A/N: This chapter has undergone minor revisions since I released the final chapter of this story. Keep in mind, revised chapters may be inconsistent with reviews.

Sun's Height 5 , 4E1

(Fights-up-close): Leyawiin

My horse continued to trot down the path. It was a moist and foggy morning, casting a drab shadow over Cyrodiil and putting a gray mist ahead of wherever I turned. Normally any kind of obstruction of view was good for an assassin, but the visibility levels wouldn't likely make much of a difference in this assignment.

I was now close enough to Leyawiin to see quite a few soldiers standing on top of the city walls through the fog. From what little I could make of their uniforms, they seemed to be members of the Imperial Legion. There were three members of the town guard standing infront of the entrance. Right now, it looked more like a fortress than a town.

I knew I'd have to face a lot of old memories in these swamps and this city. The soft terrain, boggy smell, and humidity were a link to my past.

I'd known these smells in my home for twenty years, twenty years that were better than these months in Cyrodiil. But the swampy climate also reminded me of Goes-in-heavy'sdeath. The mix of nostalgia and...guilt, or whatever I felt with his death, made it hard to come back here. I wished I could just forget that bitter day.

As I got closer to the town entrance, I could make out faces in the town guard. I could see a helmetless woman with long, rusty colored hair and a stern look on her face standing in front of two of her likely subordinates. None of the soldiers looked like they enjoyed their posts.

I dismounted from my horse. I realized this side of town probably had lighter security than the Western one, being that it bordered Black Marsh instead of Elswyre.

They opened the Eastern gate for me without saying a word and maintained their dour expressions.

I could feel a sort of tension grip me tightly as I walked into the city, and it wasn't just due to my assignment.

I stepped into the castle courtyard, or garden, or whatever they were calling it. Garden or not, it didn't look as lively as similar areas in some of Cyrodiil's other towns, especially with the drab gray cloud covering the city.

I knew this area well, I'd come through here during my first trip to Cyrodiil, as well as with Cleaver, when I...

I stiffened at the difficult memory, my actions coming back to me. The memory squeezed me tightly, punishing me, replaying itself in rapid succession, continuing to punish me until I could mercifully no longer feel the raw brutality of the act come back to me.

I needed to get my mind back on Philida.

Ahead, I could see a guard tower; the city watch was pouring out of the door on the left and others into the door on the right. It occurred to me that was likely the barracks, but I wouldn't want to infiltrate it right yet. It seemed impossible to imagine getting in and out of the barracks undetected.

I decided to walk around the city aimlessly and ponder the kill. I started heading towards the nearest sidewalk. That would provide me with peace for thought without drawing unwanted attention to myself.

I journeyed into my own little world of thought as I walked, imagining various plans of attack and seeing how they made me feel. There was the possibility of simply charging in, hoping to find Philida, and getting out before I was struck down, but that didn't seem very smart.

Then a spark of satisfying enlightenment came to me! A barracks was a place where soldiers slept and ate; there must have been a time when all of those in the barracks were sleeping, as they must spend more time sleeping than eating.

My mind still crisp and capable, I tried to visualize a time line of the soldier's schedules to see where my window of opportunity was.

I guessed there were three shifts, eight hours each. That sounded right. The time between any of the three shifts would have been a time which wouldn't quite work, as soldiers would be awake to move in and out of the barracks. I had just witnessed a shift change, so I knew the next one was coming in about eight hours. But what about eating? When would they be doing that?

No more reasoning built up in my mind. It was like it was stuck. I kept trying to take the thought process a bit further but every venture was a failure. I wished I had brought a piece of paper and a quill so I could draw some kind of timetable that might help the thought process.

As much as I tried to imagine how their time eating would factor into all this, I couldn't think of any good theories. Right now, my thinking was becoming less smooth and more and more tedious. My thoughts didn't seem solid anymore.

Either way, I had no reason to rush. I assumed if I shoved that planning aside briefly, I might see the way deeper into the subject more clearly when I returned. Everyone loved to believe in miraculous healing power of breaks, and I supposed I'd find out if it were real soon enough.

I needed something to do during this break, though. I was afraid of the memories waiting to creep back into my thoughts if I let my mind become idle, given the events this are was host to.

Stopping somewhere for a snack seemed like a good idea, and I realized I had made myself hungry just by thinking about food.

I knew there was a lodge just around the next corner. I was currently walking past one of the poorer sections of Leyawiin, after which I could turn that corner.

Trying to keep my mind clean of thoughts on Philida or the pains of my past, I glanced around the city as I walked.

The loads of various horse-drawn carriages rattled and jingled down the roads. Various Cyrodiillic, Khajiiti, and Argonian faces passed by me as I walked.

I surveyed all corners of the town I could as I walked. There was at least one swimmer in the pool across the street, and the shops seemed to be getting decent business. There were beggars here, like anywhere else, standing around the streets trying to look pathetic with varying degrees of success.

I turned the corner and immediately saw a sign for "The Three Sister's Lodge" ahead of me hanging above the side-walk. I'd been there before, though I tried to fight off any other memories attached to that place.

I headed towards the sign and opened the door below it.

I scraped my shoes against the welcome mat, then began heading towards the bar. I could already smell a variety of aromas coming from that area.

When I made it to that room, the hostess was busy sorting out something in the cabinets, but there was a basket of apples with a sign that read "2 septims". I complied, reaching into my pocket, taking out two pieces of the cold metal, and dropping them on the counter.

I reached into the bowl of fruit and grabbed an apple while one of the coins continued to tremble and move in small circles on the counter.

I decided to find a table to sit at; I didn't want to worry about making conversation with the hostess. If inspiration for my plan to kill Philida struck, I might find myself in an immersive yet fragile stream of thought.

I walked over to one of the tables closer to the entrance and sat down.

Before I took a bite of the apple two thoughts crossed my mind: I wondered if Philida would ever come out of that barracks, as it was hard to imagine someone staying cooped up in that small tower for his whole stay, and I wondered if I might be able to manipulate the Imperial fear-mongering of the Renrijdra Krin in this region towards my favor during this assignment. Both questions seemed vaguely promising.

I supposed I'd been right: after taking a very short pause in my thoughts on the subject of Philida; my mind was already flooding with ideas.

I bit into the apple.

Then I noticed a copy of the Black Horse Courier sitting perpendicular to my line of sight. I decided I might as well read it while I ate. If I was lucky, and the story was relevant to this district, it might give me a better idea of the circumstances at my disposal.

I put my hand on top of the paper and pulled it across the table, then flipped it ninety degrees so I could read it:

Tragic Accident Reveals Structural Instabilities Throughout Bruma!

Nephew inherits estate

For the residents of Bruma, a city known for its snowy avenues and frigid, Skyrim-like temperatures, nothing is quite as important as the warmth and safety of one's own home. But even the most secure dwelling can harbor a deadly secret. In the case of Baenlin, an elderly Elf nobleman who had called Bruma home for nearly forty-three years, death came not from the icy cold, nor from the sting of a burglar's blade, but from a killer far more insidious -- structural instability.

According to Gromm, Baenlin's longtime live-in manservant, the day of his master's death was like any other. Baenlin lived as a recluse, and rarely left the comfort of his home. He spent his morning breakfasting, and his afternoons reading or napping, but it was in the late evening hours before bedtime, when Baenlin relaxed in his favorite chair as was his custom, when disaster struck. A stuffed Minotaur head mounted on the wall directly over the chair came crashing down, killing the unsuspecting noble instantly.

As horrible as Baenlin's death may seem, even more horrible is the revelation that this was not an isolated incident, as previously thought. In fact, through a series of interviews and an in-depth investigation, the Black Horse Courier has learned that many of Bruma's homes are actually deathtraps waiting to spring.

"Me and my boys, we done repair work on half these houses. They're a bleedin' mess! Rotted wood, rusty nails, misaligned foundations. Them Nords, they're good for drinkin' and killin', but they can't build a house worth a damn!"

So said Antoine Dubois, owner of Dubois and Sons Carpentry, a thriving house-building business headquartered in the Breton nation of High Rock. Because of his expertise, Dubois has been known to offer his services throughout the Empire, and has visited Bruma on numerous occasions. In his opinion, this predominantly Nord city features some of the most poorly-constructed dwellings in all the Empire.

"Yeah, I know what the Nords say. It's the snow! It's rots the wood, it does this, it does that. Whine, whine, whine! The mead-swillin' savages wouldn't know oakwood from oranges. Truth is, they just don't know anything about the latest architectural methods. The work is unsafe and sloppy. That head that fell on the Elf? An infant could've secured those bindings better! It's no wonder they came loose! But I've seen this type of thing all over Bruma. Did you know that until I came in to do repair work on the roof, you couldn't attend a service in the Chapel without getting snowed on? Now that's just wrong."

When asked what he thought of the issues, Baenlin's nephew, Caenlin, who inherited his uncle's estate and is now residing in the very house where he was killed, had this to say:

"It was a tragic, tragic accident. I always told my poor uncle that head would fall on him some day, but would he listen? Now, I've heard the rumors that some think there was foul play involved, but that's nonsense, of course. Everybody knows this city is falling apart. It could have happened to anyone."

And so, as the city of Bruma mourns the loss of one of its oldest and most respected residents, there are those who can't help but wonder -- am I next?

I could feel a sinking sensation after stumbling on that article, because upon reading of Caenlin, an insidious idea of the motive behind that contract began to creep into my head. Just when things were starting to look up, my day was sullied once more.

I no longer felt hungry. Old worries were creeping up again. These ominous signs of truth to Goes-in-heavy's words seemed to be popping up everywhere.

Should that effect my decision now? No, Philida's an Imperial Legion commander. They're never innocent. Forget about your theories on that contract for now. Think about your plan for this assassination first.

That realization caused the article to lose a bit of its power over me, but the drop had disoriented me slightly. I didn't remember where I'd left off in my plans for Philida. I hadn't fully disentangled my mind from that article yet.

It saddened me to find myself once again wondering about the truth of the "Scar-tail's" words, that perhaps our contracts were motivated by greed. But I couldn't try to explore the possibilities now; those kind of cynical thoughts were addictive and Baenlin was irrelevant right now. I had to tare myself away from those thoughts.

I tried harder and harder to recall where my plans for Philida had left off.