Resolving Other People's Issues

8˂̶ ̶ ̶ ̶ ̶ ̶̶ ̶{o

Xander had never pegged himself as much of a traveller, yet here he was, gradually ticking off every hold in a foreign country from his list of tourist visits.

Winterhold was quiet, sometimes eerily so, and walking through Riften brought about the constant feeling of being watched. But no city had ever evoked quite the unease in Alexander Meteuse that Markarth did.

No settlement this big should be this…silent.

Both L'laarzen's boots and his own were muffled, and so there was no noise from them as they crept through the city's streets. No noise, period, except the occasional sound of an animal, whistle of wind, or rubble tumbling in the distance. And the waterfall, obviously, and it's background roar.

The streets were cold, the walls loomed, and Xander was feeling very small.

"Here." L'laarzen muttered, pointing up at a sign. It was too dark for him to make it out, but she continued "The Hag's Cure. This is your stop, no?"

He nodded, knowing her Khajiit eyes would track it just fine (even if he was having trouble making out her features). "That's it. Thanks."

"Are you expected?"

He winced. "Yes, but…"

"L'laarzen understands." She knelt down by the keyhole, withdrawing some spiky things from her pack and getting to work.

It took L'laarzen less than a minute to produce a small 'click' from the lock, before putting her eye and then her ear to the keyhole.

"It is occupied." She said, stepping back. "I hear conversation from inside. There is low candlelight beyond the entrance." Her ears flicked. "Would you mind sharing what this is about?"

"Uh, sorry. Confidential." Xander made an apologetic face, sidling past her to the door. "Do you want to wait here, or..?"

"Hmph. Yes, L'laarzen will wait." She pressed herself into a nook in the nearby rock, almost vanishing before his eyes. "You should get started. We are low on time."

"Right. Thanks again." He gave her a grateful smile, grabbed the door handle, and pushed.

The first thing he thought upon entering the Hag's Cure was Oh, wait, what if there's a bell?

There wasn't a bell, and the door opened soundlessly.

The room was empty, as L'laarzen had indicated, the front desk of a store immediately recognisable even in the dark. Now he was inside, he could pick up the voices that L'laarzen had mentioned. Two women, by the sound of it, speaking in hushed tones in the dark.

"You can't keep doing this, Muiri!"

"They're the city guard! What am I supposed to do, turn them away, have them make a fuss?"

"They wouldn't, not if the racket might draw attention to them as well. We need to keep our heads down."

"They brought a man who was dying to the door, Bothela! What should I have done, let him?"

"And what happens when the next one comes? When the Silver-Bloods or the Thalmor catch wind that you're giving healing away? We'll be ransacked! Our potions are running low as it is!"

"So's our food! And they already know what the shop is. Would you rather they break in after we've helped them, or after we've let their comrades die?"

Xander slowly straightened, one hand reaching inside his own satchel. This is Muiri? Trying to be philanthropic in a crisis? Doesn't sound like a woman who'd be performing blood rituals for an assassination.

The other woman, Bothela, sighed. "Gods help you, girl…we'll save it for the morning, I'm going to sleep. Check the locks and blow out the candles, will you?"

"Yes, Bothela."

Aaand that was his clue. Xander briefly looked down at what he'd pulled from his bag. It wasn't something he'd had cause to wear before; the enchantments didn't affect him and concealing his face wasn't something he'd needed to do before. But it would certainly come in handy now.

He slipped the mask of Morokei over his head.

When Muiri opened the door to the Hag's Cure's storefront, she let out a quiet, strangled gasp.

What she saw was a figure in black robes, form-obscuring and clinging unnaturally to the shadows. It wore a silver, barely human-looking mask that glinted gently in the light of the candle she held, and had a black sword sheathed at its waist.

Xander wasn't trained in stealth. But he was rather proficient at enchanting (and sewing), and upon seeing himself in a mirror he had decided he looked pretty bloody scary.

He remained silent, trying not to move and keeping his eyes on her.

Muiri, eyes wide and hands shaking, stared right back at him.

"Muiri?" Bothela called from the other room. "You alright in there?"

Xander tilted his head.

"Y—yes. Just, jumping at shadows." Muiri called back. She then turned slightly, never taking her gaze off him, and pulled the door behind her closed.

After it clicked, Xander finally spoke.

"You called?" He said, and oh, wow, the mask modulated his voice on the way out. Creepy.

"Yes." Muiri said, hoarsely. She gulped, and continued. "You're with…them, then? The Dark Brotherhood?"

"Indeed." Xander realised he was having fun, and tried to quash it.

"Oh. Oh! Only, I thought, what with the gate, and the fighting, I mean—" Muiri had clearly never done this before. "How did you even get in?"

Xander raised an eyebrow, and by the time he remembered she couldn't see that she had already continued "That was a stupid question, I'm sorry, I, I don't want to waste any of your time—"

"Then don't." Xander cut across her. "What is your contract?" Okay, who am I kidding. This is really fun. Look at her! Look at me! This is like a scene out of a play!

"Right, of course." At the mention of a contract, Muiri's eyes narrowed. "I have someone I need you to kill. Two someones, actually, if that's allowed. The main target is a bastard called Alain Dufont. The other is secondary, but I'll still pay you for: Nilsine Shatter-Shield."

Uh. Night Mother? Is that allowed?

The Black Sacrament condemns one soul to Sithis. Payment, methods, secondary targets; all trivial. Do as you will.

Alrighty then.

"Details." He pressed. "Where? For what?"

"Oh, right. Alain is a liar, a scumbag, and a criminal. He's the leader of a bandit camp, up in the old Dwemer ruin of Raldbthar. I don't know if you have standard rates, but, I can pay you a thousand gold!"

Xander almost choked. He was a noble, it wasn't a lot, but it was in the category of Big Money: The kind you read on cheque sheets rather than carried in coin.

Okay, hear me out, said a part of him, but we could reconsider the 'being an assassin' thing if it—

Shut it. Said the moral part of him.

"It is acceptable." Said his mouth. "The other?"

"Nilsine lives in Windhelm." Muiri continued. "Her and her family are basically nobility there, not hard to find. Guarded, obviously, so you'll probably have to—What am I saying, I'm sure you know what you're doing, I've just never done this before…" She was visibly sweating, and wiped her forehead with one sleeve. "I don't really have any more money, but I have a special ring that's enchanted to improve my potions. It's valuable."

Pfffffft, this woman thinks I don't know 'fortify alchemy'. Okay, that's fair, that's a very complicated enchantment.

"It will be considered." He turned to the door, both because it felt suitable, and because of an itch in his right arm that had refused to go away while he was forcing himself to be still.

What else do I need? Well, I suppose I don't 'need' anything more. Only…

"Why do you wish for them to die?" He asked.

"Huh?" Muiri looked caught off guard by the question. "Why? Aren't you supposed to be anonymous and everything?"

"You are not obligated to tell me." Xander told her. But he didn't move towards the door. No way she has the guts to actively dismiss me. Plus, with the anger in those eyes, she really wants to get this off her chest…

"They betrayed me." Muiri clenched her fists, scowling at the floor. "The Shatter-Shields were family friends of mine. One of their daughters, Friga, was murdered some time ago, and I was grieving with them when I met…him. Alain. He was so charming, and kind, and handsome, but…but he used me. Used me to get close to them, and then used the opportunity to rob them blind! Stole their valuables, their family hammer, ruined them!"

"Yet you are not in Windhelm anymore." Xander observed.

"No. They blamed me for letting Dufont in. Me! As though I'm not just as much a victim as they are! They treated me like an outsider, after all the time we spent together, they—" She cut herself off, likely realising that her voice was getting too loud.

"I want them to hurt as much as I hurt." She finished. "Maybe if they lose a third daughter, they'll realise the mistake they made casting out the second."

…Sithis' left testicle, that was dark.

Xander turned to the door again, walking slowly away.

"So, is that it? Do you accept? Will you do it?"

He paused, with a hand on the door. "The Dark Brotherhood does not fail." He said, simply.

The door opened, and he walked out into the street.

̶ ̶ ̶ ̶ ̶ ̶̶ ̶ ̶͜͡|

At this point, Elisif wasn't even surprised when the fog cleared to reveal a clearing, with Potema stood on the opposite side of it. She just readied herself and focused on what was actually in the clearing.

This was a fairly simple one. A wide, plain circle of grass, with a bed in the middle. On that bed lay Pelagius, sleeping; though he regularly twitched, tossing and turning in the covers. Around him, ethereal, half visible spectres appeared and disappeared at random. Witches, bandits, daedra; a menagerie of the frightening and generally unpleasant. Among them all were visions of Pelagius himself. Usually a child. Always clearly terrified.

"Nightmares." Elisif summarised, walking closer. "How are we supposed to help him with nightmares?"

"We could try and wake him up?" Potema offered, also approaching. They came to a halt on either side of the bed, looking down at the poor man.

"Temporary solution at best." Elisif replied, keeping her voice low. "I had nightmares almost every night for months after Torryg died. Trying to stay awake just left me more exhausted, and sleep was always there waiting for me eventually."

"Torryg, your husband?" Potema confirmed, also quietly. At Elisif's nod, she added "I'm sorry. I told you I'd kill the one responsible."

"Thank you. But it's not your fault, and killing Ulfric won't bring Torryg back." Elisif sat down on the edge of the bed, looking at Pelagius' face.

An idea popped into her head. "We could try singing to him? When I was young, my mother would sometimes sing to me to help me sleep."

"Aww." Potema cooed. Elisif shot her a glare, and she chuckled. "Sorry. It's not a bad idea. Know any lullabies? I can sing, but funnily enough I don't know anything 'gentle'. It's mostly operas and ritual chants."

"Somehow doesn't surprise me." Elisif sighed, smiling despite herself. She tried to think of any ballads that she knew the lyrics to. The first thing that popped to mind was 'Age of Aggression', that chant sang by Imperial soldiers and the bards that played in Imperial cities. Wonder which version came first, our version or the Stormcloak one? Or did they manifest together atop some older ditty?

But a song about war didn't strike her as soothing for a man that had spent his childhood surrounded by it. Instead, a different tune appeared in her head; one she'd started to hear only over the last few weeks, particularly after the recent attack on Solitude.

"Our hero, our hero, claims a warrior's heart," She sang, haltingly at first, then more confidently when the simple melody clicked fully in her head. "I tell you, I tell you, the Dragonborn comes."

A war anthem was one thing, but who didn't like a song about a hero?

She kept going, at first painfully aware of Potema's focus on her, but soon losing herself in the lullaby. Once she got to the section in the middle that was just vocalised 'aah's, the wolf queen joined in, adding her own harmony. Then she followed it up with her own verse in what sounded like Dovahzuul, of all things. What was even stranger was that Elisif found herself understanding what the words meant, at least on a basic level. And when Potema returned to the vocalised section, this time with lyrics in the dragon tongue, Elisif sang along with her.

"But a day, shall arise, when the dark dragon's lies, will be silenced forever and then…Fair Skyrim will be free from foul Alduin's maw…Dragonborn, Dragonborn, by his honour is sworn…"

Most lullabies probably weren't so triumphant. But they made it work. By the end, Elisif herself was feeling a little drowsy. She looked over to see Potema gently stroking Pelagius' hair.

"Where did you get those lyrics from?" She asked.

"Old Nord song. Derived from a prophesy, I think." Potema replied, not looking away from her nephew. "I believe what the bards are singing nowadays is a bastardisation of it."

"Think the prophesy's true?"

"I hope so. Can't rule Tamriel if the dragons beat me to it."

Quiet, for another few seconds.

Elisif scrutinised Potema, frowning. Despite the clunky armour she still wore, this was perhaps the most serene the woman had ever looked. Her expression, her posture, the repetitive, simple motion of her hand on Pelagius' head…She looked more like a mother than a wolf.

"If I told you," Elisif said, "that scholars across the Empire have referred to you as 'unambiguously evil', what would you say?"

"I wouldn't be surprised." Potema replied, without hesitating. "It's not that I'm incapable of empathy. Just very selfish with it. The people I care for are very few, but…I'd move the world for them."

"Is that why you were so desperate to come and help Pelagius?" Elisif asked.

"I suppose. His father was an enemy of mine, back in the day, but…Pelagius was just a child. My family. And now he's the only remnant left of my first life. You can't imagine what it's like to appear centuries in the future, family dead, everyone you ever knew, dead."

"Yes, I can." Elisif said. And it was true, even if that made no sense.

Potema finally looked across at her.

"Yes." She said, after a second. "I suppose you can."

She turned her attention back to Pelagius, and Elisif looked down at the floor.

"I care for you, too." Potema said, after a while. "I can't really help it. Whatever Sybille did to us, accidentally or otherwise, its pushed us closer than two souls are supposed to go. You feel what I feel, and vice versa. How do you think you were suddenly speaking Dovahzuul just now?"

"Care for me." Elisif smiled, bitterly. "You have a funny way of showing it."

"I know." Potema sighed. "That's the problem. At first, I was fine with this situation, but now…I don't want to trap your consciousness in a prison for a lifetime or more. I like you."

"Then don't."

"Alright, then what?" Potema asked. "Are you asking me to die? I won't, not for you, not for anyone. Or if I do nothing, we get squished together until there isn't any difference between us anymore. There's just someone in your body, a hodgepodge of two minds. Whatever's left might not be either of us anymore. Might be madder than my poor nephew."

She reached out and laid a hand on Elisif's shoulder. "Let me set up a partition around you. I've been laying the groundwork for it ever since I got into your head. You'll still be you, and—"

"And you'll have my body." Elisif said, hoarsely.

"I'll not leave you stuck in there, I promise." Potema insisted. "I'll let you have control to spend time with Dulurza and your other friends, I'll eat the foods you like sometimes, I'll take you to operas, bathhouses, whatever you enjoy—"

"While you drive my country to ruin?" Elisif asked.

"The Empire would have been fine if they'd just let me have it." Potema hissed, grimacing. Her rage flooded across to Elisif, making her fists clench, but some of Elisif's feelings must have bled back because Potema rapidly continued "I'll be good! I'll listen to what they want, I'll not summon Daedra unless I really have to, I—"

"Will have control." Elisif finished. "I believe you. But I'll still be your slave."

Potema whimpered. Elisif didn't know any better word for the noise that came out of her mouth.

"Why not put the partition around yourself?" Elisif offered. "Stay around, and leave me control of my own body."

"It's not that simple!" Potema protested. "You don't know how to maintain a spell that complicated, and then I'd be the one at your mercy, and you'd have every right to make me suffer for everything I've done, and…"

"You don't want to lose." Elisif summarised. "Even though you know sometimes you have to."

"And I'm afraid." Potema concluded. "Even though a Queen should know not to be crippled by fear."

Elisif smiled, weakly. "I suppose that memory overlap is starting to get rather drastic. I'm not actually sure which of Pelagius' neuroses you helped with, and which were me."

She looked Potema in the eye. "You have all the power here. And I appreciate what mercy you're willing to offer. But if you do keep me separate from you, I will be able to hate you for what you do."

"I know." Replied the Wolf Queen. "I'm sorry." She glanced around them. The spectres of Pelagius' nightmares were gone.

"Suppose that's that one done." Potema said. "Shall we?"

Elisif nodded, and stood.

They walked together into the fog.

̶ ̶ ̶ ̶ ̶ Ϫ

"Give me one reason I shouldn't kill you, you gutless murdering whore." Snarled Throngvor Silver-Blood.

Okay. Good start.

"Because I'm a werewolf." Hjar answered, flatly. "And if you tried, I would kill you, and everyone else who got between me and the exit."

Cidnah Mine was no less claustrophobic than the last time Hjar had left it. Perhaps the air was a little less chokingly heavy, with no active mining going on, but that was countered by the number of people within being somehow higher than before. The crowds of angry mercenaries and volunteers they had snuck past weren't here, however. Throngvor was bunking in Madanach's old room, and it was just him, some priest of Arkay, Hjar, and Margret in the cave.

Throngvor didn't look particularly happy with her response, but she'd needed to get thoughts of attacking her out of his head quickly. Now she backtracked, continuing,

"I don't want to fight, though. I'm here to negotiate."

"Negotiate?" He spat. "Are you mad, or do you think I am? You murdered my brother!"

"I did." Hjar nodded. This would be a tricky bit. 'It was self-defence' probably wouldn't help her here, and neither would 'but he was an evil person'. She also doubted 'please get over it and see the bigger picture' would earn her anything besides his sword.

There was one thing she thought she could say, however. "Your brother was working with the Thalmor."

"Lies." Throngvor replied, immediately.

"It's not." Margret added. "Ask his wife Betrid, if she's still around. She admitted it to me while I was in their custody."

"Oh, he told me about you." Throngvor turned his attention to her. "What's an Imperial spy doing loitering with the Forsworn?"

"Blatantly rescinding my loyalty to that Empire." Margret admitted, calmly. That, they had agreed she would say when planning the mission. "I'm a Nord first, something I hope you can understand."

"They may be right, Throngvor." Warned the priest, sat on the bed for lack of anywhere to stand. "We were both there when Thonar approached Ondolemar about 'business'—"

"Really, Verulus?" Throngvor asked, putting a name to the priest.

"Grief for a fallen brother is entirely justified," Verulus said, "but hiding the truth from yourself is dangerous. We can talk to Betrid in the morning if we need to—"

"Alright." Throngvor basically growled his agreement at the man, before turning back to the intruders. "But that doesn't excuse you. What in Skyrim could you possibly want to negotiate about?"

"An end to hostilities." Hjar answered. "Throngvor, who do you hate more? The Thalmor, or the Forsworn?"

"The Forsworn."

"Oh." Behind Hjar, Margret snorted. She glared at her companion, before adding "Alright, new question. Which of the two do you actually have a chance of reconciling with? Which one wants to take away your gods, your freedom, and your lives? And which one has just come to you with an olive branch?"

"I would never ally myself with you savages." Throngvor retorted.

"Really?" Margret spoke up, "Not even to save yourselves? Things aren't looking good for you. Control of the mine means nothing until trade is restored. You're in lockdown with mouths to feed, while your enemies have the high ground, the keep, and magical supremacy. You won't be able to survive much longer, never mind win, without raiding the homes of residents and ruining your reputation. When the dust settles and the last survivors come crawling out of the city, they'll be butchered by the Forsworn outside. And then Imperial forces will swoop down from Falkreath or Solitude and retake control of the city."

"We can change that." Hjar followed. "If you agree to work with us, the Forsworn will help make a path through or over the walls, re-establish contact with the outside."

"Impossible." Throngvor dismissed. "The city guard would never allow it."

"The city guard has already agreed." Hjar lied. "With conditions, and pending your agreement as well. If this gets done, we can sweep up to the keep together, bury the proverbial hatchet in the elves' skulls, and restore order to the city."

"Horse manure." Throngvor summarised, looking entirely unimpressed. "Lovely fantasy, but I don't believe a word of it. There's no way the Forsworn would agree to fight alongside us. And if they did, what happens afterwards? Do you expect me to hand control of the city back to the Reachmen?"

"No." And here was the money shot. Hjar took a deep breath and went for it. "I want to bring an end to the conflict completely. You and I share leadership of the hold (you can have the Jarl title, I don't care), we permit worship of Talos and the Old Gods, and the Reachmen and Nords are both allowed to live inside the—"

Throngvor laughed. It was hearty, loud, and only extremely condescending.

"You are mad." He concluded. "You think your people and mine could ever live peacefully together? With the decades of bad blood between us?"

"Me and Margret are proof it's possible." Hjar replied, trying her hardest not to let an embarrassed blush reach her face. "I know there will be resistance, I know there will be suspicion, I know there will be outright violence and I know we'll have to quell it, which would make the people angry at us. But we would only need to keep the morons in line for a few years before they shut up and got on with it."

"People would die." Throngvor countered.

"People are dying now." Hjar counter-countered. "And they're tired of it, I can see it in their eyes. I don't expect the cultures to start getting along, I've heard what Windhelm's Grey quarter looks like. But most of the regular citizens just want to live without fear of getting murdered in the street. If you intend to be Jarl, those are the people you'll have to—"

"Don't lecture me on how to lead." Throngvor interrupted. "It would be lovely if everyone would just sit down and talk through their differences, but the world isn't like that. Even if we tried, how would we stop them from going at each others' throats the moment the Thalmor are clear of Understone? Or even before?"

"You could get married?" Margret suggested.

"You could, actually, get married." Verulus confirmed.

"Shut it." Said Hjar and Throngvor, at once.

Hjar sighed, and said "People will work together against a common enemy. The Holds were a squabbling mess before the civil war started, and now they're split into two organised groups. The Forsworn and your men will do the same."

"That camaraderie ends the moment the Empire loses its grip on Markarth." Throngvor dismissed.

"Does it?" Hjar asked. "What's your plan for if everything goes perfectly, huh? You drive out the Thalmor, magically kill all the Forsworn, and then what? You're still completely surrounded by the Empire. Maybe you can pincer Falkreath from both sides with Ulfric's help to connect with the Stormcloaks, but you'll barely have the forces to contribute, never mind defend Markarth from Solitude and Morthal."

She noticed a brief flicker of appreciation from both Throngvor and Verulus. Good. She'd spent days poring over Octavia's notes on the war just to understand some of the mess Skyrim was in.

"And if you're so keen to moan about my position, what's your solution?" Throngvor asked.

Money shot number two.

"Reach independence." She said, watching his eyes go wide. "Don't tell me you haven't thought about it. Don't take a side in the war, tell the Empire we're not putting up with their nonsense but still prepared to debate. They won't want us joining Ulfric fully, so they might be willing to strike a deal. It's still bad for them if we can keep them bogged down in negotiations, meanwhile we can worry about rebuilding. But it only works if the Reach has its full strength united, and if Markarth has the silver mine."

"What do you mean if Markarth has the silver mine?" Throngvor protested.

"She means, legally, you don't." Margret pointed out. "Unless you have the deed to it, the Empire has every right to swoop down and take control."

"But the deed to Cidnah mine was lost in the —" Throngvor cut himself off, as Hjar produced a piece of parchment from her satchel and held it aloft. "...Oh, you motherf—"

"Legally, I own this mine." Said Hjar, trying not to smirk as she wafted the deed through the air. "Isn't bureaucracy funny? Now, I am a criminal, so they can ignore me. But you are an upstanding businessman, something they won't be able to disprove if we butcher the Thalmor thoroughly enough. The Empire can't forcibly take the mine from you without breaking their own law and further damaging their reputation, which they can't afford to do with such a tenuous grip on the hearts of the people. So they'll hedge, and haggle."

She leaned in closer. "Your duty is to your people. The best thing you can do for them is get as many of them out of this as possible, and then cut off the Empire's access to your mine and Hold. In the meantime, you get freedom of religion, freedom from the Thalmor, and generally everything you want." She held out the deed. "All you have to do is stop perpetuating the cycle of revenge with the Forsworn."

Throngvor stared at her for a long time.

"There's still one problem with your fun little fairy story." He said, eventually. "You, by all accounts, are a lying, sneaky, murderous, backstabbing lycanthrope, with no love for even your own family. How do I know I can trust you?"

Wow. Hjar thought. My self-esteem is just going to be completely shot by this morning, isn't it?

"There's a few answers I could give to that." She said, pondering aloud. "Firstly, that my actions indicate I honestly don't give a damn about race or culture or background, I just want what's best for people, so you can trust I'll do what's best for people. Secondly that your group is so monumentally doomed that if you don't work with me you're all going to die. Thirdly…" She shrugged. "I dunno. Have me do a quest for you. People in Skyrim really seem to like making people do dangerous quests and giving them things afterwards."

"…Get out of my mine, I need to think about this." Throngvor replied.

Hmph. Suppose I couldn't expect anything more than that.

"Send a message to Druadach Redoubt if you make your mind up." Hjar said, turning to leave. "If not, I'll be back in a couple of weeks to get an answer in person. And Throngvor?"

He narrowed his eyes.

She took a second to decide how best to phrase what she meant. Then, with a pained expression: "I have been trying so hard these last few days to resolve my problems peacefully. Please do not make me kill all of you."

With that, she turned and followed Margret out the room.

̶ ̶ ̶ ̶ ̶ ̶̶ ̶{o8˂

Xander closed the door to the Hag's cure behind himself and took a few steps away into the street, before reaching up and pulling Morokei off his face.

"Whew." He breathed. "Not as stuffy as I expected, probably an enchantment. But still, that was te—"

A form slammed into his side. He didn't have time to scream as something furry covered his mouth and a weight rammed his back against the stone of the cliffs.

"W—plth, what—" The hand removed itself, and he finally got a look at what had grabbed him, "L'laarzen?"

"Liar!" The Khajiit hissed at him. Her hands were about his throat, claws out, those and her steely gaze pinning him to the wall. "What is this? You are an assassin now? For how long have you been hiding this?"

"I haven't—You were listening?" He spluttered.

"Of course L'laarzen was listening!" She snarled. Her eyes were shining an angry gold in the darkness. "The Dark Brotherhood? The Dark. Brotherhood? You used L'laarzen to break into a city so you could set up a hit?"

Her claws were sharp, and they were digging into his skin, "L'laarzen—"

"Keep Khajiit's name out of your liar mouth! How long have you been using her to—"

"L'laarzen, you're scaring me!" He begged.

It was probably the genuine panic in his words that got through to her. Her pupils widened even further, and she dropped him, letting him sag backwards against the wall. She turned and took a few steps in the opposite direction, before rounding on him again. "Explain." She hissed. "Now."

He did. As best he could, in a terribly organised manner, over-describing trivial details and probably missing several important points.

L'laarzen barely twitched the entire time, though by the end her fists had uncurled themselves and her claws were retracted.

"So you decided to play along with your dark god." L'laarzen summarised, when he eventually ran out of breath. "And you asked L'laarzen to come with you without telling her what you were doing. Xander, that—"

"Is awful, I know. I'm so, so, sorry." Xander looked down, his gut aching almost as much as his neck. "I just…didn't know what to do, and you've always helped me before—"

"And so you used her." She hissed (literally, hissed through her teeth), turning away. "Damnit, damnit, damnit. And now L'laarzen is complicit, again. She did not want to be an assassin again, she just wanted to be a hairdresser—"

"Again?" Xander exclaimed. He didn't mean much by it, but the word made L'laarzen freeze, her fur visibly standing on end.

Wait. Actually. "L'laarzen, what do you mean 'an assassin again'?" He clarified.

She didn't look back at him. But, after a moment, "Do you intend to go through with it?"

The question threw him off. "Well, I don't—"

"You've killed before. But that had a purpose. This is Skyrim, the world is dangerous, most adults have the backbone to slay a nameless bandit or enemy soldier. For the greater good, or for their own survival." L'laarzen turned, eyes locking onto his. "But now you plan to kill a man for the sake of killing him. As an ending. You intend to name another person, track him across the country, and send him to the void. Can you do that?"

"W—Well." Suddenly, Xander's throat was very dry. "He's a criminal. A—And if I don't, Muiri goes to Sithis instead, and—"

"All sound excuses." She moved closer to him. "I hope they continue to feel hollow. I hope you struggle with your decision all the way to Raldbthar, and I hope that if you kill him, you have nightmares about it for weeks."

Xander gulped and inched back against the stone, as she pushed right up into his personal space.

"Because the alternative," she whispered, "is that you feel nothing. And take it from a cat who has killed more than you could imagine, the nothing is worse. And the nothing is not as bad as what else you could be feeling."

What in Oblivion did she mean? "Is this about the Falmer?" He tried. "L'laarzen, I told you they weren't—"

"People?" She tilted her head. "I believe you. Killing the Falmer did not feel like killing people. But killing for the Morag Tong didn't either."

Xander's jaw dropped.

L'laarzen stepped backwards again. "When we leave, drop me off at Windhelm stables. I will have no further part in this. And if you are still the young man I have come to call a friend, you will do the same."

The rest of their walk to the meeting point was made in total silence, as was their wait there in the dark. Until Hjar and Margret finally arrived. At which point L'laarzen's face lit up into it's usual semblance of kindness, and it was like their conversation had never happened.

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"Oh, that was a lyric from 'Sauce', the one where I collabed with the Gourmet. You ever meet him?"

"I'm dead."

"Oh of course, silly me. Anyway, top man! He's in Skyrim right now, I think, who do you think made this delicious spread for us this evening?"

Dulurza didn't think that Sheogorath's voice was one she was ever likely to forget. More used to walking through emptiness than she'd like, she made her way towards the sound, and the fog parted around her to reveal the clearing where the madness had begun. Sheo and Pelagius were both there, both enjoying the food on display before them.

Dulurza glanced around, and quickly spotted Elisif and Potema emerging from two other fogbanks. Why's it so damn misty in here? Is it a metaphor? Or just a convenient way to separate us?

"Pelagius!" Potema called, striding over. "On a scale of one to ten, how sane do you feel?"

"Hail, auntie. I…don't know." The man chuckled. "I do think you've all been a great help, and I really appreciate it, but as for how much help you've been…I can't exactly check, now can I?"

"This probably isn't the best place for a common-sense test." Dulurza muttered, mostly to herself.

"And given I spent the last decade of my life squeaking at Argonians and defecating on the floor, there's only so much a change in perspective can do." Pelagius coughed. "Though, the fact that I recognise those as not-so-sensible actions probably means something?"

"Oh, come on, what did you expect?" Sheogorath said, leaning back in his chair. "You can't wipe madness away with a few counselling sessions (seriously though guys, get professional help if you need it). I am madness, and I am in everything and everyone."

"Except Jygallag." Potema mumbled.

"SAY THAT NAME AGAIN AND I WILL PEEL THE INDIVIDUAL CELLS OUT OF YOUR NERVOUS SYSTEM, YOU IMPUDENT GIRL!" Sheogorath roared, suddenly stood right in front of Potema and blasting out an aura of rage that had Dulurza reaching for her axe and Elisif stumbling backwards across the grass.

Potema, eyes wide and shaking, was silent.

"…Not on good terms with old Jyg right now. There's this whole business about him being free from his curse and traipsing across Oblivion picking fights with everyone, its rather hairy business. Why do you think I left?" Sheogorath patted Potema on the shoulder and then pranced back towards his previous seat. "Honestly, thinks he can just appoint the Hero of Kvatch as the new lord of madness and nothing will go wrong—ANYWAY! That's an entirely irrelevant plot point, feel free to ignore it." He jumped up onto the table. "So, fine, whatever, this was fun to watch. Pelagius, as much as it was a joy for you to invite me into your home—"

"You stayed uninvited in my head for a hundred and forty years."

"—You've become so dull now, so I'm afraid I must be off. Yes, back to the Shivering Isles. Ugh. Haskill is going to have my head for this. And the last time I gave Haskill head, it was a nightmare of a Tuesday! Haha! Eh? Ah, classic me."

The Prince clapped his hands. "Right, leaving. Now, since you've put on such a wonderful show, you all get a present. Pelly, I won't take you with me to my realm. Get going, you disappointingly not-lunatic. Potty, you can stay in here and talk to your nephew for a little longer before you have to leave. You…" Sheogorath turned to Dulurza and narrowed his eyes. "Never got your name."

"I'm—"

"Don't care. You look competent. You want the Wabbajack?"

"Wabba-what?" Dulurza scrunched her nose up. "What is it?"

"Magic staff."

"Oh. Uh, I have a friend that likes those?"

"Fine, he can have it."

̶ ̶ ̶ ̶ ̶ ̶̶ ̶{o

Sat up on a cliff, overlooking Markarth, Xander was interrupted from his musings by a stick falling from the sky and hitting him on the head. He jumped, almost falling off in his panic, and turned around to see absolutely nothing that could have been the source of the attack. Just a thin wooden staff, with three long faces with open mouths at the top.

"…What?" He asked, bewildered.

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"And as for you!" Sheogorath, walking determinedly to one end of the table, paused briefly to look at Elisif. "Elly, for your present, I'm going to decrease homelessness in Solitude by one! Dervenin, come here you dumb son of a horker—"

Sheogorath walked off the edge of the table, and vanished completely.

There was a snapping sound, and the table vanished too, all the food on it dropping to the floor.

Then there was a curse, and another snap, and the food vanished too, and then another snap and the table was back, but half-covered in gold glitter.

Right. Thought Dulurza. Note to self. In the future, leave all the gods to Xander.

Potema moved closer to Pelagius. "So, now that he's gone…" she began, "want me to try and save you?"

"Save me?" Pelagius blinked.

"From the Aetherius." Potema clarified. "Dying. There's this neat trick where I might be able to put you in a mortal's body and—"

"No." Pelagius held up a hand to forestall her. "I think I'm just fine passing on as-is. You've already done more than enough for me."

"But—" Potema blinked at him like he was an alien. "You'll die. That's bad, nephew."

He chuckled. "I died a long time ago. I don't feel the need to stick around any longer. We all have to let go eventually."

Potema shook her head, a curious expression on her face. "I will never understand you. I don't give up, not if what I'm fighting for is worth it."

"I know. You waged a hopeless war for over a decade." Pelagius glanced across at Elisif and Dulurza. "You and your new friends might have more in common than you think. Well, if you have a good reason to keep living, who am I to judge?"

He coughed, and reached out a hand. "Thank you. For saving my mind, and my soul."

Potema gave it an offended look. Then brushed it away and moved in to wrap her arms around him.

"Thank you," she said, "for giving me the chance to see my family again."

Around them, wind began to blow through the clearing. The fog drew closer, as the leaves began to fall from the trees and flutter down through the air.

"Go on." Pelagius patted her on the back. "Get out of here. I'll see you soon."

"Hmph." Potema grinned. "Not if I have anything to say about it you won't."

She turned back to Elisif and Dulurza, and spread her arms. "Right then. Does anyone have any idea how to—"

Hmm, I wonder what readers enjoy. Do they enjoy two thousand words of talking about politics? I think they must do, right?

(And props to anyone who caught what Sheo's been referencing for the duration. Subscribe to Yung Scrolls.)

Potema and Elisif have a heart-to-heart (soul to soul?) and L'laarzen and Xander have a...claws to throat. She's understandably upset. But this is also her first confirmation that Mercer wasn't just way off with his final guess as to her origins.

Next Time: Someone considers murder, someone gets betrayed again, and someone doubles down on their character development.