It would have been nice to say that nothing much changed as a consequence of publicly embracing my identity, and that things were simple and easy going forward. But it did, and they weren't. In the days following my return to Solitude my life was completely upended. Felix's broody childishness soon became the least of my troubles: not just whispers but people followed me everywhere I went, and Inigo had to be convinced not to take a few weeks off from his work with the Legion to guard me full time, just in case. Every night I was at the Skeever the inn was packed to the rafters, with Corpulus preening like a peacock — but I was at my beloved Skeever less than ever, being constantly inundated with floods of invitations, propositions and even a few proposals from nobles low and high the length and breadth of the province. After just two days I started diverting all my mail through Viarmo, who I was sure found far more pleasure in curating my social life than he let on.
It was torturous. Stifling. I caught myself longing even for the comparative disinterest of High Rock, where though I'd been regularly recognised in public, I'd never had to suffer whole groups of people stopping on the street to point and gawk as I passed. Even Aia Arrea suddenly started treating me with flattering attention and hinting at the benefits of an association. I warned her that she'd find Erikur a far less forgiving and far more dangerous jilted lover than Illdi, were he ever to find out.
Saerlund had been right, I thought miserably after having endured three solid days of the most intense scrutiny I'd ever been subjected to in my life. In first hiding my identity then later revealing it I'd made myself into a spectacle far more interesting than if I'd always been known here under my full name and title. I'd brought this upon myself.
Thankfully, a handful of people managed to barely anchor me to sanity. Saerlund himself was a wonderful distraction, and I kept busy that first week showing him around the city and introducing him to everyone from Evette San to Falk Firebeard, Elisif's steward. Ataf and Illdi won my eternal gratitude not just by treating me exactly as they always had, but by enlisting Master Ateia's help to encourage as many of my other classmates as possible to do the same. Naturally, Master Six-Fingers acted as though she'd never heard of Aldcroft or duchies, and worked me just as hard as ever. For Danica, too, nothing had changed. I returned to my studies with her the day I was to play for Jarl Balgruuf, and aside from a brief word of gratitude for the tithe I'd asked my father to send to the temple she made no further mention of my parentage.
Above everyone else, however, Inigo and Meeko were always there at my side, ready with just the right words or a lick on the chin to help me cope when things became overwhelming. I couldn't have managed without either of them, and each and every day I thanked the Divines with all my heart for the blessings of friendship.
And then, of course, there was Viarmo, who would forever remain … Viarmo.
"How'd you go in Whiterun?" he asked blithely while paging through my report the following Morndas.
I yawned. I'd been up late the previous night, Saerlund's last in Solitude before heading to Whiterun. "Quite well. There wasn't an opportunity to do much more than exchange pleasantries, but my instincts said to be patient. I built a solid foundation with the court — Balgruuf was very pleased with how I played and carried myself, and his steward was beaming as he escorted me out at the end of the evening. He said he'd write to you as well, but that they'd definitely like me back."
"Good. Anything on Balgruuf?"
"He's a good man," I said simply.
Viarmo raised an eyebrow. "That's it?"
I shrugged. "Like I said, there wasn't exactly a convenient opening to start talking about the war. I've put down some observations in my report — I think the image that Whiterun's coffers are still full and the city is prospering despite the war is an illusion, for example. But that's the core of it. Whatever else, Balgruuf's a good man. He cares about his city and his people."
It was the simple truth of the matter. Whichever way he leant — the statue of Tiber Septim as Talos in the main square said one thing, the unusually high Imperial presence in the city quite another — he would make his decisions based on what was best for Whiterun, not himself. I was sure such a man could be brought around to the right way of thinking, given time.
"Hmph." Viarmo's mouth pulled at the corners almost imperceptibly. "Well, that's something, I guess. I'll trust your judgment on how to play this. But I've got something more important we need to discuss, in any case."
My eyebrows shot up. More important than Balgruuf and the war? He hadn't even glanced at my report from Riften yet.
Come to think of it, I'd expected Viarmo to start grilling me about Elisif and Saerlund as soon as I walked through the door, but now that I was paying attention he seemed … tauter, stiffer than usual. Something was on the Headmaster's mind, and for him to dismiss what was usually his driving obsession it must have been something important indeed.
I shuffled forward on my seat. What could this be about? I was intensely curious, but when Viarmo finally collected his thoughts and spoke, his words took me entirely by surprise.
"That cat of yours —"
"Inigo. Don't call him a cat."
"Fine. Your Khajiit. How far do you trust him?"
I blinked. Surely Viarmo already knew? Perhaps he just wanted to hear it from my own lips.
"To Oblivion and back. Literally. You've read my report on Sanguine." Viarmo's lips may have twitched, but it might also have been my imagination. "I trust him completely. More than anyone else I've ever known."
Viarmo nodded curtly. "Good."
He flicked a letter across the desk. It was from Jarl Siddgeir of Falkreath, demanding to know why he alone of all the jarls had not yet been granted Our due respect, in the form of the attendance and performance of the lovely young Lady Kirilee Dobraine at Our Court. Viarmo snorted in disgust.
"Siddgeir's a stuck up pig," he said, "but a potential problem. He says he's for the Empire, but the prick's so self-serving that his loyalty's been called into question. You'll play for him in Falkreath this Fredas and report back on what you see."
"Yes, sir. But what does Inigo have to do with this?" And why are you so stressed about it?
"You'll take him with you — of course you will, you always do. At Falkreath's inn he'll run into an old friend. A mercenary, who's been hired to thin the local bear population. Inigo will offer to help him while you're busy entertaining the Jarl. They'll take care of the problem, and your friend will meet you back at the inn that night, both of you having achieved what you set out to do."
I felt a sudden chill, as though icy water had been poured down my back. "Inigo … isn't actually going to be hunting bears, is he."
"Of course not." He handed me another letter, this one in a sealed envelope. The wax seal bore no crest. "His assignment, should he choose to accept it, is in there. He's under no obligation to accept, of course. But I think he will."
I tucked the envelope into my breast pocket. I privately agreed. Inigo might not be a Legionnaire, but he had a strong sense of duty and honour, and had been working closely with the Legion for months now. If this assignment was important enough that Viarmo was asking for his help, I was sure he would agree to it. And that knowledge terrified me.
I met Inigo at my apartment that afternoon after both of us had finished our work for the day.
"I have something for you," I said, just as he reached into his pocket saying, "A letter just came, by bird!"
We both broke off with a laugh, then exchanged our letters and sat down at the kitchen bench to read them, where I had already poured us wine.
Even before I unrolled the tightly furled sheet of thin paper I knew who it must be from. Only one person ever corresponded with me by message-bird.
My heart fluttered and my throat constricted as I read Father's words. I'd been expecting a letter like this for some time now — especially after my bird home following my meeting with Jorleif — yet now it was here, I wasn't sure how to feel.
My darling Daughter,
It was a delight to read your last letter. You have grown so very much since I waved farewell to you on that ship, and I am remarkably proud of you — as is your mother. You have acted with the nobility and grace befitting your birth and your station.
It is that station which requires me to pen you this letter, my Kirilee. It pains me to do this, but I require you to make your choice. I knew, long before you left, that your path may not lead you back to taking up your birthright, the mantle of Duchess of Aldcroft. You may not believe me, but I have long known and prepared for this eventuality, despite your mother's insistence that your dreams were naught but girlish fancies. Of course, the title is yours by right, and you may return to claim it any time you wish — but I must know whether you will, or whether you will not.
I apologise for forcing your hand in this matter. I do not wish to rush what must surely be a grave and serious choice for you. But you have been gone from home more than half a year now, and particularly in light of your recent 'unveiling', so to speak, our way forward relies on my knowing whether you still intend to sit on the throne one day.
In addition, it is only fair to your cousin Etienne. His path relies on yours, and it is not fair to keep the poor boy eternally in limbo. He is working hard to assume the responsibility, should you wish to give it up, but he needs the security and authority of being formally named Heir, if that is to be his future. And if it is not — he deserves to know that, too.
Please write to me as soon as you have made your choice, and we will proceed accordingly. Regardless of what you choose, you will, of course, always be welcome home, and will always be my firstborn — my only — beloved child.
With Love,
Father
Postscript: Word has been reaching the courts and taverns here of a beautiful and talented young Breton bard making waves across Skyrim in recent months — they call her the Lark. Well done, my daughter.
I read the letter three times before handing it to Inigo, who had been just as absorbed by his own. Inigo's eyes widened as they moved over Father's elegant handwriting. He looked up at me, almost fearful.
"This is a big decision."
I nodded, blinking hard. In the back of my mind I'd known this choice was coming, and even what it would be. Now that it had come time to make it, however, to actually say it out loud …
I cleared my throat. Then again. A large lump had settled there which wouldn't shift.
"It feels so strange," I finally croaked, staring at the letter in my hands, "not even having this conversation face to face with Father. But if I'm being honest, that was probably part of the reason I did it like this in the first place. Felix was right, I was running away …" I realised my hands were trembling. Inigo laid his own over them.
"How long have you known?"
"I don't know. I've never really wanted it. It didn't exactly feel like I had much of a choice, but in hindsight …"
"You told me once that you did not think your father was preparing you well enough to rule," Inigo said gently.
I nodded slowly. In the context of his letter and what I'd discussed with Master Ateia, Father's reluctance had taken on a very different meaning.
"I suppose … none of us were ready to admit what we all knew deep down until I was already gone."
My time in Skyrim had shown me conclusively just how naive I really was; just how poorly suited temperamentally to ruling. And just how much I didn't want it. It shamed me to realise this last was the strongest motivator of them all.
Was I, after all, just some fickle and irresponsible girl, running from a burden which felt too heavy to bear? Or was I instead a young woman finally coming to terms with where her strengths and weaknesses really lay, and stepping aside for someone better suited for the role?
Did it even matter?
For long moments the apartment was silent but for Meeko's snores. My heart was beating very quickly. I swallowed several times.
"Etienne … will make a wonderful duke," I said at last, so softly it was almost a whisper. "And I'll … I'll make a better and happier bard than I would a duchess." I turned a hesitant smile on Inigo. "Guess you're stuck with me."
His face relaxed into a broad smile in return, as warm as the noonday sun. He pulled my limp form off the stool and into a long hug. My eyes pressed shut, I breathed in deeply. Today he smelled of well-oiled leathers and flower-scented soap, as well as his own scent: to me, the smell of love and companionship and safety. Of home.
Eventually we broke apart. I dried my eyes on my sleeve.
Inigo ruffled my hair, then his face turned serious. "Now it is my turn to share an important request."
He handed me his own letter. I reacted far more strongly than Inigo had, gasping in shock and knocking over my wine. Inigo snatched Father's letter from the path of the spreading liquid. At that moment it was the last thing on my mind.
Though I knew we were alone, I still couldn't help glancing over my shoulder before speaking, my voice a low hiss.
"They want you to help them wipe out the Dark Brotherhood?"
"You read it yourself. Commander Maro thinks that as I was the one to slay their leader I would make … what did it say? Ah yes, a valuable asset. I suspect also that he fears to recruit for this task too freely, lest word reach the wrong ears. I killed Astrid, and so I cannot be a Dark Brotherhood spy, yes?"
"I suppose so."
It made sense. But that didn't mean I liked it, much as I was glad the Brotherhood was finally being taken care of in a proper, official capacity. Sometimes I still had nightmares about Astrid and the shack. I'd wake in the middle of the night, drenched in sweat and crying out for Meeko.
I grimaced, and Inigo's amber gaze held my own.
"I do not have to do this thing. If you do not wish me to go then I will tell Mister Maro to go chase his tail. Though perhaps a little more politely than that."
I forced a smile. "No, Inigo. I'm not your wetnurse, or your commander. I'm your friend. And I trust and support your choices. If this is something you want to do … or feel you have to do … then I'm with you. In spirit, of course." I told him about my own role during his 'mission'.
"The base they have found must be near Falkreath."
I drew patterns in the spilled wine with one fingertip. "I suppose. I just … I don't like that I won't be with you. I mean, I know I'd probably just be in the way, but what if you get hurt? I can't use all my newfound healing skills or music-magic to help you if I'm not there."
"Normally I would also wish to have you by my side, but this time I would prefer you to be where it is safe," he said gently. "I do not think this will be like anything we have faced together, and I would rather you not have to see what it is like inside the sanctuary of the assassins. I do not think your magical senses would like it. Or your regular senses. And it sounds like you have your own important job to do, yes? One which better suits your skills."
I scowled, but he was right.
"Besides, I will still have your help with me. I will have this," — he pointed to the enchanted ring I had given him for Saturalia — "and this, and this, and this," — the various bits of other enchanted jewellery I had passed on to him over the months, usually accompanied by 'ugh, these jarls have no taste' — "and … this."
My eyes widened as he pulled from his pocket a small, old, worn silver ring. It was the first thing I had ever given him, not long after we'd first met — my own ring, given to me by my grandmother, which I had worn myself for years. One of the few items I owned of any real value to me, I had given it to Inigo in a clumsy effort to express how grateful I was for his steadfast kindness to a burdensome young girl hopelessly out of her depth. He had seemed to appreciate the gesture at the time, but I hadn't imagined that he would still carry the ring around. It was too small to fit any of his fingers, and it wasn't as though it carried an enchantment or anything useful like that. I told him so.
"Ah, Kirilee, to me this is the most valuable and special of them all," he said, his eyes crinkling. "It marks you giving me the greatest possible gift — your friendship — and by carrying it I always have a little reminder of your warmth and love with me. That is better than any silly enchantment."
I couldn't speak, but I was sure he understood.
Outside of our brief hike past Helgen on the way to Orphan Rock, Falkreath was the only hold in Skyrim I'd not yet visited. I'd read about it, of course, as I'd read about every part of Skyrim; but reading about 'a landscape characterised by thick pine forests' was one thing, actually trundling along pitted dirt roads with ranks of towering pines pressing in from every direction quite another. The sharp smell of pine sap, the unnatural stillness, the way the dense canopy of needles deadened the sound of the squeaking wheels, the indefinable sense of age resting heavy on the trunks and boughs … I'd never experienced anything like it. It was magical, awe-inspiring, almost frightening. I perched still and quiet as a mouse on the carriage seat, entirely overwhelmed by the strength and power of Kynareth's domain. For the first time since Inigo had shown me that letter four days ago my roiling emotions stilled.
Suddenly we rounded a bend, and there was Falkreath City itself, little more than a sleepy town despite being the capital of its hold. It nestled into the pine forest so naturally that it felt like it had always been there, grown with the forest itself like the strange mushroom towers the Telvanni tended in Vvardenfell.
As soon as my eyes fell on the palisade walls my stomach began to writhe. Once we were in the town our work would begin — mine and Inigo's both.
The previous days had passed in a sickening fog of apprehension and fear. The Dark Brotherhood had been weakened, true, and by Inigo's own hand been made leaderless. Inigo was a brilliantly skilled fighter, and Commander Maro I knew by reputation to be no fool. I was sure he wouldn't have planned this operation without making certain it was as likely as possible to succeed, and the men and women he sent in as safe as could be.
… Or so I'd kept telling myself, over and over again. But no matter how much my head said everything would work out, my heart couldn't help but worry my headmaster was sending my best friend to his death. For the past three nights my dreams had been filled with terrifying visions of Astrid returned to life, smiling coldly, her neck sheeting with blood; or of faceless hordes of Dark Brotherhood assassins slipping into my apartment or Inigo's inn room like enraged spirits, their eyes empty voids of vengeance and death.
Inigo took my hand and squeezed it as we walked away from the carriage in the direction the driver had pointed us. "Do not worry, my friend. All will be well."
We passed an apothecary bearing the sign 'Grave Concoctions'. I swallowed. Though I knew the city was reputed to have something of a morbid fascination with death because of its large and famous graveyard, it was hard not to take it as an ill omen.
"I know. Everything will be fine." I said the words half to convince myself, half to reassure Inigo. The last thing he needed tonight was to worry about how I was faring. I forced a smile. "I believe in you. They won't know what's hit them."
After a short walk through the overgrown town in the cooling late afternoon air we reached the inn: Dead Man's Drink. I stopped for a moment, stricken, then shook my head angrily and pushed open the door. It was just an inn like any other. I was being stupid and childish.
Inside, I was unamused to see the inn decorated very ghoulishly, bones and skulls of every kind strung up along the walls and resting on the shelves. Even the candlesticks were some kind of skull, though I didn't recognise the animal they came from.
"Sheep," supplied Inigo, though I hadn't really wanted to know. His voice was light, but I knew him well enough to hear the tension just below the surface.
We ordered a meal and drinks, and sat together in silence, sipping. It hadn't escaped my notice that Inigo had ordered watered ale, not wine. Neither of us touched our food.
After about a half hour which felt much longer, I stood up.
"I'd better get ready," I said dully. I put my plate of goat and stringy green beans on the ground for Meeko and hurried away to the bathing-room with my garment bag looped over my arm. I managed to shut the door behind me before I started to cry. But only barely.
By the time I reemerged, drawing even more looks in my brocaded red and gold gown than I had when first entering the inn, Inigo had been joined by the 'friend' Viarmo had promised. He was a nondescript middle-aged man with sharp features and sharper eyes, dressed in worn hunting leathers. I disliked him on sight, though I knew it had nothing to do with the man himself, and everything to do with my churning stomach and Inigo's twitching tail.
The man gave me a clumsy bow as I approached. "Lady Dobraine. An honour. Name's Julius. I'm an old friend of Inigo's, we go way back."
I let him kiss my hand, and regarded him dispassionately. The man was good. I'd never have taken him for anything other than the simple mercenary he purported to be.
"Heard all about you, o' course, milady," he continued. "Ain't nobody been talking of much else, these past weeks. Imagine my surprise when I heard the secret princess was best friends with a purple Khajiit — and then when I saw that bloody purple fur across the room! Couldn't believe it."
"Any friend of Inigo's is a friend of mine," I said. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Julius. What brings you to Falkreath?"
I might as well help the charade along. At any other time I might even have found the little act fun … but not when Inigo himself was a playing piece in the game.
"Hunting. Always good bounties round here. In fact, I was hoping to borrow Inigo here for one of them. Got a real nice bounty on a few bears; would go down much quicker with an extra sword and bow. Inigo mentioned you were playing for the Jarl tonight. Would you mind if I borrowed him for the duration? He's said he's happy to, but said I gotta get your okay on it first." He grinned toothily.
My eyes moved to Inigo. I knew what this was. He was offering me a final chance to veto the whole thing. If I said no now he'd politely decline, and that would be the end of it.
I wavered. I could keep Inigo safe. The Oculatus would surely be fine without him. He was just one more person, if a very skilled one. What difference would it really make?
Perhaps the difference between somebody else living or dying. Perhaps the difference between a successful mission or the assassins escaping the justice you know they deserve. Perhaps the difference between Aventus growing up into a guardsman or an assassin.
Viarmo had told me this was ugly work. He'd said I might one day be called upon to choose between friendship and duty. Was that choice already upon me?
Except … Inigo himself wanted this and believed it was the right thing to do. If I told him not to go I wouldn't really be choosing him. I'd be choosing myself.
I trusted Inigo. Which meant I needed to trust him to protect his own life, not just mine.
I nodded once. "That'll be fine. It'll be good to know he'll be keeping out of trouble, for once." My voice was level. The months of practice were doing their work.
The man who definitely wasn't called Julius offered me a surprisingly warm and genuine smile. "I'll look after him, milady. Don't you worry." He picked up his longbow from where it rested against Inigo's seat and jerked his head towards the door. "Well, light's a-wasting. You ready, mate? Let's get this over with."
Inigo's level gaze held me as he stood slowly from his chair. I worked very hard to control my face and breathing. It wouldn't do to start crying in front of the whole inn — this had to come across as nothing more than a simple farewell for a few hours, not a tearful goodbye, maybe forever.
For a heartbeat we locked eyes, both of us seeing far more than we could read from the other's face. An instant later I was enveloped in his soft, strong arms. Our hearts beat against each other's: his a strong steady thumping, mine a quick racing patter weaving between his even pulses.
He held me so tightly his claws pricked through my gown and into my back. I didn't mind.
"Stay safe," I whispered into Inigo's chest. "Divines watch over you."
"I am sure they will, my friend." His breath was warm against my hair, and so soft I could barely hear it. "My sister."
Blinking hard, I pulled away. I took his hands and pressed into them my Mara necklace; the one given to me by Mother Balu. I'd been gripping it so tightly since leaving the bathing room that it had left thin indents in my palm.
"For luck."
"Another trinket? Kirilee, I will jangle so much the bears will hear me coming a mile away!" But his whiskers twitched in a way I knew meant he was pleased, and he slipped it into his pocket.
He placed a hand behind my head and kissed me on the crown one last time. "I will see you soon, my friend. Good luck with your performance. Be good, Meeko."
And then he was gone.
Afterwards I could barely remember anything of my evening playing for Jarl Siddgeir. As Viarmo had warned me, the man was a self-serving, boorish prig concerned with little besides lining his own pockets and enjoying the luxuries of his title. He seemed to do barely any actual ruling himself — certainly none of it that required actual work — leaving the day to day running of the hold to his steward.
It said a lot about Siddgeir that I was able to discern even this much in the emotional state that I was in. Through my performance, the ensuing meal, and constant fawning and flattery from everyone in the room there was only one thing on my mind: Inigo. Minute by torturous minute passed with my mind conjuring every manner of horror. I couldn't help it. My imagination ran wild, awful scenes playing out in my head: Inigo, overwhelmed by masked figures in black and red armour. Inigo, crying out in pain as a blade sank into his belly. Inigo, lying in a puddle of blood, not moving.
I should have said no. I should have insisted on going with him. I never should have handed him the letter from Viarmo in the first place.
Protect him, Lady Mara. Please. Bring him home safely.
Every piece I played that evening was peppered with mistakes, my conversation bland and dismissive. I was sure I'd unwittingly insulted half the room with my clear inattentiveness and lacklustre social skills, but couldn't find it in me to care. Funnily enough though, nobody else much seemed to care how I comported myself either. One of the few perks of wearing my title openly, I supposed. Who was going to tell the Duke of Aldcroft's daughter that she kept mixing up the names of the Jarl's father and uncle, and was playing flat, besides? It was the first time in my life the knowledge hadn't horrified me.
Finally, after hours that felt as long as weeks, I was able to excuse myself. I felt a nervous wreck. My hands were trembling so hard I nearly dropped my lute case twice, and once outside the Jarl's longhouse I lifted my skirts, and I ran.
Tears streamed down my face. The uneven stones of the town's roads dug sharply through my thin slippers. I barely noticed. The only thing I cared about was returning to the inn as quickly as possible and seeing Inigo's smiling face waiting for me. I refused to even consider the possibility that he might not be there. He would be. He would be safe. He was my best friend. Lady Mara would have protected him.
I arrived at the inn clutching what felt like five stitches in my side and so out of breath that my lungs tasted of copper. There wasn't time to heal it away. I needed to see Inigo.
My hand on the latch, I hesitated. If he wasn't … If this was to be my last moment in which Inigo was still alive, if only in my head … I didn't want to —
But then the decision was made for me as a pair of Nords pushed through the door, nearly toppling over me in their drunken unsteadiness.
"Oops! Sorry, little miss —"
"Wait, Valdr, isn't that —"
But I wasn't listening.
I saw between their outstretched arms through the door.
My heart clenched.
He was there.