Four days' delay would turn to four months, if Nariilu let that Danica Purespring have her way. And she was almost forced to, after the priestess held her fast on one of the healing beds with only a light hand placed upon her chest; even the gentle pressure was enough to have her groaning in pain and keep her from pulling herself up. And Danica had seemed content to allow her to leave once she could stand up until Stormcloak made some foolish aside about how Nariilu thought she could ride a dragon when she couldn't even sit up properly.

So instead of a nice day of quiet healing, Nariilu got to spend most of it fiercely arguing for her release when she saw fit rather than when the priests saw fit. It was a welcome distraction from the sensation of having her body knit itself back together under spells and potions and needles. She adamantly refused any sort of sedation-Nariilu didn't trust the priests to knock her out until their healing had her as healthy and scar-free as the day she was born. She didn't need that, she just needed to be able to draw both swords at once, to breathe without a quiet rattling in her chest.

Which she would have been able to do after the first day of being confined to a healing bed; the priests healed the last of her torn muscles easily, it was her skin and festering wounds they were wasting her sweet time with. Unlike the Graybeards, the Temple of Kynareth had no shortage of medical supplies and magicka potions for the priests and, even worse, Nariilu's wounds-something similar to magical acid burns-were rare enough Danica had the younger, less experienced priests inspect and practice on. Nariilu didn't mind, with the Thalmor out and about chances were at least once of the Justiciars in Whiterun knew how to spray acid from their fingertips or throw a vial of the stuff at some unfortunate soul. She focused on the little lectures and lessons where she could, both for her own benefit and as a distraction from the uncanny sensation of someone else's magic weaving under her skin.

But having multiple healers work at once, even when they were almost entirely unfamiliar with injuries beyond a nasty fall down stairs or a stab from a bar fight gone wrong, made rather short work of healing the open wounds left around most of her body. What took the damn longest had Nariilu wondering if it was all a plot by Danica to keep her as long as the priestess damn well pleased-Danica claimed that Nariilu's skin was growing back as pure scar tissue, rather than soft skin. Her dexterity would take a hit if she didn't allow them to peel back the flesh and build her back up.

It was a compliment to Danica that Nariilu found that convincing enough to stay, even if she knew damn well that scar tissue could be torn soft and flexible until it was just as well as the baby-soft flesh Danica and her priests grew underhand, letting Danica work and demonstrate technique on the complex areas of her arms and hands, letting the priests practice on the broad areas of her back and abdomen.

Even worse, she'd need time to build back the calluses she'd spent decades forming. Nariilu rubbed along bare skin and it felt like what she'd imagined a noble's skin was made of, but it certainly didn't feel like her own. Danica explained it would feel back to normal soon; it would be fairly sensitive for a few weeks. But the right feel would never be back even if Danica was right, even if Nariilu spent the next twenty years smithing and fighting, not without hundreds of raised cuts and burns and gashes from war and torture and battle. Calluses returned. Scars did not.

It almost felt like she was denying a lifetime of struggle, wiping away proof on over half of her body that yes, she'd fought for the Empire, betrayed the Empire, become the Empire. And she had nothing to remind her of the stories attached to each little scar, from the little dark splinter mark in her hand she'd gotten from the front door of her childhood home, to the deep gash on her calf she'd gotten fighting Mirmulnir seconds before she learned of her destiny. Of course Danica knew exactly what she was thinking when she ran her fingers over her arms, with a well-practiced adage of new stories and battles to be had.

And she'd make more than enough stories to fill an entire library of epics. Nariilu could close her eyes and imagine resting in her grand palace, a true grand palace for a true Dragonborn Empress, leafing through pages of her biographies, hearing soft melodies of her deeds. And her dreams would be pleasant, without any of the complaining and restlessness of the lesser Dragonborn, once they settled into their places like was so easy of the dragons. The dragons were used to subservience, first to Alduin, then to her. The unprophesized Dragonborn had mortal arrogance about them, undeserved arrogance, especially after dying not once but twice. What would it take for them to rest, to serve her, aid her?

They were beginning to slow in their defiance; Nariilu could barely feel the presence of Wulfrend Stormcloak beyond a gentle drone when she searched for it. And the Dragonborn that had been less accomplished in life seemed to shrink down in response to Wulfrend's resignation. Even the notable Dragonborn with songs of their own had let up on sending stabbing pain and fire through her veins, or maybe she was more resistant to it now that her physical condition wasn't as dire. Still, Nariilu had her eyes on the Soul of a certain Tsunilde of the Dragonguard, once the personal dragon hunter of Reman II, judging from what she could glean from the surface of her Soul. She'd pick apart Tsunilde when she got the chance, and she'd give up all her little secrets about how the Blades once served the Dragonborn. Worshipped them as gods.

Siphoning memories and knowledge from dragons was easy compared to Dragonborn, almost automatic, especially for knowledge of Words of Power. And she'd never tried much, outside of trying in vain to get any information as to Alduin's whereabouts and correctly identifying how to summon Odahviing. But even that was freely given by the dragons. They were resigned in death to serve their slayer, their conqueror, their Thuri. All these Dragonborn wanted to do was rebel. Nariilu wondered if it was a Nord thing.

Nariilu was discharged from the Temple on a day with low clouds and more wind than usual; not weather suitable for flying, especially if the dark cloud in the west blew over the city. The priests had laundered her college robes and powdered the inside with crushed leaves from the Gildergreen, helping to lighten the weight of the garment on her shoulders. She thanked the priests for their help, promising a donation that they piously insisted was not required, and stepped from the Temple of Kynareth, mocking a limp and resting her weight on her staff. Perhaps she'd fake serious injury for a while longer, until someone dared to use her frailty as a reason to attack.

She didn't notice any Thalmor wandering around the Winds District, thank the gods, nor any more guards than usual as Nariilu made her way down the stairs to the Plains District to Breezehome. She was stopped every so often by townsfolk who thanked her for slaying Alduin, noting that apparently she had another song written, a slow ballad performed at the ends of the night when tavern goers were exhausted from empty tankards and dancing songs. Nariilu wondered which tune and words Giraud had settled on, and, more impressively, how he'd managed to get bards singing it so soon.

A quick circle around Breezehome revealed no runes, no suspicious stones, leaves, anything that could be enchanted to send her words directly to Elenwen. And there had been nothing on her last check a few days ago. Nariilu didn't feel relieved; perhaps the Thalmor had revolutionized divining magic to the point where it was nearly undetectable.

Her key turned easily in the lock just as she felt the first of what would no doubt be many fat raindrops falling in the late spring storm. Nariilu stepped inside and leaned her staff up against the corner, stretching her fingers and legs against the tingle of forming soreness. It was a different type of pain than what she'd come so accustomed to over the past few weeks; instead of a deep, omnipresent throb, it was a sharp threat of her muscles to just give out if she pushed them too hard.

The rain picked up and drummed against the roof as she made her way to the side room, her ruined armor still resting there in its bag along with that mask and Alduin's scales that had been caught in Tsun's Shout along with her. A single piece of platemail laid on the alchemy table in a mess of shattered glass and spilled salt; she threw it there after the funeral. Nariilu swore she'd fix that armor, fix it better than even Eorlund could do, because that man would never fix a masterpiece like this, not after she'd ruined it-after Alduin had ruined it. He probably would've blacklisted her from ever using any of his creations for what she did to this armor, even though it had saved her life far more times than she could count on both hands in the short time she was able to wear it. Just like armor was supposed to do.

To think that he was able to create such a unique design, an alloy Nariilu had never heard of before, when he spent the better part of his life pouring steel into molds, following ancient template after template. Never creating, truly creating, before this. And it was apparently a sign of his good favor, a sign that he marked her as his successor. The least he could've done is run it by her first.

Still, the plates were more or less intact; fixing the armor would be mostly a matter of fixing it to a leather or chainmail base, repairing the straps, hammering out dents. The hard work of creation had already been done, it was simply disassembled. Yes, disassembled, not destroyed. She could repair it, more than repair it. Improve it, weave enchantments along the metal. Malachite held magic much better than other metals, and while it didn't have moonstone as a channeling device, ebony, the blood of the gods, would more than do.

She plucked the piece of metal from the glass on the alchemy table and tossed it in the bag, pulling out the dark, pure ebony mask. Nariilu ran her fingers along the ancient curves of a single, carved piece of impossibly hard metal. It was once polished to a blinding shine, she could tell, but thousands of years of dust and grime left it almost dull beneath its enchantment. And what an enchantment it was; even holding it she felt a small boost to her magicka, the chillingly hot tingle of elemental destruction magic, and…something else from another school she couldn't quite place with just a glance. It almost seemed to stare back at her, this mask that once controlled armies of men, served hundreds of dragons.

The mask was heavier than the ones she'd found on the Dragon Priests at Shearpoint, at Volskygge. And in far better condition, too; this priest had been cared for by an entire city of cultists rather than left at the tops of mountains. She looked at her staff, another boon granted to the Dragon Priests by the dragons, wondering what other treasures they gave their most loyal. A wonderful question to ask Odahviing, to force him to answer if he didn't have the sense to speak freely.

The front door scraped against the floor, a long exhale sounded as it latched shut and locked behind whoever entered. A quiet curse towards the rain-Lydia. Good, Nariilu wanted to discuss things with her before they left for Sky Haven Temple. The letters from the other Housecarls had been exceptionally optimistic, especially after the end of the war what with trade finally picking back up. Lakeview already had a few people who'd moved to the area, young lumber workers looking to be more than someone's employee, soldiers deciding their last posting near Falkreath or the Pale Pass was as good a place as any to settle down.

"Hail, Lydia," Nariilu said, stepping into the doorway. Lydia relaxed from alert, seeing that it was simply her Thane and not an intruder. And then Lydia's eyes narrowed, her jaw hardened. "Keeping well?"

"Keeping fine," she replied. She pulled a sack from across her body and set it down in a chair, clinks of glass bottles and jingles of coins almost muffled by the burlap. Her tone was tense, short. "You seem…better."

"The priests at the Temple are quite skilled." Nariilu leaned on the doorway and smiled, overtly casual. Lydia never was much for sharing her past, her present, her anything. No, she kept things bottled up inside, her outside a formally content woman, cordial to a fault. She'd only seen Lydia like this a handful of times; after they'd nearly died on Shearpoint, after Erik had died on their quest for the Elder Scroll. She wondered who died, or nearly died, in her absence, since she'd been like this before the Graymanes were arrested. And she wasn't close with them at all, or anyone in Whiterun, really. "I'm back to fighting condition."

"Good. Then I suppose you'll be leaving soon?"

Nariilu nodded. "Did you discuss the specifics with Stormcloak?"

"No."

"Did you discuss anything with him?"

"Nothing of your concern." Lydia moved to stomp up the stairs. Nariilu grabbed her ankle through the slats in the stairs. "Let go of me."

"Sworn Housecarl," Nariilu used Lydia's title as a threat; she was bound by honor to remain loyal, unwavering in her commitment to her Thane, "speak freely." Lydia kept her mouth shut, leather gloves squeaking as she clenched her fists. Nariilu clutched her ankle harder.

Lydia scoffed. "Nothing pisses you off more than not being in control, does it?" She kicked her free foot into Nariilu's hand. She let go, moving out from under the stairs to look up at Lydia. "The Elder Scrolls never guaranteed your victory, just your part in legend. And now you've moved past their prophecies. You're just as weak as the rest of us mere mortals."

Lydia backed down the stairs, moving around until she was just in Nariilu's face, chin tilted up and eyes pointed down. Nariilu met her challenging stare with her own soft smile. Lydia would never feel comfortable speaking like this if she weren't fresh from healing, no swords on her hips. "Well, I'm sorry you're not content serving a Thane that's nothing more than a weak Dragonborn."

"I am content serving a Dragonborn, weak or strong," Lydia replied, carefully forming each word. "I am not content serving a mortal woman who dares to compare herself to the Divines! No mortal is a god, no mortal can become a god-"

"Have you ever been to the Imperial City?" Nariilu cut her off.

"I-what?"

"Big statue of a dragon, right in the center of the Temple District. You may have heard of how the Oblivion Crisis ended when Martin Septim turned into Akatosh?" Nariilu argued. "Or, that statue of Tiber Septim that was in the Winds District up until a week ago, since he turned into Talos, a god? Or St. Alessia, Reman, I can keep going."

She shook her head. "You aren't them. You aren't St. Alessia, you're not a Septim, you're not a divine. You have no right to compare yourself to any of them! People have been saying for years the gods have abandoned Skyrim, and if you keep on you'll have them returning just to burn it to the ground."

"Why don't I have any right, Lydia? Because I'm as much a Dragonborn as Tiber Septim, far more than Martin Septim-I killed Alduin, a god, Lydia, depending on who you ask-"

"To the dragon cultists!"

"-and spoke to Kynareth. I am the latest aspect of Lorkhan, I am Talos, I am the Shezzarine as much as Tiber Septim before me. I have been blessed with a dragon soul by Akatosh. I am his avatar."

"You're insane," Lydia said, after a long enough pause that Nariilu thought she was finally coming around.

"I'm simply telling you how things appear to me. How the Divines have presented themselves to me. You were not there when I read the Elder Scroll. You were not there when I entered the Hall of Valor."

She exhaled, throwing her hands up and circling around the room. "How convenient! No one was!"

Nariilu crossed her arms, squeezing her lips together for a second. "Then I'll take you to the portal to Sovngarde at Skuldafn. You can go and ask Shor yourself. But make sure you get on Tsun's good side; you'll have to ask him to Shout you back to Nirn."

"You know no one can do that."

"Then go to the Temple of Kynareth and pray to her! The Divines have appeared before the faithful before, they'll do it again."

"You know what else has appeared before the faithful? Before you?" Lydia challenged. "Daedric Princes. You know how they love to appear right in front of you and you love to do what they say."

Nariilu took a second to collect her thoughts. Lydia seemed satisfied that she had caught her off guard, at least a little. And she had to give it to her; Nariilu never expected that anyone would accuse her of Daedric deals. "First of all, that was one time."

"Three."

"Twice!" Nariilu admitted. "But you didn't seem nearly as upset when we killed that priest on Vaermina's orders. So, you put serving Vaermina as better than daring to interpret the will of the Nine?"

"You're twisting my words," Lydia spat. "We swore to never bring that up."

"Fine. Then what has you just pissed about my claims now?" Nariilu pressed. "I'll remind you I first brought this up when the Graybeards literally named me Ysmir, Dragon of the North. You cannot deny that. You heard it yourself. All of Ivarstead heard it."

"It was just a title then, and it's just a title now," Lydia replied. She gripped heavily on the back of a chair.

"So now that I'm acting in line with my title, you've got an issue with it?"

"No. You're letting a title go to your head."

"Then may the Divines strike me down if I do not count among them!" Nariilu outstretched her arms and waited for her death to come. It didn't. The Divines knew not to let one of their own die and ascend just yet. She relaxed, squared her shoulders. "Perhaps I am not the only one who should act in line with their title, my Housecarl."

Lydia bit her tongue. "I am trying to protect my Thane from danger, since that danger is herself, and to protect the great city of Whiterun from my Thane."

"Then perhaps I should stop directing funds to the good people of Whiterun, since I am such a danger to them," Nariilu replied as calmly as she could. She heard a small quiver of anger in her own voice and hoped that Lydia didn't pick up on it. Nariilu hadn't expected this much opposition from Lydia of all people; after Stormcloak readily accepted her lies as well as he did her truths she hadn't expected much opposition from anyone but the Thalmor. Maybe an errant priest here and there, but they were all skeptics of everything not a few hundred years old and covered in dust and written in gold ink.

"Ha! See, you only help others as far as it helps you," Lydia spat. "You've been blinded by power few have had before. You take and take and give only to take more."

"You may find no reason to believe I'm telling the truth, but you have fewer reasons still to believe I'm lying," Nariilu replied, ignoring Lydia's latest accusations. They weren't entirely relevant to the debate at hand, and Nariilu didn't have much to say in response, not without a second to think. She couldn't let Lydia go down that line of thought. Perhaps she'd left her Housecarl alone far too long, but it's not like much could be done about it, not when there had been a war to win, a god to kill.

"I never said you were lying," Lydia responded. "Not knowingly, at least. Delusions require intervention, not encouragement. And you don't want to even consider that you may be mistaken. You once told me that a dragon told you-one that you swallowed!-that all dragons craved power more than anything. Now, I don't know if it's just your own dragon soul or maybe Sheogorath-"

"Then I have either been chosen by the Divines or by the Princes, by your own admission. Doesn't sound like delusion to me, Lydia."

Lydia looked up at the ceiling for a while. She spoke carefully, each word cutting from her lips, "How do you plan to use your new title?"

"What?"

"Let's say you are a Divine. Or the avatar of one. Or a Daedric Prince's Champion. Whatever. Who gives a shit?" Lydia looked back down to face her. Her fingers tapped the back of the chair, the sound catching and mixing with the rain on the roof. "How will it affect what you do now? All of your plans?"

Nariilu shrugged. Lydia was giving up hope on her. She couldn't have that, not from her central Housecarl. Her longest friend-friend?-in Skyrim. "I suppose it will legitimize my claim to the throne. Maybe I could use it against the Thalmor. They might like an Elf as Talos a little better, get the shrines back, that sort of thing. I haven't put much thought to it," she lied. "What, were you afraid this changed anything, anything at all? I told you, I've been considering this since the second trip to High Hrothgar." The last word caught in her throat and she coughed; she was speaking far too freely when there could be a Justiciar waiting outside to arrest her for blasphemy, or whatever else. Elenwen would taunt her with her deification somehow, skew it to suit the Thalmor's needs.

"And the second you tell anyone about your grand, godly station, you drag unwilling people into your little scheme. If you're right and I'm wrong, fine. Good. Great, even! I'm happy for you," Lydia said. "But if you're wrong, you're putting more people than just yourself at risk. Suppose it takes for you to sit upon the Ruby Throne before the Divines take notice of what you're claiming? Would you put an entire Empire at risk of complete destruction just to rule it for a day?"

Nariilu kept silent. They both knew she would, and she would rather have it be an unsaid truth.

"Like it or not, there are forces outside of your control. Outside of the gods' control." Lydia finally dropped her voice from a near shout to a normal speaking tone, still spiked with anger. "And the Scrolls are some of those forces. Your life is no longer written in the Elder Scrolls."

"You don't know a single damn thing about the Elder Scrolls outside of what little I told you."

"Not many people do, do they? Convenient how all of your power is ancient and half unknown, isn't it? So easy to trick the masses into believing your wealth is the result of ancient dragon hoards, rather than from the graves of their ancestors, or that you got your swords after helping the Vigilants of Stendarr, or that you're Talos come again to save Skyrim from the Thalmor! I'm not letting you lie to the people of Skyrim. They need a figurehead now more than ever, and you want to take advantage of the void you created and put yourself in that position, o great hero of Skyrim." Lydia finished with a little flourish and bow, rising in a scowl.

Nariilu nodded softly along with Lydia's scowl, bringing one hand up to her chin. "The unspoken assumption here is that I am not fit to be that figurehead."

"No. You're not."

"Because you believe I'm delusional at best, and attracting the ire of a few gods at worst."

"Because I know how damned determined you are to get your way, and I don't want to see Skyrim go through more shit just so you can sit in a fancy chair." Lydia exhaled and shook her head. "Intentionally or not. I thought maybe J'zargo could convince you to stop-"

"Excuse me?"

Lydia froze, shocked for a split second before she steadied herself and doubled down into a glare. "I thought maybe you'd listen to him. You only ever listened to him."

"Well." Nariilu swallowed her anger. Her swords were in the room behind her, out of reach in display holders. Her magicka reserves were low after healing herself to speed her way out of the Temple. And her Voice…her lungs almost burned with the need to Shout, to blast Lydia through the wall. Shout her to bits. Pull her soul from her body and show it godly power once and for all. Because her last conversation with J'zargo had been nothing more than Lydia's little scheme to get her to…to what? Abandon all of her power? Everything she'd worked so hard for? Everything she deserved? Nariilu finally spat, "I suppose that was because he was the only one worth listening to in our little group."

Lydia bit her cheek, her face flushed bright red. "Because he was the only one you could dazzle with promises of…Gods!" She kicked the chair in front of her hard enough for it to topple and skid across the room, crashing into the base of the stairs next to Nariilu with a thud. "You're doing the same damn thing with Ulfric right now-"

"You know exactly why he's here-" Nariilu cut off, raising her voice.

Lydia kept speaking over her. "-acting like you need his help to take over Skyrim-"

"-and it's for damn sure not the same reasons as J'zargo! I fucking do need his help-"

"-like he wasn't a half-year away from doing it himself and better than you could ever do, if you hadn't shown up!"

"-to take over-" Nariilu choked on her words. "Hold on, hold on, hold on. You're a Stormcloak? Since when?"

Lydia brought her hands to rest on the top of her head, throwing them up in the air like she was hailing the ceiling. "Really? You never picked up on…No, I'm not letting you do that shit you do where you change the subject! I fucking pray you're deranged, rather than just a manipulative, lying little tyrant."

"Let me ask you this, Lydia: what do you intend to do about me, then?" Nariilu heard her voice crack around her raw throat. She was yelling, almost catching Thu'um in her words, catching Thu'um in her throat instead. She felt bile rise around the pain, and forced it down.

She had caught Lydia off guard, eyes wide, lips scrambling for words. Lydia never intended to have a plan for what to do, outside of perhaps taking her right back to the Temple of Kynareth to have Sheogorath's influence purged from her. She had been planning to be on the pure offensive the entire time, finally getting whatever comeuppance she felt she was owed though shouting at her Thane, of all people. But, her accusations were…almost too sound. But unconfirmable. Just as unconfirmable as Nariilu's own claims.

"You obviously intend to stop me somehow," Nariilu continued, "from going around, using titles, claiming things, telling people who I am. What I am." Lydia steeled her jaw. "So, have you raised all your concerns, my loyal Housecarl, sworn on your honor to serve and protect me until either of us falls, lest you fall upon your own sword in eternal disgrace upon you and your bloodline?"

It might've been a low blow, invoking her bastardized bloodline like that, but Lydia struck the lowest a month ago. Poisoning the last time she'd gotten to hear an Elsweyrian accent.. Lydia looked ready to pounce, even as she resigned herself to squared shoulders, a final squeeze to the back of the chair. "Yes, my Thane." The word dripped like venom, spat like the Thu'um. "Thank you for the opportunity to speak…freely. I pray to the Nine that you will consider what we've discussed."

Nariilu caught a joke about appreciating prayers on her teeth. "Of course, Lydia." And she smiled as sweetly as she could, wishing she could bite the woman's head off instead. Lydia's returned an expression in kind.

Farengar had missed the Great War in his youth what with being no more than a boy and all, but the way that the Justiciars lingered and snooped and tipped up their chins had him itching to make up for lost time.

He sat at his desk and pretended to give a damn about the ledger he'd been given, but he couldn't find any reason to care about the same list of alchemical supplies and petty soul gems that came in and out of the Hold every month. Nothing suspicious, ever. The mundanity of it all was usually a welcome relaxation, a quick mindless distraction in between research that once seemed dead set on eluding a breakthrough at every step, but now was highly sought after and kept under careful wraps by the Jarl. And now it was too dull to justify giving more than an hour to before returning to that research with a Justiciar peering over his shoulder. He almost wished the Soul Ward hadn't faded just so he could see the Justiciars' smug faces slam into the invisible barrier, watch them trip into poison he just happened to leave out.

But one Justiciar was better than two, Farengar figured, even if the one Justiciar who was present stared him down enough for all her colleagues. Silenya was her name, with long hair slicked back into three braided buns that each mirrored the large opal wired on the top of her staff. He was still trying to figure why she needed such an impressive conduit, especially after she conjured that wicked battleaxe on her own the other day, holding it steady for both the trial, as short as it was, and the executions. Farengar figured it must hold some Valkynaz or other sufficiently nasty Daedroth too powerful for a Conjurer to control on their own.

The other Justiciar that normally accompanied Silenya to snoop and pry and generally threaten him was Meranion, an unusually buff Altmer who wielded his tree branch of a staff much more loudly and often made asides about how Farengar's own research was liable to suddenly explode and turn his flesh inside out, accidentally. Farengar was rather pleased to see him absent. A bit of his own prying wormed a stark explanation out of Silenya; Meranion was officially on a scheduled inspection of Whiterun's Hold borders along with another Justiciar, Trinimale.

Anyone with any ear to the ground in the Cloud District, probably anyone across Whiterun at this point, knew the truth; Trinimale had been mauled half to death somewhere in the plains, with two of his soldiers' remains having already been devoured by sabre cats and vultures and whatever else was scavenging around by the time some curious hunters from town decided to check out the site of the attack. Meranion was apparently the designated healer of the four Justiciars, and, according to the maids, had spent most hours since trying to keep Trinimale from meeting the same fate as the soldier who died in agony in treatment.

If the Ambassador hadn't already left for the Embassy, Farengar imagined she would've been furious at how Jarl Balgruuf refused to launch an investigation-the two Justiciars with free time to petition him had been met with shrugs and an almost too enthusiastic denial to waste guards on such a task. And Jarl Balgruuf was right, nobody in their right mind would wander from the roads into the plains at night. Sudden drops, roaming sabre cats and the occasional bear, hidden hunters' traps, bandits, dragons and whatnot were all difficult enough to navigate without head-high grass and the dark of a moonsless night.

But if a quarter of their soldiers were dead and one Justiciar out of commission not even a week after their arrival, Farengar supposed they were making good time disposing of this batch of elves. Perhaps this would be the final push to get the Thalmor to realize that Skyrim was wild through and through. Any civility pushed upon the region would be met with violence until it was tramped down by the ancient tradition of unbound strength, unquestioned loyalty. Farengar sighed; a little civilization would be long welcome in his study.

"Ready to go?"

The Dragonborn called down from the loft in the lulls between Ulfric stomping the floorboards back down. The Jagged Crown was in his hands, wrapped in burlap, almost identical to the scales and bones the Dragonborn had carefully packed in a nondescript bag alongside her ruined armor. He nodded, placing the Crown among the other pieces she swore she'd repair and improve with her own little touches. Ulfric wouldn't let her dare attempt to 'improve' the crown.

"Well?" She asked, leaning over railing and poking her head down to the main floor. The scars on her face were still present, but faded from an angry red to a soft pink that stood out harshly against gray skin and black hair. It disappeared into her hairline, a pink bald section peeking out between short, choppy strands. Her face was still marred with new and old scars, a stark contrast to soft, smooth skin that peeked out from under her sleeves. Ulfric nodded again. She continued, "Good. Are we forgetting anything important?"

"Horses."

She rolled her eyes and disappeared back upstairs, a motion that was almost fluid, almost without a wince. Repairing skin wasn't easy, definitely wasn't painless. Ulfric almost wished it'd rained longer, just to give her a bit more time to heal. But the priests had allowed her to leave and confirmed it with him when he went to check on his own healing, discharging them both with orders to take it easy.

An order that had obviously gone over the Dragonborn's thick head, the way she sheathed her swords around her waist, donned her boots, about the only part of her armor that had survived Sovngarde. Her swords rattled in their sheathes unbecoming of such a swordsman as she, a far cry from the near perfect silence she had once been able to carry them in. She had made a flippant comment about breaking in new sheathes when she caught Ulfric staring concerned earlier. And then, another one about how College robes weren't meant for swords.

She stomped down the stairs, pack strapped to her back and staff in one hand, casually rather than as a walking aid-on second thought, Ulfric supposed a magical staff couldn't quite be held casually like any old walking stick. A few vials of red potion jingled with each step. "Well, if we've gotten everything, daylight is wasting," she said, stopping briefly at the bottom of the stairs to shift the pack on her shoulders. The Dragonborn had a shallow scowl on her face; the rainstorm hadn't let up for three days, and even now distant thunder threatened to delay them again. "Potions, food, cloaks, armor, books?"

Books. She was bringing books, journals, letters, anything she didn't want the Thalmor to get in the raid she swore they'd run on her house the second they left for wherever the Blades were. And he was bringing the Jagged Crown; the Thalmor would never lay a finger on it, not while he still had breath in his lungs. "Stoke the fire," Ulfric ordered.

"What, so you can burn down my house…?" The Dragonborn trailed off, probably avoiding a mention of his ill-fated siege where he did burn her house down to some degree. Yes, scars of ash ran through the walls of Breezehome, right behind this old quilt, still vibrant even in the dim light. Small windows weren't enough to bleach the dyes over however many years the dusty thing had hung from the wall. Ulfric stared her down while he moved the quilt out of the way, reaching into the wall and catching his bracers against damaged wood before his hand closed around his Dossier. "Oh," she said, not moving for the flint or bellows or any sort of scroll that could liven the low flames.

Ulfric traced his fingers over the emblazoned leather once, throwing the cursed book onto the fire. The Dragonborn cried out as ash, embers, little flaming chunks of wood scattered onto the stone floor. And then she reached down and picked the book up, its pages barely beginning to catch on embers. Ulfric scowled and moved to jump and grab the Dossier, rip it from her hands, throw it back in the fire to destroy it, but the Dragonborn spoke up, "Leather doesn't burn."

She hissed and dropped it to the floor, taking off her pack one shoulder at a time. She shook out her hand, now smooth deep gray, soft and blister free where a week prior it had been a mess of mangled flesh, and kicked the Dossier over closer to him. "Rip out the pages. I can destroy the leather where we're going, or with any leatherworking tools. Or, if you want to, take your sword and shred it. Gods, that shouldn't've hurt that much." The Dragonborn went into the back room, and Ulfric heard glass bottles clinking.

Ulfric picked it up, barely feeling the heat around his gloves. Ripping out each page one at a time, two at a time, ten, hundred, until the book was nothing than a bundle of ripped stubs and burning pages. Red glow turned to black ashen edges turned to flaming curls turned to…nothing but a memory. And that memory turned to a weight off his shoulders as the pages of pain, horror, torture, lies, everything, turned to rising, curling smoke, sweet with paper, sour with ink and evil.

He turned to glance at the Dragonborn. A small dribble of potion was soaking into the neck of her robes. Her hand didn't look burnt. Still, she shook it as she walked back to her pack. "Alright, now are we forgetting anything?"