Ulfric shut the leather cover and stared at the back of the Dossier for some time.

He still felt…empty.

Not just because he had eaten three, maybe four times in the last however many days, the Dossier contained none of the answers he knew it never did for the questions he didn't know. There were almost no revelations in it; all he learned was just how effective of war strategists the Thalmor were, and how easily they picked apart his strategies once everything had been laid out for them and they turned tail to flee.

The insight into his interrogations, on the other hand, left him in a calm fury that he wanted to bring with him to the Summerset Isles.

Elenwen was a master interrogator. He remembered every word she spoke to him, noting where the supposedly accurate transcripts failed by a synonym, forgotten verb, wrong punctuation, complete lack of inflection that mere ink on parchment could never capture. The way she gathered her information was a cruel work of art, her blades, whips, spells were her paintbrushes. Her poison sweet words and lovingly evil lies were the pens and inkwells of her magnum opus; she wrote by picking apart his head until she settled herself inside to stay.

The dates listed finally gave Ulfric a notion of how long he had been in his cell before he escaped-before they, she, let him escape, the Dossier insisted. He was proud of how long he held his tongue before he cried out, screaming in a whisper the precious secrets that led to the fall of the Imperial City, the fall of the once-proud Empire of Talos, the fall of his honor.

He held out until after the Great War had ended.

The last of the preparations for Odahviing's summoning were more trouble than they were worth, in Nariilu's opinion, but if it was what it took for Jarl Balgruuf to agree to her plan, so be it. She, J'zargo, and the acolytes and priests of Kynareth went street to street warding the Plains District, leaving Farengar, Colette and Danica to ward Dragonsreach and the Clouds District themselves.

She didn't envy them. Even with over a dozen of them working nearly nonstop, it had taken all damn day to cover the District. It was well over half the city and Nariilu still felt entitled to complain, and her head, aching from magicka fatigue, agreed. She downed another blue potion courtesy of Arcadia, wiped her brow, and forced one leg after the other to make the long climb to Dragonsreach, listening to J'zargo and her stomach whine the entire way, each trying to outdo the other.

The guards at opened the doors for them and Nariilu nearly stumbled at the threshold, not paying attention to the slight step. She hit J'zargo on the arm to shut up; Farengar was already reporting to Jarl Balgruuf on the state of the wards, and Kodlak Whitemane waited his turn nearby to comment on how many citizens would be where. Not many citizens were evacuating, she had noticed, or they were waiting until tomorrow. Then again, she hadn't been paying attention to the streets, except to mark the crossroads with intricate runes covered in soul dust.

"…and, of course, I'll test the wards tomorrow. Tomorrow evening," Farengar finished. Nariilu noticed how he swayed gently. She was amazed he was standing. The day before last, he had been exhausted after teaching his still experimental technique by demonstration, and even with a day of rest between, he had greeted them halfheartedly this morning. On second thought, Farengar was never much for words. She sat down near the end of the long table, a glance from the Jarl let her know he saw her.

"Thank you, Farengar. I'm sure they'll hold fast," Jarl Balgruuf said, turning to the Harbinger. Nariilu tried to delicately eat a braided loaf as quickly as possible. J'zargo looked disgusted; she knew his fatigue made him nauseated. He sat down beside her and turned away. "Harbinger?" The Jarl followed Farengar with his eyes as he only made it as far as one of the thick wooden columns before leaning heavily against it and sinking to the floor. Irileth jogged over and checked on him.

Kodlak looked away from Farengar, who weakly waved Irileth off. She didn't move from him and pulled a small vial from her side. "Everyone who seems to want to evacuate, not very many, mind, is going to Riverwood or Rorikstead," Kodlak said. Farengar refused the vial before Irileth held his jaw open and poured it down his throat. Nariilu noticed her bread was gone and reached for an apple. "Otherwise, Andurs is preparing the Hall of the Dead for, well, the living. Most of Whiterun could fit, though it seems only children will be there. Everyone else wants to raise a sword against the dragon."

"That's far too dangerous," Jarl Balgruuf frowned. A servant placed a hot roast something in front of Nariilu. J'zargo gagged at the smell and moved down a seat. She should've taken him to Breezehome or the Bannered Mare while he slept off his fatigue, but he insisted on following her and complaining.

"Such is proving honor," Kodlak answered. Irileth slung Farengar over her shoulder as if he weighed nothing. They disappeared into his study.

Nariilu swallowed thickly and wiped her mouth. "You let citizens fight during the Siege," she reminded the Jarl, though she doubted he forgot.

"The Siege was different. We have time to prepare now," Jarl Balgruuf said. "Besides, Skyrim's Civil War was their war to fight and win. My people shouldn't risk their lives for a fight that doesn't concern them."

"Tell me, Jarl, how many of your people are Nords?" She would've stood to make her point if she thought herself capable of doing so without collapsing like Farengar. Regardless, she didn't wait for an answer. "Any soul destined for Sovengarde will be devoured by Alduin. I'd say it's their fight. And, if you'll let the Nords fight, you might as well let everyone fight, else Stormcloak might get some ideas in his thick head, and none of us want that."

Jarl Balgruuf thought for a long time, long enough for Nariilu to finish off the roast and for J'zargo to vomit into a bowl so quietly she almost didn't notice. "Kodlak, would you risk the lives of your people so they can claim glory? Or would you do everything in your power to protect them, even if it may all be for naught?"

"You know it's never that simple," Kodlak answered.

Nariilu spoke up. "Odahviing won't stray from the porch. Let them fight, keep them safe, it's no matter. It's me he wants."

The Jarl frowned, closing his eyes and squaring his jaw. "Then songs shall be sung of the power and bravery of the people of Whiterun."

One day. One day until the battle with Odahviing and the Dragonborn was sleeping on the floor like a child. She had said she'd be exhausted and starving after warding the city, but Ulfric hadn't expected her to collapse with both feet barely in the door the second she returned that evening. J'zargo had at least made it to a chair, but looked no more dignified in his cramped position with stains dotting his fur and robes. Lydia tried to lift her to take to bed, but the Dragonborn, in her sleep, scolded her Housecarl so harshly she hadn't dared go near again.

"I saw her like this once," Lydia explained, spotting Ulfric inspecting the two for any signs of life in the morning. "She said it was typical for mages when they use too much magic."

"What happened?" Ulfric asked.

"Y'know Shearpoint? A dragon was spotted up there, so she and I went to look," Lydia said. "Figured it'd be a detour on the way to Ivarstead. It wasn't just a dragon on the mountain, there was a Draugr, but it could float and Shout. So, we ended up both half-dead and Nariilu used just about all her magic to kill it and then heal us. A word of advice: don't let her heal you. She's nothing more than a novice at Restoration." Lydia paused. "Gods, I hope she can't hear me." Lydia left not long after to help bolster shops the Dragonborn invested in and to get her blade sharpened, telling him to stay behind as Eorlund Graymane (the Eorlund Graymane) couldn't work with Daedric weapons. The Dragonborn would sharpen it later, she stated.

Making sure the two mages didn't roll into the hearth was all well and good, it only became trouble when people stopped by throughout the day to ask the Dragonborn about…Ulfric never found out. He answered the door in her stead and promptly cursed his name and legacy when they recognized his face. He wondered what kind of artist Balgruuf had sitting around if he was that easily recognized in Whiterun. One hunched old woman even pulled a wicked-looking dagger and demanded payment for having to replace her roof. Ulfric wordlessly handed her a bowl full of dried flowers and berries sitting on a table next to the door, and the woman smiled sweetly and thanked him.

After that, Ulfric decided not to answer the door anymore.

The same energy hung in the air as did in Windhelm in the days approaching the final siege. It grew heavier and heavier as the Imperial army came closer from a blur on the horizon to cohorts surrounding the walls and setting up camps on the roads to blockade them in. Difference was, instead of over a week for everyone to become content with their lot, Whiterun had three days.

Clans Graymane and Battleborn paid for carriages for anyone that wanted to flee, and all four left filled with children, the crippled, and the pregnant for Riverwood and Rorikstead. The ones who hadn't secured a spot, families with older children who could make the day's journey to either village left on foot or on horse if they were lucky enough. And even then, it wasn't very many who left Whiterun.

Even if they hated the very ground he walked on, Ulfric couldn't help but feel pride for the brave people of Whiterun.

And he couldn't help but pray for their lives and souls every second he found the chance. He wondered if it would be different if they had seen what happened at Helgen, but survivors had been almost nonexistent, even from such a well guarded border pass of a city as Helgen, the only place in Skyrim to give Markarth's 'city of stone' claims a run for its silver. Whiterun was all thatch roofs and wood supports and as flammable as kindling and even shaped like a bonfire to some degree.

A knock sounded at the door and then again after Ulfric remained in place, flipping through the book she had left lying on the table the night before, The Magical Makings of Lycanthropes. The author came to the conclusion early on that it was a curse-or blessing, as the author stated-of Hircine, and had little to fill the pages after except excruciatingly detailed descriptions of rituals to invoke the Daedric Prince and gain the curse of the reader's choosing. She had scrawled notes here and there on scraps of parchment between the pages, her disbelief at some of the rituals assured Ulfric that, no, she wasn't looking to become a beast.

After the third knock sounded with Ulfric still unmoving from his spot, the door suddenly swung open. Ulfric whipped around, half expecting Lydia, but instead locked eyes with a slight Nord woman in smeared face paint and fur armor that looked like it had seen more than it's fair share of battles. He stood up, and she looked confused, glancing from him, to J'zargo, to the Dragonborn on the floor. "Oh," she said. "I'll come back later then."

Ulfric was surprised he managed to get to the door before she shut it without knocking anything over or stepping on the Dragonborn. He blocked it with his arm, questions to her silent in his eyes. 'Who are you, why did you just open the door, what are you here for?'

"Look," she said, not letting go of the handle, though she stopped pulling, "I had something I needed to say to Nariilu."

"I'll take a message for her," Ulfric responded. He noticed a heavy hunting bow on her back and a quiver full to bursting on her hip.

The woman frowned and stepped back, crossing her arms. "It's for her ears only, pal. Tell her Aela stopped by. I'll be at Jorrvaskr if she wants to hear what I've got to say."

"You're a Companion," Ulfric said, more of a question than anything.

Aela rolled her eyes. "Yes, I'm a Companion. That means I won't be on the porch tomorrow, and I'm in a foul mood about it. I'm not interested in talking to some mercenary Nariilu hired from Oblivion-knows-where, alright? Tell her what I told you." She looked past Ulfric to the Dragonborn again. "And if you survive, might as well see if you're up to par for the Companions. We don't pay as well as most mercenary jobs do, but it should never be about the coin in my opinion. Don't know about yours, though."

"I'll…keep it in mind."

Aela nodded and sized him up once more. Ulfric felt her stare right through him. She chuckled and left without another word. Ulfric couldn't decide which was worse, having an entire Hold hate him on sight, or being mistaken for an amateur hireling.

Nariilu knew she was on the floor when she stretched and felt a burning log crumble to ash at her touch before she ripped her hand back into herself with a hiss. She lay there for a few more minutes and tried to go back to sleep, but her hand stung and the wood floor was rough and uneven and cold and she could feel Stormcloak staring at her restless squirming. She cursed and pushed herself up to sit. "What time is it?"

"Late afternoon," Stormcloak answered. He sat at the near side of the table, one foot tucked beneath him.

"Divines," she groaned. Nariilu wondered if she'd be able to sleep that night. She had to be in better than her best shape for tomorrow. She scooted over and poked J'zargo's foot, noting a twitch of his nose. He'd be up soon enough. Good, she wanted to spend at least some time with him when he wasn't strutting around the city daring the guards to arrest him. "Where's Lydia?" She asked, hoping the answer was 'bringing food'. Despite filling herself to bursting the night before on Balgruuf's food, she was just as hungry as then after a day of sleeping off her fatigue.

"Sharpening her blade."

She almost forgot she had to sharpen the swords. "I'll sharpen ours this evening," Nariilu said. Once I stop sitting on the floor like a child. She stood with a grunt, inspecting her hand. Still deep grey, not even barely pink; it wasn't burned.

"A woman came by," Stormcloak said. "A Companion named Aela."

Nariilu waited for him to continue. When he didn't, she pressed, "I doubt she only told you her name and left."

"She said she'd be at Jorrvaskr if you wanted to hear what she said. Then she assumed me to be a mercenary and invited me to join the Companions."

She decided she'd wake Aela up near dawn and hear it then. Nariilu stood up with too much effort and inspected the cooking pot. Empty save for remnants of some soup. She frowned, looking over to the table where Stormcloak sat, a book much thinner than his Dossier spread open in front of him. He'd finished it, and hadn't seemed to have lost his mind. On second thought, he seemed more subdued and was looking at her almost without any sign of anger or hatred.

Even more pressing, a half-filled pie plate sat over to the far side of the table. Nariilu sat down beside him and pulled the plate to her, grabbing a fork and taking a taste. Mammoth snout, the tough, salty filling revealed. "Bit of light reading?" She asked in the time it took to refill her fork and bring it to her mouth. Stormcloak turned over the book to reveal the cover and nearly choked, and not because of the rubbery meat.

Nariilu knew for a damned fact she'd left The Magical Makings of Lycanthropes tucked in the drawer of her end table underneath some spell scrolls she'd never use and nobody in Whiterun cared to buy. "Well," she started, deciding not to be mad that he'd rifled through her things again, even though it was much more serious when it was her house instead of her saddlebags. She forced the hot anger rising in her chest to cool, the dragons dancing beneath her skin to quiet, and continued. "I figured I'd make you a bear in more than just title, if we both survive. Shame you had to spoil the surprise."

"And a shame you can't do the same for yourself. I couldn't find a weredragon ritual in here," Stormcloak retorted. "Then again, I've not been reading too closely. Magic and I don't mix."

He joked back at her. Nariilu dropped her fork with a clatter, looking over at his barely smiling-smiling?-face. "Are you feeling alright?" She stumbled over the words, running through a list of diagnoses in her head. She began with madness and ended with possession, toying with the idea of brain rot and a meddling Daedric Prince.

"You were right," he said. Nariilu waited for him to continue, looking for any sign of abnormality. She found none; the joviality had disappeared from his face and Stormcloak was back to looking as stoic as ever.

"About what?" She was right about everything, she thought, except for a few inconsequential things here and there. She kept that to herself, waiting whilst Stormcloak gathered his thoughts.

"The Thalmor. I played right into their bloody hands."

He didn't elaborate, and he didn't need to. Stormcloak's Dossier was elaborate to a fault, with plans and strategies for his use clearly written so any brainless Agent could understand. "You couldn't've known," she said. Nariilu wondered if it would be rude to keep eating.

"I should have."

She decided it wasn't an issue if she filled the silence with another mouthful of pie.

"After tomorrow, what are your plans?" Stormcloak finally asked.

Nariilu poked at the pie plate. "That depends on what Odahviing knows. Killing Alduin comes first on my to-do list. After that, I'd like to go to Solitude and start chatting with the political pawns. The Emperor's cousin has her wedding in a few months and I need to be more important than the bride herself by then." If the Eye of Magnus didn't turn Nirn inside out before then. A detour to the College might be necessary, though she hoped it would stay stable for the next era or two if Tolfdir could leave the damn thing alone. "And I told Maven I'd get her piss-mead into Solitude. Elisif hates the bitch, too. It's the only reasonable thought that's ever passed through her pretty little head."

"How long until you make a claim for the Ruby Throne?"

She'd thought on this extensively before and still had no answer. Nariilu imagined Stormcloak went through the same mental gymnastics deciding when to challenge Torygg. "Whenever it feels right," she answered. Likely when Mede died, and the turmoil of succession with no direct heirs came to a head. But before then, she needed to either have herself or Stormcloak as High King to secure Skyrim, and more than enough support from the Imperial City and the Senators. She'd need to send a letter to that Councilor of House Redoran, too. Morrowind would be easy enough; she was Dunmer, after all. High Rock and Hammerfell would be different matters entirely, along with Black Marsh and the Dominion states of Valenwood and Elsweyr, but J'zargo would be useful in that he at least spoke Khajiiti.

"And when will the Dominion be nothing more than a footnote in history?"

"The second they make the mistake of crossing me." After she was Empress. Until she had an army of her own, a big one, the Dominion as a whole would be out of her reach. Even the Agents and Justiciars in the cities she couldn't touch just yet. Not until she had more power, more dread attached to her name. Nameless Thalmor patrols that had the misfortune of passing her on the road were a different story; they'd be dead before they could even cast mage armors. "I'm glad you're taking your Dossier well."

"It's back in the wall," Stormcloak responded. She nodded and turned back to the pie. Nariilu was half-surprised he didn't destroy it. "It's full of reminders that I hate the Thalmor more than I hate you."

"Then I don't have to worry about you gutting me in my sleep until the Thalmor are rotting in their graves," Nariilu said. She wondered why mammoth snout was the cut of choice from such a large animal. Surely it had more than enough tender, flavorful flank to go around. "We'll be unstoppable."

"What happens to me if you die tomorrow?" Stormcloak asked after a long silence.

"You said Aela invited you to join the Companions," Nariilu replied. She'd rather he didn't, but she also would rather not die. "The Blades are recruiting, too. Uthgerd can take you to Sky Ruler Temple, near Karthspire. The College would take you, too. You got in with the Thu'um."

"Essentially, I'm on my own."

Nariilu nodded. Traditionally, he would go to her next of kin, but the Ash-King wasn't around to complain, and she doubted two children had any use for him. "For all I care, go to one of the remaining Stormcloak camps and start another rebellion."

"I might succeed without you alive to ruin everything," Stormcloak said. Nariilu didn't know if she'd ever get used to him not sounding like someone had pissed in his boots.

J'zargo groaned, stirring from his sleep. "This one has more money than the Mane, and spends it on uncomfortable chairs."

"You're not supposed to sleep in chairs," Nariilu answered. She swung a foot over the bench and grabbed a pitcher half-full of water just in case J'zargo needed to gag into something. "How are you feeling?"

"J'zargo would rather spend the rest of his days in Blackreach," he answered. J'zargo stretched over the chair, his back popping loudly into place. Stormcloak winced at the sound.

"Healing or magicka?"

"Both."

Nariilu got up and went to the alchemy table, grabbing a red and blue potion from underneath, making a quick count of her potions as she did so. A dozen or so health potions, about half as many magicka potions, and only two stamina potions. She placed them on the table next to J'zargo and felt the strain of walking the short distance to the other room and back again. "Don't drink too fast; they'll be no good if you hack them all over my floor," she warned.

J'zargo either didn't hear her or didn't care and uncorked the health potion, downing it in one smooth drink. Nariilu cursed and grabbed a bowl, turning it over to empty it of flowers before placing it in his lap. He did the same with the magicka potion. She sighed and went back to the table, sitting down to finish off the pie. There were only a few bites left; Nariilu hadn't noticed how quickly she had eaten it.

"Perhaps you shouldn't've wasted so much effort warding the city," Stormcloak mentioned.

"If Farengar reports a single hole in the ward, Jarl Balgruuf will call the entire thing off," Nariilu replied.

"Are the other mages any better?"

Nariilu shrugged. "Magicka fatigue affects everyone differently. Nobody was bleeding from their eyes, though, so that's a good sign."

"One of the acolytes had a nosebleed," J'zargo said.

"That's not nearly as dangerous," Nariilu said. "They'll be fine for tomorrow." She looked at the empty pie pan and wondered if she should wait before getting more food. She stood up, feeling a soreness in her legs as she did. "Stormcloak, your sword. I'm going to go sharpen it."

He pulled his sword off of his belt and handed it to her. Nariilu disappeared to the back of the house, throwing some water on her grindstone. She sat down and turned the wheel, letting sparks fly around her and clearing her mind as she ran the blade over and over the rough stone, taking special care at each of the guthooks. When she felt it was sharp enough, she tested it first on the back of her hand, then on a handful of her hair.

Nariilu repeated the process for her blade, using it to chop off the rest of her hair until it came to just below her ears instead of to barely above her shoulders as it had grown over the past few weeks. She'd enjoyed having quick-growing hair until she started working with hot forges. Growing up, hair cutting days had meant extra Septims twice a year after the lengths were sold to wig makers, brush makers, alchemists, anyone who would buy it. Now, they meant her blades were that much more dangerous.

It took her long enough to finish the two swords that the sky was beginning to darken with sunset, and she had decided that yes, she could eat another mammoth snout pie. She came back inside to find J'zargo still sitting in the same chair, Stormcloak back to reading, and Lydia nowhere to be found.

"Are you going back to the Bannered Mare tonight?" She asked J'zargo as she handed Stormcloak his sword. He took it and, after inspecting it briefly, sheathed it. She half hoped he would say no; her bed was uncomfortably cold and it would be nice to share it with someone who had warmth to spare and didn't have any cultural qualms about sharing some with her.

J'zargo nodded from across the room. "J'zargo needs more money. The innkeeper charges Khajiit extra," he said. "She must use J'zargo for all the missed coin she does not get from other Khajiit."

"Just be glad you've not been arrested again," Nariilu muttered. No matter; it would be better to not be distracted. Besides, Stormcloak would never have anything to do with her, nor would he let her hear the end of it, if he discovered her Barenzian goings-on. She grabbed a pouch of coins off a shelf and tossed them to J'zargo. He almost fumbled them into the hearth. "I'm amazed Hulda's still charging you, as much as I've put into her damned inn."

"J'zargo couldn't stay if this one had not invested."

Nariilu hummed in agreement. She'd wondered if Hulda had upcharged her before for mead and wines, but never been entirely sure. As much as Uthgerd had spent there, she'd never kept track of what cost which. All Nariilu knew is that Hulda was charging Solitude prices; she didn't know if Nords were paying Riften prices instead. "Where's my Housecarl?"

Stormcloak shrugged. "Lydia hasn't been back since this morning." Nariilu grabbed a magicka potion before making her way to the cooking pot. "Just how many investments do you have in Whiterun?"

"I've got at least 500 Septims in every business in the city," Nariilu responded. Or, Septim-equivalent, she supposed. Most of her investments were funded with gems, worth even more to merchants with the right connections to jewelers across Skyrim and the Empire. She refused to give a single pebble to Chillfurrow Farm, but as that was outside of the walls, she supposed it didn't count. "I didn't expect her to do more than move merchandise into cellars. She'll be back eventually, I suppose. Which Shouts do you know?"

She supposed Stormcloak hadn't realized she had been talking to him at first, because it took him far too long to reply, "Unrelenting Force and Disarm."

Only two. Only two Shouts, six Words of Power, at most. "What does Disarm do?" She hadn't come across that Shout yet, or no dragon had known it.

Stormcloak looked at her as if she was a fool. "It disarms an opponent."

"Of their weapon? Of their Voice?"

"Weapon."

On second thought, she wondered if that was the Shout so many Draugr were fond of. No wonder she hadn't learned it yet; not many dragons would find much use in flinging an opponent's sword from them, not when they could swallow someone whole. "Ah. Well, don't use it against Odahviing. I doubt he wields a warhammer. And hand me your helmet. You won't be able to Shout with that face-plate on."

It was after dark when J'zargo left for the Bannered Mare, and Nariilu went with him, mostly because she didn't want to deal with having to bail him out of jail the next morning. There were always new guards that didn't know what he looked like, and, seeing as he was the only Khajiit allowed in the city, he stuck out compared to the Men that made up a huge majority of the population. He drew eyes even more so at night, when the guards were already on alert for actual thieves and n'er-do-wells. She also went with him out of what definitely wasn't desperation, no. "I'm not just saying that you can stay with me, you know."

"J'zargo is aware." He kept his back straight, even though he usually slouched with a distinctive Khajiit posture. He didn't want to get arrested again, either.

"So then why-"

"This one has been changed by war."

Nariilu stopped in her tracks. "What does that even mean?" She'd been changed by the Great War. The Civil War? Changed to a Thane in a few Holds, that was about it.

"There is a hunger in you." J'zargo kept walking a few more steps before he realized she'd stopped. He turned to face her and stepped closer. "You want more than this world can give. Khajiit can sense it."

It wasn't the first time he compared himself to the world. "Are you saying I'm too attached?"

J'zargo frowned and shook his head. "No, no, J'zargo does not speak about what is between the two of us. This one…" J'zargo sighed and moved off the main road. She followed. "This one's talk of conquest used to be playful. Now-"

"Now I have the power to actually do it," Nariilu crossed her arms.

"It concerns J'zargo. Khajiit knows many have fallen to their own pride. J'zargo does not want this one to number among them."

"And I won't, especially not with you at my side," Nariilu said. J'zargo raised an eyebrow stripe. "As my unparalleled court mage," she added. J'zargo shook his head again. "Look, I don't see what's so horrible about having ambition."

"Ambition and delusion are different."

Delusion? It wouldn't be delusion when she lit the Dragonfires with her own breath, when all of Tamriel-all of Nirn-was united under her banner. "The first thing you ever said to me was a promise that you're the most powerful destruction mage of all time. What happened to wanting to be the best? Do you see me as a threat, J'zargo?"

"This one will destroy herself." His hood lowered; J'zargo had flattened his ears to his head.

Nariilu steamed. "Then hold me back so I won't claim my destiny. Or I will destroy everything and be reborn as a god."

"Your destiny is to defeat Alduin. Nothing more," he said. Nariilu waited for him to go on, and he didn't. What did he know about destiny? The best destiny he could claim was to stand by her side as she brought peace, finally, to Nirn. She had chosen him as her right hand man, and he'd better see that he accepted because an unruly mage was no good to anyone. Gods, Nariilu would hate to have to kill him, but at this rate-

She stopped herself and forced her mind to quiet, forced the souls to still. Nariilu took a deep breath to collect herself, then finally replied. "I obviously need someone to restrain me. You know me better than anyone, J'zargo, so please, be there to stop me."

J'zargo squeezed his eyes shut and looked away. "Do not tell anyone that J'zargo admitted this, but this one is far stronger than he. J'zargo is no match for you," he said. He sighed and looked into her eyes, disarming her more effectively than a Draugr's Shout. "I fear that if this one truly needs to be stopped J'zargo will be the first to die." He swallowed thickly. "By your hand," J'zargo finished.

"You think I'd kill you," Nariilu responded flatly. She was more than capable of it, the thought over how easy it would be to catch J'zargo off guard bubbled up in her stomach like poorly cured meat. She could imagine dozens of ways to take him even in his best condition, and she wanted to try her luck and see just how long he would last against her. Nariilu's fingers twitched and she fought them to keep ice from crawling up her hands. No.

Shit. J'zargo had a point and, judging by the way he tilted his head, he knew he'd made it. Nariilu swallowed a thick lump that built itself in her throat. "How can I convince you otherwise?" She asked. She needed him to trust her so she could trust herself through him.

He was silent for too long, though it was likely because a guard had wandered past on his patrol and it was best not to attract attention. Still, even after the guard had disappeared from earshot and sight, J'zargo didn't speak. "Come back to the College after Alduin is dead. J'zargo will suffer through a school other than Destruction with this one, for we both should channel our energy into calmer endeavors."

"'Calmer endeavors', huh?" Battlemages didn't focus much on calmer endeavors, except to magically Calm others with Illusion. "There's a double meaning to what you're saying."

"This one is skilled enough to determine the second meaning, perhaps even the third." J'zargo let a little smirk fall into his voice. "Perhaps a small bet is in order. If you kill me, you must contract a bard to write a song of the tale of J'zargo, the Khajiit who was always right."

"Gods, I'm surprised you've not already hired your own personal bard to sing of your misadventures," Nariilu groaned. She bit back a small laugh. J'zargo hated oppressive moods and was quite skilled at dispelling them with words alone.

"If you do not kill J'zargo," he continued as if he hadn't heard her. "You must provide J'zargo with whatever his heart desires, as payment for putting up with you. And, considering that J'zargo is not dead by your hand, I have my first request."