A/N: What is this? A new chapter? It must be a ghost writer…. Right?
so I apologize for the… way-too-long wait, I blame a sudden, new-found love *cough*obsession*cough* with anime and university work. And I think those are the two worst excuses together in history (unless we're talking about the homework excuseX3) Anyway, Shingeki no Kyojin/Attack on Titan fans should keep an eye out for a one-shot I'm currently still plotting out – it will get here eventually. So without further ado, read, enjoy and review this chapter, sweet brothers and sisters, and may the Dread Father and the Unholy Matron keep you.

Chapter 30: A Truly Gourmet Meal

Markarth. It seemed that everything that led to my greater glory started here, and again I was standing in front of the gates to the ancient Dwemer city. Shadowmere had made the ride easy, and although I wasn't as desperate to reach my destination as I had been on the way to Dawnstar, we still arrived about two days earlier than I would have, had I used a normal steed. I clenched my jaw. I should forget Dawnstar and all of that, I shook my head, dismounting at the stables. The stable hands glared at my daedra horse with a mix of fear and hate, and I glanced at Shadowmere's eyes. They had apparently turned from red to black. They were eyes that didn't quite belong to a normal steed, but they were much more natural looking than his usual, glowing crimson. I grabbed a small bag from the saddle, then touched his forehead and left him in his stable, walking into the city. I was stopped by a man with five large dogs following him, who asked if I would be headed into the Keep.
"Why?"
"This is spiced meat for the Jarl's dogs that needs to go to the kitchen to one of the servants there – Anton Virane, the head chef, or one of his assisstants, will be able to tell you which one," he said, holding up a heavy sack. "Besides, there's coin in it for you if you deliver it," the man added. I glanced at the large sack of meat. It was a way into the kitchen, where I wanted to be…. "Of course; I'll take it up for you."
The man smiled gratefully, thanking me as I walked away.

The guard paid me no mind once I explained the delivery, and I stared at the patterns the stone paving made beneath my feet. I was wearing that stiff, uncomfortable brown leather again, and stopped by a bridge, looking up at Understone Keep. I trudged up the many stairs and over the bridges until I finally arrived at the doors to the keep.

I pushed them open, and ignored the debris and chunks of stone lying haphazardly on the ground, still stuck where it had fallen from its heights many years ago. It surprised me that any Jarl would want to live in a place like this – it should have been left for the Dwemer. Only they could find solace in such a cold, hard place. You would have liked it once, too, a niggling voice in the back of my mind whispered. I shrugged my shoulders, trying to shift the leather into a more comfortable position around my torso and shoulders. I should have ordered a customized set, instead of buying the standard sizes available in any armory of Skyrim.

A solid form jarred me out of my thoughts, and I glared up the golden armor with a growing sneer. It was one of the bodyguards to a Thalmor agent, and this lackey's sneer matched my own in disgust. "Watch yourself, Mortal," he hissed through his teeth. My fingers curled around the dagger at my belt, ready to whip it out and across that soft, tender golden skin at the elf's neck. Would their blood be as gold as their skin, or would it be as red as everyone else's?

I never got the chance to find out, because another Thalmor soldier called the first to attention, and quickly gave out orders in their tongue. I sneered at them, and walked past the elf, my shoulder brushing against the elf's. I bit my lip to stop from grinning outright at how he stumbled back a step, throwing the sack of meat over my shoulder and carried on up the stairs. I would have liked to see what color they bled out – assuming such self-righteous things could even bleed at all.

The loud barking of dogs and the ticking of nails across the stone floors was the only warning I had to prepare myself for three unruly creatures, all vying for the sack I carried. An elderly woman half-ran, half-hobbled over, clutching at her skirt and apron. "Oh, oh dear! Oh, I'm so sorry, Dearie! They're only excited for their food!" she called, then whistled sharply, snapping her fingers and pointing at the ground next to her. All three dogs immediately quieted and ran to her side, lying down on the ground. "Wish I could smell good food the way they do," I said, my lips twitching to a half-smile as I swung the meat to hang by my side. "Where do you need me to put this?"
The woman smiled. "Thank you, Dearie. This way," she waved a hand, and started walking to the kitchen, with the dogs in tow. "Just there on the table, Dearie," the woman pointed to a sturdy wooden table in the farthest corner to the left. Food that smelt oddly like Festus's last meal wafted down from the right, where a Breton man stood in front of a large cooking pot, hanging precariously over a warm fire. I looked at the man curiously. Was that Anton Virane? I hoped so. The old woman came close to my ear. "Don't stare too much, Dearie," she whispered. "That's Anton Virane, the Jarl's cook – well, chef. He doesn't like it when people watch him work."
"Sounds like my uncle," I replied without really thinking – Festus was that way inclined, too. I dropped the meat on the table. "Is there anything else I can help you with, anything at all? It's really no trouble at all, especially since I'll be in town for a while."
The woman looked torn between telling me that there was much I could do, and sending me on my way. Eventually she nodded, and I was set to work in the kitchen. Thankfully, very little of the work I was doing had anything to do with preparing the food, but it left me with enough time to observe Anton Virane.

And what a fascinating Breton he was.

I couldn't wait to kill him. Well, interrogate him then kill him.

The slightest implication at anything Forsworn set him off on a rant for at least an hour, about how he wasn't such a barbarian, but a true Breton of High Rock and so on and so forth – or something like that. He was almost as finicky about 'cuisine' as Festus was – he should have been the one to take this contract, given that Festus would have had something to say about Virane's cooking. I sniggered to myself as I cleared away cooking utensils and cleaned them. Eventually the evening's meal was prepared, and the woman had left early, complaining of stiff joints and other ailments. I hope I never get so old as to feel age weaken my body – not that I ever will, all things considered.

Either way, I, the assassin Alysa Ice-Wrath, was officially alone with my target.

"I know you're a close friend of the Gourmet, Aton Virane," I said, sweeping the floor slowly, deliberately.
He stopped whatever it was he was doing. "The Gourmet?" he asked after a long pause. "Don't be ridiculous, Native. I merely admire such a great chef."
"I'm sure that's why you possessed a signed copy of his book," I replied, stopping to watch the Breton. The corners of his mouth were starting to twitch. "Don't believe what I say, and rather let me give you proof." I put the broom to one side, reaching for the small bag I had brought with me when I came into the city, and took out his book. I grinned, waving the book at the now deathly-pale Breton.
"Who are you? What do you want?" he whispered, swallowing hard.
"Ah, I want to know who the Gourmet is, of course!"
"Th-the Gourmet?!" he stuttered. I almost thought he would give in there and then. "Never! I'll never betray the trust I earned! The Gourmet's secret will go to the grave with me!" he hissed furiously as he stood.
I sighed, tutting dramatically as I stalked closer, smiling again. "Oh, that's too bad…. See, that can be arranged – with the Dark Brotherhood."
The Breton sank back onto his stool, the bravado he had paraded gone. Virane's mouth was making shapes, but no sound came out. "Da- dark Brother- brotherhood…. Look, let's not get hasty, alright?" Virane chuckled nervously. "I'm sure my friend wouldn't want me to endanger my own life, right?"
I smiled at him. "Of course not! Now, the Gourmet's name?"
"Yes, yes of course! His name is Balagog gro-Nolob – he's an Orc! Also, if you're interested…" he trailed, terrified. I loved the smell of fear. I raised a brow for him to continue. "He's staying at the Nightgate Inn, on Lake Yorgrim in the Pale. That's all I know, I swear on the Divines! You'll let me go now, won't you?"
I stepped closer to the Breton. A kitchen knife was on the table between us; I put the book down, smiling coldly as I touched the Breton's face. "Of course. Thank you, Anton Virane."
He just looked relieved when I plunged the knife into his throat, twisting the blade. All that hard work to clean this place up was wasted, wasn't it? I grumbled, quickly washing the blood off my face and stuffing the book back into my bag, leaving Understone Keep behind, not bothering to take the time to fully appreciate the frozen stare of horrified terror on the Breton's face. Leaving the handprint wasn't worth it either – it would give away my plan. I'd have to wait on the Emperor to leave my mark – and even then, I might be hard-pressed to place it…. The city gates would still be open for a while, until the body was found, so I might still be able to leave Markarth tonight and avoid the hum-drum of investigations into Virane's murder.

If I fled the city.

I just received my pay for delivering the meat and mounted Shadowmere when the city bells began to toll, signifying the hunt for a murderer was on. Sweet Sithis, I swore, snarling. I threw my hands up the horse's neck and grabbed a fistful of mane, gripping the saddle with my knees to raise myself slightly as he half-reared, leaping forwards into a gallop. We just made it out of the city in time. I laughed despite myself – it truly was exhilarating to kill inside a city. What would Cicero have said about this? I suddenly thought. My mirth dissolved instantly, and I leaned close to Shadowmere's neck. "Nightgate Inn, the Pale," I said to him. His only reply was a muted whisper of 'Listener…' before adjusting our course into the far end of the Pale.

So much blood…. So much death….

Was this really how things turned out in the end? No – no, there is no Void, no Sithis. There is… something. Something that we reach – reached? – for, something worth the effort, and the pain, and the joys and blood and the death – but it's gone now. Still there, but not here. Best keep busy while we wait for it all to finish…. Or begin – it doesn't really matter, that one won't come back for a long, long time….

And so we go on – the Pale, the Reach, the Rift… everywhere in between was – is – ours to play in, and play we shall, oh, what fun, what joy….

There was something sharp, something warm and wet, something steadily breathing slower and struggling to gasp in that final breath – does it make him happy? It did – it does – but it isn't the same as with that one, the only one…. Will we see that one ever again? We should hope so, but there – there is another, another who calls for this sharp thing, this emptiness, this… Void. Another one to help us while the time away, until it all finishes, or begins…. Whichever one comes first, or doesn't come at all….