could craft a convincing enough lie of kinship to get a sack of Septims for themselves. Nariilu figured that Stormcloak also had a claim to some, though she wasn't sure how the Old Laws translated to inheritance. She decided the Blades would never see a single silver ring of hers as long as Delphine had her head up her ass, as much as Uthgerd deserved it for turning her life around.
Or, she could curse her wealth and bury it with her in a grand barrow where she could rise and kill anyone who tried to take it, just like the Draugr she stole it from. That was it, Nariilu decided, that's how she wanted to rest for all eternity. After all, it was almost poetic to think that some adventurer might one day be strong enough to defeat her corpse, just as she had to all those ancient kings and priests.
She frowned, then scowled. No one would ever defeat her, even in death. And, as the Last Dragonborn, no one had a chance. Nariilu would not fall to Odahviing, to Alduin, to anyone, and her barrow would be grander than any.
