The Bannered Mare

After leaving Dragonsreach, Sal visited the Temple of Kynareth and helped the priests treat the sick and injured of Whiterun. He took a blessing from the Shrine of Kynareth. Outside, he watered the roots of the Gildergreen Tree and joined the citizens of Whiterun in pleasant down-to-earth chatter as they strolled through the Wind and Plains Districts. Slowly but surely, his nightmares slipped into the corners of his subconscious, as he focused less on his needs and more on the needs of others.

He met Lydia outside the Bannered Mare at sunset. Her wicker basket hung on her arm full of fresh market groceries. She clutched the folds of a bag full of miscellaneous items from Belethor's General Goods in her other hand.

"Well?" Lydia asked as they ascended the steps up to the Bannered Mare. "How did it go?"

Sal smiled warmly and took the Belethor-brand bag from Lydia. "It went better than expected." He expounded to her everything that had gone on with Balgruuf, Irileth, and Proventus, followed by a verbatim description of his meeting with Farengar.

Lydia whistled low. "Wow. I never would've expected that much affinity from Farengar. But I'm glad you were able to get some help from him, as cryptic as it is."

"Don't worry, Lydia," Sal gave her a comforting wink and fanged grin. "I'll figure it out. I always do."

He followed Lydia into the Bannered Mare. The palpable smell of rich thick mead and ale wafted through the air and filled his nostrils. His heart burned in his chest with nostalgia. He laughed at a sudden dryness in his mouth and throat. His stomach grumbled hungrily. The same tangible aura in Candlehearth Hall he felt here anew in the Bannered Mare – with extra honey.

Lydia walked up to the bar counter and Sal tailed close behind.

"Sal-Gheel?!" The Nord innkeeper recognized him instantly, a broad heartwarming grin spreading across her face.

"Hulda!" Sal exclaimed, his face breaking into a wide-eyed astonishment at seeing the old innkeeper. He opened his arms to greet her.

"Oh, Sal-Gheel!" Hulda came out from behind her bar and pulled Sal into a loving hug. She wrapped her arms around his neck and planted a kiss on his forehead.

"It is so wonderful to see you again!" She squeezed Sal's shoulders in a doting manner. "Praise the Divines! I heard tell that you were in town, and I wanted to see for myself, but you see, I couldn't leave the bar!"

"It's so great to see you too, Hulda," Sal grinned widely, his fangs reflecting in the light of the warm welcoming fire pit. "Please don't be ashamed. I'm here now, and that's what matters." He opened up his coinpurse. "Two meads and your house special, please."

Hulda happily took the Septims from Sal and laid them on the bar counter. "For Sal-Gheel and Lydia, we'll give you the best we've got." She called over her shoulder. "Saadia, look who it is, dear!"

"Sal-Gheel!" Saadia walked up to Sal from across the inn, holding her hands to her mouth in wonder.

"Hello, Saadia!" Sal bent his body respectfully to the Redguard waitress. "I know I haven't been around here in so long, but I'm back now!"

Saadia politely curtsied to Sal. "That's marvelous news, Sal-Gheel. I'll help you and your Housecarl as soon as I'm finished attending to those Bandits in the back."

Vague apprehension struck Sal's face as he seated himself on a bench beside Lydia at the fire pit. He laid the shopping on the floor. "Bandits?" His hand instinctively flew to his Iron Dagger on his belt.

"Yep," Lydia elucidated. She pointed to a group of six rough Bandits dressed in Fur Armor sitting around the table in the back-right corner of the inn. "These Bandits just wandered into town last Loredas. They haven't harmed anyone, yet. But they make the most outrageous demands of the townspeople. They expect to be treated like royalty."

"Aye," Hulda added, bringing a pair of mead bottles to Sal and Lydia. "They're more of a thorn in our side than anything else. Perhaps you can sort them out for us, Sal. Drive them out of Whiterun for good, will ya?"

She watched Saadia take a freshly-baked pumpkin pie from the counter and carry it over to the Bandits. "Pests, that's what they are; always wanting the best of everything. I swear, they'll eat us out of house and home if we don't fight back against them."

"Don't worry, Hulda," Sal nodded reassuringly at the Nord innkeeper, uncorking his mead. "The Dragonborn is here now. I'll deal with those ruffians. No one will get hurt on my watch."

He took an unassuming, longing sip of mead, letting the rich smooth honey-sweet drink fill his mouth and flush evenly down his throat. He closed his eyes dreamily, falling into a conscious mead-induced bliss. It seemed to clear his mind of the thick fog of confusion that had plagued it hours earlier at Breezehome and Dragonsreach. A calm and peaceful comfort replaced it, enhanced by the small flames leaping from the fire pit to playfully jump at his legs and feet.

"Ah!" Sal swallowed his drink of mead and smiled happily at the quarter-drunk bottle. "That's the good stuff!" He chuckled and turned the bottle over mindfully in his hands as if it were a precious artifact. "I've missed the Honningbrew mead so much. It's not quite the same as the type at Candlehearth Hall, you know." He winked at Hulda. "The same mead, maybe, but not made with quite the same amount of love."

Hulda went back behind the counter, hiding her blushing face and a proud smile. Saadia brought two slices of pecan pie to Sal and Lydia.

As Sal began eating his slice of deliciously exquisite pecan pie, his ears picked up the whispers of the group of Bandits in the corner. They crossed through the inn towards him and Lydia. Sal swallowed and respectfully put his plate aside on the bench, washing it down with mead.

"May I help you?"

The supposed leader of the group, a rugged broad-shouldered Redguard in a shirtless shawl of Fur Armor, approached Sal. He scowled disapprovingly at the Argonian. "You. You're a suspicious sight. Who are you and where did you come from?" he asked in a gruff booming voice.

"I would ask the same of you, sir," Sal snapped back defensively. He laid his hands innocently in his lap and stared confidently up at the Redguard. "I am Sal-Gheel of Windhelm. You are Bandits, invaders of this humble, harmless, and idyllic city of Whiterun. I'd suggest you leave it in peace because you yourselves are a suspicious sight to the otherwise benign townspeople."

The Bandits all laughed in unison, their cynical boisterous roars filling the room. It made Sal shake angrily on his bench, slowly clenching his hands into fists.

"A suspicious sight?" The Redguard mocking Sal's words, not even recognizing his own words being thrown back at him. "Oh? We haven't even tried to harm anyone, yet! We came from the Plains and expect to be treated like kings! Anything less, and then we'll start hurting people! We're not above killing and robbing houses and looting stores! Blood will be spilled if we aren't given the best of the best!"

He pointed accusingly at Sal, not holding back his hearty chuckles. "Starting with you, lizard!"

"Starting with me, huh?" Sal shook his head in exasperation, grumbling in the back of his throat. "Do you even know who I am?! I'm Dragonborn!" He hit his fist to his chest mightily. "I can summon the power of the Thu'um at will!"

"Oh, yeah?" Another Bandit standing behind the Redguard, a ginger thin-faced Imperial, smirked at Sal in amusement. "Prove it!"

"That's a terrible idea, sir," Sal held up a palm to discourage the notion. "I don't want anyone in here to get hurt. Except you, of course. Besides, I have my reasons for not using the Thu'um anymore."

Sal stood to his full height and stepped up to the Redguard, staring him hard in the eyes. "Now, I'm going to ask you only once to step away from the Bannered Mare. Leave Whiterun and never trouble it or its citizens every again. It is under my protection, and I won't allow a single person to be harmed."

The Redguard huffed and sneered at Sal, folding his arms boastfully. "We're not afraid of you. You're not the town guard, and we ain't afraid of them, either! We're Bandits and we do what we want! This is our tavern and we own it!" He jabbed his thumb in his bare chest aggressively. "We want the finest drinks, the most luxurious food, the most comfortable beds, the instant service, the maids, the butlers, the blacksmith, the stores, the market, the palace! We want everything! Anyone who gets in our way is an enemy! Right, boys?"

The other Bandits raised their glasses and exclaimed affirmatively.

Sal narrowed his eyes in a red-hot glare, his eyes reflecting the firelight. "You know what?" He lowered his voice to an antagonistic growl. "I've tried to be nice. I truly have. But it seems you have no intentions of being peaceable. I'll not let any innocent blood be shed; not in Whiterun or anywhere else in Skyrim. This is your last chance. Leave now. Final warning."

But the Redguard clenched his fists and matched Sal's fiery glare. "Well, I've damn near run outta patience. Go back to the marsh, lizard, or I'll spill your blood first."

"Such a shame," Sal shook his head and sighed regretfully. "I honestly hoped we'd be able to resolve this peacefully. Suit yourselves, then."

The Redguard sneered from ear to ear and turned once more to the others. "Boys! Seize the Dragonborn's Housecarl and teach her a lesson she'll never forget! Then we beat up the innkeeper and her barmaid, too!"

He pivoted to spit at Sal in a spiteful, accusatory manner. "This one's mine! Hand over your coin and all of your possessions!"

Sal, who'd barely flinched at being spat at, turned to Lydia, his face a portrait of faux terror. "Oh, no!" he pretended to yell in overdramatic sarcastic fear. "I'm being harassed by bloodthirsty amoral roadside Bandits! Whatever will I do?!"

Lydia bowled over and laughed uncontrollably into her pecan pie and mead.

The Redguard gritted his teeth and glowered at the smirking Sal furiously. His hand gripped the hilt of a Steel War Axe on his belt. "Last chance! Hand over your stuff – ouch!"

Sal sprang forward clumsily on the soles of his feet. The backs of his hands rocketed into the Redguard's nose. He stumbled back and fell flat on his rear end, holding his bleeding nose. His clawed hands were curled into hooked fists.

"Drunken Boxing, huh?" Lydia joked, recognizing the stance.

"I thought it fitting, considering the current environment," Sal answered casually, rocking on his heels in an ungainly manner, mimicking inebriation.

The Redguard roared and lifted his tear-filled eyes in a burning death glare. "Kill him!"

The other five Bandits leaped from their chairs. They drew their weapons and charged Sal. Hulda and Saadia ducked frightfully behind the bar counter.

The clean-shaven ginger Imperial swung his Iron Sword at Sal's face. Sal ducked into a defensive crouch and lifted his right knee. His hooked fist launched right at his opponent's face.

Sal's scaly knuckles slammed into the Imperial's nose. He dropped his sword and held his bloody nostrils. Sal drunkenly threw his full body on the Imperial.

The Argonian's weight slammed him into the fire pit. Lydia pulled him out by his legs before he burned and punched him hard in the forehead to knock him out.

A blond mustached long-haired Nord raised an Iron Mace. Sal flipped over into a handstand, his feet shooting up into the air. His farther leg smacked the Nord's chin. The sudden kick lifted him off the ground. Sal pushed him by the shoulders onto the floor.

He kicked the Iron Mace aside, and Lydia picked it up. She beaned a Khajiit Bandit sideways in the gut. She caught the winded Beast before he too fell into the fire pit. Hulda and Saadia tossed him onto the bar counter.

Sal grabbed his mead and nonchalantly chugged it down. The sweet honeyed liquid relaxed his muscles.

"Whew, that hits the spot!" he complimented. He staggered and bent backward. His hand lifted to his mouth, and he took an invisible sip from a pretend cup.

The last two Bandits charged him. He floundered wall to wall across the breadth of the room. A Breton and another Imperial rolled their dizzying eyes.

The Imperial swung his fists at Sal's shoulders. Sal swayed back and forth to dodge each punch. His enemy growled and drew a Steel Dagger from his belt.

Sal bent down into his defensive crouch. The brunet Imperial stabbed at his horns. Sal leaped up and threw blinding rapid punches to the Imperial's midsection. He finished with a powerful uppercut to his jawbone. The senseless Imperial floundered onto the bench. Lydia disgustedly kicked him away.

Sal pulled himself upright. He curled his hands once more into hooked fists, squatted slightly, and assumed a neutral stance. He spread his feet shoulder-width apart. The Breton clenched his hands. Sal saw Flames ignite in his palms.

His legs jumped back together. He weaved through the flurry of small fireballs hurled his way. They hit the back wall harmlessly and sputtered out. Sal launched his wave of high double kicks.

One leg whipped up again and again.

It first hit the Breton in the diaphragm.

Then the ribcage.

Then the chest.

Then the face.

Then the forehead.

The Breton lurched backward dazed with each impact. Sal swung his right leg out to knock him on his back.

The Redguard brought his Steel War Axe down on Sal's neck. Sal flopped flat on his stomach on the floor between the Redguard's legs. He kicked him hard in the back. The Axe fell to the floor. Sal slipped up behind. His hands wrenched the Redguard's legs out from underneath him. He screamed and walked on his hands.

Sal held his enemy's legs open across his shoulders. He dragged him to the entrance of the tavern and kicked him hard in the stomach. The breathless Redguard flew through the open door. He rolled down the stone stairs onto the market pavement.

The Khajiit Bandit stirred on the bar counter. He hissed at Sal in his lightheaded sights. His ribs still ached from the mace blow. He sprinted toward Sal, claws bared.

Sal slumped into a low duck. He bent his back leg. His front leg angled straight. One arm curled over his head. The other he held up defensively at eye level.

The Khajiit swiped at Sal's horns, and he flipped forward. His left fist locked tight around the Khajiit's throat. His right fist clutched his collar. The Khajiit yelped as Sal stood up and hoisted him sideways onto his shoulders.

"For Whiterun!"

Sal rolled the Khajiit backward off his shoulders out of the tavern. He went bowling down the stones to join the Redguard. Both lay on the cobblestone street groaning in excruciating pain.

Having dispatched all the Bandits, Sal casually swept up his mead and pecan pie and reclaimed his seat beside Lydia. He smirked confidently at the other bar patrons.

"Anyone else want a beating?"

The crowd collectively murmured their adamant refusal. Sal snickered and happily joined Lydia in a peaceful dinner.

Breezehome

Hulda and Saadia contacted the Town Guard. They removed the beaten and humiliated Bandits from Whiterun. Once more, the city hailed Sal-Gheel and his trusty Housecarl Lydia as heroes.

Sal relaxed outside Breezehome, sitting shirtless at the bottom of the stairs with his belted tunic pulled down over his waist like a kilt. He breathed in the pure Whiterun evening air. The heat from the nearby burning braziers warmed his exposed scales.

Lydia exited Breezehome carrying a pair of ripe juicy red apples. She laughed at the half-dressed Sal and sat down beside him. "Now that's what I call eye candy," she teased the Argonian, admiring Sal's broad and smooth upper body. "Shahvee is truly blessed to have such a strong handsome hunk for a husband."

"She gets this every day," Sal chuckled back and ran his hand through his feathers. Lydia laughed out loud and gave him an apple.

"Thanks," Sal sank his teeth into the delicious apple, chewing dreamily.

"That was a courageous thing you did back there, Sal," Lydia remarked admiringly.

"I did?" Sal shook his head and playfully elbowed Lydia. "You mean, we did. Together. The Thane and Housecarl of Whiterun. We were doing our jobs as the city's dedicated protectors. It felt like old times again, fighting for the betterment of Whiterun, and Skyrim as a whole, selflessly helping people just because it's the right thing to do."

He chuckled and took another bite of his apple. "I guess all those months in the Imperial Legion finally paid off."

"That they did," Lydia agreed. "I still say you should've used the Thu'um against those Bandits, though."

"And risk making a mess in the Bannered Mare?" Sal joked, furrowing his brow incredulously. "You've seen how hard Hulda and Saadia work to keep that place clean! Why would I want to cause ruin to such a spotless place? Besides, what if Hulda decides to retire before the end of the year and sell the inn to Ysolda?"

They laughed and listened to the scattered staccatos of distant footsteps and closing doors, punctuated by the crackling of the braziers that signaled the nighttime retiring of Whiterun.

"High Hrothgar," Lydia suddenly mused aloud.

Sal, who'd been licking apple juice from his fingers, blinked. "Come again, Lydia?"

"High Hrothgar," Lydia repeated thoughtfully. "If anyone can help you interpret your nightmares, it's the Greybeards. I can't think of anyone better."

Sal considered her words for a moment. He nodded in agreement. "You know what, Lydia? I wholeheartedly agree." Images of the Greybeards entered his mind's eye. "The Greybeards are the perfect people to help me make sense of my nightmares. Paarthurnax, too."

He laid his hands in his lap and suddenly stared down anxiously at his half-eaten apple. "There's just one major problem, though."

"Oh?" Lydia put a comforting hand on Sal's bare shoulder. "What's that, Sal? Please, tell me. Maybe I can help you."

Sal fidgeted uneasily with his apple, turning it over and over in his hands. "I haven't used the Thu'um in over a year; not once since I returned from Sovngarde." He looked up at Lydia, thoroughly concerned; almost fearful, apprehensive. "What if I've forgotten all of the Words to the Dragon Shouts? What if I can't remember them anymore?"

Lydia pursed her lips in disbelief and tossed her apple core into a compost bin sitting behind the house. "Well, I find that difficult to believe, Sal. I refuse to believe that you've forgotten the Words of Power. I don't think the Dragon Shouts have slipped your mind at all, or that you can't remember them. Look at me, Sal," she asked with sincere gentleness.

He obeyed, locking his eyes with hers. Lydia took Sal's face in her hands and rubbed his cheeks with her thumbs. "The Words, the Shouts, the echoes, the power; they're all still there inside your head, Sal, in your memories, in the corners of your subconscious mind. All you have to do is find your way back to them."

Sal let Lydia's words ring in his ears and roll around inside his mind. He inhaled and exhaled thoughtfully and relaxed at Lydia's touch. Lydia leaned in and kissed him delicately on the forehead, the same as Hulda had done.

"I love you, Sal-Gheel." Lydia touched her forehead to Sal and cradled his head in her hands. "You've always been like my brother."

"And you're the sister I never had, Lydia." Sal whispered back genuinely, hugging Lydia around her shoulders. "I don't know what I'd do without you."

Lydia got to her feet and helped Sal to his. "Let's go to bed, Sal. Maybe you'll feel better in the morning."

Sal shrugged skeptically. "I'd damn well better." He also threw his apple core in the compost bin and followed Lydia back inside Breezehome. "I have a gut feeling that I need to be ready for something. What that is, whether it's better or for worse, I can't tell. But something is coming. I can feel it pulsing in my blood."

In the master bedroom, he stripped down to his loincloth and stretched his bare limbs, letting Whiterun's warmth wash over him like a tidal wave. Lydia removed a large blanket from the dresser.

"Feels good to be warm again, doesn't it?" she asked as she climbed into bed.

"It's certainly a welcome change," Sal chuckled, joining her on the other side. "The frosts of Windhelm bite to the bones, but the fires of Whiterun heat them right back up again."

Lydia fell asleep almost instantly. Sal had one arm wrapped around her shoulders while she laid her head on his chest. Sal sighed contently at the sight: it was exactly identical to how he and Shahvee curled up beneath the thick covers of their bed to ward off the Windhelm cold.

Letting his whole body unwind, he closed his eyes and tried to drift off to sleep.

Sal-Gheel stood fully armed and armored on the grounds of Fort Amol. Corpses of Stormcloak and Imperial soldiers alike littered the rocky platforms around the stone fortress. Fresh blood chilled by the cold green grass drenched the landscape. In the distance, the agonizing groans and sorrowful cries of the survivors stung his eardrums like pestilent wasps. Sal stared around at the wreckage, his face contorted in disbelieving grief and absolute horror.

All this blood…all this death…, he thought skeptically to himself. And for what?

He bent down and laid a regretful hand on the body of a slain Imperial captain. He'd been forcibly stabbed through the heart by a Stormcloak dagger – and then mercilessly punctured with arrows through his pectorals for good measure.

"May you find peace in Aetherius, sword-brother," Sal whispered mournfully. "Divines guide you on your way."

The deafening cacophony of clashing swords, firing arrows, bashing shields, and battle cries still rang fresh in his ears, like a disjointed, disordered, unconducted symphony of metallic and vocal carnage and chaos. Sal shuddered, though not from the winter cold, as he walked silently, slowly, through the mass of lifeless bodies. His breath stopped short in his lungs at the sight of familiar faces broken by the brutality of the battle. Warriors, soldiers, and fighters whose lives had been ripped away from them and cast to the apathetic winds.

And it wasn't, Sal remembered, the first time he had seen it.

Up ahead, he looked up at a body lying face-up in the center of a flank of giant bloodstained boulders – and dropped his sword.

He broke into a full sprint, stumbling and tripping over the bodies of his comrades and enemies in his frantic desperate rush.

His heart caught in his throat at the sight of an Iron Armor-clad Lydia lying in the dirt. Her head lay off to one side. She had one hand on her stomach; the other lay on the ground and still clutched her sword. A thin line of blood streamed from one side of her mouth.

Sal sank to his already shaking knees. A strangled cry escaped his mouth. His heart shattered into a million tiny pieces in his chest.

He took Lydia in his arms and held her close to his chest. Burning hot tears streamed freely down his cheeks. He tightened his hold. He screamed out her name. His voice was desperate, mournful, agonizing. Only the empty winds heard his broken call.

"Lydia! Lydia! Lydia!"

His ears picked up the sound of scampering. His hand instinctively flew to his spare Iron Dagger. But he relaxed when the figure burst through the brush.

"Hadvar!"

Hadvar of Riverwood dropped his sword and shield on the grass and threw off his Leather Helmet. He dashed to Lydia's side and stared at Sal's tear-stained face. His expression was likewise pale white.

"Thank the gods you're all right, Sal-Gheel," Hadvar spoke quietly and gratefully. "I was pretty sure I would find you lying face-down in the dirt."

"There's no time, Hadvar!' Sal showed him Lydia's body. "Help me save her, quick!"

Hadvar looked between the unconscious Lydia to the grief-stricken Sal. "Why save her? What is she to you? Why is she so important? You're an Argonian and she's a Nord."

"Please!" Sal screamed at the top of his lungs in the most broken, tortured voice. A fresh wave of tears coursed down his cheeks. "Help me save her! She's all I have!" he choked on the last statement, his voice scratched and breathless with uncontrollable shock.

Hadvar wasted no time. He took Lydia in his arms and stood up. Sal fetched both their gear. They carried her with all haste back to the nearest Imperial encampment. Hadvar laid Lydia on a bedroll in the medical tent. He pressed two fingers to her neck.

"She's got a pulse, but it's extremely faint. I don't know how much longer she can hold on. She's fading, Sal-Gheel." He looked up at Sal. "You wouldn't happen to have any healing salves on you, by any chance?"

Hadvar grabbed a wet washcloth and wiped the blood from Lydia's mouth and face. Sal scoured the tent's inventory for healing salves. Hadvar laid Lydia's weapon by her side.

"Found one!" Sal uncorked the potion and emptied a blood-red liquid into Lydia's mouth. For a solid minute, she did not move.

"She's unresponsive," Hadvar whispered, mildly panicking.

Sal clutched the sides of his head, beginning to hyperventilate. He closed his eyes and knelt beside Lydia, bowing his head and clasping his hands together.

"Oh, great and powerful mighty Nine Divines! Please grant your favor and smile down upon my dear Lydia! Your humble servant Sal-Gheel the Dragonborn beseeches thee! Renew her gift of life and bestow your many blessings on her! Please, Divines! Allow my Lydia to live!"

Lydia suddenly heaved and coughed loudly. Her eyes snapped open and she gasped intensely for air.

Before she could process her surroundings, Sal had exhaled in relief and pulled her into the biggest and most thankful hug.

Sal slowly opened his eyes and caught himself staring upwards at the ceiling of Breezehome. Beside him, Lydia slept soundly, alive and well, and not having moved from her position on his chest. Sal let out a reassured sigh. He carefully threw off the blanket and got out of bed.

Lydia stirred and awoke to see Sal gone. She turned in the bed to see him leaning on the door frame, one leg behind the other, and his tail curled in a loop under itself (a habit of his when thinking).

She left the bed and walked over to him. He had his arms folded over his chest, staring down at the floor despondently. His cyan eyes were hollow, coated with a thin reflective sheen of deep regret and genuine remorse.

"Sal?" Lydia whispered. She put her hands on his shoulders; he did not react to her touch.

She knew exactly what bothered him and took his hands in her own. "Was it the Civil War again?"

Sal gulped and stared absentmindedly at Lydia holding his hands. He nodded stiffly.

Lydia squeezed Sal's fingers and stepped closer to him, speaking more comfortingly and touching her forehead to his. "Which battle?"

"Fort Amol," he whispered after clearing his throat.

Lydia sighed and hung her head. "The bloodiest of them all."

"I made a mistake inviting you to join me to fight in the Civil War," Sal spoke in a low, broken voice. "I offered you the invitation to fight alongside me for the Empire, with the Legion."

"You never made a mistake, Sal," Lydia rubbed Sal's palms with her thumbs soothingly. "I chose to join you. I wanted to fight alongside you for the Empire and both of us. I have never regretted that, even after what happened at Fort Amol."

"No," Sal said somewhat more forcefully, staring Lydia hard in the eyes with a strong seriousness. "I asked if you wanted to fight with me. You said yes. Without hesitation and with all the courage I've ever seen in any Nord in Skyrim. I've met Nords who are all hefty muscle without even an eighth of your boldness and bravery. But again, I made a mistake. I didn't want to risk your life. I thought I could protect you, that we could protect each other. The last thing I wanted was to put you on the line for the greater good of Skyrim and the Empire. You are more than my Housecarl, Lydia. You're my friend. You're like my sister. I swore an oath to Balgruuf to take care of you, just as you were sworn to take care of me. I promised myself I would not lose you on the field of battle. I held myself to that promise before and during every battle."

He held Lydia by the waist; she hung her arms around his neck. "Every single one of those battles, I could've lost you. I had full confidence in you when we were assigned to retrieve the Jagged Crown from Korvanjund. You struck down Draugr like they were tiny little skeevers. I saw you fight with the fieriest classic Nord fierceness and fury, regardless of who the enemy was. But Fort Amol was different. We didn't battle side by side there. We got separated, remember? I didn't find you until after the battle."

Sal gulped and choked on his last words. He laid his head on Lydia's shoulder, shutting his eyes tightly as if trying to block out the memory. "I thought you were dead, Lydia," he confessed in a horrified whisper. "I almost lost you that day!"

Lydia rested one hand on Sal's feathers, feeling tears spring to her eyes. She closed her eyes and hugged Sal close, stroking his feathers and consolingly rubbing his nape.

"Sal…," she searched for the right words to say to the haunted Argonian. "It was just a nightmare, okay? These things will pass, as all things in life do. The Civil War is over now. The battles are fought and done. I'm all right, you see? I'm okay now. I know you were concerned about me. I know you almost lost me that day at Fort Amol. But you have nothing to worry about anymore. I'm alive and here, and so are you. You're safe here. We both are. We are in no danger here at all. We have nothing to fear. We're going to be okay, no matter what."

Lydia planted a soft kiss on Sal's forehead to comfort him further. Sal sighed and wrapped his arms around Lydia's waist.

After a minute, they broke apart. Lydia cupped Sal's chin in her hand, smiling tenderly and staring into those handsome strong cyan eyes.

"Tomorrow, Sal, we'll travel straight to Ivarstead. We'll go see the Greybeards at High Hrothgar. We'll find a cure for these nightmares, once and for all, whatever it takes."

She pulled him around to face the bed. "Come back to bed, Sal-Gheel."

Sal blinked in surprise. For a moment, he thought he saw Shahvee standing before him, also holding out her hand. Her words echoed in his mind.

"Come back to bed, sweetheart."

Sal did not hesitate. As he drifted off once more, he said an unspoken prayer in his heart.

Divines, grant me the peace of dreamless sleep.

Hist, grant me your wisdom and insight into all things.

Dragons, grant me your strength and power, the power of the Thu'um.