The Disclaimer is in Chapter 1.

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Chapter 6:

Patterns of Life and Death
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1st Rain's Hand, 4E201
Whiterun City
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Four days. That's how long my lessons with Farengar lasted before I created my first Enchanting Masterwork.

Our first meeting had me only half-listening as the mage gave me a condescending lecture on the apparent superiority of the Enchanting school of Magic over virtually every other school; to be honest, most of what he was on about had to do with the theory that Enchanting could render all other forms of magic inert. The fact that one needed to actually learn those spells, all of which were part of a school that wasn't Enchanting, before placing the enchantments seemed to escape the court wizard entirely.

The half of my mind that wasn't memorizing every word he spouted at me was cursing Master Drevas for foisting me off on this arse, while simultaneously wondering if I could convince Lydia to set me up with a bag lunch on the morrow. Lucia seemed a good sort, what with warding off Heimskr and warning me about this utter gobshite, so getting to know her seemed only natural. Anyway, by the end of the lesson I realized I wouldn't actually be performing any enchanting until I learned how spell patterns effect objects; I resolved to find as many books on the subject in Breezehome as possible, so I could make my own enchantments and wouldn't have to listen to Farengar describe, at great length, how enchanting changed the world.

That, and soul gems are kinda creepy; I wanted to learn how to make the ink that goes into scrolls, as that seemed less…Dark, I suppose, but Farengar said that was for Masters only. Sod.

Reading over Master Drevas' notes on the Thu'um in the afternoon calmed my frustration with both Farengar and my Dark Elf mentor. Unrelenting Force, Whirlwind Sprint, Aura Whisper, Fire Breath, Marked for Death, and more; the words written on those pages burrowed into my mind and made themselves at home, leaving behind the oddest sensation of my brain itching! If it weren't for a note at the beginning of the journal, explaining that this was normal and would fade in an hour or so, I'd probably have panicked and burnt Breezehome down, or something.

The next three days were fairly routine: I'd wake, do my morning exercises (which now included ten minutes of meditative breathing, to ease my body into using the Thu'um), spar with Lydia for an hour, learn and practice magic under Serana's supervision (once she and Drevas returned to the city in the evening on 30th First Seed) for two hours, have an hour lunch with Lucia in a small park near the Hall of the Dead, where we'd complain about our respective masters and show off what we'd learned, have Farengar beat information on soul gem harmonics, tiered magical lattices and pattern/effect distinction into my head…for three hours…without teaching me a single spell! Ugh…then off to the ruined Western Watchtower, where I could practice Shouting without being seen. Except by Scales, who somehow always found me once I crossed a small stream just to the west of Whiterun's outer gateway; not that I was complaining, fond of him as I was. The day would end with me researching everything I could on enchanting by raiding Breezehome's library for all three books Drevas had on the subject; luckily for me, all three were useful.

Out of all of those things, the most useful thing I picked up was from Serana. Okay, fine, and Lydia; I'd gotten pretty good with deflecting swords with that axe by the second day, so we'd moved on to blunt weapons on the third day, but I digress.

Serana dragged me by my arm up to our shared room on the night of the 30th, telling me as we went that I needed a break from learning Shouts, and that "It's high time you learned how to control your magic." Never mind my protests that I hadn't failed a spell since I got here!

Seated on the floor of our room, Serana kicked off her lecture on magical theory, "Can you tell me where magic comes from, Hermione?"

It took me a second of wracking my brain, but, "Magic comes from the world around us; wild magic can't be contained easily, and, when it gathers in certain places like ritual sites or natural springs, usually results in magical creatures like trolls or…spriggans. Men, Mer and Beastfolk are capable of using magic because they've…err, adapted to their surroundings over time; I guess, the books weren't very clear on that part," I grumbled, before going on, "Regardless, we can use spells by using the magic within ourselves, which replenishes over time through our connection to earth, sky and water."

"You forgot fire, but that's word-for-word from a magical theory text," nodded Serana, who went on, "Using magic, as you'll no doubt have learned from the same book, is the result of forcing a part of your magic, using willpower and intent, into a certain pattern," and she created a ball of light in her hand, tossing it into the air where it hovered.

"Candlelight," I observed; Lucia showed me how to do this spell in exchange for my teaching her how to turn a rock into a cup. Took me two hours, and Farengar wasn't pleased with my lateness, but she managed it in the end.

My roommate nodded, "You know how the patterns work then?"

"Yes," said I, nodding enthusiastically, "Candlelight is two parts 'sunburst' patterns for light, interspersed with three parts 'circle' patterns for stability, with one 'thread' thrown in to connect it to your magic," That was the biggest difference between the two schools of magic, my own and Tamrielic: whereas my wand magic had to do with intent, wand motions, and incantations to produce effects, Tamrielic magic needed to form a 'pattern', formed from a long series of simple pictographs representing a different overall effect, to produce any spell at all.

There were also something like five hundred different symbols to use, all of which were recorded in a thick book called Aetherial Symbology; Drevas owned a copy, which was (according to Lydia) currently in a safe in his Alchemy Lab. Bright side: I'd have it, on loan, once he left with Serana to find her mother and the third Elder Scroll.

Back to the present, Serana smiled, "Very good; now, Drevas said you had a good mind for magic, hence why you're learning Enchanting. It's one of the more esoteric practices of magic, as you're adding a pattern to something that already has its own pattern," at my confused expression, she explained, "Everything around us has its own pattern; stone, flesh, soil, metal, air, everything. Even natural magic has its own pattern, though that pattern can change from one moment to the next depending on where you are. Believe it or not, Illusion, Mysticism, and Conjuration follow the same rules as Enchanting: with Illusion, you're changing the way a natural pattern functions for a period of time, paralyzing foes, silencing your steps, turning invisible, things like that; with Mysticism, you change the way magic behaves, either internally or externally, and if you're good at it you can manipulate those forces to your will, but unlike the other two schools, Mysticism is only limited by one's own imagination; Conjuration allows you to bend magic to your will, making weapons or armor made from magic, summoning creatures from Oblivion, raise the dead to do your bidding (though Drevas told me to tell you that if he finds you've been practicing necromancy, he'll have to hurt you), even telepathy over distances, though that's rare. Those three schools, though different, have one thing in common with Enchanting: they all change the pattern of something that already exists."

Okay, Serana obviously knew what she was talking about; I still had some questions, like, "But doesn't Alteration change things too?"

Shaking her head, Serana explained why that wasn't the case, "Alteration adds a pattern to an object or space in real time; sure, the effects are as varied as the other schools, but they don't change the pattern permanently. It's like…like putting on armor, I think?" She paused, looking confused herself.

"You're not very good at Alteration, are you?"

"No, I'm not; Drevas is though, hold on. DREVAS!" she hollered.

A pause, then a raspy voice called back from the ground floor, "WHAT?"

"SIMPLIFY WHAT ALTERATION IS LIKE, PLEASE!"

Another pause, longer this time, before, "IT'S LIKE PUTTING ON CLOTHES, BUT WITH MAGIC!"

"THANKS! So, yeah," Serana continued in a normal voice while I wiggled a finger in my now ringing ear, "as entirely unhelpful that simplification was, that's what Alteration is like." I don't know what was weirder: the way the adults in my life interacted, or the fact I actually understood what Drevas said.

The rest of our lesson revolved around the patterns of magic, and what you should and should never do with them; oddly, they all followed a ratio pattern to produce effects. Candlelight was a good example, or Firebolt, which was four parts 'sunburst', nine parts 'torch', and two parts 'gust of wind'. For those wondering, you have to shape your magic internally into these patterns before forcing it into the world; in a way, magic here in Tamriel was like applying Arithmancy to Ancient Runes, except without all the carving and Algebra.

Speaking of which, that lesson gave me an idea for an enchanting project, but it wasn't until the next evening, sitting at the dinner table and butchering the roasted potatoes on my plate, thinking about the (boring) lesson on soul gem harmonics I had earlier that day and applying it to my other studies, that I puzzled out how to make that idea a reality.

"I'VE GOT IT!" I cried, thumping a fist on the table with an excited grin; looking about, I saw my housemates looking at me oddly. Oh. Embarrassed, I gave a sheepish chuckle, "Ah, haha, sorry…"

"No, by all means, do tell," Drevas said dryly with a smirk of amusement.

"It's stupid…" fidgeted I, not meeting his eyes. 'I don't even know if it'll work…'

Lydia scoffed next to me, "I don't think you've done a stupid thing since you got here, dear."

"Aye," agreed Serana, "Out with it."

Trying and failing to put my idea into a simple summary, I burst out, "I think I've figured out a way to put multiple, interchangeable enchantments on an item using multiple soul gems, Transfiguration, Runes, applied soul gem harmonic resonance, and active magical pattern manipulation," I bit my lip and gauged their reactions.

Serana looked interested, Drevas' left eyebrow was raised in surprise, and Lydia's eyes had glazed over as soon as I said 'soul gems', but that was hardly surprising.

Drevas 'hmm'ed in thought, then, "Not possible; anyone who's tried to put more than one soul gem into an object, or tried to combine two separate enchantments, found only one thing: trying to do that destroys the object or objects. Not that it's a bad idea," he added, seeing me scowl at the suggestion that something couldn't be done, "but there's no precedent of success to what you're suggesting. Then again, you do have knowledge of a new type of magic, and I'm terrible at enchanting; as such, I recommend the Great Porch at Dragonsreach for any potentially dangerous magical experimentation you wish to engage in so that collateral damage is mitigated; I'm sure Balgruuf won't mind. It was made to hold a dragon, after all," and he nodded, satisfied, before going back to his stew.

My giddiness at my mentor's apparent blessing was curbed by Lydia's worried response, "My Thane, seriously, the Jarl's palace? And no offense, Hermione, but you have all of three days, barely, of Enchanting training, and you're already trying to experiment? I may not know much about magic, but that doesn't seem very safe."

"I thought you'd be more pissed that he suggested she do so in the Jarl's palace," Serana put in with a smirk, making Lydia splutter even more, before adding to me, "Do you have all the materials you need for it? Need any help?"

"What she needs, you two, is a responsible adult!"

Amused, I put on a confused expression, "Wait, so you're not responsible adults?" Master Drevas was turning redder by the second, biting his cheek and clearly trying not to burst out laughing.

Serana gave the once again spluttering Lydia a mock offended look, retorting, "I am so responsible! Why, just yesterday morning I helped a foreman cover up a mistake in stone fortifications for the outpost at that new settlement!"

"Do you even know what the settlement is called?" Lydia dryly shot back.

"Err…" blinked Serana before turning to Drevas; I shoved a fist in my mouth to stop myself from giggling at the byplay, "What was it again? Floggy Stink or something?"

Pinching the bridge of his nose as Lydia snorted, my mentor visibly collected himself before replying, "It's called Fjoristead, named after the Jarl's favorite female heroine of legend. Seriously, Serana, you're a friggin' Nord!"

"Barely," Lydia muttered around her mug of ale; naturally, that started a verbal battle of wits that I found was fairly common when Drevas was home. At least that's what Lydia said while we cleaned up for the night.

The next morning saw me scribbling out a diagram for the enchantment on parchment: on the stock of the Dwemer crossbow, I'd place two soul gems, both Grand; soul gem One would be divided into three sections, called W, L, and P for the individual effects from the Destruction and Illusion schools I'd place in each section: Winter's Grip (a powerful Frost spell Serana taught me that can disintegrate flesh on touch), Lightning Helix (a Shock- and Fire-based spell that was rapidly becoming a favorite of mine), and Paralyze (for non-lethal takedowns); Runes would provide the medium I'd need to switch between these effects: touch one section and apply a small amount of magic, and the crossbow enchantment's current pattern would switch to that section's pattern. Next was soul gem Two, which was far more difficult to puzzle out, as I planned to set that one as a Reductor Curse; it took me and Serana till nearly midnight the previous night working out the Arithmancy formula (me) and pattern symbology (Serana) before I was satisfied it would work.

On an unrelated note, I was immensely glad Serana was back; the one night she'd been gone, I woke three times from nightmares of snarling teeth and bloody, matted fur in the snow. Maybe it was the fact that I knew I was safe, or that with such warmth nearby my nightmares weren't as bad, but I slept much easier in the (much) older woman's arms.

And no, I certainly did not think about that dream I had when I got here, thank you very much!

The biggest problem was as Master Drevas said: placing multiple patterns on an object from multiple sources (soul gems, in this case) would overload the natural pattern of what you're trying to enchant, destroying the item. Luckily for me, Runes provided a way around this issue.

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"Wait, back up," the Great Porch was as massive as the main hall of the keep, all dark grey stone; even on the clear night of the 1st of the month, shallow claw marks were still visible in the floor in the pale light of the moons and soft flickering of candles arrayed about us, where Serana and I were currently crouched, an Enchanting circle etched in a large slate between us, "Did you just say you can turn the enchantments off?!"

"Well, yeah," said I, "That's part of the initial Rune clusters, see?" I pointed at the crossbow's stock, where I'd just finished carving the runes, an intricate series of runic languages, with temporary runes drawn in chalk around them; there were four blank spaces where the soul gems would be fused to the weapon: a circle divided into thirds just behind the loading lever and a rectangle with rounded edges behind it, closer to the butt of the stock, "The carved runes keep each enchantment pattern stable and allow me to switch between effects, while the chalk runes keep any of them from activating until all four are done."

"How?"

"They'll let the pattern flow through the crossbow for a moment before re-containing it in the gem locus."

Serana nodded thoughtfully, "But will the crossbow survive having its pattern switched around like that?"

I gave her a look, "Why do you think we spent all that time reading about the harmonic resonance of Dwemer metalloids?" Honestly! We had just spent two hours poring over all of Calcelmo of Markarth's writings on the subject just to figure out what that even was, seeing as he never really came out and explained it, and Gods did he need a scribe who knew how to keep an audience entertained! Dry as Elsewyr, those books; worth it, though.

Shrugging, Serana looked to the final, and most important, pieces of our project: the soul gems themselves, "If you say so. You're the genius here."

Blushing, I muttered, "I'm no genius, just a curious mage is all."

One was a Grand soul gem Master Drevas had given me; I didn't ask where he got it, seeing as he left the city that morning and returned just before lunch, humming a tune and tossing the filled gem into my lap carelessly as I went over another of Calcelmo's books.

That one had been transfigured (very carefully) into three equal pieces, and were now each sitting inside miniaturized Enchanting circles, having just been individually enchanted by Serana.

The last gem was for the Reductor setting, and my responsibility. Still, looking at the softly glowing black gem gave me the shivers, despite knowing better.

When Serana had produced the (highly illegal) soul gem back at Breezehome, I nearly had a panic attack, nightmarish visions of necromancy and blood rituals spinning through my head; my vampiric roommate managed to calm me down, though, and explained something that wasn't really known outside of two walks of life: Master-level Enchanting, and Greater Necromancy.

Soul-Trap doesn't.

The explanation I had went into great detail, mainly due to anxious questions on my part, but it's basically like this: the consciousness of all living things is, at its base, the essence of the soul; while it is tied to the magic, or life-force if you want to be specific, of the living being it inhabits, the two are as different as night and day. The upshot is that when you use Soul-Trap, you're trapping the energies of a being's life (or, in the case of the Draugr, unlife) inside the gem, while the conscious soul goes somewhere else. In the case of animals, it's generally assumed that the soul goes to Aetherius and gets recycled back into nature, or Oblivion, if you happen to Soul-Trap a daedric creature.

In the case of people, Serana wouldn't say anything beyond, "Black soul gems don't follow the same rules as White soul gems, just like the souls themselves behave differently; as Black gems were developed by necromancers ages ago, the answer to where Black souls go when they're trapped is steeped in Greater Necromancy. In short: don't ask."

As to where the gem I was to use came from, Serana explained that it was the energies of one of her father's minions that attacked her and Drevas near Dragon Bridge; still feeling kind of disgusted at using something like this, I couldn't bring myself to feel too bad. The idiot attacked my mentor and friend, so whatever fate awaited them was wholly deserved in my book.

One by one, starting with the powerful frost spell and ending with the Reductor curse, I used my wand to Transfigure each pre-enchanted soul gem to their Runic mounts; each time I did, a loud hum emitted from the crossbow, along with a light tone, like the tinny ring of a bell; the pattern for each spell also became visible on the weapon's surface for a moment before the chalk runes re-contained them in the gem foci. The enchanting circle shone with magic as I felt my own magic thrum in time with the circle's pulses, my will and power fueling a ritual as old as the stones surrounding us.

Once done, each of the fragments glowed softly with their own unique, inner light: the frost fragment looked like fresh snow in the sun; the two-way elemental spell glimmered with a gold, sparkly light; the Paralyze fragment had a soft green glow to it. The Reductor curse fragment looked weird, though: the spell was silver, while Black soul gems are purple, dark brown and black; the fragment, however, had somehow turned an angry red-orange; I dismissed the observation, because if it worked…

I grinned hugely, feeling happy in spite of the feeling of exhaustion at using so much of my magic in one sitting, thinking, 'I'd like to see a troll shrug off one of my bolts now!'

Serana's toothy grin nearly mirrored mine, "Wow, Hermione! And you say you're not a genius; I seriously doubt anyone else in Skyrim could have pulled this off!"

Blushing, I replied pointedly, "Well, I did have a lot of help, you know," we smiled at each other for a moment, before I collected the crossbow, setting the lever and pulling a bolt from the quiver on my hip, "Now, for the final test…"

For this part, we'd…ah, appropriated a couple empty mead casks from the Dragonsreach kitchens; I'm sure the Jarl and his servants wouldn't miss them, and it's not like we snuck in or anything! Lydia told Irileth we'd be using the Porch for a delicate experiment and to inform the guards not to investigate any odd sounds or explosions.

We had totally legitimate reasons for not telling Farengar about this, honest!

Tapping a finger to the Frost…you know what? I'm going to call them buttons, mainly because that's what they are once you get right down to it. I tapped the Frost button with a finger, running a little magic into the gem; it shone a little brighter while the others dimmed, the crossbow becoming cooler to the touch as the enchantment was loosed into the weapon.

"Here goes…" I lined up my shot with the first of four barrels, arranged in a line near the Porch's balcony.

Chack! FWUMP!

"…"

"…"

"Bloody buggering fuck," swore Serana in disbelief.

"Language," I weakly chided, not really disagreeing.

The bolt had apparently disintegrated on impact, taking a circular chunk of the barrel ten-inches in diameter with it; the edges of the hole had been flash-frozen into an ashy material, sparkling as it slowly crumbled. Further away from the blasted edge, the brown wood of the barrel was blackened; from the look of how the planks had splintered in places, it gave the appearance of how frostbite affected flesh. It was…unnerving, that I could make something like this with only four days of learning.

Then again…a Centurion exploded in my mind's eye; I was capable of far worse with my wand.

"Well," I finally said, "That's one setting that works. Now, for the moment of truth…" and I tentatively pressed the Lightning Helix button.

The button with Winter's Grip in it dimmed, the gold of the Helix enchantment flaring; as that happened, I felt the coolness of the crossbow abate, a feeling of prickly warmth replacing it.

"It works!" I crowed happily, Serana clapping her hands together in excitement; wasting no time, I loaded the bow and aimed at the second barrel.

Chack! BZZCK!

A flaming piece of wooden shrapnel flew off the porch's balcony into the quiet night. The top half of the barrel was gone, having been burnt away by fires hot as Oblivion being conducted by true lightning; the rest was a smoldering ruin, blackened, jagged edges of the boards burning lightly from the spells release.

I whistled, "Holy shite," Serana popped me lightly upside the head.

"While that was really impressive, watch your language, young lady."

We glared at each other for a moment before dissolving into giggles at each other's ridiculousness; it wasn't like there was anyone around to offend!

"Right, I think a field test would be better for the Paralyze function, seeing as that spell only works on living things," mused I while Serana nodded sagely.

"Not to mention it's not as fun as blowing things up," I nodded empathically at Serana's wise observation.

"In that case," I paused; this was real uncharted territory, now: a spell that didn't originate in Tamriel, or Nirn for that matter, being subjected to spell principles from what was, apparently, another plane of existence. I was truly nervous as I loaded the crossbow one last time, "Please, please, don't blow up in my hands…"

Serana placed her warm hands on my shoulders, rubbing them and speaking encouragement to set my mind at ease, "Don't doubt yourself, hun; you're no average hedge-witch, and I'm no slouch myself. It will work. Just breathe, 'Mione."

Even as I took a calming breath, that nickname, 'Mione…it was…familiar, 'No. I'll dwell on my missing memories later.' "Okay. Let's do this," I pressed the burnt orange button…

In the wake of the Helix enchantment, a sharp feeling flowed through my weapon, like I was now gently holding a handful of dull knives where my hands touched the crossbow; I nearly dropped the bow in surprise.

"What's wrong?"

"Feels…weird. Here, touch it," I offered my partner in experimentation.

Serana gently laid a hand next to where my left hand held the bow steady, drawing away after a moment with a worried expression, "Yeah, that's weird," she looked thoughtful for a moment while I chewed my lip, wondering if I should even fire on this setting; but she brightened suddenly, stating, "Although, when you consider what your Reductor curse does…"

Oh! I nodded, "Yeah, I suppose that makes sense…Well," I shrugged, "No time like the present!" Ready, aim…fire.

Chack! BLAM!

Serana and I ducked out of instinct, despite the fact that no shrapnel came flying at us; the entire barrel, four and a half feet tall by three wide, was blasted apart in a silver flash of light, shards of wood and shattered iron flying off the porch into the dark and scattering in a semicircle away from us. The barrel to the destroyed target's right now had a crack running the length of one board, one of the iron bands holding the thing together blown right open; by flying debris or a result of the spell, I was never able to find out.

"Nine," Serana breathed in awe, "If that had been a person-hells, if that had been a dragon…!"

I looked back and forth between the ruined target (that scorch mark on the floor would need to be cleaned before we left) and my roommate, "A dragon would fall to this?!" Serana looked at me and nodded, eyes wide with a smile slowly creeping onto her face; I felt one of my own developing as I spoke what I'd been thinking since this project had begun.

"Farengar's gonna be so jealous!"

Our good mood buoyed us both all the way back to Breezehome, where I fell into exhausted sleep on my roommate's chest, a contented grin on my face as I snuggled into her; I couldn't wait to see the look on that gobshite's face when I fronted up with a true Masterwork in my hands!

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Early Afternoon, 2nd Rain's Hand, 4E201
Whiterun City, Dragonsreach
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"WHAT DO YOU MEAN, 'I HAVE TO DESTORY IT'?!"

"As I just said, you little hellion: you used unknown magics to enchant this crossbow," the bloody epic piss-brained gobshite who went by Farengar Secret-Fire growled, jabbing a finger at said bow and scowling disapprovingly as I leveled a withering glare that would make even Mehrunes Dagon flinch at him, "And therefore, I have to undo the enchantments to figure out just how you did it," and the arrogant fucker nodded with superiority, reaching out to take my bow. Yeah, fuck that.

I snatched it away from his greasy mitts, seething in rage, "Have you any idea what I had to do to make this work?! I practically had to rewrite the way magical patterns function just to make sure these enchantments would take, spent two bloody hours puzzling out how the harmonic resonance of the Dwemer metals would react to the extremely complex Runic arrays involved, and you," oh, I was pissed, hence the venom that made the arsehole mage before me jerk in indignant shock, "want to DESTROY IT?! ARE YOU OUT OF YOUR PISS-BRAINED MIND?!"

"Now see here, you little barbarian!" WHAT?! "I'm the one who taught you enchanting in the first place! As such, it's only fair you share the knowledge-"

"No, you see here, you…you up-yourself s'wit of a gobshite," call me a barbarian, will he? "You taught nothing I couldn't have found out by cracking open a book. You didn't teach me even a single spell; I had to learn the spells I put in this bow from Serana; you know, the vampire I live with?" Oh, he looked real pissed off now; I went for the kill, "So don't try to take credit for other's work just because you're a talentless hedge-wizard!"

That apparently was too far, seeing as he loosed a fork of lightning at me; he probably thought I wouldn't do the smart thing and dodge. Which I did; wandless magic has a few tells, as I learned from watching Serana demonstrate them by way of teaching me, and Lydia taught me to watch a person's eyes, shoulders and hips to find out what their next move would be.

A few moments of wand-work later, I collected my bag and crossbow and was about to storm out when Jarl Balgruuf appeared at the doorway, a disgruntled look on his face, "I heard shouting. What's going on in here?"

Fighting down my anger, I replied as politely as I could, "Just a professional disagreement between mages, my Jarl. Nothing for you to worry yourself with. In a related note, I'll be taking my magical training elsewhere for the foreseeable future."

"And just where is my court wizard, Ms. Hermione?" the Jarl asked, folding his arms and regarding me sternly.

I pointed at the desk, where a brass chamber pot now rested with the words 'I AM A GOBSHITE' written in black ink on the side, "The spell should wear off in about ten minutes; when it does, please remind the dumbass that Thane Drevas is my master, and your Thane would be most displeased to find your court wizard tried to assault me with spells."

Balgruuf looked between me and the chamber pot for a moment before asking, "He's…He's still alive, right?" At my nod, his gaze softened, "My apologies for any offense he offered you, young miss; I'll have a chat with him, make sure he understands his place in Whiterun's hierarchy. Why don't you go down to the Temple, see if Sister Danica is willing to part with a spell or two? I heard you get along well with her apprentice, and it's well known she could use a bit of help."

I felt my frustration abate a bit at his kind suggestion, nodding, "I may just do that, my Jarl. Good day," curtseying slightly, I scurried off to find Lucia. She should be sweeping the Temple steps around now…

. . . . .

I noticed the tension as soon as I stepped through the door to Breezehome an hour later, fresh from the Temple and a crash course in healing light wounds from Sister Danica.

Master Drevas was sitting at the kitchen table, fingers laced under his chin and staring off into space with a grim expression, while Lydia leaned against the stairs, a letter in her hands. She glanced at me and gave a nod of greeting, her mouth a thin line, before looking back to her Thane.

Closing the door quietly, I approached them, "Um…is something wrong, Master?"

Blinking, my mentor's eyes rested on me for a moment before replying in a stony voice, "Three people were just killed in Morthal. A band of draugr came out of the north and attacked the town just as the tavern was letting out for the night."

I gasped; draugr were just as bad as Falmer! Or, so I'd read, "That's horrible! Were the guards able to drive them off?"

"Hmm," he nodded; I sighed, but he went on, "The Jarl's elder daughter was injured in the attack, and the Hold's Thane was killed; that letter," he pointed at the one Lydia was holding, "is a missive from Jarl Ravencrone, asking Jarl Balgruuf for any aid he can provide."

Tilting my head, I asked, "So why do you have it?"

Master Drevas' eyes locked on mine, "Because it arrived at Dragonsreach shortly after I got there to listen to Balgruuf's tale of how you turned his court wizard into a chamber pot."

Oh. Crap. Chuckling nervously, I replied, "You, uh, heard about that, huh?"

"I heard he tried to destroy the crossbow I gave you, and when you verbally laid into him, he attacked you. Is that what happened?" I nodded, scowling at the memory; he sighed, then addressed Lydia, "Use the good parchment to respond, but inform Jarl Idgrod I'll be sending a representative along with a Priestess to deal with the injuries. And for the love of the Gods, Lydia-"

"-Don't use all your titles, I know, my Thane," Lydia replied lightly, "I learned my lesson, after that whole kerfuffle in Markarth," and she turned to her desk, placed against the wall across from the bookcase.

Drevas, on the other hand, rose and made for the door, beckoning me in a weary voice, "Follow me," I did so, wondering if I was going to be punished.

Breezehome had two yards: one on the side of the house that was mostly used for sparring, and a fenced garden behind the house; the garden was mainly for Drevas' use, but I found it was a perfect spot for reading or meditation, with a small pond and the pleasant scents of blooming flowers. It was to this garden that Master Drevas led me.

That day, the 2nd of Rain's Hand, was overcast with the promise of the first rains of spring, a rumble of thunder in the south beyond the mountains heralding the coming storms; it was almost prophetic, given what came after.

Plucking a pair of training weapons from a rack next to the house, he tossed me a wooden axe, keeping a longsword of the same material for himself; I felt a chill run down my spine as he made a few practice swings with his weapon before he casually said, "Time to see if Lydia's taught you anything. No magic or Shouts. Defend yourself," and thrust the wooden blade at me!

I swatted the thrust aside, training and instincts kicking in as I swung my axe back at him with a horizontal strike; he blocked easily, and I disengaged before he could shove my axe away and stagger me, circling around to his left, looking for an opening. He gave me none, swinging, thrusting and chopping his blade at me in a relentless barrage of blows; it was all I could do to keep blocking as he backed me toward the wall of the house, his red eyes utterly focused on my smaller form.

Before he could bail me up I managed to knock his blade high and dove to my left, rolling and hopping up to the balls of my feet in a ready stance; panting with the exertion, I watched him as he tried to circle around me again, keeping his blade pointed at me; 'Two can play at this game,' I thought, darting at him and swinging the flat blade of my axe into his sword. We were evenly matched for a few moments, until he feinted a block and twisted his blade around one of my strikes; I'd overextended, I realized, eyes widening as the edge of his blade came whistling at my face as I fell forward!

Reacting wholly on instinct, I ducked my head, his wooden longsword rustling the hair on the back of my head as it passed; falling on the ground, I swung my axe up as a stinging blow smacked off my left ribs.

"You're dead," Master Drevas deadpanned, not even breathing hard; clenching my teeth because that hit definitely bruised, I grinned.

"So are you," was my growled retort; his eyebrows rose in shock before looking down: my axe's blade rested just behind his left knee.

Judging by the frown on his face, I thought for a moment I'd done something wrong. Then he laughed.

"Not bad lass," Master Drevas chuckled, tossing his training sword aside and helping me to my feet, "You wouldn't last in a real fight, but I'm glad you picked up the basics this quickly."

I smiled at the praise, before frowning slightly, "So…You're not mad about what I did to Farengar?"

Chuckling again, he replied, "Of course not. Actually, I'm surprised you didn't hear me or Jarl Balgruuf tearing the arse a new one for attacking you; in the grand scheme of things," he explained, "Farengar is held to a higher standard than you, being the court wizard and all, but that also means he has to comport himself appropriately in front of pretty much everyone. By attacking you, he crossed me, and insulted the Jarl by breaking guest right."

Oh shite! According to the custom of the land, that meant he could be executed! He was an arsehole, but, "I-I didn't realize it was such a big deal, master; and anyway, it was kind of my fault for provoking him!"

"Peace, Hermione," Drevas held up a hand, "Given Farengar's talents, he's not easily replaceable, so he won't be executed. On the other hand, once I was done describing what would happen if he ever attacked you again, Balgruuf verbally laid into him with all the fury of a vengeful Dremora; word from the wise, lass: never piss off Jarl Balgruuf the Greater. Personally, I'd rather fight a dragon!"

I laughed in relief, "Yeah, I got that from when he spoke to me," my mentor smiled at me before looking over at the pond; silence filled the garden, broken by the muffled sounds of Warmadien's smithy and the occasional rumble in the south. "You're leaving, aren't you?" I asked in a small voice.

Drevas nodded, turning back to look at me with a neutral expression, "Serana and I will leave tonight, taking the road to Dragon's Bridge through The Reach; we're going to try and find clues as to where her mother went in Castle Volkihar's less oft-used sections."

"And I can't go," I stated; I certainly did not pout, no matter what Master Drevas says!

He nodded, "No, you most certainly can't; especially not since I have something else for you to do," I perked up a bit; maybe he wanted me to enchant something awesome for his use, or Serana's? "Jarl Ravencrone asked for me, specifically, though she only knows me by reputation."

"Well," said I, thinking of the troll on the mountain, "You certainly inspire confidence, master."

Drevas rolled his eyes, "Eh, I'm just good at hitting things, lass. Anyway, seeing as this vampire problem takes precedence due to its time-sensitive nature, I'm sending you to find out where these draugr are coming from and put them down."

Wha-wha-what? "You're…sending me?" At his nod, I added, for clarification, "Alone?"

"Wh-no! Only a madman would-wipe that smirk off your face this instant, young lady-I'm not about to send a bloody teenager with all of a week's combat training against what's likely a barrow full of draugr, alone; on the other hand, I also don't really have the power to send a platoon of guards with you, and the Hold's forces are stretched thin as is," he then reached into a trouser pocket and tossed me two heavy coin purses, "Use one of those for hiring some muscle; the other is your allowance."

A second of thought was all it took before I asked incredulously, "Mercenaries? You want me to hire mercenaries?" Weren't those only a little better than bandits?

But Master Drevas grinned, saying, "Not just any mercenaries. But that's something you'll have to deal with tomorrow; there are two more things I have for you. The first is a set of proper armor I had commissioned for you when we got here, which is up in your room."

Finally! I was getting sick of that leather gear anyway, "What kind is it? Does it have any enchantments yet? Oh, and I'm running out of bolts-"

"It's Skyforge-crafted Masterwork ebony-infused malachite, made by Eorlund Grey-Mane himself, and it's not enchanted yet," he grinned at my happy squeal before continuing, "As for the bolts, I left you two gross Dwemer-metal tipped bolts, in four quivers of 72, on the chest containing your armor."

I was floored; that was professional grade gear! "You really want me making a good impression, huh?" He nodded, but this time, he kept his eyes on mine, "What…what was the second thing?"

"Give me your axe," I complied, as his tone implied that he wasn't suggesting the action.

He held it for a moment, examining the edges and testing the weight. Then he regarded me with a searching expression; his red eyes seemed to almost look past me, seeing something only he could see. I said nothing, waiting not a little impatiently; that armor was calling my name! Hermione, it called, come enchant me, for the love of the Gods!

When he spoke, it was less Master Drevas, and more the Dragonborn, that I heard; I'd always remember what he said that cloudy afternoon, "While I've never taken on an apprentice, I was once in your place, Hermione Granger; I know what it's like to not know what tomorrow will bring, but I've always endured, always sought to better myself. First, I was a street rat, thieving to survive; I became a locksmith's apprentice when I was a couple years younger than you are now; when I was sixteen, I went to Vvardenfell on my first adventure, where I encountered wonders and horrors that set the foundations for who I am today; over the years hence, I've been many things: an explorer in Elsewyr, a caravan driver in Valenwood, a mercenary in Cyrodiil…a husband and town guard in Hammerfell, and now, in Skyrim, I'm a Thane, the Dragonborn of legend, Ysmir, the Dragon of the North; I've adventured from one end of Tamriel to another, I've faced down liches in their lairs and daedra in far-flung wastelands, I've slain necromancer lords before they could terrorize the populace and assassinated local lords when they became corrupt. Through all of it, all the glory and shame I've had throughout my life, one thing hasn't changed: I've never broken the oath I swore to Glimmer-Void, the Nerevarine, as she lay dying in some nameless hole on that accursed, ash-filled island, the same oath she swore to her father, a Knight who taught her everything he knew, as I plan to do for you."

I realized, then, that I'd been learning from both Drevas and those around him without actually being a sworn apprentice; Lucia had told me she had to swear an oath herself when she became an Aspirant of Kyne, but was this the same thing? I dismissed the thought almost as it came. This was, if anything, the most important thing, not only to Master Drevas, as it would mark me as his heir, but to me. "What do I need to do?" I asked quietly, confident I could do whatever he asked.

"Firstly," he began, eyes softening, "Breath, and Focus; Sky Above, Voice Within; Speak only in True Need. That is the Way of the Voice, passed down through the Greybeards for thousands of years; and you have the Voice, and feel its use, and learn new Words in the same way I do; you are Dovahkiin, through my blood," my eyes widened, at once wanting to deny it and excited at the prospect of such power, but my mentor went on, "All of us who Speak are named by their mentors, and so I give you a name: you are Gefjun, the Dragon of Far-Sight. Hearken to it," then he let out a breath, shaking his head, smiling, and muttering, "bloody flowery Nordic traditions…" I laughed a little with him, but then all was serious again.

"Now, for my oath. Kneel." I did so, imagining knighting ceremonies in grand castles, my axe laying my shoulder as he spoke the commands that would shape my future; but there was none of that. Instead, he spoke in a solemn tone, eyes red like fire locked on my wide golden browns, in a dinky garden beneath a steel-grey sky, "Be without fear in the face of your enemies. Be brave and upright in the eyes of the Gods. Speak the truth, always, even if it leads to your death. Safeguard the helpless. Do no wrong. That is your oath*, as my apprentice and heir," and he held out the ebony axe, lengthwise, for me to take; I did, taking the haft with both hands, accepting the oath with a pounding heart.

Then his hand snapped out, nicking my left earlobe; I hissed in pain, hand flying to it. It came away red. I looked up at Master Drevas, to see his hand running over the chunk missing from the tip of his left ear, a faraway smile touching his lips.

"And that, is so you never forget it."

. . . . .

The armor was beautiful.

Plates of ebony-infused malachite had been carved to resemble folded wings complete with feathers, attached to a fine chainmail coat; beneath the mail was a layer of thin scales, also green glass, all backed with leather, with velvet lining the interior of the armor. Just looking at it in the case, I knew it would complement my figure nicely, not to mention it was far and away better protection than the leather and steel kit I'd been running with since Blackreach.

Serana, looking over my shoulder, thought so too, "Nice. Not every day you see a masterwork like this; I think you'll pull it off nicely, too," she finished as I looked up at her, a fanged grin on her face.

Grinning myself, I picked up a gauntlet and slid it onto my right hand; it fit well, "At least until I grow up, anyway."

"Pssh, don't worry about that; I'm sure Master Eorlund will make alterations on request," and Serana turned to her own trunk, removing a gleaming white-gold kit.

As I watched her, dithering; this…woman, she'd become my rock, someone who I could count on to listen to whatever was troubling me, was there for me when I woke gasping in the night. I…liked her, a lot, and that confused me to no end, especially when compared to my lingering feelings for Harry.

All the same, I quietly spoke the truth, "I…I don't want you to go, you know?"

Nodding, she replied as she tightened the strap on a boot, "A part of me doesn't want to go, either; I'd rather stay and make sure you're safe. But," she leveled a sober look at me, "sometimes, we do what we must, because our duty gives us no choice in the matter."

I nodded back, thinking of my task, "I'll miss you."

She stepped forward, smiling sadly and wrapping her arms lovingly around me as I buried my face into her chest, "And I, you. But I'll be back soon. Promise."

I nodded into the older woman's breasts, breathing deeply to memorize her scent; she'd be back. She promised.

And I had faith.

. . . . .
Midmorning, 3rd Rain's Hand, 4E201
Whiterun City, Jorrvaskr Mead Hall
. . . . .

Farkas was bored.

Ever since the bandit crackdown, there'd been a…what the hells did Vilkas call it? Death? Ditch? Dearth? Yeah, there'd been a dearth of good jobs coming the Companion's way. Stupid Vilkas and his flowery words.

Sure, there were still the minor jobs, like hunting for the tavern and escorting supplies to Fjoristead, but there were no bandits what needed pummeling, the beasts of the wild were keeping clear for fear of Thane Drevas' clannfear (which Farkas completely understood, having taken part in the crackdown and seen firsthand what that thing was capable of), and the fucking Silver Hand (spit) had contracted themselves out as guards in various Holds against the bloodsuckers that Whiterun's Thane was actually doing something about. Fucking chislers.

So, yeah, Farkas, who was currently leaning against a support beam and nursing a mug of light mead (he was thinking about sparring with some of the pups later, keep them fresh, just in case, and it was too early to get drunk besides), half-listening to Vilkas and Aela arguing with Skjor about…damn, what were they on about this time-oh. The stupid fucking civil war.

Farkas didn't get it, himself; what was the issue, really? Sure, the Gods-damned Thalmor were giant fuck-wads, but it's not like the Empire had much of a choice; he didn't like the treaty, hells, no right-thinking Nord did, but the Empire didn't go and off the High King with the Voice.

Fucking Stormcloak-Manchild, throwing a fit over something that would no doubt get taken care of in time; or wasn't the arrogant fuck a Nord? They were patient. They weathered the storm. They struck like lightning. Arsehole probably never took Talos' teachings to heart, the utter wanker.

Also, it really got on Farkas' nerves that the girl he'd been sweet on went and joined the arse-clown's little militia, only to get herself killed in that mess up in The Pale. He needed another drink.

At twenty-two, Farkas didn't know much, but he knew he liked hitting things; and right now, as he poured himself another mug while the argument across the table got a little more heated and Kodlak frowned disapprovingly at him, he found he really, really, wanted to kill something. His inner Wolf growled in agreement; it had been too long since either of them had a real challenge.

As if Shor himself had heard his prayers, the door to Jorrvaskr swung open.

Farkas glanced up, hoping to see some noble with a fat coin purse and an axe to grind, but expecting a messenger from Balgruuf sent to collect Vilkas for something requiring flowery bullshit.

He ended up doing a double-take. Kodlak, who'd turned in his seat, stiffened in surprise. The pointless argument died a quick, painless death across the table.

The only thought that went through the hulking Werewolf's mind was, 'Isn't that the lass Heimskr was annoying a few days ago?'

It was what she was wearing that gave him pause: forest-green malachite trimmed in gleaming ebony covered her body in plates, scales and mail-rings, giving the image of a griffin of legend…or a dragon, seeing as the armor, looked at one way, looked like dragonscales; in another way, feathers. Over her heart was a black badge set into the armor in the form of a disk of ebony with a red lion head tilted skyward; his slightly buzzed mind told him it was Thane Drevas' mark, though he couldn't remember how he knew that. She filled out the armor nicely, from the slim cuirass to the hook-spurred boots to the clawed gauntlets, and it all glowed with protective magic. The helm she was wearing had two 'wings' pointing backwards, with a smooth scalp in between, and the brow had been fashioned like a snarling griffin. It was, in Farkas' professional opinion, fuckin weird for a kid to be wearing what was clearly a Gods-damned Masterwork.

To say nothing of the fact she was practically armed to the teeth: boot knife, an ebony axe (also enchanted, if that white shine was anything to go by) on her right hip, a weird Dwarven box hanging from her belt on the left, a quiver with purple fletched bolts just above her bum going nicely with the heavy-looking Dwarven crossbow on her back. It looked like she was going off to war, in Farkas' eyes.

But her eyes…She swept those cold, brown eyes over the Inner Circle before removing her helm, revealing brutally short hair with a few bangs partly covering some scarring next to those chilly eyes; those were the eyes of experience, of someone who'd seen death and glared it down, Farkas thought. He set his mug down, deciding that whatever her reason for coming before them, it was way better than getting slowly drunk and abusing the younger pups.

As if reading his mind, the Harbinger cleared his throat and spoke up, "Can we help you, miss…?"

"Hermione, at your service, Harbinger," the newly named lass, Hermione, introduced warmly, "And I certainly hope so; my master, Thane Drevas, spoke highly of you and the group you run with, Kodlak Whitemane."

Some of the tension bled out as Kodlak smiled, "Well met, Hermione. I do hope you're not here to turn any of my Companions into chamber pots for some offense," he chuckled while Farkas thought, 'Wait…what?!'

The young woman laughed, "Oh no, Farengar deserved what he got; no, I'm actually here to hire one of your Companions."

"For?" the Harbinger's tone was suddenly all business, the rest of the Circle listening attentively.

"I find myself in need of an experienced bodyguard," Farkas felt Aela's eyes on the side of his head, but he didn't care; he wasn't a babysitter, "Preferably one who isn't afraid of and has no problem killing things like draugr, trolls, bears, Forsworn, bandits-" okay, so maybe he was.

"Dibs," Farkas growled, causing everyone, including the buck-toothed knight, to look at him in surprise; not that he cared, grabbing his Skyforge steel greatsword from where he'd propped it against the table and slinging into its harness, "Where're we goin'?"

She blinked before responding in an even tone, "Hjaalmarch. I'll be travelling with a Priestess of Kyne, who's going to provide healing to the people there; draugr attacked the hold capital two days ago, killing their Thane and wounding Jarl Ravencrone's daughter before being driven off. Master Drevas has tasked me with dealing with the situation."

"Aren't you a bit young to be messing with draugr?" was Aela's intelligent observation; Farkas had to admit, despite the armor and weapons, the lass didn't look so tough.

Then her eyes hardened into steel, flicking over to meet the Huntress', who stiffened, "I doubt the draugr care what age the person who offs them is, ma'am." But Farkas had been wrong before…

Kodlak chuckled and spoke in a calm voice, "Yes, old Drevas said you had a fire in you. Back off Aela, she's tough enough; though, I assume you have payment?" Farkas checked his armor's straps as his client, 'Hermione. Mouthful. Looks like an armored squirrel, honestly,' took out a large coinpurse and tossed it to Kodlak, who turned and dumped it on the table-

Revealing forty bloody Septims. Through his shocked haze at so much for a simple bodyguard mission, she stated, "Twenty for the mission, another twenty for the Companions of Ysgramor. Is that good?"

It was Vilkas who asked, "Expecting a lot of trouble? I mean, it's just draugr; Farkas can handle them easily," the tall Nord in question grunted, not really getting what was going-

"I'm Thane Drevas' apprentice," the young woman said with a small smile, "Nothing is ever easy with him, and those marshes hide all kinds of horrors."

Well, Farkas mused, when she put it that way, "Alright. We leaving now?" Skjor's eye was looking between them, but Farkas didn't care; anything was better than sitting around here all day.

Hermione nodded, "I've just got to get the Priestess, and we'll be going. I'll meet you at the gate, err…What should I call you?"

"Farkas." He grunted. The girl nodded, first at him, then at the other Companions, then walked back out the door.

"Odd girl," Skjor observed, before turning to Kodlak, "I should go with them, Harbinger; no offense, Farkas, but you're not exactly the most diplomatic of us."

"She didn't ask for diplomacy, Skjor, she asked for a fighter," said Kodlak, placing twenty Septims in a smaller coinpurse and tossing them to Farkas, "Which Farkas is. Now, get out of here lad, and do us proud."

Farkas didn't need to be told twice; however when he got to the door, Kodlak called out to him.

"One more thing, Farkas: Drevas, as you know, is an old friend of mine; the last time we spoke, he seemed to be very proud of that young lady, and mentioned she might come to us for help or guidance," Kodlak's ice grey eyes met Farkas' own, making the younger Wolf feel like a whelp again, "I'll tell you the same thing he told me: if that girl is killed or worse while under our watch, Drevas of Mournhold will end Hircine's curse." The Harbinger's tone left no doubt to the meaning of the threat.

Farkas gulped. He really didn't want to fight Drevas. Ever. That mace was terrifying, "Got it boss. I'll do my best."

As he walked down the stone steps of Jorrvaskr, the young man wondered, for the first (and hardly the last) time what the sixteen hells he'd gotten himself into.

. . . . .
Late Morning, 5th Rain's Hand, 4E201
Jarl's Longhouse, Town of Morthal
. . . . .

'Pulse is better today, and the scarring is less purple; breathing easier. Estimate 2 days to full recovery,' Lucia wrote in her healer's journal next to Jarl Ravencrone's daughter, Idgrod the Younger, who was lain out in her bed, sleeping peacefully. Blowing a stray strand of hair out of her eyes, her thoughts turned to her companions, Hermione and Farkas, who had gone into the marshes yesterday morning and hadn't returned.

The day-long journey to Morthal had been uneventful, punctuated only by a suicidal bear trying to jump them as they made the pass between Whiterun and Hjaalmarch; Lucia was no stranger to death, having seen bandit executions during the crackdown, so the way Hermione had paralyzed the beast while Farkas ended it with a swift stab had been only mildly interesting.

On arriving, Hermione and Farkas had been shunted into a private room for a meeting with the Jarl while Lucia herself was shown to the princess' room.

It hadn't been pretty: she'd been slashed across her right shoulder and collarbone, and while it wasn't a deep wound, there was a disturbing blue-purple discoloration around the cut. Luckily, Lucia was trained and prepared to deal with all sorts of poisons; she'd quickly identified it as a mixture of deathbell and imp stool with a slaughterfish egg tossed in. Brutal and deadly, a simple healing spell or potion wouldn't do; once Lucia had drawn the lingering poison out with the appropriate spell, things had been simpler. The young woman would live, and likely wouldn't have any complications so long as she stayed healthy and got plenty of exercise. Maybe Hermione could give her some pointers on staying fit.

As for the draugr, Hermione told her (because Farkas didn't really talk much, but the big guy was probably just shy, Lucia figured) that the Jarl's scouts had found a likely source: Folgunthur, a barrow deep in the marshes and southeast of Solitude. According to them, and a report from the East Empire Company Docks, a Dark Elf wizard led some mercenaries into the marshes three weeks ago. No one had heard from them since, until the scouts found the remains of their camp next to the barrow, along with a half dozen draugr. Apparently, the idiot elf had opened the barrow expecting minimal resistance, and hadn't bothered to inform Jarl Ravencrone in case they needed reinforcements.

Lucia had to agree with Hermione's observation: unless you're Thane Drevas or someone equally skilled, stay away from unopened barrows.

But now her best friend was out there, off to purge the draugr from the barrow with only a Companion for company; Lucia glanced at the door of the Longhouse, praying to every Divine (even Talos) to see Hermione safely back.

If there was one thing Lucia feared more than anything, it was being alone again.

. . . . .
Folgunthur Crypt
. . . . .

From what I'd read, the draugr weren't actually undead, at least by the classical definition.

When the barrows were originally made, an enchantment involving the blood sacrifice of a number of innocents would be tied to the Lord of the crypt, binding the magics of the land to its mortal remains and creating something like a proxy soul; this was to give the liege Lord abilities and strength that matched or exceeded what they held in life. But the Ancient Nords didn't stop there.

When the Lord was interred, many of their servants would remain, still living, in the barrow; it was their duty to not only protect the place from looters, but to offer up their life force through (what is assumed to be) a passive ritual to the dead Lord. Through this process, the Lord of the barrow could send out commands to its followers; what happened in Morthal was a, albeit extreme, example of what kind of power these Lords held.

Over time, the servants would need to lie in stasis to preserve their strength so they could perform their duties, like changing out the candles, re-applying preservatives to their brothers and sisters, or dusting the sarcophagi of the Lord's honor guard. Thus, the draugr were born: the desiccated remains of those guards and servants, animated by the same enchantment which gives the Lord its power.

Unlike the Falmer, they have no desire to capture intruders, and will attack any trespassers with extreme prejudice.

"Kriivah niin!" commanded the draugr Lord to his soldiers, the last of his host; arrayed in his burial chamber, they loosed arrows and spells at Farkas, Scales and I as we ducked back into cover on either side of the double doors.

"Bloody hells, girl! That's a fucking Deathlord!" Farkas swore angrily, another arrow hissing just past where he hid against the doorframe to the crypt.

I loaded another bolt, cursing myself for the fourth time for not bringing more, before answering him just as furiously, "The fuck is your point?! It'll die just like the others!" An ice spike zipped past me to crash against the opposite wall.

"Clearly you've never faced one! They can use the Thu'um and won't stop fighting till they're torn apart!"

"I stand by my previous statement!" A brown-black mottled Scales chittered in eager agreement.

Finding the barrow was easy enough: just follow the random pickets of draugr. Having Scales along for the journey made things much easier; usually the walking dead moved in groups of two or three, and their weapons weren't much chop against the clannfear alpha's armor, so Scales just snuck up and ripped them apart on sight.

At least there was an abandoned campsite where the s'wit who'd opened the barrow had set up shop, so we were able to catch a few winks before plumbing the ruin itself. Not only that, but the idiot left one of his journals next to his bedroll; I'll leave his name out, as the names of the stupid shouldn't be recorded unless they do something truly epic, but the Dunmer had clearly done his research before heading to his death.

"How do you know he's dead?" Farkas had gruffly asked after I made my observations.

"All these draugr roaming about, you think the s'wit is still alive?" replied I from around a mouthful of breaded chicken with a raised eyebrow. Farkas just gave a non-committal grunt of assent before turning back to the venison stew he was cooking. Grunting seemed to be his preferred method of communication, and I was determined to learn this mysterious language post-haste.

Anyway, we went into the barrow, and I finally had a chance to field-test Stormbringer, which was the name I'd christened my crossbow with; long story short, it was most effective against all types of draugr, mostly taking them down with one hit in a burst of cold, fiery lightning, or bursts of magic. The paralyze function worked great as well, making for some very comical kills; the one where the draugr fell onto a trap which swung a spiked wall into it, sending the walking corpse flying into one of its charging fellows was particularly memorable.

Farkas pulled his weight, too. I was greatly impressed by his skill with the greatsword he carried, slicing through one enemy after another with fluid grace.

All in all, though, we didn't face any significant resistance as we purged the barrow, slaughtering the groups of six or less draugr with bolt, blade, or beak.

Until now, anyway.

A draugr ran through the door during a lull in the rain of arrows, immediately losing its head to Farkas' blade, right before the Nord asked in irritation, "I don't suppose you've got a bloody plan?!"

Okay, I liked Farkas. He was a straight-up sort, like Lucia and Serana, and I appreciated that. But, "I am a fifteen-year-old adventurer in training and an accomplished mage, you ice-brain!" I loosed a Reductor bolt around the corner blindly; boom! Dry-voiced screaming followed. "Of course I have a bloody plan!"

He turned an expectant look on me, as did Scales, as the Deathlord rallied his troops in the other room and I loaded another bolt.

I grinned, letting an inferno rise up into my throat, turning my voice into a heated growl, "Kill them all," taking a deep breath, I jumped out of cover; the draugr were still recovering from my last bolt. I Shouted, "YOL TOOR!"

The fireball left my lips like a yellow sun, bearing down on the undead company's center; I darted to the left, arrows skipping off my armor as Scales rushed into the fireball's wake while Farkas ran to the right, swearing the whole way.

THOOM! The draugr's formation was instantly scattered by the ensuing blast, those nearest to the impact zone being instantly disintegrated by the flames; most of the rest were thrown off their feet or staggered, making them easy targets for the three of us.

Chack! BLAM! Another four undead for my count, and from the sounds of steel rending ancient armor off to the right accompanied by Scales' excited screeching, both my boys were keeping pace; I holstered the crossbow in preparation for close-quarters, drawing my wand as a great-axe wielding zombie staggered my way, a piece of wood lodged in its thigh. "Petrificus Totalus!" It dropped its axe as it went rigid, glowing blue eyes widening briefly in surprise before my ebony axe sliced its head off.

Another one had its bow trained on me, "Spongify!" Now it was just looking at the limp as a noodle bow in its hand in abject shock. Or it would have, if Scales hadn't just ploughed into its side.

A glance about the room showed the impromptu three-pronged-attack had been very effective; only the Deathlord, with its ebony round-shield and sword etched with worryingly red runes, glaring at us all before its sarcophagus.

"Zu'u fen oblaan hi, volaan!" The undead Lord of the barrow growled, its voice sending an unsettling shiver through my core, "FUS ROH DAH!"

I leapt out of the way as fast as I could as Scales let out a furious scream, the Shout carrying the clannfear to the far back wall; out of the corner of my eye, I saw that Farkas had hidden behind a pillar as soon as the first Word left the draugr's mouth.

Growling in frustration, as I was tired, hungry, sweaty, and I really hated the way this place smelt, I circled to the Deathlord's right, its furious yellow eyes marking me as the primary threat. Farkas crept to its back as I readied another Shout, one that would weaken it enough for the final blow.

"KRII LUN AUS!" the purple-tinged cone of magic slammed into the Deathlord, wrapping about its being and making it cry out in indignation. Its hateful gaze locked on me, taking a step forward-

Right before Farkas skewered its head, the tip of his sword leaving the beast's mouth.

The Deathlord choked and jerked, reanimation magics struggling to compensate for the fatal damage. The hulking Companion snarled, withdrawing his blade before sweeping it about, lopping the draugr's head off.

I chuckled in relief at the sight, letting some adrenaline leave my body as I caught my breath, "See, Farkas? All according to plan!"

The Nord scoffed, "What plan? You just ran in. We're lucky we didn't get torn to shreds."

"If that had happened, it would hardly have been my fault," I rolled my eyes, looking for salvage as Scales checked the dead to make sure they stayed down, "You're the one who had to keep up with me, after all."

Farkas just grunted, crouching and recovering the Deathlord's blade, "Think this'd look nice on one of Jorrvaskr's walls?" I nodded, approaching the draugr's ruined body as well.

"Sure, take it," said I, examining the neck for my own prize, "As for me, that Dark Elf idiot thought a piece of the Gauldur Amulet was down here-ah ha!" And it seems the moron was right about something! I lifted the medallion from the creature's severed neck with a victorious grin, the item gleaming red and gold in the flickering light of the tomb's torches, "One down, two to go."

Farkas gave a curious grunt, to which I replied modestly, "Well, I won't be haring off to find the others right this second. I don't think I'm good enough for such an adventure, not yet anyway."

Scales cocked his head at me while Farkas regarded the ruined company of draugr before raising an eyebrow.

"Oh shut up! You don't even eat chicken!" snapped I, reminded of a disagreement over dinner last night, as I prowled to the back of the crypt, looking for a way out as the now amused Nord and clannfear fell into step behind me.

Not too shabby for my first adventure!

. . . . .
7th Rain's Hand, 4E201
Whiterun City
. . . . .

"Not too shabby at all!" grinned I, tossing my newly-filled coinpurse into the air and catching it, while Farkas smirked at my side, palming his own.

We returned to Whiterun two days later, laden with (shrunken; the wand for the win!) salvage from the barrow; in my mind, it had been a better journey than my previous one by far. No bandits or mind-scarring horrors, thank you very much!

A quick trip to Warmadien's after seeing Lucia back to the Temple saw us several cuirasses and weapons lighter and a couple dozen Septims heavier. Definitely a step up from Blackreach.

"Well," drawled Farkas as we came up to Breezehome's front walk, "If there's nothing else, I'm headed off to the Mare for a drink, maybe some company," the way he said that made me think of Serana…then my treacherous brain went down her blouse before I could stop it.

"Yeah, well, you have fun with that, Farkas; oh, and thanks! I'll let you know if I have to head out again, yeah?" replied I hopefully; the tall Nord was quite skilled, and, much like Scales, I'd rather have him at my back than not.

Giving an affirmative grunt, the hulking Nord swaggered off; I couldn't blame him for feeling confident. I was on a high myself from our recent victory; it was all I could do to keep myself from skipping into Morthal, for Dibella's sake!

Resisting the urge to kick the door in, as that would just piss Lydia off, I tucked my helm into my elbow and walked into Breezehome, "I'm back!"

Lydia was sitting at her desk, a letter in her hand; upon seeing me, however, she was on her feet and looking me over, "Oh, thank goodness you're alright!"

"Why wouldn't I be?" asked I, raising an eyebrow and remembering Master Drevas grumbling about the Housecarl being like a 'mother hen' at times.

Sighing, Lydia patiently explained, "I-Hermione, I know what it's like out there…so, I worry about the three of you at times," then she smiled, "I know you all can take care of yourselves, but…well, when I was your age, I didn't have anyone to worry about me while I was out or welcome me home."

Oh. I got it, "Well…thanks, Lydia, that means a lot," and I meant it; as I went to take off my armor at the table, I gave her the highlights of the adventure. Sure, I'm no Bard or anything, but Lydia seemed to enjoy hearing the tale.

When I'd finished, relating the Jarl Idgrod's thanks, Lydia sighed wistfully, "I almost wish I was still out there, seeing the world and doing some good…"

"Hey! You're doing good work here, you know!"

"Oh, I know. After Skyborn, I figured I'd be better off watching the house than getting directly involved," 'Huh?' "And speaking of letters, another letter for Thane Drevas arrived two days ago, from the Jarl of Falkreath."

Falkreath.

"…my aunt in Falkreath…"

"Hermione?"

Blood in the snow. On my face.

Slap! "OW!"

Lydia looked concerned, "What's the matter? You went pale as mountain snow, for a second."

Oh. Shite. I guess I was more effected by that than I thought, "It's…" I was going to say 'nothing', but the look on the Housecarl's face implied that would earn me another slap, "The…The bandits we ran into, after Blackreach?" I ventured, hoping Master Drevas told her about that. 'Please, please, please don't make me relive that again!'

Understanding dawned on Lydia's face, "Oh. Yes, Drevas told me. You-You don't have to go, you know? If it's too much, I can send a refusal-"

I shook my head, "No…I-I can do this," taking a few deep breaths to center myself, I smiled and asked, "What does Jarl Siddgeir need from us?"

Lydia's gaze went from soft to businesslike, "Just that he needs something 'taken care of'- probably bandits, knowing that hold- and the reward is a," she consulted the letter at her desk, "a plot of land overlooking Lake Ilinalta, just north of the city."

O-kay…"Is that something Master Drevas could use? I mean, he doesn't seem like a farmer…"

Lydia thought for a second before replying, "I seem to recall Falkreath having an abundance of building materials, mostly from trade with Bruma, in addition to all the wood," we both snickered; Falkreath did sport the densest forest in Skyrim, "If nothing else, I could commission a manor house built on the location. Knowing Thane Drevas, he'll want an Alchemy Lab and a greenhouse; he does love his gardening."

I knew what she was doing; trying to butter me up so I'd take the job! Well-

It totally worked.

"OOH! Can it have a library too?!"

. . . . .

_\|/_

. . . . .

A/N:

LEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEROOOOYYYYYYYYYYY JEEEEEEEEEEEEEENNNNNNNNKIIINNNNSSSSSSSSSSSS!

lol. I couldn't resist :P

*: Oath taken from the movie Kingdom of Heaven (which I don't own, except on DVD)

I like that oath. It's even better that Liam Neeson's delicious-looking self was the one who first gave it. Throw in Legolas, the wonderful Eva Green and David motherfucking Thewlis and that movie was so effing sexy. XD I'll stop now.

Not counting the title, this A/N, and date/location spacers, this chapter is over 12k words long! Whoo!

The Shouts are, in order: Fire Breath, Unrelenting Force, and Marked for Death.

Yes, I know you can't technically get all three words for Marked for Death without joining the Dark Brotherhood, but this is fanfiction. Deus ex Machina=Deal with It

Hermione has a crush on Serana, but how does Serana feel about it? Hmm, I guess we'll have to find out, won't we!

There's more than one reference to something else in pop culture here. If you can find them all, you get a sweetroll! Correction, you'll be turned into a sweetroll. That way no one can steal your sweetroll!

*brick flies from stage left and clocks Baked across the head*

Anyway, I'm gonna stop being crazy and head off to work! Thanks for reading, everyone!

~Baked

Next Time: Hermione, Scales and Farkas head to Falkreath, while Drevas and Serana have a long-awaited chat.