Chapter 59: House Arrest

The climb from sleep came slow and thick; I waded through a viscous mental syrup, idly aware consciousness was required, but a part of me cared not what was so urgent. A frantic shake to my arm and a voice drew me ever-upwards as my body protested at the briefness of its rest and insisted I sleep just a few minutes longer.

"Too late," came a muttered curse to my right.

A glow flared, bright enough to see through my eyelids, and this woke me, for it could only be a spell.

I came up for air and drew a gasping breath – which entered a foreign mouth with a hiss. When I looked down, I saw not palms but paws.

"Wha-?" I rasped; blinked in confusion. My voice was familiar, but the mouth was full of teeth. Am I dreaming?

A flutter of blue; a curtain was whipped aside and light flooded our alcove. I blinked again; my eyes felt larger and the blink took longer than it should have; the brightness burned while my pupils shrank. I swallowed down the urge to scream at the strangeness of the thick, rough tongue in my mouth.

"What the-?" Onmund asked blearily, holding up a hand and squinting at the blazing torches.

The events of the previous day flooded me. Eyes adjusted, I could see beyond the fire and catalogue those who carried them. Soldiers. One frowned, clearly annoyed, and the other sighed with relief. One bulky, one slender, both pale – one male, one female. The smaller, relieved officer had short, reddish hair, though it was difficult to tell under her hide helmet, and the larger, more annoyed soldier had a darker, longer mane clumped around his shoulders, thick with ice. They must have been on patrol; it must have snowed recently. Their colours were muted, made dusky by a surreal pre-dawn light and too-bright torch glow, but I assumed they were ordinarily blue.

A pair of Stormcloak soldiers, then. And I was a Khajiit; Onmund had changed me to look like his friend just in time.

"Why aren't you in bed?" the female officer asked in exasperation. Her accent was so thick that I had the notion she was local.

"I am in bed," Onmund grumbled blearily. "Why're you in my room?"

"You know you're not," the other snarled in my direction; hardened, distasteful eyes flickered up and down. "What're you doing fraternising with this filth still?"

Automatically, I hissed.

"Watch your tongue," Onmund barked and held a placating palm toward me – I will deal with him.

"Not this again, Adleson," the female officer groaned as she pinched the bridge of her nose.

"No, I will say my piece – it isn't right, the son of Stormcloak bandying about with a-"

Onmund stood slowly.

"They're just kids," the female officer insisted roughly.

"J'zargo is my friend, you cretin," the feigned hangover lifted as he steadied his hands on the table and leaned toward the soldiers, his eyes narrowing with purpose. "Show some respect. Remember who it is you speak to," he added calmly, with a pointed tilt to one eyebrow.

The smaller officer laughed, though there didn't seem to be any malice behind it; perhaps she was naturally this cheery. "You can hold your own. But it's you who forgets, lad," she mocked, angling her torch toward him with a flick of her wrist. "No running off, you'll get us all in trouble. You too, J'zargo."

I made a sound of assent, trying desperately to recall the cadence of his voice.

"My word, no riddles today? Cat got your tongue?" the soldier smirked at her own joke.

I grimaced, swallowing down a bitter discomfort. When I failed to answer, her gaze shifted back to Onmund, and she offered him an apologetic smile. "You know where you're supposed to be at this time of day. Daddy-dearest doesn't like it when-"

"I'm on College grounds, Mersten," Onmund protested. "Go away," he palmed his eyes.

The soldier – Mersten – laughed again, and clasped her fellow's shoulder. "C'mon, Adleson – our wayward prince is lost no more."

"I'm not a prince," Onmund called after them in frustration as they sauntered away. "And I was here the whole time!"

A heavy door closed and the echo of it rang throughout the cavernous Arcaneum.

Onmund seemed so embarrassed that I had to look away – and turned to the window to give him what privacy I could. The steam within and ice without made the view insubstantially murky, like a memory of a bleak painting. I lifted a hand – paw – and rubbed a circle dry to form a clearer picture of the approaching day. If I squinted, I could see the top of the college – a blueish-black smudge – and beyond that, what I assumed was the sea, discernible only by the line of dusty pink bordering it and the sky.

"The Stormcloaks watch you?" I murmured to the window; my breath misted the glass. It must have been incredibly icy outside.

"Yeah," came the quiet reply, followed by a resigned sigh.

"All the time?" I turned back in surprise. He could have told me.

"Yes," he huffed helplessly. "I mean," he sat back and reconsidered. "Every couple of hours they poke their heads in. I figured someone would have seen us leave out the window last night – Brel and I, I mean," he flickered me a hasty glance, "and not bothered..." he trailed off, then offered a shrug. "Not the first time we've left the pub that way."

I crossed my brows at him. What makes you think the Stormcloaks will care what a couple of students are up to, he had said before we'd left Lydia.

"Your teacher was right-" fur entered my vision, and I faltered; glanced upwards, distracted by my very bushy eyebrows. "Yeah," I whispered, trying to locate my thoughts - I was trying to be stern. "That's the kind of assumption that gets people killed."

"You're fine," Onmund hazarded a small smirk. "J'zargo and I have been found in stranger places than the Arcaneum."

"Okay," I gave up, but my fur prickled with unease. This was strange. "Okay," I repeated in a calmer tone. "That soldier – she said you knew where you were supposed to be. Where's that – your dorm?"

Onmund flashed me a scoffing sideways glance. "Mersten doesn't care what I do, so long as she knows where I am."

"Okay," I wasn't convinced, for Mersten had seemed to care about him - but my knowledge of the woman spanned mere minutes. "You seem to know her well enough," I conceded. My ear twitched, and I batted it to try make it stop.

"As well as a man can know his shadow of three years," Onmund choked on a laugh, then waved his hand toward me. "They'll watch the doors, but that's all. She won't check back until noon, now. You're in the clear."

A soft green glow drifted toward me, and I couldn't help but close my eyes as my body tingled and pinched and shrank.

"I suppose I'll have to trust you on that."

"I suppose you will," Onmund repeated smugly.

Material fluttered, and when I opened my eyes to roll them, I was me again, and Onmund was up and re-closing the curtain to our nook.

"Gro-Shub should be along any minute," Onmund murmured quietly. He remained standing with one eye peering through a small gap in the curtains. "You'd best get your story straight."

Oh, yes. That.

Amidst the whirlwind of revelations, I had forgotten why I was really here. I needed an Elder Scroll.

I sat back and considered the frosty window again. I had to admit, I had intended on simply asking the librarian outright about them, and improvising from there.

But the stern Ancano, Nirya's talk of strict rules, the dash through a secret tunnel, Onmund's use of the Muffle spell - not to mention the revelation that the Stormcloaks were spying on my guide at regular intervals - each experience had watered a seed of doubt buried within me, and when I examined what I might ask, I grew nervous. The Greybeards hadn't liked talk of Elder Scrolls, and they knew me, knew what I was up against. What if I said something forbidden? What if Onmund's Stormcloak guards overheard me? They would surely recognise me, and it wouldn't matter if they thought I was myself or my sister – they would take me away from here, and very probably straight to Windhelm – and Ulfric.

My eyes narrowed as I recalled his expression, his overabundant confidence as he assured me Giselle wanted his touch.

Stop it, I commanded, dashing the indignation and prickly fear as though they were raindrops I could brush off as they landed to muddy my focus. I didn't want to waste what might be my only chance to gain the knowledge I needed, given the pains we'd taken to arrive at this point. Ulfric Stormcloak wasn't my problem. Alduin was.

And I needed help.

"Onmund?" I faltered, frowning as I cautiously regarded the back of his head. The dim light of not-quite day made his hair a formless bulk of inky-black.

He glanced over his shoulder.

And he waited. After a moment's silence, he turned properly; his dark brows crossed. "What is it?"

I couldn't ask it to his face; I glanced down to observe my clasped hands. I wasn't even certain of what I needed, and faltered. "Are there...any rules I should be made aware of regarding...Elder Scrolls?"

The mage choked, then shook himself hurriedly and cast a dusty cloud of purple on the curtains.

Only when the spell faded did he sit, then he slid toward me in a rush. "That's your specific book?" he whispered.

"What if it is?" I risked a glance; winced at the sight of his widened icy-blue eyes, drowned in incredulity. "Do you get in trouble if you talk about them?"

With a huff and a blink, he shook his head. "It's not that, but – look. Students don't ask about those. He'll think you're just another treasure hunter," in some vexation, he raked a hand through his hair as he sat back and considered. "If you want Gro-Shub to give you anything of use about those," Onmund ducked down a bit and lowered his voice; "you're going to need to tell him you're the Dragonborn."

–

The librarian arrived soon after.

We froze, despite the Muffle spell, and listened intently as he went about his morning routines.

After some minutes of dull rustles and clunks, the sound of footsteps and rather tuneless humming travelled towards, and then past us.

Once the shuffling ceased – though the humming did not – Onmund's eyes snapped to me. "Now's your chance," he leaned closer; his voice the barest of whispers. "He's at his desk. Be quick and concise," he schooled. "Lead with who you really are."

I glanced to the curtain and bit my lip as urgent panic shot through me. If I didn't do this right, Gro-Shub would probably throw me out, Dragonborn or no.

"Come with me," I swiftly decided; begged.

Onmund shot me a confused glance. "If we are seen together-" he faltered.

"I know," I winced. "But – I really need this information. And, you know this guy," I pleaded in a whisper.

The mage frowned and took a while to form his uncertain reply. "You're...a bard, aren't you? You're asking me to cover for you?"

I supposed I was. "I can still say the wrong thing," I shot him an entreating look. "I don't know how this is going to play out."

With a shallow, disbelieving sort of glaze, his eyes drifted down to stare at the table. "If the Stormcloaks hear I was asking about Elder Scrolls, right before I disappear-"

I hadn't thought of that. "They'll track us to Gro-Shub, and ask him what he told us," I cursed. "Can't you just," I waved my hand toward him, "make yourself look like somebody else for a few minutes?"

Onmund huffed again. "I could turn into you, if you're that worried," he drawled, unimpressed. "Though I doubt I'll get the voice right."

Again, a valid point. Defeated, I stood to leave; I was just going to have to be brave and polite and attempt to be certain. Perhaps I would lead with my true identity, as a mark of trust.

Onmund's hand shot out and took hold of my wrist urgently before I was able to squeeze past him.

"That's it," he muttered, his gaze faraway.

"What?" I frowned at his hand.

Onmund's focus centred on me, suddenly gleaming with satisfaction, and he let go of me as quickly as he'd taken hold. "That's how we get out of here. Winterhold, I mean."

I didn't follow and shook my head helplessly – it was certainly a problem, but not the one I needed to focus on right now. "Are you going to help me with Gro-Shub or not?"

"Yes," he stood abruptly. "Definitely, yes."

The change made me nervous, but there was no time to question him. "Thank you," I murmured, and motioned for him to lead the way.

Onmund seemed so excited by whatever he had come upon that he forgot all about our plan to skirt around the outside of the Arcaneum to make it look like we had entered from one of the doors.

The librarian didn't seem to notice. In fact, he didn't even seem to register the library was occupied until we were directly before him and Onmund tapped his fingers impatiently on the desk.

"Sir?"

Only then did the Orc look up. He was bearded – it was pure white and prickly-looking – and dressed neatly in mage robes of gold and russet. Intelligent, expectant green eyes, magnified by gold-rimmed spectacles, flickered from my companion, to me.

Unwittingly, I held my breath. So, this was Gro-Shub.

"Yes?" he sounded mildly annoyed. Gro-Shub sat a little straighter, closed the book in front of him, and collected a steaming mug of something in large, dark green hands as he inspected us, and waited.

"Sorry for disturbing you so early, Sir, but there's someone you need to meet," Onmund leant on the loans desk and flicked his head toward me. "Go on," he smirked. "Tell him."

Pursing my lips and narrowing my eyes at his smug manner, I tried to put his terrible introduction out of my mind. I had asked for his help; Onmund must have thought it was appropriate.

Gro-Shub's attention was on me now. "You have news on the whereabouts of Chronicles of Nchuleft, yes?"

I met him with an apologetic smile. "I'm...afraid not. My name is Celeste," I dipped my head a little.

Onmund scoffed. "What was that? Fine, I'll do it," he cut in swiftly. "Urag Gro-Shub, allow me to introduce the one-and-only Celeste Passero."

"Onmund," I scolded quietly.

Urag's thick brows furrowed as he tried to place me. "You are a new student at the College? Then I welcome you," he replaced his mug; bespectacled eyes turned back to the tome he'd been leafing through when we approached.

"No – that's not-" Onmund motioned toward me desperately. "Tell him who you are."

"Arcaneum hours are posted on all of the doors," the librarian went on in a drone.

"I understand that Sir, but I need your help-" I attempted in a rush.

His words rolled right over mine. "Damage any of my books and you'll find Atronachs in your bed until the damage is repaired or compensated-"

"Don't you recognise her, Sir?" Onmund blurted out, then lowered his voice to a strained whisper. "She's the Dragonborn."

Gro-Shub hesitated, his mouth open. His tusks pressed into his snowy-white moustache as he slowly glanced up, his gaze cautious. "I see."

"Thank you, Onmund," I fixed the librarian with an apologetic smile. "As I was saying, Master Gro-Shub," I stood on the toes of my boots so I could lean on the loans desk and speak a little more quietly. "I need your help."

"But," the thick brows furrowed again. "I cannot fight dragons."

My smile broadened. "That makes two of us."

–

I couldn't tell Gro-Shub why I needed an Elder Scroll. To voice it would somehow seal my fate; acknowledge that I would have to use it in the same way the Tongues had – to usher in a temporary peace at the price of our descendant's lives, in the hope they'd be fit to banish Alduin, and finish what I couldn't.

So I explained that my mentor on High Hrothgar had requested I locate one, and left the rest unsaid.

Urag listened patiently, then shook his head regretfully. Warnings were issued; my mentor had set me on too dark a path, dragon blood or no. That even if I found one, it might not show me the answers I wanted, and it would rob me of much in the process.

It was knowledge I had already known on some level; the Elder Scrolls were not to be messed with and reading one invariably took some toll. But I told him what I had to keep telling myself; that for the moment, this was the path I had to travel, and if it led me to certain consequences, I would accept them.

Gro-Shub's brows knotted even more, and he started thoughtfully, yet reluctantly, musing over books that might assist. He rose to collect and pass a few down from the top-most shelves into Onmund's waiting arms.

Perhaps the Orc had read every book in the library he so lovingly guarded, for he seemed to know at once which to pick; those he said contained information about the Scrolls beyond that which was common knowledge.

But as I read the first book he had pushed upon me, a deep dread of what would come seeped into me, as heavy and unwanted as a sickness. Justinius Poluhnius wrote of the effects of Elder Scrolls, and I understood that Gro-Shub had intended I read this first, so I might realise the fullness of my decision to pursue a Scroll:

These are subjects who have an understanding of the nature of the Elder Scrolls and possess sufficient knowledge to actually read what is inscribed there. They have not, however, developed adequate discipline to stave off the mind-shattering effect of having a glimpse of infinity. These unfortunate souls are struck immediately, irrevocably, and completely blind. Such is the price for overreaching one's faculties. It bears mentioning, though, that with the blindness also comes a fragment of that hidden knowledge - whether the future, the past, or the deep natures of being is dependent on the individual and their place in the greater spheres. But the knowledge does come.

The knowledge does come, I repeated, my eyes flickering over the words. At what price?

But then – didn't all knowledge, all true revelations, come with their price – some innocence lost or path closed off forever?

I read on, trying to console myself with a glimmer of hope; that enlightenment itself was not a force of evil. It brought with it both elements of good and bad, depending on what the individual managed to do with their new pieces of understanding. It was not the Elder Scroll that I had to fear, truly, but what I would do with it.

But of course, the Elder Scroll was not an ordinary book. So perhaps I would not need to actually read the Elder Scroll to open the Time Wound. Perhaps bringing it to Monahven would be enough.

I had to believe that despite the risk and caution thrown at me by practically everyone I had spoken the need to, there was hope in finding a true solution along this path.

–

Once he resolved the details of my request, Gro-Shub seemed somehow pleased to learn the Dragonborn was not some brainless oaf of a warrior; that I was willing to sit and read and admit I didn't have all the answers, and needed the written word to acquire power. He was amenable to my request for information, and agreed to tell no one of my visiting him - he was helpful in his own, short way - but that didn't mean he let me remove his precious books from his care. Instead, he merely told me that I was welcome to use the Arcaneum to continue my research at any time of the day or night, provided I took care with the books.

A few short hours were not enough – I had found nothing of use thus far - so Onmund and I had to come up with a way to extend my presence in the College of Winterhold, without arousing the suspicions of his Stormcloak watchers or being found out by the teachers.

We returned to Lydia at midday, as promised, and Onmund left us with a thoughtful frown to put in an appearance at an exam he didn't seem to care about passing.

After I'd explained who Onmund truly was to Lydia (she did not take it well) and placated her, I spent the afternoon trying to come up with a plan and not think about what I had read of the Effects of Elder Scrolls. I held my beloved lute, fingers itching to strum and lose myself in a song for a few minutes, but I could not risk playing it and piquing somebody's interest in our room.

The time away must have served him well, for when Onmund returned later that evening, he was wearing a wide, self-satisfied grin.

"We've figured it out," he shushed, shedding his snow-speckled scarf and hat.

Lydia closed the door quietly after him, her eyes narrowed and watchful, and I threw her an arched expression.

"Get dressed."

I had been leaning on the bed on my elbows, and sat up to catch the robe he threw at me. "I can come back now?" I stared at the cloth of tan and teal in wonder.

"We've figured out what exactly?" Lydia asked skeptically. "Who's we? Did you speak to the Arch-Mage?" she cautioned.

"What point would that serve?" Onmund flickered her a wrinkled-nose glance, unaffected by her ire, then shook his head. "You're going in as Yisra tonight. I'll change you back once we're in the Arcaneum, since Gro-Shub knows you and won't like knowing how we're sneaking you in. She's a destruction major. Her voice is only a little deeper than yours, if you need to say anything between here and there-"

"Wait," I cut in, standing to square him with crossed brows. "We're doing the alteration thing again?"

Onmund nodded smugly. "Only better," he tapped my nose, his glee barely contained. "Yisra's going to come here, and be you – well," he waved his hand over the top of my head with a half-frown, "sort of. I'll make her look more like a younger Lydia, less like – you know. Actual you, because if the Stormcloaks in the pub see you-"

"I know, I know," I waved my hand, and retreated behind a privacy screen Lydia had arranged to get changed. The details were hazy, but the bones of his plan were clever.

"Slow down," Lydia cut in pointedly. "You told your friends what's going on?" she asked with a trace of wariness.

I closed my eyes as I shrugged the robes over my head, and tried not to sigh. I knew that voice; Lydia was anxious and barely holding herself back.

I told myself to appreciate what he had organised. He had gotten me in before, and had remained true to his word and brought me back. I had to keep trusting him.

The pause allowed for a calmer delivery. "You told them who I am?" I extended Lydia's question.

"They'd already half figured it out, to be fair," Onmund snorted. "I just – filled in some gaps."

"Thank you, Onmund," Lydia's voice came quiet and steady. "What of the Stormcloaks?" she asked casually.

I stepped back around the screen; Lydia was leant against the table with one hand back to steady her; she was gripping the edge so hard her knuckles were white.

"And what of your trusted friend's daily duties, and yours?" she continued reasonably. I wondered if Onmund realised how tense she was? "We can't ask you to disappear from classes – surely your educators will notice – and your friends will be penalised, even if you are not."

It sounded like reason, but Lydia was endeavouring to find me a way out.

"Not a problem," Onmund's eyes glinted as he lifted his brows smugly. "There aren't any classes during exam week, and we're not going to make her look like someone who has an exam each day."

"And the Stormcloaks?" I reminded hurriedly.

Onmund rolled his eyes. "Also not a problem."

I flickered Lydia an uncertain glance, which she shared.

"They won't grow suspicious of your sudden interest in the Arcaneum?"

Onmund made a pfft sound. "They don't care what I do."

His flippant reply did little to console me, and he laughed. "Don't worry. I'll be with you the entire time. You can research as much as you want, whenever you want, and history will never know that the Dragonborn ever studied at the College of Winterhold."

What little choice did I have but to go with Onmund's plan and trust that his closest friends wouldn't betray me – to the College, or the Stormcloaks?

Between us, Lydia, Onmund and I came up with appropriate times to depart the inn for the College, and to return. No two times were to be the same at risk of drawing a pattern to anyone's attention. Onmund would arrive at the inn in the morning, at noon, or in the evening, accompanied by two or three of his fellows, including whoever I was to be for the shift. He would change my face into one that would gain entry to the College, and alter one of his friends to look like Lady Belamy's daughter.

I got the impression that most of his friends thought the Dragonborn being snuck into the College under the teacher's noses was the most wonderful lark.

To dismiss any suspicion student activity to our room might attract, Lydia told the staff we were attempting to fast-track my acceptance into the college and she was organising private tutelage with existing students to prepare me for the entry interviews.

I was grateful she came up with something, even if it didn't explain our initial disguised arrival, and I was too busy over the coming days to worry about whether or not she was believed.

For my part in our scheme, I tried to focus on gaining knowledge in the hope a revelation might come.

Hours were spent ensconced within the Arcaneum to read whichever books Gro-Shub had unearthed the previous day, all from the uncomfortably cushioned study nook we had taken shelter in on that first strange, emotionally-charged night. I wore many faces on our journey to and from the library, but wore my own during our research sessions, so as not to arouse doubt in the library overseer. I needed his help; I needed him to continue trusting me, so I had to appear to him as the Dragonborn.

The days dripped away slowly from the seclusion of foggy, ice-girdled Winterhold. I read so much that my eyes felt full of grit by the time my head landed on my pillow each night (or morning), and my mind tumbled, speculating over what toll the Elder Scroll would take if I found one, and of how the cost would only ensure a delay to Alduin's reign, not end it.

Could I call it a success if I bought Tamriel some more time?

Brief piques of fear gave way to tedium and a sense of disbelief regarding our mythical subject matter. From the relative safety and warmth of the library, even knowing that there were Stormcloaks nearby, it grew difficult to imagine I would ever do anything but theorise over an Elder Scroll's possible worldly location. The more I read about them, the more I became convinced that I would never actually hold one, which, to my shame, bought me great relief.

Research was not my strong suit, but the minutiae details of every text had never been drilled into us at the Bard's College. We had been encouraged to read, and more so to summarise; to touch history, but only fleetingly. Sometimes the Deans had asked us to read the first half of an obscure epic and then confiscate our books at the cliffhanger, asking us to write the resolution for ourselves, or wonder forever at how it might end.

Familiarity with the past was important as it shaped our own songs and stories – but they were to serve as inspiration only. A blow-by-blow of a political encounter would bore audiences; it was the emotions, the people, and making them feel real that was the true power of a retelling. It was why bards had always gently bent the truths of bygone eras.

So I struggled as I continued to do what I had been trained to do under these circumstances; to brush over the facts and extrapolate for myself using a more fanciful model with defined acts and closure.

My mind ran away with the possibilities; I would lose my sight, perhaps my sanity, or perhaps some other sense if I requested a Scroll share a glimmer of its vastness to shirk me back and witness a prior time. I could lose my sense of touch, or my hearing – and then my music might be trapped within me for the rest of my days.

It would be a fitting end to another Septim tragedy.

While I silently wove torturous fancy and tried to concentrate, Onmund somehow got to the heart of what I sought.

On the sixth dawn, as we poured through the few new books set aside by Gro-Shub, I realised with a jolt that I no longer felt any suspicion toward Onmund. In fact, I was relieved I had told him why I had come here; relieved that we had encountered one another in the Frozen Hearth on the night of my arrival in Winterhold.

For six days and seven nights, he had put his life on hold to assist me. Perhaps he was just bored, but I knew that ultimately, his willingness was driven by a deep-seated love for my sister. Knowing Giselle had somebody in her life who thought of her as more than a pawn to be shifted around or a bloodline to manipulate and own settled a small discomfort within me. Onmund was helping me because – unlike his father – he believed in family.

"Listen to this," his eyes widened in triumph and he licked his lips as he pointed to a passage in Ruminations on the Elder Scrolls. "The introduction suggests this book is philosophical, but -" his eyes scanned the page. "Each of our minds is actually the emptiness, and the learnings of the Scrolls are the pinpoints. Without their stabbing light, my consciousness would be as a vast nothingness, unknowing its emptiness as a void is unknowing of itself. But the burnings are dangerous, and must be carefully tended and minded and brought to themselves and spread to their siblings."

"Very...poetic," I murmured; I failed to see the relevance, and now in my imaginings, the Elder Scroll set my brain on fire.

Onmund grinned. "This guy has read Elder Scrolls. Maybe he has one you can borrow."

"Maybe he can tell me how to avoid going mad," I murmured; my heart skipped a beat, but I marked my place in my book and scoffed. "Elder Scrolls don't tend to let people leave them lying around to lend out."

"Septimus Signus," Onmund considered the title page undeterred. "Why is that name familiar?" he mused.

I blinked at him, at war with my conviction. It was ridiculous to think that someone might have a stash of Elder Scrolls for me to pick and choose from – but if they did? I would have to take one. I would have to follow through with a plan I detested.

But wasn't that the entire point of being here?

"Does the publisher list an address for fan mail?" I deadpanned.

Onmund flashed me an unimpressed look. "Come on. Gro-Shub will know-"

CLANG.

Before he could finish, the Arcaneum main doors were flung open.

In a flash, we faced the closed blue curtains in horror. Booted footfalls hurried toward us – and shouting followed. So much shouting – and I paled, shrinking back toward the window.

They were calling Onmund's name.

It was the Stormcloaks.

"Hide," Onmund whispered.

The curtain was whipped aside.

There was nowhere to hide; it was too late.

Before us stood Mersten and Adleson, whose faces I had grown used to - and I had never seen their eyes so wide, so wild and worried. Something was wrong. And this time there were more – so many more blue-clad soldiers behind them, twitchy with fear.

"Thank the Nine, you're still here," Mersten's arm whipped forward and she clasped Onmund's wrist. "Come on. The Legion mounted an attack on Winterhold; we need to get you to safety-"

"What?" Onmund spluttered; tried to shake her off. "Why would the Legion attack Winterhold?!"

"You do remember we're at war, don't you boy?" one of the troops grabbed Onmund's other arm and together, he and Mersten hauled him out of the study nook. "They're no match for us in number, but you need to hide until it's-"

"What is the meaning of this?" Gro-Shub's command boomed over the residual chatter of the soldiers' flustered arrival.

"You'll keep out of this, Orc," the Stormcloak closest to him barked. "Our orders are to keep the boy alive;" a thinly-veiled threat.

Gro-Shub didn't take the insult and two of the Stormcloak officers retreated to talk heatedly with the librarian.

Perhaps he used the argument as a distraction, or perhaps Onmund realised how much trouble we'd be in if the Stormcloaks didn't leave, for he suddenly spoke up, oddly calm. "Lead the way, Mersten."

"Get back to your dorm, Yisra-" Mersten's eyes found mine – a flicker of a glance over her shoulder – and she froze. Her mouth fell open, drawing the attention of the group my way. "Where's Yisra?" she commanded.

Onmund and I had grown accustomed to using the alteration spell for my transits, not my study periods. But his Stormcloak watchers had never been this fast; there had always been time enough to change me into somebody else before they had checked in on him.

There were heartbeats of silence, then one of the Stormcloaks cursed – loudly.

"What's she doing here?" Adleson fired at Onmund.

"So this is where she's been hiding out-" another muttered from the back of the blue-clad crowd.

"She can answer for herself," I stood, eyes burning with indignation. There was no point in trying to hide or cower. It didn't matter who they thought I was; they were going to make my life difficult either way. "Onmund is assisting me with my research."

"Is that what you kids are calling it now?" a Stormcloak jeered.

"No time," Mersten reminded in a mutter, shaking her head as though she was clearing water from her ears. She nodded to a member of her unit, who stepped toward me immediately.

"The Empire has put a bounty on you, Commander. It might be why they attacked," Mersten chewed her bottom lip, clearly wondering if it was possible the Legion had discovered my whereabouts, on their watch. "You'll have to come with us."

So they thought I was Giselle. Of course they did; Onmund was Stormcloak's son. He would never assist the enemy. Giselle and Onmund's attachment was likely common knowledge, if she had managed to come to Winterhold to visit him in the past years. It was highly likely Giselle knew Mersten, personally.

And – it seemed I had misread the Stormcloaks attitude toward my sister. This was a far cry from the scared glances and wary respect I had been met with in Windhelm, but they hadn't killed me on sight either, so that was a bonus.

Perhaps not everybody had turned from Giselle after the battle for Whiterun.

The soldier Mersten had instructed to escort me grabbed my arm a little rougher than was required. "Maybe if we hand her over to them, they'll leave us be," he grumbled.

Okay, so perhaps not everybody present shared Mersten's opinion.

"Coward!" Onmund spat; his grimace dark and threatening, an echo of his father's menace. "You wouldn't dare."

"Nobody's giving your girlfriend up to the Legion, Onmund," Mersten muttered as she shot the soldier a warning look and took my arm as he brought me to her. "Let's go."

For a while, I feigned compliance as my mind ticked over. I truly couldn't figure out where Giselle stood amongst them – and it would not take them long to realise I wasn't her. It would not take them long to understand that I was the true Dragonborn; the woman who, in their eyes, was betraying Skyrim by siding with the Legion. The very Legion who were, apparently, attacking Winterhold as we hurried away.

Let them take you, I panicked, and you will be exposed and brought to Stormcloak.

It was a confrontation I had once desired; learn how to throw Fus Ro Dah, and toss it back at him. But now – the insignificance of Ulfric's efforts to my actual plight – I could not afford to be dragged into it. Not if I was to ever fulfil my actual duty.

And I had to acknowledge I was little frightened of what I would find, if I faced him. If I was captured by Stormcloak, I doubted I would be allowed to ever leave Windhelm. Dark nausea spilled into my stomach; my sister was missing, and Ulfric desired a Septim alliance to secure his claim over Skyrim; perhaps over all of Tamriel. Onmund might have believed that his father would never take Giselle back – but Ulfric was zealous enough about his right to rule that he would do anything to ensure my sister's prophecies, or nightmares, were settled in a way that suited him.

He has plans for us, both of us, after he wins this war, Giselle had told me.

I had to get away – and then I had to find my sister and get her out of reach, too – until we could figure out how to deal with the wheels she had, perhaps unwittingly, set in motion. My gaze flickered to my escort – her assertive focus – and then to my other side, to Onmund, where another guard escorted him.

His face was an expressionless mask, but in his eyes, I caught enough defeat to understand if I left him now, I would never see him again. Which meant that he might never see my sister again. And something about that didn't sit right.

It had nothing to do with being Dragonborn, but I had made a promise to Onmund. He was a prisoner here, despite appearances, and as I glanced at each Stormcloak in turn – I counted seven in total – my resolve hardened.

I was going to save him, too. I would take Onmund and Giselle, and any other person Ulfric considered key to his strategy, and spirit them out of his reach. I was going to make it as difficult as possible for Ulfric to execute his plans for our futures. We were not his.

I reached for Onmund's hand and clasped it tightly, both in readiness for my next move, and to reassure him. The Stormcloaks didn't flinch or falter, and as our entourage rounded the tall, high bookshelves, he squeezed back.

I took it as a sign of his readiness. This would either work, or it would go very badly for both of us, but I had to try.

"Yol Toor Shul."

The Shout emerged as a whisper; my throat burned as fire formed and coalesced, then erupted from me.

The Stormcloaks cried out in confusion, shielding their eyes from the glare. Flames rippled across the bookshelf to our right, catching hold of the ancient paper with a low whoosh. From somewhere in the library, Urag Gro-Shub bellowed in horror.

And in her surprise, Mersten's grip on my arm faltered.

Tugging free and scurrying backwards – I threw my arms around Onmund's shoulders and Shouted again.

"Feim."

The effects were immediate. Onmund and I faded, and I hauled him toward the side entrance leading to the tunnel that had brought us to the Arcaneum.

It had all passed in a flurry of wildly racing heartbeats. The Stormcloaks were baffled, scared and angry; arrows whizzed around us as swords were drawn in haste, rasping against their scabbards. Bolts that would have struck me passed straight through and clattered noisily against the wall.

"Help me – fetch water!" a cry sounded above the confusion.

"Find her! Catch her!" another cried. "It's the Dragonborn!"

"She's kidnapped the prince!" another roared in dismay.

This seemed to trigger something in Onmund, and the mage found his feet and ran with me. Our speed doubled as we reached the door – and we continued on straight through it as though it were mist and not wood. Soundlessly, we descended the spiral staircase, and my guide took the lead as we raced into the tunnel system.

Neither of us looked back. I wasn't certain if the Stormcloaks had realised where we had gone – wasn't entirely certain what they had witnessed, to be honest. All I could hope was that they hadn't seen enough – that we had some advantage that might get us clear of them.

As we barrelled through the darkness, my mind raced; we would have to disguise ourselves, get out of the College, and find Lydia.

While the Legion and Stormcloaks fight around you?

I cursed. There was nothing for it; we would have to flee Winterhold, despite the battle. Perhaps it would help us; distract the Stormcloaks for long enough to slip down to the coastline.

But what of Vilkas?

My shield-brother's message was yet to arrive; Lydia expected it the following morning, at the earliest.

Don't worry about him, I grit my teeth. Vilkas will find us, wherever we end up.

Our footfalls tapped out an uneven rhythm as the effects of the Shout wore off and I mentally prepared our escape. The air wheezed through my lungs as my body tingled and solidified, and Onmund's grip on my hand became tighter, and clammier.

Before long we were solid, and after turning a series of seemingly random corners, Onmund suddenly stopped.

"We need a better plan," he gasped, leaning over to catch his breath.

My back crashed against the tunnel wall as I looked up to the gloomy, stone-cut ceiling and tried not to drown on the humid air gushing through me. "I got us away, didn't I?" I managed.

"Not – not what I meant." Onmund shook his head sluggishly, arched over with his hands on his knees.

I swallowed; closed my eyes and listened beyond our wheezing. I could hear no signs of pursuit, but it would not take the Stormcloaks long to find us. "What do you suggest?"

"Well, first," with a lurch sideways, Onmund reached for the wall opposite me, then arched back against it with a wince. "Thank you," he fixed me, raising his eyebrows. "You could have left me there. Was that a dragon Shout?"

"Two," I narrowed my eyes; now was not the time for this. "You mentioned a plan?"

With another gulp of air, he nodded shallowly. "Yeah," he lifted his hand, palm facing me. "They haven't seen Evae today. Let me," he paused to cough, then waved me forward.

Glancing from his palm briefly, I shook my head. "They know you're an alteration mage. They'll lock the entire college down before they let anyone leave."

"Not if I'm in my room," his mouth tilted into a half-smile.

I frowned. "I don't follow."

"You're a smart girl," he drawled, and changed his mind, standing a little taller as he turned his palm on himself and closed his eyes. He glowed green almost at once.

I had grown used to seeing his friends turn into me at the Inn, so I watched on impatiently as his features twisted and darkened and lengthened – into the now-familiar form of Brelyna.

With the transformation complete, he brought his – her – hand to her head, as though she had a bad headache. "The eyes always burn, don't they?" she muttered in Onmund's voice.

The realisation came. "You're going to ask Brelyna to assume your identity?"

"See? You got there," Onmund nodded; Brelyna's red eyes sparkled with certainty. "Let's go to Brel's room. I'll need to borrow something," he glanced down at himself; his mage robes were like a sack on the lithe mer. "Huh," his eyes lingered on his – her – chest, and he lifted a long, thin finger to prod at one of the mer's breasts.

"What if she's not there?" I pursed my lips; arched an eyebrow as he haltingly glanced back up to me.

Lifting his palm to me again, Onmund cast with an idle flick of his wrist. "We find someone else, Evae."

My body glittered green for a moment. Unwittingly I closed my eyes as the stretch and squish rippled through me – but I had to admit that I was growing used to this feeling, and no longer feared the effects, or that I might never change back. It was like donning a costume for a play – a really convincing costume.

When I opened my eyes and caught sight of the honey-blonde hair curled over my shoulder where my long, dark braid had once been, I nodded. "This will do. Evae's Breton, right? Restoration major?"

"Right," Brelyna's features arched as she smirked in a very Onmund-like manner.

This time we jogged, for while there were no signs or sounds of pursuit as yet, we both understood that we would have to leave the college quickly if we were to escape it at all.

When we reached the women's dorms and crept into Brelyna's room, we found the mer on her bed - crying.

"What's happened?" Onmund hurried in, uncaring that there were now two of her.

"Onmund," Brelyna – the real Brelyna – looked up through puffy red eyes – and crossed her brows. "You first – and," her eyes flickered to me and understanding settled. "Oh. Hi Celeste."

"Hi," I waved simply.

"Sorry. I'm a mess today," with a sniff, she wiped her hand across her nose. "What's going on?"

"The end game," Onmund's voice leaving Brelyna's body was an odd thing in the tunnel – it was truly surreal watching him speak to her, as her. "Can you take the first shift as me?" he lifted his hand, and once again, green pooled within.

I crossed my brows at him; his magica reserves seemed to have no bounds.

Her shoulders fell as she nodded. "Sure. I'm not going to be here for much longer anyway. Ancano's given me until the end of the week to resubmit the Shalidor essay, but it's pointless," she moaned, flopping onto her bed in defeat. "I'm a useless mage. I want to go home."

I sent an imploring glance Onmund's way; clearly Brelyna wasn't aware of the Legion attack.

"Maybe it's time for all of us to go," Onmund's focus was on Brelyna, and he smiled. "But - be me for a few hours, okay?"

"Yeah, all right," Brelyna muffled as she arched up, then crossed her brows at her doppelganger. "My breasts aren't that big," she sniffed.

"Peace, Brel," Onmund held up his hands through a hasty laugh. "They'll care more about the voice, if they pay attention."

Brelyna tossed her head to the ceiling and rolled her eyes. "Onmund neither of us can do voices, what am I supposed to do, remain silent?"

"You're a resourceful womer, you'll figure something out," his eyes flickered to the doorway as scuffled, hurried footfalls and voices calling sounded outside. "We'd better hurry."

Brelyna nodded dismissively and stood, completely at ease as Onmund changed her into him. The pair hastily switched robes before we escorted the mer to the tunnels; she was to retreat unseen to Onmund's room in the men's dorm. Clearly, Onmund had arranged some exit strategy in the past days with his friends.

Onmund hurriedly issued instructions as he hugged her good bye. "Tell them the Dragonborn lost her grip and you ran off to hide, okay?" he flickered me a quick glance. "They know she's not a soldier, so they should believe you. And tell them you thought she was Giselle all along."

"But – what?" Brelyna hissed, glancing at me uncertainly. "They know you're you?"

"Maybe you could tell them I'm lost somewhere in the tunnel system?" I offered hastily. "That might put them off our trail?"

"By the Gods, you idiots," she implored with a pained slap to her – Onmund's – forehead. "Why didn't you just keep her altered in the Arcaneum?" she sniped.

"Not like that," Onmund commanded quickly. "You've gotta speak lower or you'll never sell it."

Onmund glared at Brelyna – I reminded myself that it was Brelyna glaring at him. "You ask an awful lot of me, Onmund."

"You're one of the most capable mages I know," he placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. "Their stupid exams and essays prove nothing. Think of this as our last prank before we quit this horrible place forever. And someday," the thin, borrowed eyebrows lifted above garnet eyes, "Giselle and I will fix everything. We'll fix – this," he gestured around the college in general, then met her eyes with determination. "All of it. You have my word," he tapered off.

Brelyna frowned, but it was a sad, endearing sort of tilt as she pulled him into a fierce hug. "And you have mine," she whispered. "Say hi to Sel for me."

Onmund made a sound of assent as they retreated, and Brelyna darted off behind the kitchen storage, never looking back.

His grimace on Brelyna's face was strange. "I mean it," he whispered, flicking a nod that I follow as he set off toward the main doors.

"I believe you," I admitted.

With an apologetic shake to his head, he continued. "This College, it's isolation maybe, has bred all kinds of madness. If – when we make it through this, I'm going to fix it."

–

From the moment we exited the women's dorms to the courtyard, we understood we were not alone in our desire to leave.

While I was grateful to anonymously dissolve into a crowd, the fact remained that there was only one way in and out of the College, and the Stormcloaks were preventing anyone from taking it.

After minutes of too much noise and confusion to focus on any one voice, a Stormcloak officer held up his hands and called for quiet.

"Return to your rooms and barricade the doors!" he shouted from the blocked entrance to the walkway that led to town.

"We are not your prisoners!" a pious Altmer student pipped from nearby.

"Winterhold is under attack, you fools!" another Stormcloak boomed. "The Legion do not discriminate – and their orders will be to take the region and everything we've built here. You go out there," he pointed behind him, "and you're dead."

"Since when do Stormcloaks care about mages?" a huffy voice called out.

I wondered the same thing, until I remembered why the Stormcloaks were here in the first place.

Onmund.

They were blocking the path because they didn't want Onmund to leave.

My eyes whipped to find him; wordlessly asked what we were to do.

His eyes were trained elsewhere; tracking movement, while the rest of his – Brelyna's – face remained carefully neutral.

Following his gaze, I caught sight of Mersten and Adleson, and the other guards who had come to the Arcaneum. Mersten spoke to the Stormcloak blocking the passageway, and he nodded, stepping aside to let four of those with her through. The soldiers hurried toward the township, and Mersten turned to look over the crowd.

"Why didn't we disguise ourselves as Stormcloaks?" Onmund muttered regretfully.

As the Stormcloaks shifted I caught sight of broad shoulders in mage's robes – and saw that Onmund – Brelyna as Onmund – was with them.

So, they had taken the bait, at least.

Mersten stepped forward to address the uneasy, disgruntled crowd. "Is there an alteration major amongst you?" she asked; her steely eyes betrayed a glimmer of anxiety.

Onmund's hand fell to my arm; he cursed and took a step back.

My stomach clenched in dread. Okay. They hadn't taken the bait.

"I am," an echo of Onmund's voice piped up from where Brelyna stood disguised as him, and a ripple of nervous laughter tittered around the courtyard. She flashed a very convincing cheeky Onmund grin.

The real Onmund beside me shuffled another two steps backwards. I tried to blend into the snow-covered gardens as I did the same.

Mersten closed her eyes in restraint as Adleson grumbled something indiscernible and shook Brelyna-as-Onmund by the arm.

"This is no laughing matter," Mersten grit out, letting out a breath that made her nostrils flare. "Do any of you fully comprehend what the Jarl will do if his son disappears during this skirmish?"

"Not our problem," a brash voice called, their face hidden in the sea of students.

"It's everybody's problem," Mersten barked; louder and angrier than I had ever seen her. "You will forfeit the College – very likely this entire Hold," she stressed; a hint of imploring entered her tone.

"We understand your position, officer," a more mature, sonorous voice called from somewhere to our left. "But, excuse me for pointing out the obvious. The College has endured worse than your leader."

Adleson's grunt of rage was discernible over the babble of commotion. "It's our leader that keeps your worthless town functioning," he snarled, throwing Brelyna-as-Onmund toward Mersten as he drew his sword.

With a swift tug, Onmund pulled me into a garden hedge.

The motion had taken me by surprise and leaves scratched at my cheeks and hands as I tumbled down. I regained some balance as I grasped the prickly bushes and ducked – and came eye-to-eye with his borrowed red.

"They're going to kill her," he puffed bleakly; a shudder of white mist blurred Brelyna's features. "I have to go to them," he placed a hand on my arm.

I understood his reasoning, but I couldn't hide my frown. "You'll be trapped here," my voice trembled.

The corner of Brelyna's mouth tugged up as he lifted slim fingers to her face. "The price for making assumptions," he murmured.

I watched on sadly as the green spell pooled; a cloud of verdant haze that made the dense, spiky leaves around us thrum.

When Onmund looked like himself again and opened his eyes, the red shifted through purple to settle on his familiar ice-blue. There were only regretful tears to be found, though he managed to keep any from falling. "If they don't open the way after they take me, you go to the Hall of Countenance," he instructed quietly. "The tunnel under the stairs leads to the midden, and I've heard that it leads to the ice caves to the north. You'll find a path out," he shot me a half-smile that didn't reach his eyes.

I shook my head and opened my mouth to tell him to come with me – that Brelyna and the others would sort this out, somehow – and flinched as the angry voices escalated outside of the hedgerow, accompanied by steel against steel and the crackle and fizz of magica pooling.

There was no time to argue with him, or to convince him of some better plan where he would be free.

"At least this way," he glanced furtively toward the sounds of the brewing storm, "everybody lives to fight another day."

"I'm so sorry," I whispered; choked on the words, the failure.

"Good luck with the Scroll," Onmund tilted his head uncertainly. "Count to ten, then come out. Stay at the back," he patted my shoulder, offered a short, brief smile, then wasted no more time.

Prickly leaves rustled and clumps of snow thumped quietly to the ground as he stepped out of the bush.

I closed my eyes – and breathed, counting the seconds. After everything he had done for me – and everything he had endured for the past years. For all my promises to take him with us – it seemed I would have to leave him here.

On ten, as instructed, I extracted myself from the hedge and floated to the back of the crowd.

His voice rang out, distant from the other side of the courtyard.

"All right already, I'm here," Onmund called; the buzz of discontent ebbed as curious eyes turned toward him. "We were just practising. You have to loosen up, it was just a joke-"

There were glares and mutters from the Stormcloaks, but Mersten was visibly relieved; the officer lowered her head and whispered what looked like thanks to the Gods.

"In the midst of a Legion attack, are you mad?" Adleson roared.

"And the Dragonborn?" Mersten cut in pointedly; her eyes wide and bright. "That Shout that blew half the Arcaneum away was no joke."

More murmurings, awed and full of disbelief, travelled around the small space.

Onmund shook his head. "She's gone."

"You let her go?" one of the Stormcloaks choked.

"Enough. She's not our priority," Mersten snapped, at once all business as she pointed toward the still-disguised Brelyna. "You – no," closing her eyes briefly, she held up her hand. "I don't even want to know. Get out of my sight," she commanded, then turned on the crowd.

"We appreciate your cooperation in this matter," and her anxiety was gone; the friendliness returned. "It is true, Winterhold is besieged by the Legion, and the Dragonborn is with them. It is our belief that she intended to kidnap Master Brandt to use against Jarl Stormcloak, but she has failed."

You don't know the half of my failure, I thought bleakly.

"And," Mersten continued; her voice adopted a thrum of command, "they will fail, too, in their plight to rob us of our home. The College's fortifications will protect you, and we'll block the path, to make sure," she made a flicking motion with her hand, and several more soldiers behind her hurried toward the bridge. "Winterhold looks after its own," she finished.

In any other crowd in Skyrim, her words might have inspired hope and cheers, but the animosity between the largely not-Nord student population and the largely all-Nord army stood, despite her clear attempts to topple the walls. I wondered how, and why, this seemingly intelligent woman had joined Stormcloak's army.

While there were no cries of thanks, something about her words, perhaps even merely the return of her calm, seemed to reach them. Bodies mobilised slowly; more orders were called out over the bustle; Onmund, the real Onmund, appeared by Mersten's side, looking sheepish.

Mersten shot him an exasperated look and clapped a hand to his shoulder, but while her mouth moved, I was too far away and there was now too much noise to hear what she said to him.

I watched the exchange through a haze of disbelief, then made myself turn away so as not to draw attention. For a time I simply let myself move with the rest of the crowd.

Hall of Countenance, I reminded myself dully. I had to remember that my disguise was temporary, and angsting over what had happened would do neither Onmund nor I any favours. He had bought me time to escape at the expense of his freedom; to waste it would be ungrateful.

Perhaps, if I could find my way back to Lydia, she would have some ideas of how to extract him.

Lydia!

I brought my hand to my mouth, certain I would be sick as fresh terror shot through me. I had thought of Lydia several times since the Stormcloaks had arrived, and had known of the Legion attack, but the notion hit me, finally; Lydia was in the middle of Winterhold during a battle. Yes, she was capable of taking care of herself, but anything could happen. How were we to find one another?!

One problem at a time.

Vilkas had said it a long time ago during our journey to wipe out the Silver Hand.

"You're right as usual," I murmured to him; to myself, earning an arched eyebrow from a passing student.

With a flippant smile at the curious Dunmer, I rolled my eyes at myself, and remembered who I was meant to be. "Darling, can you direct me to the Hall of Countenance?"

One problem at a time.

–

Blonde hair whipped behind me like a pale ghost as I ran as fast as my unfamiliar feet would carry me. Breaths came hard and fast, burning through my throat, but choking on air was the least of my problems.

The undead lumbered ever-closer in my wake.

I had caught the four blue pin-pricks of light in the darkened chamber just in time, though it sounded like more than two sets of feet now pursued me.

Perhaps they had woken their friends to join in the chase.

The hours of careful manoeuvring through dungeons and tunnels and around waterfalls and strange, dark desks full of stranger, darker looking magic had used up the rest of the day, for a grim, dense chill meant that night had crept over the land and into the tunnels.

As the cold gripped my bones and rattled my teeth, I understood with bleak certainty that I might never leave this place. If I somehow made it out of the Midden, or wherever I now was in this underground labyrinth, I would question if Onmund's intention had been to kill me all along.

When I could run no more, I skidded to a stop and turned, gasping as the force of a thu'um rose through my veins, rippling like wildfire. I had been putting off using a Shout, but I failed to see what other choice I had, for I was unarmed, and there were too many of them, and they were too fast. If I Shouted, the Stormcloaks above might hear me and know that I hadn't escaped the College after all. They'd definitely come looking for me, and then I'd be fleeing draugr in one direction and soldiers in the other.

I had to hope I was deep enough underground that a Fus would go unnoticed at the College.

Next breath, I promised, wheezing as the shadows scurried and solidified and formed a wall of crumbling, ancient skin and yellowing dried bone. An arrow whizzed past my cheek; I startled back and raised my hand to the graze it left there. They had arrows and they were in range.

I couldn't let them get any closer.

"FUS!"

Dust and stone flew out to create an arcing wall of debris. I didn't wait for it to impact; I ran after it, praying that Fus alone would buy me time enough to get past the army of draugr.

They tumbled as the shock-wave hit – and I darted past, wondering fleetingly if I should grab one of the scattered bows and ancient quivers.

No time, I insisted, skidding through an archway as I turned a sharp corner.

Thump.

"Oof," I fell back – but was caught immediately – and glanced up. My eyes widened in horror as the dried thing that had seized me tightened its grip and lifted. It's cold, hard, stick-like fingers locked around my neck, denying me the only weapon I had; my voice.

Not the only weapon. Mind reeling back to my practise sessions with Njada and Athis, I balled my fists and struck the draugr in the arm – the chest – anywhere I could reach. My legs felt stretched as my toes twitched, desperate to stay connected to the earthen path.

One of my blows landed, and the creature's arm crunched and crackled as pain shot through my hand – but I could live with it. The moment it dropped me, I pushed with all my might – and Fus'd it away for good measure.

It had been an encounter spanning seconds, but it had been enough time to allow the undead that had survived my Shout to rise and recommence their chase. An arrow whirred by me and I screamed, throwing my hands over my head as I ran as fast as my legs could take me.

I took turns at random, praying that somehow I would find my way out of these tunnels and into the ice caves Onmund had mentioned. Ice caves would mean I was getting close to the exit, and maybe, maybe, the draugr would leave me be, when I left their territory.

Or maybe they wouldn't. Maybe this wasn't about territory at all.

What are draugr doing beneath the College of Winterhold?

They grunted and shuffled after me, barking out insults in long-dead languages. Their sounds echoed back at me, bouncing between the tunnel walls, so it was impossible to tell how close they were. I couldn't afford to waste time turning back to check.

And I was getting tired. I had to find somewhere to hide, before they-

The shadows before me writhed and billowed - and a deafening, terrifyingly close roar silenced my frantic plans.

I froze.

That isn't a draugr.

Something dark and huge and immensely fast brushed by me – ignored me – and crashed head-long into my pursuers.

I turned back with widened eyes as realisation dawned. Werewolf.

By the time I ran back to help whichever of my shield-siblings had located me, it was over. The ground was littered with the dusty remains of draugr bodies, and in the middle stood the dark, furry form of – I honestly wasn't sure which of my shield-brothers he was.

"Thank you," I whispered in abject relief, darting forward to throw my arms around the great furry beast.

With a disgruntled snort, clawed hands enclosed my arms and pulled me back. Golden eyes bore down on me, burning with agonised fury, and a hot, wet muzzle snuffed my hair.

Blonde was pushed into my eyes, and I realised with a weakened laugh that I was still disguised as Evae. Onmund's spell hadn't worn off yet. The wolf was checking.

"It's okay – listen to my voice," I told him. "It's me."

Shuddering out a breath as the large, furry hands roughly loosened their hold, I attempted a smile. I was a little ashamed that I couldn't tell who I was speaking to. "Let me sing you back, okay?" I offered.

It was enough to convince him to release me. I cleared my throat and sung one of the soft, lilting lullabies from Mother's Nursery Rhyme. The beast staggered back, his golden gaze frustrated and flickering over me, then around the ancient, crumbling, dungeon-like tunnel system.

He shrank, as I knew he would. The fur retreated; the claws as well, and within seconds of the transformation commencing, I understood it was Farkas who had come to my aid.

I made myself continue as surprise and hope blossomed in my chest. If Farkas was here – Hadvar was nearby.

Struck with potent longing, I closed my eyes and grinned through the final notes.

"Why don't you look like you?" Farkas grumbled.

Laughing, I opened my eyes and hurried forward.

He was crouched on his hands and knees, and completely naked, looking up at me through his dark, sweat-soaked mop. Untying my borrowed mage's robes, for I wore layers of leggings and a thick tunic underneath, I offered it to him as I crouched to his level.

There was no way to hide the glow in my chest from him, so I didn't bother trying to hide my smile. "It is so good to see you, brother," I whispered; my free hand fell to his arm.

Farkas threw me a lopsided smile as he accepted the robe and tied it around his waist – there was no point in trying to fit it around his shoulders. "You too. Thanks."

"No, thank you," I said again, more pointedly, as I rose.

Farkas stood and finished knotting the arms of the robe around his hips, eying me warily. "You still smell and sound like you. Why are you – someone else?"

"It's temporary," I assured. "How did you find me?"

"Lydia;" a simple response.

"The usual, then," I smiled fondly as that weight of uncertainty dissolved. Lydia was safe – of course she was. She had done the sensible thing and gone straight to the Legion.

"Yeah. I uh," he looked away, a little uncertain. "Had to shift, to track you down."

"Thank the Gods you did," I said with open gratitude. "And..." I swallowed, desperately wanting to confirm that Hadvar was with him; couldn't put the thought to words, in case he wasn't. "How's...the Legion been?" I asked dumbly.

"Busy," Farkas caught the gist of my reluctance, and threw me a half-smile. "He's back at the camp," he took pity on me. "Lydia, too."

I wanted to cry. Hurling myself forward, I threw my arms around my shield-brother and buried my face into the thick, wiry black curls on his chest. "I'm so happy I could kiss you," I muffled.

"Save it for your fiancée," Farkas chuckled good-naturedly as he returned my hug, then withdrew. "Can you turn back into you already? This is really weird," he threw me an arched frown and prodded gently at my cheek. "Also, you're bleeding."

"It's nothing," I stepped back, sobering as I recalled why I looked like Evae, and who had made me look this way, and what he had done to ensure I make it out of the College. What he had given up, so I could do what I had to do.

Was...was there any possibility, if I explained all that had passed, that the Legion could help to extract Onmund?

Would there be any possibility of freedom for him, if they did? He was still Stormcloak's son, and aligned with my sister. They might even use him to flush her out, if capturing her was such a priority.

The Thalmor would. If the Legion got involved officially, the Thalmor would certainly step in and take him to get to Giselle.

"It'll wear off soon enough," I swallowed; my mirth dissolved as I chewed over the quandary. "Take me back to camp?"

"You mean to Hadvar?"

"Yes please," I managed a weak laugh. I would tell Hadvar everything, and he could help me figure out whether or not there was any way to offer him protection from our allies. "Take me to Hadvar."