Finding Solutions

̶ ̶ ̶ ̶ ̶ ̶̶ ̶ ̶͜͡|

Elisif woke up in her room in the Blue Palace. This, in of itself, was not unusual.

What was unusual was the fact that she was already sat up and eating breakfast when she regained consciousness.

She paused with a plum halfway to her mouth, and said "…Uh."

Morning, beautiful. Potema's voice arose. Sorry to wake you, but the hangers on were getting prissy about it.

Were you puppeting me while I was asleep?

Hey, they came in to wake us up, I bought you an extra twenty minutes nap time. Actually, if we stagger our time spent conscious, we could end up massively more efficient, the mind needs a lot more sleep than the body—

Elisif tuned her out, taking in her surroundings. Dulurza and Cassia were both stood at the foot of her bed, with one of the windows flung open to let some light and air in. They were looking at her expectantly.

"It's me." She said, meriting two sighs.

"Next time, maybe warn me?" Dulurza asked, smiling. It was really nice to see her smile again.

"If I'm aware it's happening, I will." Elisif responded. (We can discuss your freedoms later. Ugh, fine.) "Good morning, Dulurza. Cassia, hail. I…haven't actually seen you since—"

"The day before yesterday, yeah." Cassia had her arms crossed and an unimpressed look on her face. "Lady Elisif, do you know what you're supposed to do when performing experimental magical procedures on yourself? Firstly, don't, and secondly, consult your court wizard!" She pointed an arm at Dulurza. "She says you went to the Shivering Isles!"

"Not quite, but, basically." Elisif gave a guilty smile. "I'll provide you a report?"

"You'll let me perform a full analysis of your internals is what you'll do! I need to check this isn't just a Huge Brain Play by Potema."

Elisif tilted her head. "Are you going to need me to—"

"Strip? Yes. We can do it while you're dressing for the day. Dulurza can watch—"

"Not Necessary." Dulurza and Elisif both interrupted at once.

Elisif sighed, brought what she was holding up to her mouth—then frowned.

Am I eating plumbs?

Yes, why?

I don't like plumbs.

Oh, come on. You're a grown woman, and I—

Who eats plumbs for breakfast?

—haven't had choice of meal in centuries, look, do you want me to turn off your sense of taste?

"Okay, me and my tenant have a lot to discuss." Elisif put the plumb back on her plate, grimacing. "Does anything else have priority over that?"

"Besides the aforementioned magical checkup…" Cassia looked to the ceiling. "Uh…you're a Jarl?"

"Oh." Elisif enunciated, remembering. "Yes. I haven't held court in days. Oh, dear lord, we had a dragon attack and I haven't seen the public or the nobles, the hold must be close to anarchy!"

"Another thing." Dulurza raised a hand. "Remember the army of Orcs slowly marching up to Hjaalmarch?"

Uh oh. "Yes?"

"Well. They're here."

̶ ̶ ̶ ̶ ̶ ̶̶ ̶{o

"Good evening."

Muiri squeaked. She couldn't help it. The voice rasped like some sort of ghost or snake, each consonant seeming to drag itself up her back and prick up the hairs on her neck.

She spun around, and there he was again. At least, she assumed 'he', it was hard to tell. The masked figure in black was standing quite calmly just on the inside of the Hag's Cure's door, almost as though he still wanted her permission to come in.

"G—Good evening." She replied, because what else could she say? "Ah, Bothela is still out, but she'll be back before sunset—"

"I'm aware." Seeming to accept her unspoken invitation, the assassin walked further into the room. He was outfitted slightly different to before, she noticed; the staff was gone from her back replaced with what looked like the haft of a warhammer. Odd choice for an assassin…

He said nothing else, and she was once again left floundering for a few seconds. Stop being scared, girl. Ask! "So, is it done? Did you…"

"Alain Dufont is dead." The assassin confirmed.

He said it like it was the simplest possible thing, but the effect those four little words had on her was astounding. Her body flooded with relief, months of slowly building tension suddenly coming to resolution all at once. She exhaled shakily, and then found in brief horror that her arms and legs were actually going limp. She stumbled, lost her balance—

And a hand reached out and took her arm, steadying her.

The masked figure calmly and silently guided her to one of the chairs by the counter, and she sat down heavily on it, breathing deeply.

"Th—thank you." She said, almost laughing at the absurdity of the situation. A Dark Brotherhood assassin just gave me a helping hand. Literally, and figuratively.

"It was my duty."

"Yes, of course." She steadied herself, running the thoughts through her head over and over. Alain Dufont was dead. That slimy, lying, good-for-nothing son of a horker was gone.

The relief was still the dominant emotion. Atop it was a healthy dose of vicious, vindictive glee at him finally getting what he deserved. Those were expected. Less expected was the churning in her stomach that made her feel like she might throw up.

It's perfectly normal. You just had a man killed, that's a hard thing to think about. But he deserved it, you're not in the wrong, he so, so deserved it. Let's not puke in front of the Dark Brotherhood, especially before we've paid him—

"Oh!" She said, realising. "Your payment. The money's in the cabinet in the back room, the one with the black mould across half of it. I'll get it for you, I just, ah. Need a second."

"I understand. Thank you."

He was a lot more polite than she'd expected a hired killer to be. She almost giggled at the thought, but was just about able to keep her composure.

"Thank you again. It was a pleasure doing business with you." She looked down at her hands, rubbing her fingers across her ring…which reminded her.

"And…what about the other target?" She asked, looking back at him. "Nilsine. Is she..?"

The assassin looked away from her. Or at least, she thought he did. The mask shifted slightly, and the voice replied "No. Nilsine lives."

"Oh." That was…not what she'd expected. If he was able to go through a bandit camp, killing an unarmed woman shouldn't have been hard. She felt annoyance well up inside her (along with a second burst of relief, probably just an aftershock from before), and couldn't help but confirm "Really?"

He looked rapidly back at her, and she flinched, holding her hands up "No! I mean, I, er. I'm sorry if I didn't offer enough, or you weren't supposed to, or, uh." She gulped. "Thank you, still. I didn't mean—"

"I spoke with the Shatter-Shields."

That frank admission stopped her blustering right in its tracks. "Huh?"

"Nilsine, and the others. I spoke to them." The assassin turned, looking at nothing in particular. "A tragedy, what happened to Friga. Nilsine was in quite a state." He paused. "I asked her about you."

What in Oblivion what in Oblivion what in Oblivion—

Muiri's heart was racing again. Why did he do that? Why didn't he go for the kill? "What did she say?"

She didn't realise she'd vocalised the last question until the assassin responded.

"She believed that you were actively complicit in allowing Dufont to rob them. She told me that you worked with him to steal their heirlooms and profit from it."

"W—What?" Muiri clenched her fists. "That bitch! She knows that's not true! I told her—"

"Did you?" The assassin asked. "I understand it was a confusing time. Did you explain that you were deceived?"

Muiri blinked, looking down. She tried to think about it; really think, rather than just brood on the confrontation. It had only been a short argument, when she had come home to find the house ransacked. Short, brutal, furious on both sides. Nilsine and Torbjorn had been so awful to her, the things they'd said, the way they'd looked at her. She thought she'd told them that she didn't know what Alain was trying…but had it gotten through?

"I told Nilsine that Dufont and his gang had recently been killed by a third party." The assassin continued, calmly. "And mentioned that you were not with them. It caused some brief confusion, but she quickly came to her own conclusions about what happened to you. If the truth is to be made clear, I expect that you must explain it yourself."

"And why would I want to do that?" Muiri snapped. "I wanted her dead!"

"Perhaps." Said the assassin. "Or perhaps you were merely lashing out because you believed the situation was hopeless. Perhaps what you really want, is to return to your family."

This was…wrong. This whole situation was wrong. "What do you—Why do you care?" She demanded. "Why is this any of your business? Aren't you just supposed to kill who I tell you to and be done with it?"

"Hm. Perhaps." The masked man looked down. "I suppose that makes me a pretty crappy assassin, huh?"

…What?

He reached behind his back, and unslung the hammer he kept there. That put her in something of a panic at first, but he didn't attack; he just gently leant the weapon against the counter beside her.

It took a few seconds for her to recognise it. But she'd seen it hanging above the fireplace more than often enough. "Is that…Aegisbane?"

"Consider it recompense for failing the secondary target." The assassin said, the brief flicker of actual humanity from his last sentence completely gone. "I expect that it can be sold to recoup a fraction of your expense on this contract. Or perhaps you could keep it as a memento. Or." He looked directly at her, the slitted metal eyes of his mask staring into hers. "Perhaps you could return it to its rightful home. Clan Shatter-Shield would no doubt be grateful to reclaim their heirloom. Perhaps grateful enough to hear out an apology."

What he was suggesting was absurd. This entire situation was absurd.

"What do I have to apologise for?" She asked, voice shaking. "I did nothing to them!"

"But you did run away without explaining. Even without knowing it, you did let a thief into their home. And sometimes, an apology isn't about admitting you've done wrong. It is about acknowledging that you have caused pain."

"But—" Her mind was a whirlwind, "How am I supposed to get out of Markarth with the city in lockdown?"

"I can escort you swiftly to Windhelm. Consider that a part of your recompense as well."

"I—" Wait, is he being serious— "What if you're wrong? And they hate me anyway?"

"Then you know that your hatred was justified, and you can carry on with your life with a clear conscience."

"But they—" Her words caught in her throat.

"…Do you really think they might take me back?" It came out as a whimper.

"In days like these," the man said, solemnly, "trust and honesty are both rare commodities. I doubt anyone would turn them down."

At that, the dam that Muiri had constructed inside herself all those weeks ago completely broke.

She put her head in her hands, and cried.

The assassin waited by her side, with one hand on her shoulder.

̶ ̶ ̶ ̶ ̶ ̶̶ ̶ ̶͜͡|

"Over a thousand men, my scouts report." Tullius tossed a sheaf of papers down next to his map and sighed, running a hand through his hair. On top of all the other nonsense I have to deal with in this country… "The Orcs have never massed in these numbers before."

"Not since there was still an Orsinium." Dulurza (a woman he still had no idea what to think about) leaned on the map, looking across the depiction of Skyrim. As big as the number was, the forces massing at the old stronghold of Mor Khazgur were only represented by a few small figurines painted dark green. There were a lot more of the red figures across the map, and she gestured vaguely at them. "You still outnumber them though, aye?"

Tullius looked across the table at Elisif the Fair. The Jarl had made an announcement earlier that morning, declaring that she was cured of her illness and ready to resume her duties. Almost as soon as he'd heard that, he'd heard of her request to meet with him. She was looking better, he had to admit, a lot healthier than she had in their last few meetings. Elisif's posture was straight and her eyes were focused, and she gave him a subtle nod.

Okay. The Orc's actually part of this conversation. "Yes and no." Tullius answered. "We have a lot of men in the field, but that's where they are: In the field. I can't just move them up and down the country."

"I thought that was what you did with armies?" Dulurza raised an eyebrow.

"It is, until they get entangled guarding cities, manning outposts, securing trade caravans, and getting into confrontations tens of miles away." Tullius had mostly gotten used to dealing with nobles and other assorted fools. But explaining his decisions to people with no conception of large-scale war was still a pet peeve.

"I can't afford to keep many troops in reserve. Everywhere I take away soldiers, the rebels gain ground. And sometimes that's a loss I have to accept, especially for something like defending the capital. But even then there's the issue of time. Moving armies with any speed is nigh impossible. I can gather the men from Morthal and Dragon's Bridge, but even then, I suspect we'll be outnumbered. Holding the walls gives us the advantage, but a lot of our fortifications are in tatters after the dragon attack."

Elisif looked down at the map, seeming briefly lost in thought. Then she met his eyes. "There's the cheap and easy option. We assassinate their leader and leave the rest to fall apart."

Tullius felt his eyes widen. Divines, Elisif. I'd expect a suggestion like that from Maro or his underlings, not from you.

"That's…an option." He admitted. "There are some possibilities for a resolution without open war. It's the only reason I haven't had every soldier in three holds dashing back here."

Dulurza spoke up again, and this time, it was to be actually helpful. "Killing Larak won't help. He may be in charge, but the real figurehead is Borgakh. My…I know her. She's the wielder of Volendrung."

Tullius tilted his head. "What's—"

"Daedric artefact." Elisif filled in, because apparently this was something she knew. "Spiritually makes her queen of the Orcs, like how the Jagged Crown is a symbol of a Nord King. What about her, Dulurza? I understand if you don't want to kill her, but—"

"Wouldn't help." The Orc shook her head. Tullius was a little suspicious of that, but she elaborated, "Assassination's about as dishonourable as you can get. It's your call, but if you kill their leader in the night, they'll be furious. The attack might be disorganised, but it will still happen. Faster."

"What about the hammer itself?" Tullius offered. "If they care so much about it, could we take it and use it to order them around? Barter it back to them?"

"Hm…" Dulurza drummed her fingers on the table. "Possible, but I doubt it. Stealing Volendrung would enrage them just as much as killing Borgakh, if not more. We can't exactly threaten to destroy it, so they'd be more likely to tear into the city to get it back. Stories say the hammer can change owner, but only…well…"

The drumming stopped, and Dulurza froze.

Elisif perked up. "You have an idea?"

The Orc gulped. "I do. But you're not going to like it."

̶ ̶ ̶ ̶ ̶ Ϫ

"How," demanded Kaie, "in the name of the Old Gods, are you still alive?"

"Could you maybe sound a little less disappointed?" Hjar grunted back, as she and Margret trudged back up to camp.

The next few minutes were something of a blur. Hjar wanted to go to sleep, but first she had to explain herself to the mob, and that meant giving another speech.

That basically translated as 'flexing how awesome she was'. She summarised that she'd broken into Markarth personally, right under the elves' noses (keep making it about the Thalmor, we need to shift everyone's hatred over to the Thalmor if this is going to work), made a deal with the city guard, and was well on her way to doing the same with what was left of the Silver-Bloods. That at this rate, it would only be weeks before they had a chance to surge back into the city and reclaim it 'for all the citizens of the Reach.'

The reaction was…mixed. Mostly positive, which was good. Kaie had been right that positive action pleased them, and they seemed impressed by her exploits so far. But there were some suspicious looks from the crowd at some specific word choices on her part. As she was bowing out, one had the gall to call out "Why are we making deals? We should be butchering all the Silver-Bloods!"

The remark met with a brief upsurge of whoops and cheers.

Hjar forced a chuckle, put a sly, conspiratorial grin onto her face, and waited for the noise to quiet down. Then asked "Why should we kill them, when we can make them work for us?"

She left at that, before anyone else could get smart and ask any more questions.

Margret followed her back to her tent, which was great news. But Kaie did the same, and that was less exciting.

"Was that all horse crap?" the Forsworn asked, "Or did you actually get the Nords in there to listen to you?"

"They're not all Nords, you know, that's a big generalisation…" Hjar sighed, shot Margret an apologetic glance, and turned to face Kaie properly. "Yes, I did that. They're reluctant, but desperate."

"And we can't just go in there and tear them apart?" Kaie protested. "If you got all the tribes together, we'd be stronger than any force in the city!"

Of course we could. I could probably kill all the leaders myself and let the Forsworn clean up the mess. But that wouldn't be a helpful thing to say.

"There are three factions in that city, and the one thing they all have in common is hating us." Hjar explained, taking the arguments that had been used against her earlier in the night and arraying them against Kaie. "No matter how many Forsworn we throw at them, we can't take the city like that. Not until they starve half to death, or do something stupid we can capitalise on, but by then reinforcements will come from the other holds and wipe us out." She took a step closer, and tried for another smile. "But the unity's an illusion. You have to ask what they really want, and figure out how to give it to them. Just as easily as they'll group with each other against us, they'll group with us against each other."

"But you don't want to turn on them once we get the city?" Kaie checked.

Hjar shrugged. "What would be the point? More bloodshed? I'm here to save the Reach, not drag it into another bloody civil war. Don't think for a second I won't turn on my forces if they start baying for revenge again."

She patted Kaie on the cheek, smiled, and turned, calling "Some of those Nords can be nice if you get to know them!"

That very obvious dismissal should have been the end of the conversation and an opportunity for some sleep. But.

"You actually have a plan."

Hjar stopped at Kaie's return call. Twitched. Then turned back, confirming "Aye?"

"Hmph." The Forsworn looked down. Then continued "I thought about what you said. About what Madanach actually gave me. It felt good, to know that we were fighting for something, but…he never gave us a real solution. I don't like your answers, wolfgirl. But at least you have them."

"The truth is complicated." Hjar shrugged. "I've spent a lot of my life searching for it, but when I find it, it usually hurts. Which is why its best to share it in private conversations, and not in speeches."

"But you trust me with it?"

"Kaie, you're the only Forsworn I remember the name of."

"Heh." Kaie smiled, briefly, before looking away.

Hjar waited a couple of seconds. Then, when nothing else came, turned to go to her tent—

"Red Eagle."

"Oh for the love of—WHAT?" Hjar spun back around and glared.

"Red Eagle." Kaie repeated. "You've heard the stories, right?"

"Uuuuh, yeah." Hjar did remember stories about him, but she was tired, damn it. "He was the guy that killed all those people with no clothes on, right?"

Kaie sighed. "No clothes and a flaming sword, aye."

"Was that an actual sword or just a metaphor for his d—"

"An actual sword." The Forsworn repeated, through gritted teeth. "He was a king of the Reach, in ancient times. When the Empire tried to absorb us, he became the first Briarheart, and fought against them. Died, but it was quite a show."

Hjar wrinkled her nose up. Briarheart…nasty. There were three or four of them among her slowly growing forces. Freaky bastards; quiet, solemn, stronger than they had any right to be, barely sleeping. But they followed her without question.

"You think people might start comparing me to Red Eagle?" She asked. "I'm not working with the Hagravens, Kaie, and I'm certainly not letting them tear my heart out."

"You might not have to." Kaie answered. "There's a prophesy, of sorts. That if you return Red Eagle's sword to his tomb, something something something, he comes back to lead us. And/or you become the true undisputed ruler of the Reach."

Hjar considered that, and hit a red flag. "Don't tell me nobody has tried this yet. Or have we forgotten where his tomb is?"

"Oh, we know where it is." Kaie said, brightly. "But everyone who's gone to return the sword has died."

Right, that figures.

"And if I do it, that makes me Queen of the Reach." Hjar clarified. "For real this time. People really care about that?"

"We're all religious savages, aren't we?" Kaie snorted. "Yes. Every Forsworn in the Reach would have to either call you a liar, give up on their religion, or follow your cause. If you want a way to really get the masses to listen to you, this could be it."

"Or you could be trying to get me killed." Hjar pointed out.

"Aye, or that." Kaie admitted, frankly.

Hjar bit her lip. Sighed. "Where's the sword now?"

"Some asshole Briarheart has it, at Red Eagle Redoubt. He hasn't acknowledged your claim yet."

"Oh, great, two birds with one stone."

"HJAR!" Margret's head popped out of the tent. "Are you coming or not? I've been waiting for like ten minutes!"

"I'm TRYING!" Hjar shouted back, before glaring at Kaie. "I'll think about it, how about that?"

Kaie snorted. "Aye, aye, go."

And so Hjar finally went to bed.

8˂

Brynjolf shivered, and pulled his coat a little tighter about himself against the weather. Then he stepped further out onto the pier. The creak of his boot on the rotting planks gave him away (he saw the ears of his target twitch), but for the sake of politeness, he called out "L'laarzen? It's me."

The Khajiit was sat at the end of the pier, feet dangling out and skimming the water. She turned to look back at him and smiled, brightly. "Brynjolf! Good to see you! Did you need something?"

He looked askance at her, and asked "Are you doing alright, lass?"

"Oh, of course. Does L'laarzen not look alright?" She asked in return, face so earnestly baffled it would be hard to accuse her of lying.

He did so anyway. "Well, firstly, you're sat alone at Riften's docks. At five in the morning. In the drizzle."

L'laarzen winced. She was wearing ordinary civilian garb with no hood; stepping closer, he could see her fur was drenched.

"Well," she coughed, "The Cistern has its own beauty to it, but it can get quite stifling—"

"And secondly, you just brought down a Skooma ring in one night all by yourself." Brynjolf continued, before the excuses could really start. "People don't do that the moment they get home from a two day 'job'. Not unless they did something they're trying to forget. Is this another, ah. 'Chaurus eggs' incident?"

L'laarzen's smile fell. It wasn't as frightening or as sudden a change as he'd seen from her in the past, her face just…gave up on the expression. It was a pensive, tired-looking cat that turned away from him and looked back out at the lake.

"Did the arrests go smoothly?" She asked. "The base of the dealing was far outside the city and L'laarzen imagines the guard took some time to get there. It's possible that some of them woke up after Khajiit incapacitated them."

"Uh, aye, everything went well. Lalia's having a field day." Brynjolf couldn't really be mad about it. The dealers were independent from the Guild (A.K.A: opposition) and had been a serious plague on the streets of the city. L'laarzen single-handedly unraveling a drug ring in six hours was…not surprising, actually. Surprising was that she'd done it entirely without telling any of them.

"Lass, what's wrong?" He asked, approaching and crouching down next to her. "You've been in a slump ever since you killed Mercer. You've got your soul, you've got the Eyes, you've got the Guild, but you're still…Did he say something to you?"

L'laarzen was silent for a few seconds. Looking over her, he saw that she had a cloth out, and was working it repetitively between her claws.

"…Am I a bad person?" She asked, quietly.

He blinked. "Sorry?"

"You have seen what Khajiit has done, what she can do. You say 'chaurus eggs' as a joke, now, but you know that she views it as a viable strategy. Am I A Bad Person?"

"N—No!" Brynjolf protested, genuinely taken aback by the question. "L'laarzen, you're one of the nicest lasses I know. You've made friends with damn near everyone in the city, you saved the guild, you go around doing favours for people at the slightest whim. I mean, when most people are in a slump they get drunk at the Bee and Barb, you went out and started fighting crime!"

"To try and convince herself of just that, indeed." L'laarzen smiled bitterly. "Every time Khajiit slips, she tries to do something to make herself feel better. But the attempts are feeling less and less convincing. Good people don't feel a rush every time they engage in battle. Good people don't wake up and practise their smile in front of a mirror, test different inflections on their sentences. Ponder how much of an exotic accent makes them seem charming without being incomprehensible." Her voice fell even lower. "Good people don't lose control and murder an old woman in front of a child."

…Oh. So that was her.

Rumours about what had happened to Grelod had circulated for weeks, of course. Brynjolf knew that the timing from L'laarzen's Goldenglow mission would have lined up, but, he'd never took the idea seriously. And then I saw what she could really do.

"Grelod was an evil old witch, L'laarzen, everyone knew it." He tried to reassure her. "And Mercer had it coming to him, you said yourself he was—"

"Aghh! Excuses!" One of her hands made a fist and slammed into the pier. "Always, there are excuses, so easy for me to cling to. There were excuses before, as well! And here L'laarzen is, preaching to her friends about who they choose to kill, when she can't help but throw herself into violence!"

"Before?" Brynjolf asked. "What do you mean 'before'?"

There was a long silence, in which L'laarzen didn't look at him.

Uh oh. Touchy subject. Backpedal.

"If you don't trust yourself to make excuses, trust me." He tried. "Aye, you have a way of finding trouble, but you always do it with the best of intentions. I mean, you're the one who told me that you came here to be a hair stylist—"

"Is that what L'laarzen wants?" She hissed, meeting his eyes. "Or is that just what she tells herself?"

The question wasn't just rhetorical. For a brief moment, he could see an incredible depth of worry in her feline eyes, as though she genuinely was hoping for him to give her an answer.

But the moment was gone before he could think of what to say, and she looked away again.

"What's on today's agenda?" she asked, voice calm.

"I…I think it might be best if you got some rest—"

"L'laarzen is fine." She stood up, smoothly. "What must be done?"

"Um. Maven wanted to meet with you about the guild, and also her hair is—"

L'laarzen brushed past him without another word, and started walking back to the city.

̶ ̶ ̶ ̶ ̶ ̶̶ ̶{o

Alexander Meteuse walked purposefully through the College of Winterhold. He had nodded curtly to Faralda at the entrance, said nothing on the way up the bridge, and completely blanked the students that had looked at him as he moved. The door to the hall of Attainment opened, and he was not met by any of the students still living there. Instead, a small black cat sat in front of the door, licking its paw and looking up at him.

"How you doing, puss?" He asked, walking past it.

It meowed, and followed.

"Eh, you know. Just killed a man. Feeling good."

It meowed again.

"Well he was a bandit, but that's not the reason I killed him." Xander admitted, making his way up the steps. "Technically, I killed him for a thousand gold."

The following 'nyaaaorw' was very appreciative.

"Right? Good money. Technically makes me a contract killer now, fun stuff. But it means I'm kind of going through a crisis. You ever gone through anything like that?"

It let out a sympathetic purr, and rubbed against his leg as he walked.

"Damn. Sorry. You'll have to tell me about it sometime."

Nazir poked his head out of a room on the left, raising a hand. "I'm sorry, can you actually understand the cat?"

"No, don't be absurd. It's an animal." Xander rolled his eyes at the Redguard, looking back at the puss. "Can you believe this guy?"

"Mrow."

"Exactly. Anyway, I'm going to talk to a god of death, wanna come?"

The cat hissed, and immediately scarpered back the way it had come.

Xander sighed, staring at the spot where it had been. "Yep. Smarter than me."

He straightened himself, stretched, and walked into the room ahead of him.

The Night Mother's coffin was closed and locked, but Cicero had handed him the key before he had first left. It took a lot less time than he would have liked to have the door open, and come face to face with the shrivelled old woman's corpse.

'Sup. He thought at it.

You have completed the contract. The Night Mother's voice appeared in his mind. No congratulations, no joy. No nothing.

You're not happy about me doing as you asked? Xander asked, a little irritated.

Why would I feel 'happy' about this? You have killed. That is all.

You're the God of Death! He protested, frowning.

Simple mortal. I am no god of anything. You listen, but you do not hear.

Then enlighten me. He asked, growing more frustrated by the minute. Seriously. It's like trying to negotiate with a snowdrift.

There was a pause. Then…

Spirits Are. But what you call Gods are the inventions of the mortal soul. Think to Akatosh, Auriel, Alkosh, Alduin; different echoes of the same being.

I understand the multifaceted nature of the Et'Ada. Xander protested, a little proudly. But at the centre there is always a link. Whether they are gods of Men, Elves, Khajiit, or Dragons, Akatosh and all his interpretations are still gods of Time.

And what do you believe Sithis is the god of? The Night Mother asked, her voice almost taunting.

Death. Xander replied, not even having to think about it.

No. Sithis Is Not. She spoke the words with a conviction that seemed stronger than a simple rebuttal. But then continued, It is natural that you mortals struggle to conceptualise Sithis. It is possible, due to your fleeting nature, but difficult due to your fragile grasp of your place in the universe. You see Them in the dark corners of your life, where your mind fears to tread. So of course you saw in Them Death. When I was still among the living, trying to truly see Them, I resorted to Death. I slaughtered my five children to glimpse Them, I died to glimpse Them. But that was but one fragment of what Sithis Is Not.

I am not a god. I am not a woman. I am the Night Mother. I am the Bride of Sithis. I am the manifestation of the mortal belief that Death can be controlled.

Xander gulped. He couldn't help himself. The idea that he was the chosen implement of a god of death was scary. But apparently, that being was 'god of death' in the same way that Dibella (god of love, lust, beauty, art, and music) was technically 'god of the slide whistle'.

So, you aren't Sithis. He confirmed. And you aren't an undead, and you aren't an Et'Ada. But, if you are made of mortal beliefs of death, why don't you care whether or not I complete my contracts?

I do care. But not in the same way you mortals care. I am not as you are. As usual, her words were messy and cryptic. I exist only as a conduit for the Black Sacrament. To hear the rituals, and communicate those to the Listener.

That's why you were mad when I said I would ignore you. Xander realised. I wasn't just defying a god; I was interfering with your primary purpose.

I was not 'mad'. Such is beneath me. Any traces of humanity you hear from me are interpretations of your own mind, and of the others who made me what I am. There was a trace of disdain in her voice at that. Though, if she was right, he might just be imagining it.

Not since the Dark Brotherhood's rise to infamy has every contract been completable. She continued, impassively. Always, there are many who cry out into the dark and receive no reply. I adapt to minimise them. I prioritise the contracts my Listener is most willing to complete. The easiest for them to complete. I only speak of the Sacraments in regions where the group that obeys the Listener operates. I place the souls of the Listener and their disciples in jeopardy, if they do not comply.

But with me…Xander trailed off.

You are insane. The line was delivered so matter-of-factly that it almost made him laugh. You do not fear me. You do not fear for your soul. You are petty and childish, yet you dream of dominating all the Spheres.

It does not matter. I adapt. I offer you the contracts I predict that you will accept. I do not jeopardise your soul, for you have called my bluff. I do what is necessary.

So…Xander licked his lips. If I only accept the contracts that I believe are justified…you don't care.

Correct.

If I betray the Brotherhood's tenets, you don't care.

Correct.

If I…He glanced behind himself at the open doorway. But none of the assassins could see him, and it wasn't like they could hear his thoughts. If I end the Brotherhood entirely. If I let nonmagical groups take over the business, and let the knowledge of the Black Sacrament become a rumour, then a fairy tale, then fade away…

Then there would be no more contracts. There would be no need for me. I adapt. I would cease to be.

And that wouldn't bother you?

I would join my husband.

"Right…" Xander sucked in a breath. "I…think we just came to an agreement."

And so, you are my Listener. There was a sense of finality in the words.

Xander nodded, and stepped backwards. "Okay. I…have a lot to think about. So, I'll be in my quarters—"

Speak to Amaund Motierre. In the Bannered Mare, in Whiterun.

His face fell. "For the love of—Already? Is this another one?"

I know that you will not want it to go unmonitored.

Wonderful…I'll get to it when I get to it.

He sighed, stepping backwards, leaving the coffin as it was and walking through the doorway…only to see Nazir, Babette, and Cicero all crouched by the sides of it, looking guiltily up at him.

"…How much of that did you hear, exactly?" He checked.

"She called you her Listener." Babette said, looking up at him in awe.

"And we heard it!" Cicero squealed, gleefully. "My lady's voice! We all heard it!"

Ah, murder. Ain't it fun?

It's always interesting, trying to reconcile the morality of real characters with a game like Skyrim, where most people rack up a kill count in the hundreds in their first ten hours of gameplay.

Most people and most cultures in Tamriel understand that killing is sometimes necessary. But Xander is only twenty one, and L'laarzen has her own reasons to try and remain pacifist. Circumstances aren't giving them the option to do that easily, however...

Speaking of violence, if it feels like this arc has been low on that, don't worry. We're getting there. But there's bee a whole lot of self reflection in these last few chapters, and that means a whole lot of chatter.

Next Time: Someone makes tea, someone raids a tomb, and someone plays the lute.