Author's Note: Shame on me for taking such a long hiatus. I've had this idea planned for a while now and just never committed to writing it...

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Lydia continued chewing her bread and cheese as she watched her Thane study the book from Avrusa, the Dragonborn running her thumb over the embossed leather edges of the cover repeatedly. When they sat on the fallen log for a break, she had taken the time to retrieve the book from her pack only to do this, and two things bothered Lydia about this scene. One was that Fjori was more interested in the tome than in eating her portion of the lunch, which they had stopped to consume in a shady glen of birch trees around midday. Come to think of it, ever since descending from High Hrothgar, she hadn't eaten hardly a thing. It was worrisome. The second thing was that Fjori never took an interest in books. Unless it was a rare item she could sell for a healthy amount or something she could give as a favor to someone, she left the books sit on the shelves where she found them in any cave or bandit stronghold. This deserved a question as soon as her mouth wasn't full.

"What's so interesting about Sinderion's speech? You cultivate an interest in nirnroot after gathering all that crimson stuff down in Blackreach?"

The light-hearted remark did nothing to ease the frown etched onto Fjori's face. "No, this would be lost on me. It would be fascinating to someone else, though."

"Ah, I see." Lydia paused for a moment, deciding on the right thing to say to her gloomy companion. "What a great surprise it will make when you give it to him after defeating Alduin."

Apparently, those were not the right words, because Fjori only hung her head. "What if I don't ever get to see him again, Lydia? Don't pretend to be optimistic for my sake; we just tried to fight Alduin and couldn't take him down even after traveling through time and learning the shout that was supposed to be our ultimate weapon. What, their best idea was to trap a dragon and get the information from him on where to find Alduin's hiding spot so we can be defeated again? The best case scenario is that I travel across Skyrim gathering more shouts and becoming stronger, which could take months, and in which time Alduin could just as easily get stronger."

"That's why you haven't been eating," Lydia murmured, setting down her chunk of bread. "Look, I know it may be the truth, but if you think that way, you will be defeated before you even begin. You and I will take some time and explore ruins rumored to contain word walls. Give it at least a month, and I think your growth in strength will outdo any growth in Alduin's."

"I know, I know." Fjori clutched the book to her chest. "It still sucks. The whiny, immature part of me wanted his to be over one way or another back at High Hrothgar. Now the whole Dragonborn thing is getting dragged on. And…" She desperately conjured up images of clam chowder in the marketplace, the weight of his hand holding hers, running her fingertips through his scant hair, the warmth of his body pressed next to hers, the look of pure pleasure she had put on his face that morning before having to leave him behind. It was supposed to make her feel better, but instead it nearly made her choke. "Never mind. It doesn't matter."

But Lydia knew, and she had to admit, Fjori was doing her best to handle the situation with grace as a Dragonborn ought to. As a young woman, however, Fjori was not taking this well, and it was enough to make even a stickler to duty feel some remorse for the promise she'd demanded. Still, she couldn't go back on it. Seeing the World Eater destroyed had to come first. Lydia scooted closer to her on the log they shared. "Perhaps you should send that book with a courier, write him a letter letting him know how you are doing and what lies ahead."

"The letter I'll send. I want to give him this book in person, though. I want to see the way his face will light up when I hand him such a hard-to-come-by copy of a master alchemist's speech." Sighing, she squeezed the book tightly, then moved to put it away again.

"My Thane, I know you don't have much of a stomach for it right now, but will you please at least eat a little? You need to keep up your strength."

It was true, she had next to no appetite. If push came to shove, though, she figured she could endure a few bites without vomiting. "All right. Then we continue to Riften."

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Since that morning two days ago, nothing had been the same for Quintus. It would have been distracting enough if the only memories disturbing him were innocent ones (though he had enough of those too, the few times he'd stirred a pot of soup or taken off his hat before bed). The less than innocent ones, though… Those made him go red in the face, and thankfully it hadn't happened in front of any customers yet. Mostly, he thought about how he disliked the way things were left, Fjori dashing out the door, late for her next mission, with Lydia goading her along and no time to talk about what had transpired. Was it weird that he had so many mixed feelings, or was it normal for people to feel confused after getting intimate?

Perhaps the worst part was knowing he wouldn't be able to get it off of his chest for an undefined amount of time, most likely a long time. Fjori had told him she had to finish Alduin and would not be able to return until that had happened. By Akatosh, what if she was killed and they never got to talk about it? Besides of course the fact that losing her would be utterly devastating! He would never be able to remain in Skyrim then, it would all be too painful to endure. But that was getting ahead of himself, one of his flaws to be certain. All he could do was burry himself in his work to try and take his mind off of his anxiety.

In fact, he was so deep in his potion brewing that he didn't register the sound of the doorbell. It took the courier clearing his throat to get the young man's attention, which of course nearly made him drop all of his Bleeding Crown into the mixture. "Message for Quintus Navale."

"Ah, yes, that's me," he mumbled, setting down his mushrooms and pestle and wiping his hands quickly on his apron. "Thank you. Here, let me…"

The man held up his hand. "No need to tip, the sender already took care of it. Besides, it was hardly a difficult delivery to make, coming all the way from the Palace of Kings!" The courier smiled, but Quintus could feel the blood freeze in his veins.

"Oh, I- I see. Well, thank you again." But that was a lie, because he was not at all thankful for whatever was in this envelope. He couldn't control his trembling hand as he took the letter from the courier. Thankfully the messenger didn't seem to notice.

"Looks like that's it. Got to go." He saluted, then left the same way he entered.

There was silence as Quintus just stared at the royal seal on the back flap. Maybe this was just him overthinking things again. Maybe it was an innocent request, or not even a request at all… Finally he found the nerve to break the seal and withdraw the envelope's contents. Immediately, his eyes were drawn to the signature at the bottom: Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak. He closed his eyes. He took a deep breath. He started from the top, and by the time he reached the signature once more, he had moved to a chair so he could collapse. He hadn't overthought this, he had been exactly right.

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Riften was a mess. It wasn't the first time Fjori had been in this city, seeing as a few jobs had taken her to the area. However, she had apparently forgotten just how lousy with scum it was. The guards had tried to shake her down upon entry (of course they'd backed down once she broke out her best intimidation face). Some punk mercenary that made HER look smart threatened her to keep moving and leave Blackbriar interests alone. A poor Redguard kid was being harassed by a shady-looking woman who seemed to have cheated him. The list could go on and on, but Fjori quickly decided it would be best to duck into the inn.

Even that didn't alleviate the amount of problems, as she ran right into the shady woman and felt compelled to threaten her to back off the kid. Not two seconds later, some smooth-talking bastard tried to convince her she didn't get her money honestly and should consider helping him steal a ring and plant it on some innocent. Fjori did her best to kill him with her glare, but sadly it didn't work. It did cause him to back off, which finally gave her an opening to sit at a table. She groaned as she sank into the chair.

Lydia joined her across the table. "I very much appreciate Whiterun."

"Agreed…"

"Good evening, ladies," a velvety voice greeted. They looked over to see a green-scaled Argonian in a bar uniform smiling politely. Then again, perhaps that wasn't a smile; Fjori didn't have much exposure to Argonians and found them difficult to read. "May I interest you in one of our specialty drinks?"

"Divines, yes, I need some alcohol! What do you have?" Fjori began to dig out her coin purse in anticipation. She might need several at this rate.

The bartender proceeded to describe his unique creations, which sparked the Dragonborn's interest at each turn. "I'll have to try them all at some point, but probably not all at once. I suppose tonight I'm feeling…" She almost leaned towards the Velvet LeChance, but as soon as she recalled the touch of nightshade he'd described, it made her think of Quintus. The point of drinking was to forget, not to remember. "…Cliffracer. I like living on the edge."

"Excellent, I will bring one right away. And for you?"

Lydia shrugged. "I'll just take a mead."

"Regular Blackbriar or Blackbriar Reserve?"

"No Honningbrew?"

The Argonian made a face, or again, seemed to by Fjori's estimation. "Not in this city."

"Okay…I guess regular then."

"Very good. I will be back in a few moments with your drinks, ladies." Their reptilian waiter gave a nod and scurried back to the bar, leaving the two women to themselves.

"What was that supposed to mean?" Lydia questioned, leaning to rest her chin in her hand.

Fjori snorted in disgust. "The Blackbriar family runs a huge mead industry here, and they do not suffer competition. Remember that blow-hard brute back near the city gate that tried to threaten me?"

"Thieves Guild and Dark Brotherhood watching their backs," the housecarl recalled with a grimace. "Who admits to that?"

"Someone who knows they are too wealthy and well-connected to be touched. Of course, that certainly doesn't make one invincible…" Fjori lowered her voice. "If I stay here too long I might snap and kill a Blackbriar on accident."

"How long do we plan on staying?"

"A day to rest up, sell some goods, the usual. Then it's a carriage back to Whiterun to plot our next tomb raid."

"Tomb-raiding sounds like a good plan," Lydia agreed.

"Excuse me, but did you say tomb-raiding?" Both women jolted at the sound of the waiter's voice. He had returned to their table brandishing a bottle of mead and an elaborate mixed concoction in a mug, but the slits of his pupils studied the pair with great interest. "I'm sorry, but I couldn't help but overhear. I have need of someone to find three flawless amethysts for me, and I was wondering if you might be able to aid me."

Lydia tilted her head in a way that clearly said 'don't think about it', but Fjori couldn't help but ask "Why such a specific thing?"

The waiter set down the drinks before his customers. "I need them for a ring." When Fjori still looked confused, he risked a glance back at the bar where the inn's proprietress was haranguing a customer who had had too much to drink. She too was an Argonian, though with pale pink scales and a voice far more abrasive. When the waiter gave a happy sigh, Fjori knew from experience that he was quite fond of her, despite her rough exterior and harsh words. To each their own, she supposed. "I wish to marry Keerava, but Argonian tradition requires a wedding band with three flawless amethysts be given. There are two stones for the couple to be married, and one for the Hist. I can't propose to her properly until I can get the ring made. I know it shouldn't matter whether traditions are followed or not when we both feel the same, but still, it wouldn't feel official without it."

"I may have some at home. Otherwise, I'll keep my eyes open," Fjori promised quickly, reaching for her mug.

"I thank you for your kind offer. I had been afraid you would decline," he admitted.

"So, to whom do I owe the amethysts?"

He extended his hand. "Talen-Jei. And to whom do I owe the gratitude?"

As with the Dunmer in Windhelm, Fjori hesitated briefly as she contemplated the unusual hand extended to her. If she thought it would be strange to touch one with such dark skin, she knew it would be extremely strange to touch a hand covered in scales. Still, she didn't want to hesitate for too long and risk insulting the kindly waiter. She reached out and shook, trying not to make a surprised face at how clammy his hands were. "Fjori."

"A pleasure. Please, enjoy your drinks, and let me know if you need anything else tonight." He bowed again, a honed reflex in his line of work, and took his leave. Lydia waited for him to leave earshot before offering her opinion.

"Another fetch quest? Really?"

"Hey, if I have them lying around, why not?" Carelessly, the Nord woman tossed back the Cliffracer, savoring the way it burned on the way down. Must be the Sujamma, though this was tempered with Firebrand Wine among other things. More refined than her drink back in the Grey Quarter, to be certain. "Besides, if I get killed and Alduin wins, at least those two can be happily married." Fjori looked down into her mug, swirling the contents absently. Getting married. What a crazy thought…

Lydia didn't have the heart to say anything in response. She knew by now.

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Quintus wasn't sure why he bothered to wait until closing time to head for the palace; it wasn't as if he was getting much done. He'd spent the remaining hours of the day trying to plan just what he would say to the Bear of Eastmarch when he arrived. He felt nauseous from the anxiety and nearly paced a rut into the floorboards behind the counter. Maybe, just maybe he would be asked to help in a way that would be acceptable to his ideals. If not, however…he didn't want to think about what would happen, but a few ideas did cross his mind despite his best efforts.

As he approached the palace for the second time in a month, he held out his invitation like some kind of warding talisman, hoping to avoid any conflicts with the guards. His confrontation from last time was not easily forgotten. They just grunted and stepped aside, allowing him entrance but doing nothing to help with his struggle to open the heavy doors.

Just his luck, the same guard who had been on duty last time was at the same post. "Hold there, alchemist. What business have you in the Palace of Kings?" Without a word, he held out the letter, which the guard snatched from his hands to read. Hey, surprise, the guard was able to read… "I see. So Ulfric's got a job for you. Get to it, then. He's waiting at the other end of the hall. You've kept him waiting long enough." Quintus nodded mutely, reaching for his letter, then hurrying across the massive space. It seemed to go on forever, especially when he could feel even from that distance Ulfric's bright, keen eyes watching his every movement from his spot perched on his throne. Bear? The man looked more like his own hawk statues right about now.

Once he was within a few feet of the throne, Ulfric's voice finally boomed. "Hail, alchemist. Navale, I believe."

"Y-yes, sir." Quintus stood before the man, still keeping some distance between them. He gave a stiff bow. "I received your summons, and I apologize for the delay; I wanted to wait for closing before leaving the shop."

Ulfric dismissed his concern with a wave of his meaty hand. "No worries. What matters is that you are here. We have much business to discuss for the war efforts. Would you prefer to take a seat and share a mead?"

"No offense, my Lord, but I am feeling a bit under the weather," Quintus attempted weakly. "I don't think a mead would be a good idea."

"Of course. I'm sorry to hear it." Was he really? He spoke the words mechanically, as if by rote. "Then I will not take up too much of your time. I need some assistance for our soldiers on the front line, and have drafted an order of materials I need. You will be compensated for the cost of ingredients as well as your time, naturally." Ulfric shifted so he could reach into the pouch on his belt and dug out a folded piece of parchment. "You will find all the specifications here. Please, look it over and let me know if it would be feasible to have it all within the week."

Quintus drew a shaky breath, and he knew Ulfric could see just how concerned he was about what was written. Still, he faked a smile and took the paper, unfolding it and beginning to read. There were healing potions, no surprise there, and that he could do no problem. As his eyes scanned further, he felt his heart sink. Potions for fortifying attacks, magical and physical. And poisons, so many poisons… Items that would be crafted with the knowledge that they were meant to harm. He had to blink, as the words seemed to spin on the page. He knew without a doubt he didn't want to do this. But were his ideals worth giving up the comfortable life he had?

"I can certainly get you those healing potions, sir. I can't, however, deliver on the rest." He ducked his head and waited for the reply. Sweet Arkay, please let this offer be enough to satisfy the man! Please take away the choice!

The response carried the unmistakable tone of disappointment. "I was afraid you would say that, Navale. But to be clear, you CAN'T make the rest of the items on the list, or you WON'T make them?"

"I…" Words seemed to dry up in his throat. Ulfric was right, there was a big difference between those two things. Could he say what he truly meant, all Imperial tact and guile aside? Countless academics before him had sold themselves out to rulers' political whims in the interest of continuing their work, so who would judge him now if he yielded to the imposing Jarl of Windhelm?

Nurelion would. He would never have compromised what he thought was important, would never allow for himself to be used as a tool in other men's wars. In fact, Nurelion had warned him of just this sort of thing in his final letter, had wished for him to stand up for himself almost as if he'd known this very day were coming. Knowing his pupil would sink to such a level even after all his attempts to light the spark of rebellion within him would have him turning in his grave.

For that matter, Fjori wouldn't yield either. She would sooner get into a fist-fight with the man than bend to him if she disagreed, for better or for worse. Could such a spirited woman ever love a coward? No, she could never be his if he would be so spineless as to compromise his morals. Fjori did countless dangerous things, and to be worthy of her, he should be able to do this one, simple thing: utter the two words Ulfric didn't want to hear.

It was terrifying, but more than he wanted security, he wanted to do right by them and be able to live with himself.

"I won't." The words seemed to echo off the stone walls, though he knew he was so quiet that such a thing was impossible. "My alchemy is to heal others, not cause harm. I will heal your soldiers whenever you need, but the rest of these tasks…I won't. And with all due respect, sir, I will not change my mind. It's a matter of honor as a man. I believe you understand the value of such honor, so please, do not ask it of me again." Quintus clenched his fists, bracing himself for the wrath. Perhaps in a fit of rage Ulfric would blast him to dust like he did with High King Torygg…

Instead, Ulfric's words were deep, calm, though certainly still upset. "Aye, I know plenty about honor. My men and I fight and die against those that have lost theirs. But do you understand that if you do not lend your skills fully to our cause, you do not demonstrate complete loyalty to your Jarl and therefore have no place in Windhelm?"

"That…would be a reasonable outcome, I suppose," Quintus ventured timidly. "Not something I would like to see happen, of course. The city needs a healer, and there are no other practicing alchemists here. Surely as long as I stay out of trouble I can continue to serve your citizens in their daily matters, allowing them to worry about your war effort…"

His logic fell on deaf ears. "You can be replaced, Imperial. And by a Nord, no doubt, one who will prove loyal to Skyrim and the Stormcloak cause. This is clearly not your home."

"My Master and I have served Windhelm for seven years without any cause for doubt!" he protested. "The White Phial…"

"Is no longer yours." Ulfric slowly rose from his throne, towering menacingly over the meek Imperial. "But I will respect that honor of yours. You have until the crack of dawn to clean out whatever belongings you can carry and be on your way. The city is taking the shop and all remaining contents from you, as is standard procedure for those accused of treason. If not for your good service in those seven years that you mention, you would face far worse. If I were you, I would start packing. Secunda and Masser are already on the rise." With that, the Jarl stalked out of the room. "Return to Cyrodiil where you belong, Imperial. Go play the noble scholar for those Thalmor puppets and see where it gets you."

It took several long moments for Quintus to realize that he was shaking, and violently. He was alive, but in a few hours he would have little more than that to be grateful for. Suddenly, a gauntleted hand grabbed his arm roughly, hard enough to leave a bruise, and he gave a startled cry as the guard from the entrance began to drag him away. He didn't protest, as humiliating as it was to be hauled around like a ragdoll. The guard was fast with his longer legs, and before he knew what was happening the sharp bite of the wind assailed his face and he was being flung down the stairs. More bruises, now with some cuts. "Good riddance, Imperial trash. Don't you dare show your face around here again!"

Quintus struggled to his feet as the guards stationed outside began to join in on the jeers. It didn't help when he felt balls of snow and ice begin to pelt him, nearly knocking him back down. In that moment, all he could focus on was escape. It took a few teetering steps before he could get his feet under him, and then finally he ran in the familiar direction of the White Phial. Perhaps for the last time ever.

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Fjori sat at Balimund's forge, patiently whittling down the gold ingot she'd taken from some bandits in the Riften forests. Lydia was occupied with purchasing supplies, giving her at least a little time by herself to complete this personal task. With something as valuable as gold, she was glad to have had some skill with smithing even before the Oengul War-Anvil tutorial. This was not something she wanted to look shoddy.

Talking to Talen-Jei the night before had gotten her thinking. Argonians had this traditional way of showing their commitment to one another. Nords didn't really have much similar. They could wear the Amulet of Mara, but that had more of a connotation of official marriage (and even if she didn't have to save the world, it was too soon to think about that!). Even this was a relatively new practice; a few hundred years ago, she knew her ancestor's simply lived with whomever they wanted, official unions be damned. Did Imperials have traditions? Would Quintus like a token of affection? She had no idea. The best she could think of was to smith a ring, like Talen-Jei wanted to give his lover. It would be something he could wear and think of her. The stone didn't have any real significance, it simply happened to be a sapphire she happened upon in her recent explorations. However, she had plans to enchant it with a fortify alchemy enchantment as soon as it was finished.

Pulling the smoldering metal from the white-hot fire, she wiped her brow and began to shape the pliant material. She still didn't want to send him the book, but perhaps she'd send him this when it was finished, so he could know without a doubt that she was serious. The whole separation thing sucked, but at least if she could imagine him happily brewing away at his alchemy station in the White Phial wearing her ring on his finger, that made things a little bit better.