Author's Note: I redid the entire second half of this chapter to add a little something I feel would be a legitimate problem in universe for poor Quintus, who can never catch a break. Ah well, have to keep pushing him the way we push Fjori after all ;)

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Quintus was asleep at his table again when the clatter of metal woke him. Considering how foreign the sound was to his ears, it took several moments for him to process where he was, and then several more for his eyes to adjust to the dim light of the oil lamp and locate the source. The noises he perceived were coming both from the storage room and upstairs where Fjori and Lydia respectively had crashed for the night. They were most likely donning their armor. A sense of inexplicable dread filled him; they were going into that danger yet again. Still, he didn't get up to investigate, to beg and plead that they just stay the way the selfish side of him desperately wanted to. Instead, he waited to see what they planned to do.

Fjori finished first, stepping into the main room with her loaded pack so the tiny flicker of the flames bounced off the golden suit of armor she wore head to toe. Surely she wasn't going for stealth, as each step she took in the heavy apparel may as well have been a bell ringing to wake everyone in the place. Still, he waited and watched, pretending to be asleep.

He fooled no one. "I know you're awake, Quintus," she murmured softly, calling his bluff. "I make way too much noise for you to still be sleeping, even as exhausted as I know you are."

His ploy exposed, he grunted and propped his head up. "Fair enough. I take it you and Lydia are about ready to head out?"

"Mmm-hmm." As if on cue, Lydia trudged down the stairs, joining the pair.

"Are you certain you are ready to go? It's only been a day…" It was evident Quintus was worried about the fitness of his patient the way he'd been constantly fussing over her. Touching as it was, for a usually independent woman, it was becoming a bit much.

"Yes, well, under your expert care, I'm perfectly healed now. Besides, I don't think Lydia or I can remain sitting around for much longer before somebody snaps."

That wasn't much of an exaggeration. The prior day while Fjori and Quintus had been having their big heart-to-heart, Lydia had, for lack of anything better to do, been melting down Dwemer scrap metal for ingots at the smelter. All afternoon, Fjori had planted herself by the forge in the marketplace and worked the metal into upgraded weapons and armor to better handle the upcoming trip to Alftand. Lydia went shopping for supplies. Fjori brewed some more potions and sold the extra loot they'd acquired. By their standards, this was still a very quiet day, though Quintus would have argued otherwise. There really wasn't anything else left to occupy their time in Windhelm.

"But it's so early…" The sun had not yet risen, the morning was so young. There was no way he would have caught them leaving without the noise of their armor.

"We've gotten a lot more sleep than usual lately," Lydia pointed out. Then, she added "Granted, at the expense of your sleep."

"At least have some breakfast…"

"I want to get to Alftand by mid-morning so there is plenty of time to get through the ruins without needing to sleep inside. That's a huge no-no for adventurers," she explained to the alchemist.

"I know, I know. I just…" He bit his lip. "You really scared me this last time, you know?"

What a change, to have someone worry about her safety. Fjori's parents had practically pushed her out the door on the road to becoming a sell-sword. That was Nord parenting in a nutshell though, wasn't it? Before she could reassure him, Lydia interrupted. "Quintus, you know I like you. You are a good guy, and you bring out the best in Fjori. However, I will not let you get in the way of what we need to do. Her missions as Dragonborn come above all else, unless you are keen on the world ending."

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean…wait. What? World ending?!" In a split second, Quintus went from looking like a kicked puppy to the very image of confusion.

"You didn't know that's what the Dragonborn exists for?" Lydia asked skeptically.

Now he was sitting straight up. "In Cyrodiil, they just kept a pact with Akatosh to keep the daedra out. Definitely heroic and life-saving, but not on that level!" He turned to Fjori, shoulders slumping in resignation, and couldn't quite meet her eye. "Is that true? Is that the mission you have?" Fjori swallowed, then nodded silently. "I see…" He looked down to study the table. "Then I really shouldn't keep you. I'd hate to be responsible for the end of the world. Let me just…"

"Quintus, listen to me," she begged, dropping her pack and getting down on her knees so she was kneeling at his side. He readily turned his gaze back to her, eager for anything she might say to make this better. "You know I have the blood of a dragon, and the powers to go with it. They say I'm supposed to kill the original dragon, Alduin, or else he will devour the world. When I first met you, I honestly didn't know. It wasn't until right before you summoned me that it was revealed to me. As much as I hate to say it, Lydia is right about this, even if I don't like it either."

"So all that stuff I said yesterday…" He didn't say it, but he looked absolutely crushed, as if that future he'd described were ripped from his grasp.

"It means everything to me. I'll kill Alduin, and then I'll come back to you. Now, I have more of a reason than ever to succeed. And you know what else?" She reached up with a gauntleted hand to pull his face closer to hers until their foreheads rested against each other. Why was she always so impossibly warm? And why did it make his heart race? "I'm ready now, in ways I wasn't before. I have enough potions, better armor, I know more of what to expect for traps and machines… More than that though, you've helped me to get my head on straight again. This mission won't be easy, but I feel far stronger this time than I did last time. It's because I had you."

"Yes, well, there is one more thing I can do." He pulled away and rose to his feet. She watched attentively as he walked over to and behind the counter, withdrawing two small red phials from underneath and placing them on top of the counter with a resolute 'clink'. "You know how I said I was up all night working on a project? This was it. For you and Lydia both to take on your mission. To keep you safe."

Fjori tilted her head. "You made a new kind of a potion?"

"Well, it seemed to me that one should be able to prevent disease before it happened, the way one can build resistance to elements or poison from alchemy. I played around with items that cured disease and linked them to items that fortified health, with the added effects of poison resistance, until I came up with a mixture that held. I don't know how well this will work, as I haven't really had a way to test its effectiveness, but at the very least it won't kill you when you drink it." He paused, sighing. "You'll have to be sure to report its success back to me, all right?"

"Of course!" She nodded to Lydia, and both women approached to grab their own phial.

"Drink it right before you go in; I don't expect it will last much more than 24 hours. I trust you have plenty of cure disease potions packed just in case?"

"Yes sir!" she reported with a small smile.

"And healing potions?"

"Plenty."

"And enough food for the road? I can get you some…"

"More than enough. You've done everything possible," Lydia assured. Unlike the last time, however, her tone was gentle rather than defensive; the poor guy was really trying hard. "There is no way to be any more prepared than we are now."

"Very well then. Just…as soon as you get out with that scroll, send word to me. I won't be able to rest until I know both of you are…"

"I'll do one better!" Fjori declared, reaching out to put her weighted arms around his neck despite the counter between them. "I'll come right back and tell you to your face."

"And not wheeled here in a cart…"

"No way. Not this time."

"Okay." He drew a deep breath, and exhaled; both women could just imagine him letting the whole thing go. "Go do what you do best then."

"And you don't lose too much sleep over this, okay? I know I freaked you out last time, but 9 missions out of 10 don't go that badly, so…"

"Look, I love you both dearly, but the clock is running," Lydia chimed in in exasperation. "Let's get going!"

"Right." But before she turned for the door, she leaned over one last time to whisper in his ear. "I meant what I said yesterday, even if it did come across as rather spontaneous. But I won't say it again now, you'll just tell me I'm trying to make this easier for you." She pulled back only to plant a brief but deep kiss on his lips. By the time he knew what was happening, she'd already stepped back. "Bye." With a cheeky wave, she grabbed her pack and brushed past Lydia and out the door. Quintus stared at the door, and then at Lydia who simply shrugged, saluted, and followed behind as usual.

Once the door slammed shut and he was left alone in the faintest light of dawn, Quintus leaned down onto the counter, rubbing his chin unconsciously as his thoughts whirred in his brain. By the Eight, the fate of the world rested in Fjori's hands! As highly as he thought of her, something about that was a bit alarming… What exactly did he know about the Nordic version of the Dragonborn anyhow? Also, she loved him. Well, she claimed to love him. The kisses were pretty convincing. Damn, it was hard to believe he'd been the one to start that! Fjori seemed dead set on continuing it at any rate.

Finally, he groaned and buried his head in his arms. Why did she insist not saying those words again would make this easier? It certainly didn't FEEL easier…

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It was time to close the shop for the day, and he was desperate to flip the sign to 'closed'. Too many people had pretended to come looking for some item in the store when really they'd just wanted to find out what had been going on with his recent visitors. Fjori and Lydia's arrival had been anything but subtle given the housecarl wheeling her to his shop in a flurry. After that, well, it wasn't as if they had tried to be sneaky about entering and exiting yesterday during their errands, and Viola Giordano herself had probably been counting how many times it happened. She probably also figured out they hadn't left for the night… "A medical emergency," he'd waved them off each time they hinted at the question. "I can't say more than that, but she is fully recovered now and back on the road. Now, can I get you something? We clearly have the best in healing salves, potions and poultices." Disappointed customers then found the cheapest thing to buy to keep face and left. He was so grouchy after such a draining day that he had to wonder if he was turning into Nurelion! People were obnoxious, and his research seemed all the more appealing.

But with the shop closed for the day, there was one more trying thing he had to force himself to do. He'd contemplated it all day whenever he could catch a break, and his mind had quickly been made up despite the daunting nature of the task: go to the Palace of Kings and look for some reading material. His conversation with Fjori earlier that morning had shocked him, caught him completely off guard, and upon further reflection, it embarrassed him that he hadn't known more about what exactly the Nordic Dragonborns did. He'd been so worried about his own problems that he hadn't taken into consideration hers. He professed to care about her, but what did he actually know about the responsibilities she had? Nothing much, and it had made him look like a fool. Surely in the oldest city of Skyrim, home to legendary Ysgramor and the earliest Nords, they would have some document relating to the myths of the Dragonborn.

Slipping out and locking the door, he began his trek to the palace, hoping he could find it without incident. It felt strange to leave the security of the marketplace he had called home for so long. The marketplace had most everything he needed for day-to-day life, and only rarely did he leave the confines of the plaza for other business. Visiting Nurelion's grave in recent days had been an exception, as was the visit to Fjori at the inn. Visiting the palace, on the other hand, was one thing he had never done in all his time living in Windhelm. It was an imposing structure, ruled by what he'd heard was a very imposing man capable of shouting people to dust, protected by his very imposing housecarl who literally wore the pelt of a bear, fangs and all. Even the court wizard was nicknamed 'The Undying'. Not one aspect of visiting such a place appealed to his mild-mannered personality. Still, Fjori was out there somewhere braving dangerous ruins to find something that would help save the world, so what right did he have to be scared?

Easier said than done when he stood in front of the towering gates to the palace, dark metal doors intricately carved and looking like they weighed twice what he did. It didn't help that the patrolling guards were giving him sideways glances, as if the smaller shopkeeper were a fish out of water. Quintus took a deep breath and tried to recall what Nurelion would have done. He'd have marched in like he owned the place and demanded to see the archives. And the whole point he'd tried to make before dying was that he wanted Quintus to have that same kind of confidence. "All right, all right, but you'd better help after everything you've put me through," he muttered to his mentor, wherever his spirit currently was. Ignoring the guards who were now staring at the Imperial that talked to himself, he marched up the stairs doing his best to channel the elderly Altmer.

The doors eased open just enough for him to slip through (just as heavy as he'd imagined they'd be), and he was greeting by the sight of a vast banquet hall seemingly carved from stone. Banners of dark blue bearing the symbol of Windhelm were draped from the walls, reminding all who entered just where they were. Quintus's eyes darted nervously up to the throne at the end of the hall, and to his relief it was unoccupied. Put at ease, he walked up to a guard who stood beside one of the doors along the side. "Pardon me, I'm doing some research and was wondering if you would have a palace library where I might browse for materials related to my studies?"

The guard blinked, as if trying to process the formal language of the man before him. "Library, you say? Haven't got one open to the public."

Well, that was ineffective. Time to try something else. "Ah, but, I am not just the public. I am the alchemist in charge of the White Phial here in town. I worked under Master Nurelion until his recent passing and have now taken over his studies. Surely the Jarl would allow the use of his tomes to a man of science who provides a great service to the city…"

"The White Phial I've heard of. Nurelion I've heard of. You I have not. We've got too much going on right now to let random citizens into all quarters of the palace."

His rebuke was enough to push even Quintus to make a snappy retort. "Like the way you stopped the Butcher a few weeks ago?"

Even this guard was not stupid enough to be oblivious to the barb. "I don't know what you've heard, IMPERIAL, but we've got a war going on. If you are going to run your mouth off, you may just be branded a supporter of the enemy. Watch your tongue and know your place. Now get out, because it sure isn't here!"

Being ridiculed by this random guard who clearly had less than half his intelligence and none of his subtleties was more humiliating than he'd imagined it could be. He could feel the tips of his ears burn, both in embarrassment and anger in equal measures. "I've lived in this city for seven years, and even if I was just an apprentice at the time, I've done more to help the people of the city than…" Before he could finish the sentence and regret it, he bit his tongue.

"Than who, Imperial? Finish that sentence!" The guard had stepped away from his post to hover menacingly over him, daring him to challenge the much taller, much stronger Nord.

He wanted to, no mistake about it. He wanted to shout "Than you incompetent guards who do nothing besides posture and bully!" But then again, he did not want to get thrown in prison. A man like him would be eaten alive in a place like that. Instead, he grudgingly lowered his head. "I spoke rashly. All I meant was that I have done nothing but serve, and I would appreciate it if you would not take that so lightly." Not at all what Nurelion would do, but then again, could he really be blamed for having a stronger instinct of self-preservation than an old man?

"Well, until I've heard of you, you can go back to the White Phial and keep working until you're worth enough to be known. Now, be gone!"

He was ready to eagerly obey that command and retreat to lick his wounds when a booming voice echoed through the hall. "Hold, guardsman. Did you mention the White Phial?" He jerked his head in the direction of the voice, and what he saw made his heart sink: Ulfric Stormcloak, Jarl of Windhelm. The one man he most wished to avoid. Where Quintus sought harmony, Ulfric seemed to sow chaos and rebellion wherever he went. Half the town worshipped him as a hero while the other half saw him as an unapologetic racist. Quintus never paid much attention to politics as long as he could do his job, but any man that controversial had to have a strong personality at best. Even his cold grey eyes seemed to bore into him aggressively.

"Yes, my Jarl. This Imperial was claiming to have worked there and wanted to get at our archives. I was just showing him the door."

"No, wait. I've been meaning to talk to him anyways. This saves me the trouble." If Quintus hadn't been so controlled, his jaw would have dropped. The Jarl of Windhelm had wanted to speak to him?!

"Oh, my apologies, my Jarl. I hadn't known…"

"Don't worry, I appreciate your vigilance. Now, if you will excuse us, we have business to discuss. Come, alchemist, take a seat at the table and share a mead with me."

Quintus had never acquired the taste for mead even after living in Skyrim for as long as he had. Give him a glass of wine over the Nordic brews any day and he'd be content. Still, there was no way he was going to deny this bear of a man his token of hospitality. With a quick nod he followed, seemingly taking two steps for each one of the Jarl's. Ulfric gestured to a seat at the end of the table where Quintus hastily planted himself. Then, he sat across from him after grabbing two bottles from further down on the table. Both worked to uncork their drinks.

"A toast. To your master, Nurelion. May he find his rest in his afterlife." Ulfric raised the bottle.

"To Nurelion, may he be at peace." Quintus wasn't exactly sure if Nurelion was capable of being at peace, but he hoped for it all the same. The toast made, both took a drink. Quintus's was little more than a swig, while Ulfric seemed to gulp down half the bottle. He had to stop his nose so the aroma wouldn't further nauseate him as he forced himself to swallow.

"I must begin with an apology. I know of you, but I do not know your name." Ulfric waited expectantly.

"Quintus Navale, sir. It's…not a big deal. Nurelion mostly kept me busy in the back. No one really saw much of me." Of course, he was lying. Even the miners out in Darkwater Crossing knew who to send their requests to, and it sure wasn't Nurelion. Meanwhile, the Jarl didn't even know who was currently running one of Windhelm's largest businesses? Best not to voice that frustration.

"Ah. Navale… An Imperial name?"

"Yes sir. I came with Nurelion when he migrated here to set up shop and start his research."

"Yes, his research. That's just what I was hoping to speak with you about." The Jarl set his bottle down and folded his hands. Quintus got the impression that things were about to get serious. "It was no secret he was searching for Curalmil's legendary artifact. I do not profess to know much about it, only that it had great potential if it could be recreated. Had he made any progress before his passing?"

Quintus got the distinct feeling in his gut that the Jarl was angling for something he didn't want to give, but to lie to the leader of an entire army seemed like suicide. Thusly, he chose his next words very carefully. No Nord had ever bested an Imperial in the realm of diplomacy. "Not long before his passing, he had discovered the resting place of the artifact and hired a mercenary to retrieve it. Unfortunately, it was found broken, and he could never verify its properties. I feel this setback took the last bit of energy from him and hastened his death. It was extremely…disappointing to him."

"I see." Ulfric rubbed his beard thoughtfully. "And what of you? Will you continue his research and search for a means of fixing or replicating it?"

Quintus had really hoped he would not pry further into it. Now he had no choice but to reveal more of his hand. "To be honest, sir, I did find a means of repairing it, though not of recreating it."

Ulfric seemed to sit up straighter. "Indeed? Such an amazing feat. Why have I not heard of it? Surely the man who could pull off such a thing would be given rich rewards…" And there was the meaning underlying all of his spoken words. His tone, his delivery, everything about this made it very clear that Ulfric wanted that Phial and would happily serve as a patron for his work. Outwardly, that seemed like the very thing Quintus would want. No need to run a store to fund his work, he could exclusively research with the funding of the Jarl. So why did it make the hair on the back of his neck stand on end? Probably because Ulfric was no man of learning, he knew that much for a fact. The leader of Windhelm was all too political, a true warrior, and an innocent request now might very well turn into something he would not want to do later. Nurelion's warning in his farewell letter was suddenly showing an uncanny amount of foresight. How in the world was he getting out of this?

"Well, as I said, I couldn't make any others, so it does very little good in practical application. As for the White Phial itself, I gave it to someone who would need it. I'm currently pursuing experiments in creating resist disease potions and…"

"Who has the Phial now?" Ulfric interrupted, all casual conversation gone. It was clear Quintus's other work was of no interest to the man.

Quintus sat up straight as an arrow. Surely telling him wouldn't matter. He had to know of her existence, right? He'd heard the call of the Greybeards the same as everyone else. "The Dragonborn, sir. She's got to stop the World-Eater, so it seemed a fitting home for it."

"The Dragonborn…" Ulfric slumped back with a frown. "You've met her?"

"As fate would have it, yes." His mind spun furiously, coming up with just the right mixture of misleading truths to throw the Jarl off. "I'm the one who saw her use her shout to kill the Butcher, so I knew for a fact it was her."

"I see." Jarl Ulfric drained the rest of his bottle and rose. "Well, Navale, regardless, it seems you have a great deal of skill. Should the Stormcloaks have a need for your abilities, we will call upon you."

"Sir, I will gladly work to heal everyone," he said carefully but resolutely. "That is the job I am sworn to do as an alchemist."

"Noted. But unfortunately, war does not just call for one side of the coin. You might be prevailed upon to do a wider variety of tasks. Prepare yourself for that day if you consider yourself a citizen of Windhelm." Ulfric turned and strode off, leaving his guest flabbergasted where he sat alone at the table, his only company a nearly full bottle of mead. So much for research.