Stormcloak's questions were starting to get on her nerves, even if Nariilu had to admit she was rather pleased his tone was more curious than suspicious. She was sure the Jarl's wine had made him more than a little more open to what answers she gave, and the slight calm spell she cast did more than its part, even if it about drained her magicka reserves for the week. That last little aside from Jarl Balgruuf had left him flushed from more than just alcohol.

She'd have to refrain from using any sort of magic for a while, if she wanted to have even a fighting chance against even a skeever. Nariilu had been keeping her reserves low for far too long from first Skuldafn, then against Alduin, then spending what she could to try and heal herself when she was conscious. And with her body as sore as it was, melee weapons weren't much of an option, either. And even one Word of Aura Whisper had left her lungs feeling full of…something that wasn't air. At the very least, her spell was keeping Stormcloak lighthearted and would wear off before he sobered up; he'd never know he'd been charmed.

He didn't seem to care much about her religious claims, especially not after she admitted to not having much religious upbringing; there wasn't a shrine of any sort by the slums, and the refugee Dunmer and other impoverished people had more or less abandoned any god that wasn't printed on either side of a coin. And for some reason, that seemed to give her claims more credence to him, like she'd never thought to pick up a book and read up on a few Aedra and Daedra, especially after she learned she was Talos reborn.

Instead, he pressed her more on what Sovngarde was like, who was there, what they said, and, once Nariilu had run out of people to tell him about, he moved on to asking her exactly what had happened at the Thalmor party. She gladly told that story, hoping those damned Justiciars were back to hear exactly how she slaughtered those fools, broke into Elenwen's private office and robbed her blind at her own party. At some point, he'd drained the glass poured for Lydia, still missing. Nariilu hoped she was alright.

All the while, she slowly wrote letters, mostly to the Jarls. Her fingers were stiff, cold, broken, and it felt like it took minutes to trace out a single sentence. Nariilu wanted them all done before the morning so she could send them and then maybe, just maybe, they'd know not to attack Odahviing if and when she came flying into whichever Hold. She almost wished she'd saved a little magicka to operate the pen without straining her hands, but Nariilu knew that each little movement, as much as it hurt, would pay off in the long run. There was no magic without her fingers moving in delicate little runes.

"We'll be stopping by the Blades before Solitude," Nariilu said, filling the space where Stormcloak yawned. She glanced over at him; he had the blank look of a man who'd drained an entire bottle of strong wine within an hour, his eyes still tinged green with her fading spell. "And I don't want you going to the trial tomorrow. You've been a mess all day."

"You're in worse shape. You can't even walk," Stormcloak answered.

"And you're drunk and exhausted."

"I can walk, though."

"Prove it, then," Nariilu dared. "Go walk to bed." Stormcloak didn't move. "Well? Scared you'll trip over yourself?"

"They…they got you too, right? You said in Riften, you gave up more than me," he said after a long pause. Nariilu froze, staring at her letter. She'd smeared ink all over it; no way it was going to Jarl Ravencrone now. "They kept me for nothing. That's what my Dossier said."

Of course he wanted to talk about the Thalmor. Get any soldier drunk, they'd ramble on about the blood, guts, gore, pain, death as long as you let them wallow in emotions. And Nariilu still never knew what to say when someone got started down the dark path of their own memory.

"How do you stop the dreams?"

You don't, Nariilu wanted to answer, not until you accidentally gain the favor of a Daedric Prince. "Dreams can't hurt you." She crumpled up the ruined paper and started again.

"You know that's a lie," Stormcloak muttered with only the slightest slur. "You're a liar." Nariilu opened her mouth to defend herself, but Stormcloak continued. "You're no Nord. True Nords don't lie."

"I'm an Elf, Stormcloak."

"I hate Elves."

"I know."

"I don't hate you, though."

Nariilu spilled more ink over her page. That was the calm spell talking. She looked over, no green tinge was left in his blue eyes, as bright as they could be in firelight, as clear as possible with enough alcohol in his system to send her back to Sovngarde. Her mind drifted to the conversation they'd had the night before she left for Skuldafn. 'I hate the Thalmor more than I hate you,' he'd said. When had he stopped hating her? "Why's that?" She almost felt bad for asking him in such a state. She crumpled her paper again and started fresh for hopefully the last time.

"You don't hate me. You got me my crown!" Stormcloak's voice rose. She shushed him, and his voice dropped down to a whisper. "And the Companions like you, and so does my Clan. And Balgruuf, too. And I trust all of them." Stormcloak paused. "Maybe not Balgruuf. He's an idiot."

"Don't let him hear you say that," Nariilu warned. She was on the verge of deciding that a drunk Stormcloak was just as much fun as any drunk Nord. His answer gave little insight into his feelings and more on his inebriation.

"He knows it," Stormcloak announced, his voice rising again. He grabbed her glass of half-finished, diluted wine, draining it in one pull. Nariilu was thankful he didn't knock into her inkwell. "You know, I used to beat him up when we were kids. Pissed him off, since he's…two years older than me, I think. He hasn't beaten me to this day."

"That's nice."

"I bet I could beat you up, too." Stormcloak stood, only stumbling slightly. Nariilu looked up at him; yes, this was probably the only time he'd ever be able to out-brawl her. When she was regrowing half her skin and healing from too many fractures and dislocations to count on her fingers, not to mention whatever internal damage Arngeir warned her to take it easy for the sake of, and all he had to contend with was inebriation and rather nasty lightning burns. "Never fought you unarmed. I bet I'd win if you didn't have a damned sword in your hand."

"We can bet on it later, after you get some sleep," Nariilu said in her most convincing tone. Why in the name of Magnus had she wasted her magicka to calm him when he was already calm? Now he was acting…well, almost like Uthgerd. Definitely like a Companion. She'd never seen the man drunk before, but she imagined that spending a month with those barbarians had loosened Stormcloak up.

"You get some sleep," Stormcloak answered. Nariilu didn't dignify his childish retort with a response. "I'll bet you can't even climb the stairs to your bed."

Nariilu rolled her eyes. "My morning started with a climb to the peak of the Throat of the World, a flight on the back of a dragon, and a descent from Dragonsreach to my house. I can climb ten stairs," she answered. "I'll bet you can't go to sleep."

Stormcloak paced around, running his hand along shelves as he passed them. She was grateful the oaf didn't knock anything down. "I don't want to sleep."

"You're drunk. You won't have any dreams."

"I'm not drunk." Nariilu didn't respond. "I haven't been drunk in a long time."

"Obviously."

He went silent, idly inspecting her upper shelves and half-heartedly wiping them of dust. Nariilu finally finished her letter to Jarl Ravencrone, starting on her next, her last, to Maven Blackbriar. Gods, how she wanted to tear the woman to shreds. She made a mental note to mention something about their little deal, how she'd be going to Solitude and hoped to see her at the wedding! Ugh, even the thought of having to be pleasant to Maven set her scabs crawling. She decided to be awfully blunt in her warnings of Odahviing. If my dragon dies, Riften burns. No, Maven wouldn't care if Riften was suddenly the caldera of a volcano. Perhaps she could convince Vittoria to convince Asgeir to completely take over the meadery.

"Wuunferth used to make a tonic that would cause a dreamless sleep. It was like blinking, but an entire night had passed," Stormcloak slurred, running his finger along a carved mammoth tusk mounted to the wall. He stopped and turned to her. "Can you make it?"

"I'm not much of an alchemist."

"What good are you, then?"

Nariilu bit her cheek. How long did Stormcloak expect to bother her? She was tired; her eyelids grew heavier by the second, and her body was more sore than anything. She wanted to go lie down for a week or more, but didn't want to risk Stormcloak doing something stupid, like marching up to Dragonsreach to try and kill the Thalmor himself. "Actually, I might have some of what you're describing," she said, bracing herself to stand. "Go lie down; it'll work quick."

She moved to the side hall, reaching under her alchemy table and taking a quick inventory. She didn't have much in the way of…well, anything, but a potion of magicka resistance wouldn't hurt. Perhaps it'd even help him heal from his wounds, given their nature-or it could hinder whatever salve he had underneath his bandages. But the alternative was a magicka regenerative potion that could cause permanent damage to those without any real magicka reserves of their own. Nariilu grabbed the bottle and turned to hand it to him; Stormcloak was still idling in the doorway rather than on his bed, tightly made in the style Nariilu had beat into her head once she'd finally ranked up in the Legion enough to earn a cot rather than a simple roll.

An expression ghosted along his face that Nariilu could've sworn was pity. Perhaps it was because of the soft groan she couldn't quite choke back as she straightened her spine, perhaps it was because she really did look that bad, perhaps it was because he'd felt the distinctive wane and lingering haze of an illusion spell. "Here," she said, offering a bottle with a shaking arm.

Stormcloak took it, and she moved back into the main room to maybe finish off her letters to the sounds of Stormcloak snoring. Nariilu stumbled stepping down from the wooden floor of the living area to the stone floor surrounding the hearth; her staff slipped on the unevenly smoothed cobblestone. She righted herself before she went face-first into the fire, guiding herself back to her chair with one hand placed firmly on its back. She dipped her quill and tapped off the excess ink carefully. All the while, she felt piercing blue eyes on her.

Jarl Blackbriar,

I am pleased to inform you that Alduin has been defeated. Because of this achievement and the ancient, timeless laws of dragons, I am now widely considered to be the most powerful of all the dragons. As such, I now find quite a few dragons in my service. This includes one named Odahviing, a particularly powerful red beast with white wings. Should you see this dragon over your Hold or City, there is a high likelihood that I am with him, and I urge you to refrain from attacking. Should I or Odahviing fall, there will be a rather unfortunate power struggle amongst the dragons, and I will not be able to protect you or anything you hold

"Hey!" Nariilu's voice caught as she felt her skin tear as Stormcloak suddenly hoisted her over his shoulder. She hit his back once, twice, harder once he turned and she saw that her inkwell had spilled all over the floor and her nearly completed letter. "Put me down, you idiot!"

Stormcloak placed one foot on the stairs, pausing to steady himself with his free hand against the wall. Gods, he'd fall and crush her. "I'm helping you up the stairs," he said. "You almost fell walking back, and I have to help you before I fall asleep, since you could fall and die and everyone would think I killed you."

"You're killing me now!" Nariilu argued, feeling harsh warm blood against the cold sting of reopened wounds.

Stormcloak took another deliberate step up the stairs, making some noise that vaguely sounded like denial. But what he muttered next was as clear as day. "Can't kill a Divine."

Nariilu almost laughed. She'd finally convinced him of the truth, and all it'd taken was some well-placed exaggerations and a coincidence or four and a bottle of wine. She relaxed into his hold; struggling was only stretching her skin further beyond its breaking point.

"Except another Divine can, I guess."

Frantic pounding at the door woke Ulfric up the next morning, his head lightly echoing the rhythm. He swung up to sit as the pounding turned to yelling and the obvious clicking sounds of a lockpick, and paused in an unfamiliar chamber, methodically checking his surroundings for any sign of danger as he stood and moved to the stairs. And it was a simple loft, with bookshelves and a bedside table, a bed with green blankets stained brown under the Dragonborn's dried blood. Arkay's mercy, that was a lot of blood. But a sharp scowl on her newly-awoken face at least marked her as alive.

He didn't have much time to dwell on the fact that he'd woken up next to her, save that he was wearing all his clothes down to his boots, before he took the stairs three at a time and stepped onto the main floor just as the door swung open. Aela stood beyond it, already yelling, even as she tucked a lockpick back into a little pocket on her quiver. "Lydia! Nariilu, I know you're back! You missed it-Ulfric!"

Aela stood and grabbed him by the hand, tugging him to the door. "The Graymanes, they've been killed, and…"

Even though Aela kept speaking, Ulfric couldn't make sense of her words. Dead. He hadn't saved them. He hadn't even been there to defend them. He felt the cold floor push through the fabric of his pants, uneven stone on uncomfortable on his knees. And he'd been asleep through it. Drunk and asleep, the almost carefree events of the previous night came rushing back. The Dragonborn had virtually no plan for taking care of the Thalmor, what she swore to destroy alongside him, though she was admittedly shaken by her time in Sovngarde.

But he wasn't. He should've attended the trial, perhaps lead the Graymane's defense by himself. No one knew the relevant sections of the White-Gold Concordat like he did. For all the hours he spent pouring over every cursed word in the treaty, he hadn't been able to save anyone with it. Time wasted.

And then there was a crash and a sudden weight against his back; the Dragonborn fell down the stairs and was screaming something that he didn't quite hear. Not that it mattered, because he'd failed to protect Vignar, Vignar's entire family.

He'd let down the people who dared to trust him yet again.

Eorlund and Vignar's funeral was an awful affair, but at least they were permitted to hold one. The Companions gathered around the Skyforge as Kodlak gave a speech that carefully danced around the reasons their bodies were shrouded, rather than open to the sky. One of their heads, Nariilu couldn't tell which one, had drifted awkwardly in its shroud on the uneven funeral pyre foundation, giving a grim reminder that a swiftly conjured axe had ended their lives after a short trial.

Nariilu had been certain that Eorlund would at least escape whatever fate awaited Vignar, even if the rest of his family didn't; the man was dedicated to Kyne. But, here he was. And Eorlund's children and sister waited in the Hall of the Dead for the Priest of Arkay to consecrate their bodies after the Justiciars found one Amulet of Talos too many in the Clan Hall. At the very least, his grandchildren had escaped any such fate, even the unborn one that grew inside of Tilde, his daughter-in-law. She was somewhere in the dungeons until she delivered the child, likely any day now with all the stress and fear, her execution scheduled for the second they found a wetnurse.

The four grandchildren huddled tight around Jarl Balgruuf when Kodlak invited them forwards to help him light the pyre. Two twin boys squeezed the hands of their sister, the Jarl holding the smallest toddler on his hip, the only one of the four who wasn't crying. Nariilu doubted she knew what was going on. They'd be off to Honorhall soon enough, likely before the week closed. One of the letters from Iona mentioned a new governess coming to help Constance Michel; with any luck she'd been vetted more than that old worthless hag had been.

Jarl Balgruuf guided the children towards the forge, helping them hold the torch and throw it onto the wood. And the flames erupted bright in the sunset, almost reminding Nariilu of the way a dragon's body would dissolve as she drew near. One of the twin boys broke into sobs and pressed his face into the Jarl's cape. Nariilu brought a hand to her mouth as the other children were spurred to emotion one after the other, crying for the Jarl to bring back their parents. She was glad she sat on the retaining wall behind most of the crowd where none could see her, even when they looked away from the scene of the forge.

Stormcloak stood beside her, looking to the ground and clenching his fists so hard Nariilu wondered if he was dead set on breaking his fingers. And on the other side, Lydia stared ahead, arms crossed. She turned around once, during Kodlak's speech, to glare at Nariilu, and then sent a pointed look at Stormcloak before she turned back and hadn't moved since.

And she didn't miss the two soldiers that stood at attention by the stairs that led back down the main plaza of Jorrvaskr. They were there to make sure that the funeral didn't get out of hand, didn't invoke Talos. She caught their eyes; the rest of the mourners were in armor forged by Eorlund himself, and she was in College robes. Nariilu considered warning them there was a better chance of Daedra worship at the funeral, just to catch the Elves off their guard. Instead, she clutched a piece of ruined platemail from her armor and considered the most painful way to kill Thalmor.