[A/N] Now we're picking up steam! (One of the good things about being on vacation is that you have lots of time to write.)

[DISCLAIMER] I do not own The Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim, or anything related to it; that's Bethesda's deal, not mine (sadly). I also do not own Sithia Dupre; that grumpy little darling belongs to Child of Sithis. However, any miscellaneous OCs not found in-game belong to me.

PART II

The manacles around her ankles were cold and jagged, the edges grating the tops of her feet every time she took a step – or rather, shuffled over the ground, stumbling forward as she was dragged along by the iron grip on her forearm. Her wrists were similarly bound before her, forcing her to hunch her shoulders in order to keep them from cutting into her skin.

Everything was cold in here: not just her restraints. The tile that her bare feet slid over, that the chains scraped against with a shrill, bone-piercing noise; the air that summoned goosebumps from her bare, trembling arms; the gauntleted hand squeezing her to the point where she couldn't even feel that limb any longer– this place was a mausoleum, and Sithia couldn't help but think, I'm going to my death.

No. She pressed her teeth against her tongue, the sharp pain bringing her back to the present. Not this time. Not again.

All too aware of her shaking now, the Imperial sucked in a breath. Stale, recycled air from within the prisoner's hood that covered her head and blinded her rushed into her lungs, calming her heartbeat for a little while longer.

Suddenly, her forearm was jerked back, halting her progress across the floor, and she instantly froze, her captured breath flooding out all at once.

"Halt, Justiciar." A voice from before them: authoritative, but bored. "What is your business in the Palace of Justice?"

"Prisoner transfer." The rustle of paper, so slight it was nearly muffled by her hood.

Sithia could almost hear the frown in the guard's voice. "I was not notified of this."

"Lady Elenwen Saururiil had her shipped in earlier this evening. It was an unexpected arrival, and there was no time to inform the proper officials."

"Lady Elenwen is a Justiciar no more, and therefore, lacks the privilege of holding prisoners in the Palace," the guard said stiffly.

"But she maintains her offices here, does she not?" the Justiciar pressed. "And has she not been granted special dispensation by the Conclave to act in their name?"

A frustrated pause. "Yes," the guard admitted, "but unless the Conclave ordered that this prisoner specifically be incarcerated in the Palace of Justice –"

"– which they have," the other interrupted coolly. "It is of dire importance to the security of the Dominion that Lady Elenwen receive and interrogate this prisoner, and if you had looked at my authorization form, you would see that the Conclave has recognized that."

Another rustle of paper, and an embarrassed throat-clearing. "My apologies, Justiciar."

"I deserve them." The Justiciar's tone was decidedly snippy.

"Indeed," the guard agreed hastily. "Do you, uh –" He stopped himself short and began again, his voice less unsure. "Do you require an escort to the interrogation chambers, Justiciar?"

"Thank you for the offer, guardsman, but I would much rather have an escort to the offices of Lady Elenwen. Would she still be present at this hour of the night?"

A snort, instantly covered by a strained cough. "You must not have been to Alinor before, Justiciar. The dedication of Lady Elenwen to her duties is... absolute. I speak for many in the Palace when I say that her commitment is an inspiring example."

Sithia bit down on her tongue, almost drawing blood this time.

"The offices of Lady Elenwen are in the eastern tower, on the topmost floor," the guard continued. "I have not yet seen her leave, so you may still be able to gain an audience with her."

"Excellent." The Justiciar's fingers dug into her arm: one, two quick squeezes – like a heartbeat. "I believe our business here is concluded."

Almost before his sentence was finished, Sithia had already brought her hands up and tore the hood off her head. Blinking furiously as torchlight flooded her eyes, she saw the guard before her, his impressive golden armor doing nothing to negate the look of shock on his face. It would have almost been comical had he not been reaching for his sword with one hand and readying a spell in the other.

Her arms instantly shot out, and the Imperial looped her chains around his exposed neck, yanking him close to her and then rotating at the last minute. The guard's back was against her chest, and his shudders as he gasped and wheezed for breath ran through her bones. She merely pulled the makeshift garrote tighter and tighter, until his limbs finally stopped flailing and he went completely limp.

"Nice work." Finverior removed the hood of his Justiciar's uniform. "Your technique's a little sloppy, but that can probably be chalked up to not having the right tools for the job."

"This worked fine." Sithia held up her still-manacled hands; the unfortunate guard slumped to her feet alongside the discarded hood. "Now get me out of these things."

"In a moment." Lifting up the body by the arms, the Bosmer jerked his head towards a shadowy alcove cut out of the wall. "Let's get in there and be quick about it."

"How much time do we have before someone notices this sap's gone?" The other grabbed the body's ankles, then her hood as an afterthought, and helped Finverior maneuver it into the alcove, out of sight.

"Another guard on patrol passed while I was distracting this one." Finverior bent down and removed the guard's helmet, setting it aside and beginning to undo the straps on the breastplate. "We've got a little longer than I thought we would, but we still can't dick around."

"As expected," Sithia said bitingly, dropping the guard and holding out her wrists. "Now get me out of these damn chains."

The Bosmer sighed, but produced a key from his robe and reached up to unlock the manacles. She nearly let them fall to the floor, but thought better of it (a space like this is bound to echo) and snatched them up while Finverior unlocked the cuffs around her ankles.

Exhaling in relief as the cold metal finally came away from her skin, Sithia massaged her wrists. "Where are my things?"

Finverior yanked up the hem of his Justiciar's uniform and worked it up over his head, flinging it off and revealing the skin-tight leathers hidden underneath. Strapped to his chest was a cloth-wrapped bundle, and he undid the straps securing it and handed it to the Imperial with a triumphant flourish.

Sithia raised her eyebrows, but took them. "Weren't you worried about my daggers nicking you?" she asked sarcastically.

"Couldn't be any worse than the ones you stick into my heart on a daily basis, darling." The Bosmer knelt and continued to wrangle the breastplate off the dead guard. "You should give me a little credit. That other Justiciar was a little on the skinny side; it took some very tight wrapping for your things to look natural on me."

"You could have stuck them between your legs and no one would have known the difference," she shot back, sitting down beside him to unwrap her personal belongings.

Finverior chuckled. "Trust me: I think you'd know."

"No, I wouldn't, and I never will," the Imperial snapped, spreading out the items in the bundle over what space she had on the floor. Her shortsword and dagger, both of ebony make – a present from the High Queen after her last sword had broke and her dagger had been lost. Her Dark Brotherhood leathers, the red and black of them blending into the alcove's shadows. A satchel of lock picks, potions, and vials of poison: just in case.

"Not with that attitude, you won't." Finally tugging off the breastplate, the Bosmer got to work on the gauntlets, then the greaves.

"That's the point." Grabbing her leathers and turning around to face the wall, Sithia quickly shucked off her ragged tunic and threadbare leggings, then slid into her leathers, letting out a quiet sigh of relief. It was like putting on a second skin: close, secure, natural.

From behind her, she heard Finverior's breath suck in sharply, and the Imperial was suddenly aware of the cold air brushing across the scarred skin on her back. Stiffening, she hastily turned around and reached behind her neck to cinch the fastenings there, pulling them tighter than was necessary. To his credit, the Bosmer averted his eyes, focusing on pulling the left greave, then both of the boots off the dead guard.

Sitting down, Sithia grabbed her own boots and pulled them on, covering her bare feet, then tugged her cowl and her face mask into position. Her bandolier came last of all, with the satchel resting in the small of her back and the scabbards for her weapons on her hips.

She was prepared – or at the very least, looked prepared. In the past, that had been enough to get her in the right frame of mind for a job: the whisper of leathers over her skin as she moved, the new-sharpened edges of her blades, the stillness of everything except for the beating of her heart... why use disguises when she could instantly strike fear into a mark just by appearing before them, a wraith in black and red to herald their death?

So why, then, did she feel so woefully unprepared?

"Let's run through the plan again," the Imperial said brusquely, dismissing her worrying thoughts. "Do you know what you're doing?"

"Standing guard here until I can take out the other guard on duty," Finverior answered promptly. "After I hide the body, I nip up to wherever the High Queen wants me to go, find whatever she wants me to find, then come back for you." He started fastening the guard's golden breastplate over his own leathers. "Presumably, you'll have already done in Elenwen by then, and we can escape before anyone's the wiser."

"And how, exactly, are we escaping?" Sithia asked tartly, crossing her arms over her chest. "Someone might have noticed the mess we made on the Gem of Greenheart."

"Well, unless you want to trek overland and brave Thalmor territory any longer than we have to, sweetheart, we're going to have to escape by sea." The Bosmer tightened the straps on the breastplate, wiggled around in it, then tightened them a little more. "Maybe not the same ship, but we could commandeer a dinghy and –"

"– die trying to cross the Abecean, let alone trying to get out of the harbor?"

Finverior sighed. "Have I ever told you what an absolute pessimist you can be?"

"You're not the first." Sithia carefully peered out of the alcove – no sign of the other guard – then ducked her head back in. "I hate to say this, but we'll have to figure it out later. We need to get going before someone notices."

"You don't need to tell me twice." The Bosmer yanked on his boots, then started on his greaves. "Help me with this damnable armor and I'll be good to go."

The other reluctantly bent down and fitted on his gauntlets – when his hands stopped moving, at least – and then picked up his helmet and jammed it on his head, perhaps a little more forcefully than necessary. Judging by Finverior's wince, he seemed to think the same thing.

"It wouldn't have killed you to be more gentle with that," he remarked, twisting the helmet into position. "I think you might have ripped out a chunk of my hair."

"Half of it was singed off three weeks ago by that Thalmor wizard in Lillandril, and you can't tell it was ever gone now. Your hair will be fine."

"If you say so." Picking up the guard's sword and sheathing it at his side, the Bosmer stood. "You ready?"

Sithia rose with him. "I was waiting on you, remember?"

Finverior chuckled. "Anyway... good luck with this," he said, sobering, "and – if anything should happen to either of us, it was an honor knowing you... o Lady Fair."

The Imperial raised her eyebrows. "It took you that long to come up with a nickname?"

"I know, I know. Shameful, isn't it? But seriously –" he clapped her on the back, his face set and determined now "– good luck, hon. Here's hoping we both come out of this."

Sithia smiled grimly. "Here's hoping."

[A/N] Thanks for reading, and please don't hesitate to review and tell me what you think!