Chapter 24 – Complications

"So come, join, sit by the warm fire,

This tale will make your heart soar,

Of the cave, bleak, beset by foul evil,

And the heroes who freed it once more!"

-Early draft of the opening for 'Ballad of the Wolfskull Heroes'

"I'm worried about you, Elly." Jordis never bothered sending any sort of word that she was coming to the Blue Palace, but Elisif had a free morning and so could properly host the woman. Even if she did apparently come to tell me I'm working too hard again!

Now, she just smiled at her friend. "Unlike you, Jiji, I actually like doing my duties." She liked that particular nickname for Jordis, in no small part because it made no sense to anyone who hadn't known them when they were five years old. It's just ours. "You'll be at the feast tonight, won't you?"

Jordis gave a sigh that was more theatrical than sincere. Then, she smiled. "Deal. The ladies at Radiant Raiment are finishing up a new piece for me." Ever since the night where Elisif had met Velandryn, Jordis had been happily attending parties and feasts in armored dresses and gowns stitched with battle scenes. She'd also been swelling the numbers of the Young Wolves with other young warriors with aspirations of adventure. She still thinks she's a hero, and we're living in a ballad. Elisif loved her, but Jordis had a very romantic view of the world.

Elisif looked out the window, willing some brilliant idea to come to her. Jordis wasn't wrong; Elisif was taking on more and more responsibility, and had precious little support. Falk and Sybille meant well, but both had served her late husband and his father before him. To them, she was a child sitting on a throne she did not deserve. At first, she knew, there had been hopes that she would bear Torygg's child after his passing, and continue the line of High Kings that had given Skyrim generations of competent-if unexceptional-rule. Once they knew that wasn't happening, I guess it was just easier to keep me around as a figurehead. It wasn't as if anyone else was clamoring to be Jarl of Solitude at the moment. Even Erikur's snide comments about how he was better suited than she to rule had no real force behind them. He knows better than to want what I have. She had taken a one-way trip to a dead-end throne. Everyone knew that Tullius was calling the shots, after all.

Jordis had been saying something, and leaned in to peer at her. "Elly, you in there?"

Elisif was no longer paying much attention to her friend, however. This war, it's eating me alive. She hadn't even wanted to be the jarl. It had made sense to marry Torygg, it was a sensible match and a chance for her to make a real difference. I might even have come to love him. He had been a kind man, and would have made a good High King in time. But now there's just me...

"Elisif, is something wrong?" Jordis' voice was louder now, and Elisif felt something grab her by the shoulder. "Elly, talk to me!"

Elisif shook her head, willing the darkness away. "How'd you feel about taking the Wolves out for another mission? We've been getting reports of lighthouses going dark, and the Imperial Trade Collective's reported two ships delayed."

Jordis' brow furrowed. "Pirates?"

"I hope not, but General Tullius is on me about having to divert his own men to look into it. Could you and yours do it instead?" It was a small matter, but any issue with Solitude's maritime trade could quickly escalate to a real problem. "So, muster the Wolves and look into it?"

"Of course! We'll get it done, just like we did with Potema!" In the weeks since Wolfskull Cave, the Young Wolves had been constants in the taverns and inns of Solitude, earning more than a few free drinks with their tales of the necromancers who had tried to raise the Wolf Queen.

And the Dragonborn too. According to Jordis, Velandryn had been essential to their victory. Even though I'd never have known it from talking with him! Now, though, the people of Solitude were hearing the story from the lips of every bard in the city. "Was it you who suggested the Bard's College spread that ballad?"

Jordis grinned at her. "A team effort. Sophie wrote it, I signed on as her patron, and the College lapped it up!" The smile grew conspiratorial. "We're heroes, and anybody who gets a thistle in their shift about Vel being an elf has to listen to a bunch of Nords cheer his name!"

Elisif smiled at that. Sometimes people forgot Jordis was clever. Sometimes I did too, as a girl. That had been unwise. Her friend could be a bit of a fool, but she had the cunning of the old heroes in her.

Jordis, however, seemed to have misunderstood her smile. "Thinking about Vel, huh? Is that why you keep throwing these parties, you hope he'll show up again?"

Elisif threw her empty cup at Jordis, but the woman just snagged it out of the air with a grin. "So that's a no?"

"That's a no." It wasn't though, not really. She threw the parties out of obligation, but she would have been lying if she claimed she didn't hope that she'd spy a certain lithe silhouette on one of the balconies, looking out into the darkness. "I hope he's well."

"I mean, he bagged another dragon, so that's something." Jordis smacked the arm of her chair. "Shor's bones, what I wouldn't give to have been there!"

And then she wants to go and fight a dragon. Clever she might be, but Jordis the Sword-Maiden would always be her foolish best friend. "And now he's heading south, to High Hrothgar." It was a long way from where she sat to the Throat of the World. How long before I see him again?

"You should write him a letter." Jordis had found Elisif's secret bowl of oranges, and was tearing into the painfully expensive fruit with her bare hands. "Let him know you're thinking of him."

"And where would I address it? To the Dragonborn, in the care of the Greybeards?" Skyrim's couriers were formidable deliverymen, but she doubted even they would brave the Throat of the World.

"Send it to Whiterun. Twenty sovereigns says Vel's got quarters in Dragonsreach anyway. He didn't strike me as the type to go buying up land in Skyrim."

That actually wasn't a bad idea. Even if he'd left Whiterun by the time the letter arrived, he would doubtless return there after consulting with the Greybeards. Can I trust a letter in the court of Jarl Balgruuf, though? The man had honor, in his own way, but she would have said the same of Ulfric Stormcloak, once. The Jarl of Whiterun had sent her a kind message when Torygg had died, but then refused to support the Empire in bringing his killer to justice. Does Velandryn trust him, though?

She had to give this some more thought. The idea of keeping in touch with Velandryn was appealing on several levels, but it certainly wasn't worth letting a third party read her correspondence.

Sighing, she made a note in the little journal she kept on her always. See if there's any way to protect the letter. Then, it was back to business.

Or, as it turned out, back to chewing the fat with Jordis. Her friend had an uncommon talent for pulling Elisif into whatever nonsense she was on about at any given moment. This week, it was getting the Wolves geared as a cavalry unit. However, while many of the Young Wolves of Solitude came from the upper crust of the city, few of them could afford the exorbitant costs associated with purchasing and maintaining a warhorse. So, she wanted them to be brought on as auxiliaries, and have their costs covered by the Guard. Elisif, laughing, told her she was dreaming. Especially since Jordis had apparently decided that they would do best using Yokudan Chargers. The finest horses in Tamriel, to be sure, but also ill-suited for the climate of Haafingar, and easily ten thousand septims a head besides.

It was only after five minutes of lighthearted argument that Elisif realized how easily her friend had pulled her out of a bad place. Smiling, she listened as Jordis explained how useful a mounted bard could be for morale, and resolved to do something nice for her soon.

Serana felt their eyes on her every moment she spent in Dragonsreach. The servants, whispering about the strange woman who had followed the Dragonborn. The guards, who loudly wondered what she had done with Lydia whenever they were hidden behind a door or around a corner. Even the jarl and the other nobles watched her warily, though she knew that Balgruuf had gotten the true story from Velandryn. I'm not your enemy, you fools!

Velandryn had gone straight to the jarl's wizard, eager to see if he could achieve teleportation without a target array. Serana was fairly certain that it was impossible, but she'd also missed out on four thousand years of magical advancement, so she wasn't going to go making any definite statements just yet. He'd invited her to come along, but she had no doubt that the wizard would see her for what she was, and didn't want to deal with that right now.

As to whatever had been bothering Velandryn, he'd simply brushed her off when she'd asked, saying it wasn't important. That rankled, but she didn't want to put her companion's back up by bothering him about it. He's the only friend I've got.

There was also the matter of his blood, and the increasing unease that came with it. She didn't like being in his debt, but somehow the assassin's words still haunted her. Either master or slave. She wanted to believe it wasn't true, but she'd never heard of a vampire having an equal relationship with a mortal. One of them always held the power, and right now she was worried that it was Velandryn. However, this too would have to wait until they'd reached the Greybeards. I gave my word, after all. For the moment, Serana was left with basically nothing to do.

Not wanting to mope around Dragonsreach alone, she spent most of that evening out of the keep, walking around Whiterun. She doubted Velandryn would even notice she was gone. When she'd left him, the wizard had been asking questions about how his experience as Dragonborn had changed while Velandryn read Dragon Guard reports and tried to steer the topic toward transportation magic.

Walking down the hill, Serana almost wanted to shake her head. It will never work. She knew Velandryn was convinced that they only needed proper preparation, but he was used to significant magical infrastructure. Not to mention, you're up against the Weight of Creation. She realized they might not even call it that anymore, but the principle should be the same. Unless they wanted to go and lay out an array at their destination, it simply violated too many fundamental principles of the world. It can be done, of course. Anything can be done. It just can't be done well.

She passed the priest of Talos, ranting about something or other. This whole business with the Ninth Divine worried her each time she thought about it. The Divines as a whole still seemed an odd bastardization of various faiths, but there was so much vitriol around Talos that it put her on edge. Everyone in Skyrim either had an opinion on Talos or made a great show of not having one, which amounted to the same thing. Usually wars over religion were actually about something else, and this time it seemed to be the Empire.

Serana had never considered herself much of a statesman, save for what she'd picked up by living in her father's hall. However, she'd always had a basic level of understanding about the state of the world. Now, so many things that others took for granted were revelations to her. Velandryn answered her questions readily enough, but the number of mysteries she let pass her by far outweighed the ones she had the mental energy to investigate. As a result, she understood only the broadest strokes of the state of Tamriel. Once I get Skyrim figured out, I can work on the rest. Elsweyr, for instance, caught her fancy every time she heard about it. Plains of sand, and forests so thick you couldn't see the sky. Cats of a hundred kinds, each as clever as any man or mer.

She walked as she thought, but stopped when she came to a longhall whose roof was unmistakably styled after a longship. And not just any longship. She recognized that style, down to the bulges on the sides. An Atmoran raider! She'd been born long after the great waves of migrants from the frozen continent arrived, but the distinctive style of their vessels had endured. And now I find it here.

Someone had noticed her watching. A woman in armor, short enough that she probably wasn't a full-blooded Nord, smiled and walked over. "Do you need the Companions for something, friend? You can come in and ask if you've a job that needs doing."

"Thank you, but I was just passing by." Still, she did have questions. "The Companions, you say. Did you name yourselves for the Five Hundred?" That would make sense, given the longship.

"You haven't heard of us? We're the most famous warrior band in Skyrim! Have you been living with the horkers?" The woman seemed genuinely offended.

Serana wanted to laugh, but managed to hold back. "I didn't mean to offend." She looked at the longship. "You did a good job getting the details right."

"That's Jorrvaskr, our mead hall! Made of Atmoran wood from the very ship that Jeek of the River carried across Skyrim!"

Wait. Serana had heard this before. "Jeek mu'ka Rivvna? Of the Companions of Ysgramor?" They hadn't just named themselves after the Five Hundred, they'd been founded by them. "You weren't joking about being famous!"

"I know!" The woman fairly bubbled with excitement. "It's incredible, like something out of a song. Come on, I can show you around!"

Serana, however, had no desire to enter that hall. Something about the building felt…off. As if there was some smell, just beyond her senses. She only shook her head, and was on her way.

She immersed herself in Whiterun again. The people swept by her, and she by them. Two Redguards, arguing about a lost sword. A woman in fine clothes, flanked by four soldiers wearing green and red. Two children, darting between legs and slashing at each other with wooden swords. A priestess of some Divine—Kyne, perhaps?—engaged in a spirited debate with a bearded man in golden robes. As she passed, the woman said something about "…the vital essence of the Gildergreen…"

It was overwhelming, but also exhilarating. Here, she was one more face in the crowd, someone who didn't have to be anyone special. She was just here, and that was all that mattered.

A snippet of music caught her ear, and she turned, looking for the source. She saw a tall building that seemed to be the source, and headed towards it. Seems I can't stay away.

It was three levels, each smaller than the one below, with a sign bearing the words Roaring Horker above the door. She ducked inside, relaxing as she got indoors. Even on cloudy days, she couldn't be fully comfortable with the sun overhead.

Inside, it was clearly some sort of tavern. There was a single enormous room, three floors high, with galleries on each floor. Craning her neck, Serana could see people sitting and eating. The smell of food led her gaze to a door in the back that looked like it opened to the kitchen. A stage dominated the center of the room, with a trio of Nords performing there. One of them held a lute, while another had a flute and the third banged a drum. It was they who were making the music, and the woman with the lute who was singing.

"It's an end to the evil of all Skyrim's foes, you'll know oh you'll know when the Dragonborn comes!"

This song was catching fire across Skyrim, it seemed. Everyone wants a part in the legend of the Dragonborn. It was odd, hearing something from her own time, updated and sung in a language that had barely existed when the song was written. But, it still seems right. The Dragonborn was something out of legend, so his song should be as well.

What does that make me? The Dragonborn's companion, perhaps, or an associate of sorts. What was not in question was that she had inexorably been swept up into his quest, her own concerns going by the wayside as Velandryn pressed onward.

The odd thing was, she couldn't figure out if that bothered her or not. The fact that her father's Scroll was gone meant that the plans of the Volkihar were hampered, but they were still out there, planning to somehow darken the sun. If that's even possible. It sounded mad, but then so too did the return of the Dragons.

She found herself sitting down at a small table tucked away in one corner. Just for a moment. She might have tried her hand at being a bard, once. I did love to play.

"A beautiful woman shouldn't sit alone." She turned to see a man smiling down at her. He wasn't unattractive himself, though she had no intention of pursuing any sort of dalliance with some random Nord. Besides, he'd run screaming if he knew what I really was. He reached out a hand to the chair across from her. "May I?"

She nodded. It was nice to be noticed, she supposed, and it had been a long time since anyone had complimented her beauty. Other than some of Father's underlings, seeking to curry favor. Besides, it wasn't as though she had anywhere else to be.

The man gestured at the musicians. "How are you liking the music? I find a rousing song sets a fire in my belly."

She thought about the lyrics as she listened. "Maybe a little too optimistic, but appropriate. The Dragonborn has come." She listened for a moment more. "I'm not sure that evil has ended, though." Doubtless Velandryn would have some thoughts on that.

The man chuckled. "They're alright, if you've never heard better. I myself studied at the Bard's College, in Solitude." He inclined his head. "Mikael, Bard of Skyrim and singer of songs, at your service!" He reached across the table for her hand. "And might I know who I have the honor of addressing?"

HIs fingers brushed hers, and the touch set a wave of nausea rising in her stomach. She felt her vision swim, and her head grew light. He moved his hand as though he meant to caress hers, but she recoiled far faster than any mortal could emulate. "I'm sorry." She stood, nearly stumbling as she did so. "I have to go."

She heard him say something in protest, but she'd already ducked out the door. What's wrong with me? Nothing would have happened; the man's flirtations had seemed good-natured, not to mention she was more than capable of defending herself. So why am I running?

It wasn't just the touch. She'd been far closer with Velandryn time and again, and not felt this. Was it the intimacy? Nothing had happened, but his aim had been clear. To get closer. Which could only lead to one place. Iron, cold on skin. Stone, smooth. Flesh, warm. Pain, so sharp, like the screaming; BLOOD—

She turned, spinning in the street. No! She pulled her hood back in desperation, and the sudden pain of sunlight streaming onto her face brought her back to the here and now. The churning in her stomach was staying there, not rising into her throat. Her breaths were slowing, and as she blinked, she saw only the street before her.

The fit had passed. She stood there, attracting a few strange looks from passers-by, but unharmed. In place of panic came frustration, and an overwhelming feeling of helplessness. Why am I like this?

Evening was falling, and even looking to the west was painful. It had been a few days since she last fed, and even that short time was enough to make the setting sun a burning beacon that blinded her with pain if she so much as glanced in its direction. This is what I am. She couldn't go too long without remembering.

Well, it was what it was. She had made her choice, nodded when her father had asked, in somber tones, if she was willing to dedicate herself to Molag Bal. It was the reason she had so many gifts that lesser vampires lacked. A Daughter of Coldharbour. Her mother's name for the two of them. Mother and daughter, bound to Molag Bal.

She was heading up the hill again, towards the hall where everyone whispered about her. And yet it's the one place I feel safe in this city. Not for the walls or the guards or great dragon's skull hanging over the throne, but because of one person.

One infuriating elf.

Velandryn stroked his chin, where he could once more feel the beginnings of a beard. I'll need to shave again soon. It had nearly two weeks since Solitude, and soon others would be able to see his stubble as well. "Try it now."

Farengar gestured over the urn, which rose gently into the air. Below it, the array they'd been working on for the past day glowed gently, anchored by four soul gems. The urn blinked out of existence, then reappeared over a painted white circle on the stones at the far end of the room.

Unfortunately, it looked to be spinning in three different directions, none of which were compatible with one another. It wobbled, then cracked, and finally split apart. With a snap that echoed off the walls, pieces of it bounced off of the ceiling, floor and far wall. Farengar gave a little grunt of irritation. "Jhunal, not again!"

Velandryn sighed. "What do you think? Stabilization or transposition?"

Farengar was muttering to himself now, flipping through one of his books. "The issue is the same. Unless we want to apply portal theory, the arrays we're using rely on a reception conduit. Without that…"

Velandryn stopped listening. This was the fourth time they'd gone over this ground. He picked up one of the books lying about, and flipped to the page where he'd stuck a bookmark.

'Aligned magicka, when passed through the Galerian-Lamr Array, forgoes previous attenuation in favor of alignment provided by adjacent structures.' Below that sat a diagram of said filter, with a trio of possible surrounding structures, and a list of their effects. With this, we might be able to stabilize the object on both ends.

"Farengar, what are your thoughts on integrating a space-locked hold until the object's location has finished altering?"

A few minutes later, they flanked a circle somewhat modified from their previous attempt. The pot this time was thick cast iron, which might get dented if their trial failed again but hopefully would not shatter.

Farengar nodded at Velandryn, who reached out with his magicka, felt the soul gems, and eked out the barest trickle of power. He touched the edge of the array, and it began to glow.

There was a hum, then a sharp crack as the pot exploded in all directions. Fortunately, the wards in the array held, and Velandryn sighed as he looked down at the pile of twisted metal shards.

"Ah yes, so perhaps next time we don't try and hold it in place while moving it." I really should have seen that coming.

"We've made little progress, Dragonborn." Farengar was making another note in the experiment's journal. "What we are attempting flies in the face of every rule I can find on the use of teleportation from within an array."

Velandryn was forced to agree. "It seems we won't be able to upend one of the Four Axioms in an afternoon."

"Actually, I was meaning to talk to you about that. I don't think that you should be using such an outdated—"

"I'm not arguing over Mysticism with you, friend." Velandryn hoped his good humor was coming through. "You can do as you like, but I went through the trouble of learning the Six Schools, so by Azura I'm keeping them!"

Farengar sighed. "As you will, Dragonborn." He closed the journal with a deliberate motion. "I am, however, prepared to say that you'll be walking to Ivarstead."

"As am I." Velandryn followed the Nord out of the chamber. And here I was hoping I could spare myself another two weeks of tramping across Skyrim. He'd seen the maps, and they only had two choices, neither of them good. The first was to approach Ivarstead from the north, which was not only longer but would send them through a region of Eastmarch that swung back and forth between Imperial and Stormcloak control. The other was to pass south through Riverwood and the ruins of Helgen, then brave mountain passes as winter fell upon them. He'd been captured on one of those roads, and Jarl Balgruuf had said that avalanches had closed Pale Pass and reduced the Legion presence to essentially nothing.

He pulled his mind from unpleasant options, and spared a thought for the poor woman he'd sent to Ivarstead to await his arrival. He had no doubt that Lydia would be furious when next they saw each other. He'd be a month late or more, and he hadn't thought to give them a means of communication. Better for security, but our little detours truly did spiral out of control.

Then, his mind swung to his other travelling companion, and the reason for his delay. I wonder what Serana's been up to today?

As he passed a window, he realized that the sun was getting low over the mountains to the west. He tapped Farengar on the shoulder, told him that he would be late for dinner, and turned down a hall he vaguely remembered from his last time in Dragonsreach. He climbed a narrow stairway, and emerged on a broad stone-tiled porch.

Overhead, an odd wooden contraption hung from the ceiling, perhaps some sort of shutter against inclement weather. Below the heavy beams and pulleys sat a patio of sorts, a massive hall whose western wall was missing, leaving it open to the sky. It rather gave the feeling of being in a man-made cave. Near the open edge was a long table, set with dishes and cups but no food. Velandryn wouldn't have enjoyed eating in so cold a place, but he could see how a Nord might find the view worth it.

Velandryn walked to the edge, feeling the wind wrap itself around him. He pulled on his magicka, warming his body, and looked out at the setting sun, just visible near the bulk of the keep. It was south of west this time of year, a grim reminder that winter would soon be upon them. Farther south still was the Throat of the World, where sat High Hrothgar, home of the Greybeards. Reach the mountain too late and the snow might close the path. Or, he could simply arrive at the temple, only to be stuck up there for the entire winter.

He sighed to himself. He'd come out here to watch the sunset and meditate on Azura, not bedevil himself with the problems he faced. He breathed in deeply, feeling the frigid air off the plains fill his lungs. I'll be back out there soon.

A sound from below caught his attention, and he looked over the edge. Someone was climbing the wall towards him, moving with a familiar grace and an equally familiar scroll case on her back.

Velandryn almost called out, but thought better of it as an idea came to him. With a cheery wave, he signaled the guards, and had them fall back to the inner door. He reached into a pocket, finding the bottle of sujamma the jarl had thoughtfully set aside for him upon his arrival. Then, he sat down at the table, poured two glasses, and waited.

Serana had chosen to climb a wall and enter Dragonsreach through the back porch precisely because she didn't want to have to deal with or answer to anyone right now. She had a lot on her mind, and the thought of standing there while a guard scrutinized her made her teeth hurt. So, of course, who should she run into but Velandryn Savani. I thought I smelled his blood.

The Dragonborn was seated at a long table, and waved cheerily when he saw her. "Enjoying the afternoon?"

A part of her wanted to be irritated at finding him here, but something inexplicable was warming her from the inside, and so she just smiled at him. "Well enough. Yourself?"

"As lovely as can be found in Skyrim. Come, sit!" He waved at the table.

Serana would have loved seeing the sun's descent, but knew full well that all she would see was blinding light and pain. Instead, she seated herself across from Velandryn, wincing at how strong the scent of his blood was this evening. Among other things. "Direct sunlight is...not great for me."

Velandryn's eyes widened slightly, but they also lightened, a sure tell that he was genuinely surprised. "My apologies. I'd completely forgotten." He even sounded as though he meant it, which was a minor wonder in itself. They were getting along well, but he was keenly—and obviously—aware of her vampirism at all times. He shook his head. "Here. Something to take the edge off after a long day." He paused. "I'm just assuming yours was as frustrating as mine."

Serana chuckled. "So, we're walking to Ivarstead?" She didn't move to take the cup; alcohol did little for her, and she only ever drank to be polite in mixed company. With Velandryn, she felt no such need for pretense. And he knows that. He must have had a lot on his mind to have forgotten.

With a muttered oath, Velandryn took a long drink from his cup. "Looks like. Without a destination array, it's useless." He pointed at her. "Drink. It's a good vintage."

She snorted. "I doubt anything you're drinking is going to quench my thirst." She could see the guards, standing far away but still within line of sight, and so left the rest unsaid.

Velandryn laughed. "I'm drinking a mediocre sujamma. You, on the other hand, have perhaps the rarest vintage in Tamriel."

Her eyes widened as she realized what he meant. She'd grown so used to the smell of his blood that its unusual strength right now had hardly even registered. She pulled the cup towards her, careful not to let it spill, and looked in.

"— for over forty years, kept safe in the temples of Baan Malur and tempered by the bitter frosts of Skyrim—"

She waved a hand at him to shut up—he really does think he's much too clever—and raised the glass. The scent of his blood washed over her, and she drank as slowly as her thirst would allow. Once more, she tasted hot iron and felt heat rush into her. The only fire I'll ever touch again. And, as ever, the fear of how good she felt.

Another chain, this one binding me to Velandryn Savani. But there was nothing to be done about it. She had forsaken her people and her god, and in their place she had a single friend, whose very blood had the ability to drive her to distraction. Not the best situation. Still, though, it was what it was. And Velandryn had, thus far, not made any move to leverage his blood against her. So, she finished the cup, and resolved to worry about the future when it came.

When she opened her eyes, Velandryn was looking at her, his expression inscrutable. "Can I help you, Dragonborn?"

He shook his head. "Not with this one."

She sighed. He'd been like this for days, with these lapses into silence and brooding. "Whatever it is that's bothering you, out with it!"

Velandryn didn't speak for a long moment, then leaned back and put his hands over his eyes. "It's not a single thing, not really." His hair hung loose around his face, and he absentmindedly ran his hands through it as he drew it back behind his head. He tied it loosely with a length of ragged cord, clearly thinking hard all the while. "I would call it... a malaise, I suppose. Like something is wrong, out of place, inside me." He tapped his chest. "I'll be laughing, or talking, and then," he snapped his fingers, "a pit opens in my gut. All I think about is what I've become. A Dragon, of all the mad things. As if it wasn't bad enough that I'm a Tongue on top of it."

Serana's breath caught in her throat at the look on his face. She was torn between wanting to laugh and knowing that would only damage the fragile relationship they'd built. "That's what it was? I thought you were wrestling with some dragon soul or the like!" In the months after her transformation, she too had been haunted by a sense of wrongness at what she had become. "Take it from me. You're not what you were, and that's not an easy thing to be." She shrugged. "You get used to it, eventually." For the most part.

The sunset behind her cast amber tones across his grey skin, highlighting the sharp bones beneath. "At least you had a choice." His voice was low, and she wasn't even sure that he knew he'd spoken.

Did I? From the moment she'd beheld the altar, she'd known how it would end. Was there a choice? "I like you, but I will thank you not to speak on matters which you do not understand." Even she was surprised by how cold her voice came out.

Velandryn's eyes flared, and his mouth tightened as he leaned forward with an intensity that took Serana aback. His mouth opened, but nothing came out. He paused, as if searching for a word, then pressed his lips together. He nodded, and sank back against his stone seat. His head leaned back, Velandryn Savani stared above and behind her, at the sky she couldn't see. He said nothing.

A part of Serana wanted to apologize, though she had done nothing wrong. They had reached an uneasy peace about her vampirism, but now, it felt newly fragile. He'd said something foolish. But so did I. She hadn't needed to tell him they were alike, perhaps that was—

"I'm sorry." If Velandryn's voice had been low before, now it was almost a whisper. "I didn't mean to hurt you."

She looked up. Velandryn's gaze had come back down to her once more. She smiled, as much as she could given what she was feeling. "So am I. I don't know what you're going through, not really."

He gave one of his sharp barks of laughter. "I don't know about that. As much as anyone can, I guess."

She thought on that for a moment, then nodded. "Just, about how I became…what I am…I…I don't—"

Velandryn raised a hand. "I shouldn't have assumed. Whatever happened, it's in the past."

It wasn't, though. Not for me. Time was a funny thing. It had been four thousand years, but inside her it happened over and over. It's always now. Still, she nodded and smiled. "Thank you."

Velandryn didn't look fully pleased, however. His eyes were darker than normal, which couldn't be good. "How do we avoid this, Serana?"

That got her attention. He rarely used her name when they were alone together. "Avoid what?"

"This…anger, this discomfort." He pressed a hand against his eyes. "Right now, I feel as though I'm about to drive you away, that you'll go off and pursue your own quest."

"No!" The thought was almost painful, though she couldn't quite pinpoint why. She laughed a little, though, again, there was nothing really funny about the thought. "If you want to drive me off, you'll have to do a lot better than saying one slightly insensitive thing."

Velandryn nodded. "Somehow, it's easier to pour you a cup of my blood than it is to think about who you really are." He sighed. "I'm sorry. You deserve a better friend than me."

She gaped at him. "You…you…" words failed her. Is this what he thinks? She wanted to grab him by the scruff of the neck and shake him for being a damned fool, but that would only do more harm. "You think that bothers me?"

His eyes held something she hadn't seen before, a sort of pain that even she didn't recognize. "There are maybe four people in Skyrim that I value, and you top the list. I keep hurting you, and I don't know how to stop."

She opened her mouth, ready to tell him off for this maudlin nonsense he was spouting, but Velandryn held up a hand. "I've seen how you act around me. They trained us to read body language at the Temple, you know. Just now, drinking my blood almost made you ill."

Serana looked up, alarmed, but the guards were far away. Plus, Velandryn was speaking quietly enough that anyone besides her would have had a very hard time hearing him. Still, she cast her spell of silence, just in case. Then, she realized what it was he'd said. Oh, you poor, sweet fool! "It's not that."

"What?"

"The reason I've been reticent around your blood. It's nothing you've done." She didn't want to share this with him. She didn't want to share it with anyone. But maybe she'd be able to find some peace if he knew. And after what he's said, I don't think he'd use it against me.

She took a deep breath. Even though she'd resolved to say it, the words wouldn't come out. I do this, it goes from just being my problem to something. He would know everything. And what else would it mean? He'd offered her his blood while they were traveling together, but if he knew the full extent of it…. How long before he refuses?

Still, she'd made up her mind. Her stomach was roiling, and something in her that thought it was still human wanted to vomit. "It's not you." Nothing for it but to say it. "Your blood is too much. Too powerful. I think...I don't think I can stop."

Velandryn's eyes were full of confusion as he leaned forward, but Serana knew she couldn't stop talking now. "It's...the dragon blood, I think. It's more potent than anything else I've ever known." She closed her eyes for a moment. You're telling it all. Keep going! "I can tell where you are by the scent of your blood alone. Ever since I first drank, I've been able to close my eyes, stopper my ears, and still point at you if you're within a thousand paces." Further if the wind is right. "I'm not angry with you, Velandryn, I'm terrified. I don't want to drink anyone else's blood anymore, and it isn't just because I don't want to hurt them!" She knew she'd lost her composure, but she didn't know what else to do. "I abandoned everyone in my life to have the right to choose my own path, and now I'm like a starving beast if I go two days without drinking your blood! I don't want to be bound by anyone, but I can feel it happening! I want to travel with you, but I can't put my fate in another's hands again!" All the fear that she'd been holding back rushed forth, the thoughts of what could happen should the worst come to pass.

With horror, Serana realized she was on the verge of tears. She squeezed her eyes shut, took a deep breath, and swallowed several times. When she looked, Velandryn's eyes were on her, dark but clear and full of concern.

"This is why you've been upset." His words were, as they'd been all evening, quiet. "I wish I had some words of wisdom or kindness to offer, but I don't have much experience with this one, and I don't recall the Temple covering it either."

She laughed a little. He wasn't angry. In fact, he wasn't showing much emotion at all. "Is that all? I tell you that a vampire is hungering for your blood, and you make a joke?"

Velandryn gave a slow shrug. "I've known what you were since the moment you woke up. I've long since made peace with that fact." Sitting back, he sipped from his own drink. "I've seen you tear through people like they were made of paper, and wrest yourself back from a bloody frenzy. I might be able to stop you, but I'm not naïve enough to believe I would live through the attempt." A smile, deep in his eyes. "I've been trusting you since you came back from Castle Volkihar. Why should that change?"

He means it. She felt a twisting in her gut. He trusts me. Knowing full well what she was, he had chosen to believe her, and travel with her. "You mean that? If I left, you'd let me go? Trust me to do the right thing?"

"I'd worry." Velandryn did not sound overly concerned. "I rather like having you around, and you're more fun to tease than Lydia." The warmth in his eyes sparked something in Serana's heart. "Besides, you're far too virtuous for your own good. A vampire could get in trouble, being a good person in Skyrim."

"Oh, don't worry. You're stuck with me." Serana found herself smiling. "We had a deal, and besides, I worry about what you'd get up to if left to your own devices."

"A damn sight less trouble, for one." Velandryn stretched his arms above his head, giving a grunt as something popped in his back. "Ancestors, but I've been too still today." He shook his head. "Skyrim's ruined me. One day studying teleportation, and I'm already getting restless."

"Did you actually figure anything out, or just find ways to not get us where we need to go?"

He failed to dignify that with even the smallest chuckle, which she felt was a bit unfair. "Regrettably, no. We'll reach Ivarstead later rather than sooner." He tossed a journal across the table to her. "Take a look. Is there any vampire spell or First Era trick you can think of that'll substitute for a target array?"

Serana glanced over the pages of circles, magicka diagrams, and writing in three different languages. Not for the first time, she marveled at the fact that the Imperial tongue came so easily to her in both its written and spoken forms. Whether because of her mother's skill with the array that held her or the Elder Scroll, it came to her as easily as the language they now called Ancient Nordic. With her somewhat limited knowledge of Daedric, and given Dunmeris' similarities to Aldmeris, she could get a pretty good idea of what approaches Velandryn had tried. The actual sketchwork was unfamiliar to her, pulling as it did from traditions she'd never seen, but she only needed the broad strokes to know what Velandryn was thinking.

"I don't think any of these will work." She closed the book and slid it back across the table. "Sorry. Couldn't be done then, and it looks like it still can't be done now. I think you'd need a portal."

"And I doubt there's five people in Skyrim who can just go conjuring those in this day and age." Velandryn's words were tinged with fatalistic regret, and Serana found herself nodding. Even in her time, it had been exceedingly rare to find a mage with the power to open a gateway through space. She'd certainly never met one.

Then, as she sat there, a thought came to her. "Maybe there is another way." She grabbed the journal, and flipped through until she found the page she was after. "This array. Does it work?"

Velandryn rose and moved to stand behind her. He looked down over her shoulder, and she saw him nod out of the corner of her eye. "Yes, but that one was designed to be a target. We were trying-"

"Yeah, I can see. Long-range array projection." It was a novel idea, if impractical. She ran a finger over the lines, thinking. "Strip out the runic stabilizers, since you won't be projecting it from another point, and that's a very simple array." She paused for effect, enjoying the slight tension as Velandryn leaned over her, ever so slightly. "Simple enough to draw freehand. In a cave, or a mountainside."

Nothing. Velandryn stood there, head cocked slightly to one side. "Correct. But there's still the operative problem of distance."

Oh. Of course he didn't realize, because she hadn't given him all the pieces. "You know I'm fast, right?"

He had moved back around to the other side of the table, and now just stared at her. "Obviously."

Serana sighed. "I'm really fast. In battle, I'm thinking about a dozen different things, and trying to do precise movement. Give me an open plain, enough blood, and a night to run, and," she shrugged, "I can have an array drawn halfway to Ivarstead by morning."

Now she got the reaction she'd been looking for. It was subtle, but Velandryn's jaw might as well have dropped open. "It's over four hundred miles!" Then, he visibly caught himself. "No, that's roads. But still, even if you were flying, it's at least two, three hundred easily, and I don't think you can go over the Monahven."

"The what?"

Velandryn blinked. "The Throat of the World. I think even you would have to go around."

"Again, I'm telling you that you've never seen me at my fastest. My mother and I got from Castle Volkihar to Dimhollow Crypt in the span of two nights, and we waited until it was full dark to leave."

Velandryn stood without a word, gesturing for her to follow him. He led her into Dragonsreach, away from the sunset and the encroaching night, and to a part of the keep she'd never been. He took her to a nondescript door, but one that had a soldier in the armor of the jarl's guard standing in front of it.

The man was staring into nothing, but jerked out his stupor as they drew near. He watched them approach, and when Velandryn stopped before him, drew himself up to an impressive height. "This room is-"

"I am the Dragonborn, Velandryn Savani, Thane of Whiterun." The man's mouth went slack at Velandryn's words, but the Dragonborn continued, unheeding. "Do I need to go find Irileth, or will you let me pass?" At that moment, though the Nord overtook Velandryn by what had to be almost a full foot, there was no question who dominated the space.

The soldier saluted, panic stamped across his face. "Kyne keep you, Dragonborn!" He got out of their way and stood against the far wall, making a valiant effort to look as though he hadn't just challenged a thane of the hold. Must be new. Most of the guards –the ones inside the keep, at least—seemed to know him by sight.

Velandryn, for his part, ignored the guard. He gestured at Serana. "Come on." Silently, she followed.

Inside, they found a map of Skyrim laid across a table. Red and blue flags of varying size dotted the province, along with a number of yellow ones around Whiterun Hold. The walls were covered in shelves, many of which seemed to hold more maps, rolled tightly and labeled with dates and locations. Serana was seized by a sudden urge to go start opening them up and seeing what each one held.

Velandryn tapped one finger near the center of the table. "Whiterun." He drew it over nearly a quarter of the length of the paper, to a small house inked at the foot of a massive mountain. "Ivarstead." he looked at her, and raised a single eyebrow, a gesture she'd never before seen from him. "You can do this?"

She looked down at the map. Slowly, she reached out and from her father's castle to Solitude, then down to Morthal and across the mountains. She thought of those two nights, of soaring through the air between each leap. Of the form—

—She would need to take the form. She'd only ever done it for those two nights, at her mother's insistence. She'd hated it then, and the toll it had taken on her. They'd fallen upon a farmhouse, and—

We did what we needed to do. She would always remember their screams as her mother fell upon them, and the churning in her own belly as she'd fed. The last time I ever drank from a child. Pain beyond imagining, looking at their bodies lying cold and still on the floor of the hut.

But it had been enough. They'd reached Dimhollow, and with a speed impossible for any save the Vampire Lords.

And now I'm going to do it again. The thought held less terror for her than she'd thought it would. For a night. Nobody would see her do it. Nobody has to know. She wouldn't have to see it. And when it's done…

"I can do it, but I'll need blood. As much as you can give me."

Out of the corner of her eye, Serana saw Velandryn's mouth tighten by the slightest amount, then relax. He was still for a moment, then nodded. "Of course." By the way he was holding himself, it almost appeared he wanted to say something more, but then he shook his head. "Once you find a place to do it, how accurately can you draw the array? I don't want to come out missing half my limbs."

The book made it look simple enough, but Serana knew better than to trust in that. "I should be okay." She raised her hand, looked at the image, visualized the lines, the flow of magicka, then pushed.

On the floor of the chamber, the array sprang into being, shimmering faintly. Serana nodded, satisfied. "There we go."

"You cast it." Velandryn's voice contained something odd, a note of what sounded like disbelief. "You cast a teleportation array." She turned to see his eyes boring into her. "Who are you?"

"Of course I cast it. Much easier than drawing it." It would have taken too long to not only draw it on the ground, but then make sure everything was correct. It was far simpler to cast it out of raw magicka. Even holding it in place was a small price to pay for the guaranteed precision. Make it in the mind, then in the world.

Velandryn was slowly shaking his head. "And, just for my own curiosity...did you call on your vampiric abilities in some way?"

"Of course, I just—oh." She'd used blood to enhance her focus and fine-tune her control. "Fair enough. Not everyone can do it." She studied Velandryn. If he'd become one of us, how powerful could he be? "I hope I'm not going to get a lecture about using vampire powers now."

A short laugh. "I try to avoid hypocrisy where I can." He took the journal, pulled a sheet of blank paper from the table, and began sketching the circle. "Let's get you a copy, some sort of signaling mechanism, maybe a confirmation spell. You want a soul gem to sustain it?"

She demurred. The majority of power was going to be from the sending array. All hers needed to do was provide a location. After consulting with Farengar, they devised something that should do the trick, and left the mage to get the thing drawn in his workshop.

Velandryn closed the door to his rooms, and sighed. "I'd like a day or two to check everything out. Do you want to leave tomorrow evening?"

"I was going to leave now, actually." The night had barely started, and the longer she had to make the trek, the less she'd need to call upon...that. She wouldn't give it another day, though. I know what Velandryn meant, feeling stuck here.

"It's a few hours past dark. I know you're fast, but Whiterun Plain is huge, and I'm not sure you want to be caught there by the sunrise.

She recalled the map. "I'll be fine." She looked up at him. "If I send the signal around sunrise, will you be ready?"

Velandryn hesitated. "The sending portal is complex, and needs about four Grand-tier soul gems to power it. I'm not sure we can scribe it on the move. I should probably just travel to you once you're near Ivarstead."

Serana shook her head. "I'm going to be pulling deep for this." She winced as she spoke the next words. "I'll need blood after, and probably the next night before I leave." The Dragonborn's blood was potent, but the bestial form granted to pure-bloods and those they favored required a momentous amount to sustain. "I can't afford to lose control, so I need you nearby."

Velandryn said nothing. Each moment of silence was another bit of ice in her belly. What if he says no? She was essentially asking him to serve as her blood thrall.

"On the mountain, you said that blood restored by magic loses its potency." His voice wasn't angry, just distant.

"Yeah, I'm not saying it'll be delicious, but it should keep me going."

Another pause, so long that Serana began to worry. "Velandryn?"

"This is going to take a toll on you, isn't it?"

She nodded. "Yeah. It won't be easy, but it's the best way."

Velandryn sighed. "As you say. I'll look into potions of replenishment tonight as well. Might help dull the edge a bit."

She wasn't sure if he meant for him or for her. "Thank you." It didn't matter much.

"I'll have everything ready to go by morning." He was silent for a long moment. "You're certain you're okay with this?"

Whether he'd noticed her discomfort or was simply checking on her, she couldn't say. However, the very fact that he'd asked put a warm feeling in her belly.

"I'm good." She smiled at the thought. I'm not even lying. "But you'll owe me after this one."

Velandryn laughed. "I can live with that, though I think you'll be drinking enough of me that we should be calling it even. Now, let's get this done."

Arriving at Ivarstead was so uneventful that it felt like a letdown. They simply strolled into the town, Illia looking around with wide eyes. Were it not for the leviathan bulk of the Throat of the World dominating the western horizon, it could have been any of a dozen towns Lydia had seen in her life. One thing missing, however, was any sign of Velandryn Savani.

Ivarstead was barely larger than one of the farming hamlets that dotted the Whiterun plains, though a number of decaying structures indicated that it must once have boasted a more respectable population. As it was, Lydia could not only see where the Riften road entered the town, but turn halfway about and also see where it left. The Greybeards aren't what they once were.

A single inn, whose sign named it the Vilemyr, looked to be the only accommodation the town offered. It, like everything here, seemed a bit shabby, but when Lydia opened the door it was warm and clean within. The innkeeper Wilhelm hadn't seen hide nor hair of any Dark Elves, but offered Lydia and Illia beds for the night. He glanced upwards as he spoke, and drew his hand over his chest in a sickle-shaped mark of reverence. "Kyne keep us, but wind's been something fierce off the Throat of late."

Lydia accepted his offer and handed over a few coins, but Illia demurred. Lydia offered to pay, but the young witch took Lydia's hand in both of hers, face very serious. "Thank you for everything you've done for me, but I have to keep moving. Find a way to use my powers the way I should be. Make people's lives better."

Lydia found herself smiling. "Then you've chosen a good path. Kyne keep you, Illia."

"And you, Lydia." The young witch gave her a quick hug, and then was gone.

She'd been a fine traveling companion, and Lydia suddenly felt a little lonely without anyone by her side. She went to the counter to order some dinner, and asked if there was anywhere else in town Velandryn might possibly be staying. Wilhelm pulled a bowl of soup and a mix of grilled vegetables together, but couldn't think of anywhere else a traveler might stay. "You could ask Temba, perhaps. Her mill overlooks the road down to Eastmarch, so she'd see anyone who came in." He placed a thick slice of bread in front of her, and rubbed his hands together over a brazier. "Don't get many visitors this way, though, 'cept for the ones going to see the Greybeards. And not many of them these days, what with the war and all." He looked up as the door opened, and his face brightened. "Lynly! Come to play for us?"

Lydia turned, and tried not to stare. A woman stood there, cradling a lute and smiling sheepishly. "Only if you don't mind the noise." Her voice had a musical quality about it, though her words had something of a Riften accent. Her hair was the color of wheat ripe for the harvest, and framed her face wonderfully. Gods, woman, stop staring!

Lynly noticed Lydia's gaze, and her smile vanished in an instant. She swallowed, looked down, and then met Lydia's eyes again. It had all happened so quickly that the housecarl could almost think she'd imagined the whole thing.

Then she came over to Lydia's table, smiling again. "A traveler? We don't see many of you these days. What brings you to Ivarstead?"

Lydia swallowed her mouthful of food, hoping she wasn't blushing. Mother Mara! It had been far too long since she'd done anything but look at another woman, but this wasn't the time for such thoughts. "I'm meeting a…friend of mine here. A Dark Elf, named Velandryn Savani. Have you seen him?"

Lynly shook her head, setting that beautiful hair to waving. "Sorry, not seen a soul. And I was helping Fastred all day, so I'd reckon we'd have seen anyone on the road."

Fastred. The name rang a bell. Mara's priestess. Lydia unhooked the Amulet of Mara from where it sat on her belt, placing it on the table and running her fingers idly over its surface. "Well, I suppose I'll wait here, then."

Lynly said nothing, and Lydia looked up to see the bard glancing away, tears unshed in her eyes. Lydia rose, trying to apologize for whatever offense she'd caused, but Lynly just shook her head. "It's nothing, really! Just…it's nothing."

It didn't take a genius to figure out a few reasons why a young woman might be upset by the sight of Mara's amulet, so Lydia said nothing more. She did, however, resolve to keep an eye out for any way to cheer the bard up. That, and dealing with whatever nonsense Fastred is tangling with. Maybe the two of them were in love, and couldn't be together. Or it's a triangle, or one of them loves someone else, or…

At least she wouldn't be bored waiting for her thane to arrive.

Serana checked her small bag of supplies, smiling with what she hoped was reassurance. "I'll see you in the morning, Velandryn."

"El'tei dirn a bresseth kuin." Classical Aldmeris. The sun shall not shine until I see you again.

She laughed. "I should be so lucky." She stood there for a moment longer, almost wanting to do more. To signal in some way how important it was, what they had. The only friend I've got.

They stood perhaps three steps apart, close enough that, if either of them wanted, they could be upon the other in a moment. I need his blood. And yet, he'd made no motion. Has he forgotten? It was always Velandryn who made the offer, now that they'd fallen into their little routine. Or is this a test? It would be a step back in their relationship, but not entirely out of character for him to wait for her to make the first move. See how desperate she was.

Still, she needed that blood. He was facing away from her, doing something on the table. She cleared her throat, the smallest sound she could make.

He turned, cup in his hand. The other glowed faintly with the residue of healing magic. "Did you say something?"

Serana blinked away something that had gotten in her eye. "Not a thing." That wasn't exactly a lie, but now she seemed to be having a bit of trouble breathing normally. What's wrong with me? Maybe it had something to do with drinking his blood.

She took the cup, inhaling deeply to clear her head. There we go. The scent of the blood became her sole point of focus. When she had finished, she somehow paradoxically felt depleted. And I'm still not full.

Perhaps it was because of what she was going to do tonight, but she felt as though she needed more. But I can't ask for that. Although, if there was any time where it would be acceptable...

Hating herself as she did so, she held out the cup again. "Any chance I could get a little more? I'm going to be doing a lot tonight, and I'd rather not run dry."

Velandryn took the cup again. "It'll likely be weaker this time, since I just healed. Apologies."

His worry was touching, but Serana cared not at all. The potency was such that the slight decrease in this cup still made the liquid far superior to any other mortal's she'd ever tasted. When she finished it, she could easily have downed a third, but she figured there was a limit to how much she could ask.

They fell silent then, the moment companionable if not totally comfortable. Serana wanted to believe she was just imagining it, but somehow she knew that Velandryn was on edge. And I can't blame him. This whole thing felt as though it could collapse in a moment.

Then, wanting desperately to say something, anything, to make him understand, she turned. As if in a dream, she made him promise to be ready at sunrise, and picked up her pack. She opened the door, walked out into the hall, and headed for the porch where she'd come in before, all the while fighting the urge to turn around and go back into the room. I don't know what I would say, though.

When she emerged into the night, it was to find three people already there. The two guards, as she'd expected, but also a Dunmer who fairly radiated disapproval. Irileth waved at the guards. "The two of you are dismissed." They bowed and headed inside. She turned to regard Serana. "This had better work, vampire."

"Your court wizard, your thane, and I all found it suitable." Serana checked the night wind. Cool, under a cloudless sky. The moons are approaching new. That was good. She didn't want to have to worry about being seen.

"Savani thinks he's twice as smart as he is, Farengar's convinced that the Dragonborn has the wisdom of the ancients, and you're a vampire who came back instead of one of my favorite guards. If this actually bears fruit, then I might consider trusting you three the next time you cook up something like this."

Serana studied the city and the plains. I could probably make it out of the city just by going along the walls. Most mortals wouldn't make a twenty-foot drop, which gave her the edge. The Housecarl's words registered then, and she sighed. "Well, if it doesn't, at least one of us probably won't be your problem ever again. Silver linings, right?"

Irileth's glare was significantly less enjoyable than Velandryn's. In hindsight, maybe tamp down the joking with this one. "Believe me, vampire, if anything happens to Thane Savani, you'd best pray I find you before Lydia does."

Serana grunted, not much liking the thought of that. Then, she realized what was really going on here. "There's really no cause for worry. We have safeguards and a complete rejection pathway. Anything goes wrong, Velandryn just gets to Ivarstead the slow way." She hesitated. "I won't let anything happen to him." She tried for a smile. "I know I'm not your favorite person, but I promise that I'll keep him safe. After we meet up with Lydia, he'll be the best-guarded elf in Skyrim."

Irileth didn't smile, but her nod was slow and thoughtful. "Good. Whiterun needs him, and we need him trained." She studied Serana, eyes inscrutable. "Since you claim to be such a virtuous soul, see if you can't keep him from gallivanting off this time, hmm?"

Serana had to laugh at that. "We'll see."

Another nod, and to Serana's shock, Irileth actually held out her hand. Serana remembered the inn earlier, but clasped the housecarl's arm in the old Nord way nonetheless. The touch brought nothing but the feel of rough skin and firm muscle beneath. Irileth's grip was firm. "Travel well, vampire."

"May the Ladies watch this hall, and keep you well in their names." She doubted the Imperials kept to the old ways, but that was a strong blessing. Even if I have a different god now.

With the housecarl watching, she leapt from the edge of Dragonsreach, landing as lightly as she could atop the wall below. She ran along its length until she reached a portion where the stones had begun to crumble, and jumped out again. She landed on a shadowed patch of earth, where the backs of a half-dozen houses formed a secluded square. She looked around for a moment, then got her bearings and leapt once more.

Back on the walls, though this was the lower wall that enclosed the city proper and separated it from the markets below. She passed a guard doing his patrols; he gaped as she passed. A railed platform lined with torches rose ahead, she planted a foot on the planks and pushed off and out, calling on her blood. If anyone looked up, they would see her. As she called the blood, she could not bring herself to care.

Landing on a rooftop—wood, not thatch—her next jump was to an empty balcony. From there, it was only one more leap, and she touched down into soft soil just beyond a wooden stable. The earth smelled of beasts and hay, and the air around her was pregnant with the thousand scents of the unwashed masses of the Whiterun Markets.

Before her were still more buildings and camps, but they had begun to spread out. Whiterun did not truly begin or end so much as it dissipated into nothingness, but she had enough room to run without worrying about knocking anyone over. People might see, though out here none were straying far from their fires, and most looked to have already tucked themselves away for the night.

Less than ten minutes later, she found herself alone enough that she began looking for a place to transform. She headed south from the road, where her sharp vision in the dark picked out an alcove by a stream. She ducked into it, and began stripping off her armor. She folded it neatly into her pack, and pulled out a rather shapeless garment she'd found in the basements. Her transformation would shred anything else, and this way she wouldn't have to be naked when she turned back. She laced up the pack, then checked each knot. Wouldn't do to have it come undone.

It churned.

She reached down, into herself, below every thought and desire she acknowledged. It was always down there, waiting for her.

So hungry.

She fed it then. Fed it her attention, her intent. Fed it herself, all that she was. Set me free!

Serana's skin did not tear, but pain lanced along her arms and legs as they deformed. Her back buckled as wings sprouted forth. She could feel her face changing, the bones and muscles twisting and writhing in grotesque mockeries of emotion.

And then, she was done. Serana, but not her. A passenger in her own flesh. Panting, rising, Serana beheld herself in the water that flowed past.

It was as she remembered. Everything human about her form, subsumed by the monster whose flesh she now inhabited. Every inch of it, a foul marriage of her own features and that of the creature that had violated her upon the altar that night. Ultimate power, in the name of Molag Bal.

The memories were upon her again, but she forced them down with a fury born of desperation. If she lost herself here, she might never wake up. She could feel Velandryn's blood within her, and she pulled on it desperately, using it to counterbalance the fear and pain rising within her.

This is what I am. The thought came unbidden, and she forced it back down. This...thing...was a part of her, but not her. It isn't!

The pack was picked up, and tied around the waist. The form's strength was such that the weight utterly failed to register. A Volkihar stood there, and stretched. Wings extended to their full width, and hands with their long-taloned fingers reached for the sky. How foul.

She thought of Ivarstead, and the form began to run. Each step moving forward and up, where wings caught the air to glide back down at the speed and direction of her choosing. As she fell into her rhythm and every motion accelerated, it all smoothed into a blur of motion. She watched the ground move below, and the stars shine above.

The plains were not empty. When a farmhouse drew near, a mighty leap cleared it without a hint to those within. When soldiers drew up on the road, it was the work of a moment to avoid them. Each time, hunger rose within. I could feed. When that happened, she felt the dragon's blood—Velandryn's blood—deep within, and focused on its warmth until the urge faded.

Time was an odd thing, passing at it pleased. Sometimes Serana was excruciatingly aware of each moment burning away, and urged still more speed out of the flesh and bone of the Lord's Form. Others, she would realize she was far from when last she'd noticed her surroundings, or spend what seemed like an hour lost in her perpetual turmoil only to realize the whole thing had happened in the span of a single stride. Still, the land passed with speed greater than any horse, perhaps faster even than a dragon could achieve. The Master's gifts.

But the gifts of Molag Bal were bitter things, and the hunger was never far. The battle was omnipresent, the urge to break off and feed to her heart's content. But she persevered, and the great body bounded onward.

Sometimes, those on the roads glanced upwards, doubtless feeling the passing of some presence at massive speed. She wondered if they thought it was a dragon. I would, if I didn't know better. And were it not her controlling this beast, they would be in far more danger than any dragon could threaten. The worst they can do is kill you.

The Throat of the World was close now, its peak easily obscuring most of the southern sky. Her path took her into its foothills, where the rough terrain posed little problem. In truth, the peaks meant that it was easier to leap from one to the other. She was pushing the capabilities of this form farther than she ever had before, clearing entire valleys in a single leap.

The plains of Whiterun had been swallowed by forests and ridges, and the lights she saw now were from military camps rather than farmhouses or hamlets. What villages she could see were meager things, a few pinpricks of light amongst the black that threatened to swallow them. Of the war, she saw only a few camps, and most had Stormcloak banners and warriors sitting around their tents. To the north, once, there was a fortress that had red banners, and men in armor walking the walls. She gave all of them a wide berth, and pushed on.

To the south, something was rising, a wall of earth that only grew as it drew closer. She wrenched the body to a stop atop a crumbling stone structure set into a cliff, ignoring the faint pulse of some magical ritual far below. Snow crunched beneath a heavy foot, but rough skin grasped the slick stone beneath, and held firm. Eyes, sharper even than what Serana could ordinarily muster, glared forward. That cliff. It had to be hundreds of paces high, and the maps she'd pored over had told her that this could be only one thing. The Rift Wall. On paper, it had been a line, marked by a few crossed hatches and notes indicating elevation gain. Here, it blotted out the southern sky.

The sky. To the east, black had faded to grey above the distant mountains. She didn't know how long she had, and threw the body off the cliff with something approaching panic. I can't be caught in the open. She needed some cave or ruin, but in truth any place sheltered from the sun where they wouldn't be disturbed would do.

However, every possibility failed her. Each cave held beasts, every ruin stank of bandit blood or mages' rituals. Precious minutes fled as she hunted frantically, until she found nothing before her but the wall of earth and rock that led upwards to the Rift. The sky was lightening steadily, gold beneath the blueish grey, and moving higher would only bring the sun closer. I leave the ground, and I risk it all. This form could not exist under the light of Magnus-the-Sun, and she did not care to know what would happen when the two met.

I have no choice. She had seen some sort of alcove fifty or so feet above. Clawed hands dug into the rock, and wings beat the air to drive the body upwards. It was the work of only a moment, and she beheld the alcove. Too small! There was a tiny space at the back, but there was no way it could—

Her side exploded with agony, and grey flesh burst into brilliant golden flame. Screaming, she dove forward, clawing at the back wall. Stone shattered as she pressed the form into the shadow, but its skin was blistered and peeling away. I need to change back!

But she couldn't. Even hidden from the direct light of the sun, the form rebelled and refused to recede. It was growing harder to think clearly, and she could feel the sun rising, even on the other side of the wall. I don't have time! She had to focus. She couldn't cast the array like this. First things first.

The form had to go. Every second in its skin was agony. She thought of her body, her real body, the flesh and bone that was hers and hers alone. My skin, my eyes, me!

Unbidden, thoughts of the altar rose. Not your body. This form might be more obviously monstrous, but every inch of her belonged to the Master, now and forever. You cannot forget what you are.

What she was. A vampire. She had done so much work to distance herself from her family, but it was there, in her, all the same. Why change back? She would always be this thing on the inside. Better to stay here. Velandryn would have to walk, but it would be better for him to be rid of her. All I have to do is pull down this cave on myself. She'd be free of Velandryn, of his blood, of that desire to be more than what she was. I pull this down, I won't wake. She didn't have enough blood left. Sleep or death, either way her pain was done for now. Her wounds might even destroy her, though it was a slim chance. Or I go back out there, throw myself into the sun. It would ravage this body, and offered a greater chance of killing her forever. And even if it did, what then? Her soul belonged to Molag Bal.

She couldn't die yet. I have to stop him. She focused inward, towards the pain that was always with her. Except now, there was a bit of blood, a warmth that hadn't been there before. Velandryn Savani. She saw him, face serene, upending her world as he spoke words that echoed and roared. Facing a dragon, eyes blazing and his whole body alive with power. A knife drawn across his palm, giving her the most precious gift he had.

I have to keep my word. She'd said she would bring him here.

I have to.

She raised a hand, focusing on the array, on Velandryn on the other side of it.

So beautiful. She wanted his blood more than she'd ever wanted anything, and she hated herself for it.

So hungry.

She focused, talons twisting back, mottled grey hide giving way to smooth white skin. The array!

It was mathematical, each segment of curve inscribed with between one and nine angles. It calmed her, to think of its forms. But it was complex, and so she summoned power from the rapidly dwindling blood that remained, sharpening her mind and letting forms fall into place atop each other. The inner array bled into the outer, and then curved back in on itself. So beautiful.

The magicka would flow like blood along the arrays, pumped by the distant heart in Whiterun. Velandryn would step into it, born to her on a tide of blood—

She'd lost it. The array collapsed in her mind. Cursing, she drew upon the last dregs of the blood within her. The array sprung forward once more, and this time shimmered into being just above the rock floor, ready to receive its passenger. However, the last of the blood was gone, and the hunger hit her with all its force.

He would be stepping through, full of blood. No!

She pressed herself to the back wall, breathing heavily. She dared not reach out, dared not even think about moving towards the array. She had never been this hungry, had never felt this stabbing hunger before. She had drained herself dry to travel the distance she had, and now everything else was subsumed by a single urge.

She huddled against the stone, almost sobbing from pain and fear. This was a mistake. She'd lost control, but never like this. Never had she been so lucid, but so powerless to stop the urges pulsing through her. I need it.

She watched the portal, almost hoping she'd done something wrong. But I didn't. She watched, and hated herself for it. I should throw myself out of the cave right now. Because she knew that Velandryn Savani would step through that portal any moment.

I want to die. She wouldn't though, even if she jumped. I might. At least she wouldn't be here when Velandryn arrived.

Because the moment she saw him, smelled that blood, she would kill him.

Velandryn got very little sleep that night. He fell asleep early, as was his habit, but awoke to find the candle in his room barely shorter, and the basin of wash water still warm. He pulled himself upright, grumbling under his breath.

It was Serana's fault, really. She had an incredible talent for worming her way into his head, forcing his thoughts into circles while appearing totally innocent. Frustrating woman, that. It was an affectionate thought, though. Especially with what she was doing for him at this very moment. And saving us who knows how long on the road. Still, she conjured some uneasiness within him, an ill-fitting mass that sat in his belly and refused to leave. If I knew what was bothering me, would it bother me less?

Sleep, apparently, was out of the question. The Refugees still sat unread in his pack, so he pulled it out and began to read. After a page and a half, however, he realized that he hadn't retained a word of it.

So, he went for a walk. He stalked the halls of Dragonsreach, passing servants as they cleaned the floors and guards standing quiet vigils. He didn't quite know who or what he was looking for, but found himself in front of a door, nondescript save for a hefty iron lock. Something tickled at his mind, as though there was a whisper at the edge of hearing—

Somewhere far away, a dragon roared. It had to have been miles and miles distant, but Dov awoke in his head, and he was filled with the urge to go out and tear its still-beating heart from its chest with his bare hands.

Velandryn chuckled to himself as he turned away from the door. It had been a while since Dov had made itself known, but it felt oddly good to have an arrogant dragon riding around in his head. Eat this, smash that, go and conquer Skyrim. They weren't always good suggestions, but they provided a welcome respite sometimes.

Farengar was asleep, but he'd given Velandryn the key to his workshop. Inside, the array lay inert, ready to send him to wherever Serana drew the target. Two packs sat on a table, stuffed with gear for their travels. Hopefully she covered enough distance to make this worthwhile. They'd estimated nine days from Whiterun to Ivarstead by horse. This teleportation business would be useless if Serana hadn't gotten them to within seven days' walk from where they needed to be.

He recalled the map, and thought about the distances at play. She'd best be right about this. The distance was no joke, even if she could do what she claimed. Not to mention, if she was seen, there would be a whole other set of issues to untangle.

Fortunately, being a thane gave him an enormous amount of leeway within Whiterun Hold. He'd been warned against frivolous uses of his power, but getting some hold patrol to look the other way about a vampire should be doable.

At that, an image of the Mourning Fane of Narsis came to him, the great hall where the most honored of the Dunmer dead were laid for thirty-three days, to be viewed by any who wished it while they underwent the highest honors that could be accorded to any of the honored dead. Anointed with oils four-and-three, as the pieces of their body were removed and burned to ash in fires fed by Daedric Servitors of the Triune Princes. Remove the hands for Boethiah, but three fingers off of each, as is Mephala's due. One eye for Azura, and the other as well, for we must behold her twice. The flames that fed these holy cremations were kindled for no other purpose, and took no fuel save magicka. The ash produced, therefore, belonged entirely to the deceased. Shalda Mur, the Divided Cremation.

It belongs to those who lived lives of high honor. Few Dunmer rose to prominence without making a goodly number of enemies, but to be named for Shalda Mur, none could speak against you, even after your death. It meant that either you were universally beloved, or that those who hated you were smart enough to keep their mouths shut. Or you spent your final hours having them all killed. That had almost worked for Dalvyn Sarethi, after all.

Velandryn snapped out of his reverie with a sigh. The Mourning Fane was the sort of place that one imagined their body might end, in the dreams of the early morning. And here I am, using my political position among Nords to free a vampire! There was little chance he would ever lie there. Perhaps a tomb for the Anointed, or I can be recognized as a wandering martyr. The worst case would be one of the Halls of the Dead that they had in Skyrim. They don't even burn the bodies! Which, considering draugr, was a serious oversight.

All humor aside, though, his actions had put him in opposition to the teachings of the Temple, and that still didn't sit well with him. He glanced at Farengar's clockwork timepiece, a rarity in Skyrim. It showed dawn still an hour or more away, and so Velandryn once more climbed to the Dragonsreach porch.

It was early, but he had to try. Once more he waved the guards away, then sat himself on the ledge, legs dangling as he looked out over the city. It felt sacrilegious, to sit like this, but the Daedra cared little for such things.

Azura, hear me.

He did not expect an answer, but prayed all the same. Of the Triune Princes, Azura was the one who cared most for the Dunmer as individuals. Hers could be a harsh love, but it was love all the same. And I am the Dragonborn. That had to count for something.

He knew she would not answer in words, but he did not have words to bring before her either. Instead, he thought of Serana, of the inherent contradiction in her being. Of the paradoxes she represented, and the fire within her. When he thought of that last one, it was as though some lightness took hold within his chest, and he saw those moments where she'd chosen to be a good person.

It's harder for her, struggling against what she's become. He'd seen that struggle for himself, though he'd never shame Serana by acknowledging it. She's doing well.

He had a moment of worry about her running through the night, but arrested that line of thinking as soon as he recognized it. She earned my trust. It was still his conscious decision to trust her, rather than one based on unshakeable belief, but he had made it all the same. She's trying. Not to mention, he'd given her all the blood she'd asked for. I guess I just have to let her do her best, and trust that it's enough.

And so your answer is found.

The thought felt as though it had not been his, and was different than those that belonged to Dov. It had come from deeper than the recesses of his own mind. With it came certainty, as though his thoughts had been smoothed by an unseen hand.

Was that Azura? Something very like terror rose in him. For forty years he had been taught that it could happen, of course, but it wasn't the sort of thing that happened to, well, normal people.

But is that me? He was Dragonborn, after all. Perhaps that was enough to draw the notice of the Twilit Queen.

Or I'm just desperate to be told that I'm doing the right thing. That was more likely.

The sun was breaking over the far mountains. He'd now watched both sunset and sunrise from this same porch, an interesting fact with no bearing on anything whatsoever. He recalled a map of the sun's path he'd seen long ago. How long will that be true for? Given where things were now, and the assumption that the lowest point of the sun was on the Eve of New Life….

The problem occupied him until he reached Farengar's chambers, where he found the Nord. The wizard looked as though he'd just risen, and stared at Velandryn with the bleary expression of someone who would rather be in bed. For a moment, Velandryn felt guilty about asking him to rise so early. "Any word?"

"Not yet." Farengar waved in the general direction of the array, which sat inert on the stone.

"Hmm." Velandryn placed the soul gems in place anyway. "Let's give her a few minutes before we start worrying."

Farengar had gone to a carafe that sat over an alchemical flame, and poured himself a mug of something black that smelled of burnt wood. "If we had some way to speak with her, I would feel better about this."

"Well, unless you mastered Psijic Projection in the last eight hours..." Velandryn shrugged. "She'll get it done."

As if on queue, the tether glyph ignited. "See?" Velandryn grabbed the small pack that contained the few things he felt he couldn't live without. And a stack of potions. "Send the rest through after a count of one hundred." He thought about all of the places the array could be, and the fact that they hadn't added a safeguard to check if the target was clear. "A slow count."

Now that the thought was in his head, it festered there as he stepped onto the array. I really hope she cleared the arrival point.

The actual transition was, as such things always were, terribly mundane. There was a rush of magicka, a glow from the array, and then he was standing in what looked to be to be a cave mouth, apparently—Blessed Ancestors! — several hundred feet off the ground.

He quickly stepped away from the array, being careful not to get too close to the open sky. This was a small cave, though perhaps not so high as he'd first thought. Less than a hundred feet, for sure. It was still a long way down, though.

A sound behind sent him spinning, but he relaxed upon realizing who it was. "Nice work. You —" His voice cut out as he saw what was really happening.

Serana was hunched over, pressed into the wall, eyes boring into his own with a look that was somewhere between panicked and crazed. She gave a shuddering groan that seemed to set her entire body trembling, then rocked forward before slamming herself back against the wall. "No!"

Velandryn reached out for her almost on instinct, but her shout froze him in place. It was wordless, almost feral, and it trailed off into a keening moan. "Get away!"

Velandryn didn't move. "What's going on, Serana?" He noticed then, for the first time, that she was wearing only a plain grey robe of some sort; everything else must have been in the pack. It hung in tatters about her, barely concealing her modesty and adding fur. "Do you need my blood?" He reached for the pack.

She was on top of him before he even knew that she'd moved. Her mouth opened wide above him, sending him frantically trying to conjure flame.

Then, she slammed back against the wall again, this time speaking through her contortions. "Hungry! Get away! I'll kill you!"

Finally, Velandryn understood. Blessed Three. He'd never seen it this bad before, or even heard of such inner conflict. "You don't want to hurt me." He should have been afraid, but the absolute terror in her eyes made that impossible. He reached out a hand. "It's okay. Let me get the—"

She moved with impossible speed again, but this time it was to curl herself into a ball, hands clutching her knees. "Not enough, not enough!" She took a shuddering breath, then moaned. "It's too much. I want all of it, all the blood." She was sobbing. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry." She was gulping now, her breath coming ever more raggedly. "Leave, before it's too late."

"Don't be ridiculous." Velandryn sat himself against the wall and grabbed her bag. "There are some potions—"

"Kill me." Serana's voice was flat, making it by far the most frightening thing she'd said since he stepped through the array. "Kill me, or I'll kill you." Her voice broke then. "It's too much. I shouldn't have done this. You need to stop me!"

"I am stopping you." It was almost surreal, how calm he felt. He held out a hand. "Here, drink." He tried to smile, but his face wouldn't obey, and he doubted she would have noticed anyways. "From the source."

This time, her approach was slower than he would have thought possible from a famished vampire. A halting crawl along the ground, bringing her closer at an interminable pace. Until, suddenly, it wasn't. She was in front of him, eyes blazing into his own. "You don't get to take this back." For an instant, she was utterly lucid.

I know. Serana seemed to be going for his neck, but he offered her his wrist instead. His arm hung there, in the air between them, for a heartbeat that lasted a lifetime. Not pulling away should have been the hardest thing Velandryn had ever done, but the look in her eyes made it a foregone conclusion. When she took his hand and raised his wrist to her mouth, the motion was shockingly gentle.

Her lips were cool, the pressure of her mouth more like a kiss than a bite. Two sharp pricks of pain, and then a gentle pressure. And then, what he'd known would come. He could feel the blood leaving his body. Serana moaned, and the sound was a soft vibration against his skin.

She needs this. That was the thought that kept him there, that stopped him from forcing his arm away. Even now, she relaxed into him, the weight of her body pressing him back into the wall. She was turned slightly, almost as a lover would lie nestled in his arms. The thought came suddenly, and he pushed it away even as she squirmed deeper into him. She ran through the night, pulled too deeply on her powers. And she'd done it because he needed her to. He adjusted his arm slightly, so she'd have an easier time.

With a start, he realized that he was growing a bit light-headed. How much is she going to drink? He cast a spell to heal himself, to replenish the blood in his veins without closing the wound on his arm. It was a bit tricky, but healing had always had a way of bringing out his experimental side. He could feel the magicka coalescing into new blood within him, and marveled at the newness of the sensation. I guess I'm usually too focused on the wounds to think about the blood.

Here, though, the only distraction was Serana. He wondered why she'd shed her armor and cloak for this ragged robe. It kept her from being entirely naked, but little more. His free hand found her bag—this cave truly was tiny—and he managed to work her cloak free. He draped it over her, hoping it might provide some warmth. It was difficult with one hand, but he managed well enough before remembering that, as a vampire, it probably wouldn't bother her much.

Velandryn sighed and slumped against the wall again. What's wrong with me? Serana removed her mouth from his wrist for a brief moment, then licked up a bit of blood that had escaped and resumed her feeding.

I should be horrified. And yet, somehow, this bothered him not at all. He would take the potion he had prepared, of course, but other than that...

I'm feeding a vampire. Not from a cup, not through whatever other intermediary he could conjure to convince himself that wasn't what he was doing. I'm feeding her. His magic was still replenishing his blood, and incredibly, Serana was still drinking. How long has it been?

As if on cue, there was a flash of light, and two large traveler's packs appeared in the array. A slow count of one hundred. Time was an odd thing.

There was a soft sound from below. Serana's head had fallen against his chest, and her breathing came slow and even. Is she...asleep? He shifted slightly, trying to see her eyes, but it was in vain.

One thing was certain, and that was that he was going nowhere so long as she slept. Serana might be small for a Nord—or whatever proto-Nordic race she belonged to— but the way she was lying on him meant that he was well and truly pinned to the wall.

His own bag had fallen to the side in the excitement, and he extended a hand to try and grab the strap. It was just beyond his reach. Cursing, he focused, trying to pull his wayward thoughts into the focus necessary for telekinesis. It wouldn't come, though whether that was because he'd expended too much magicka providing blood or simply his own distraction, he couldn't say. Either way, telekinesis was an exceptionally difficult feat, and one he simply wasn't going to be able to manage right now.

I still need that potion. He didn't quite have enough trust in his own magic right now to try and cast a spell that cured the curse Serana's bite had doubtless inflicted upon him. He had four of the vials in that pack, but he hadn't foreseen this.

He exhaled, and shifted as much as he dared without waking Serana. It was enough for his outstretched fingers to brush the leather. He shifted again, but stopped when Serana gave a grunt against him. Fortunately, that little bit had been enough, and soon he'd downed the thick red concoction in a single unpleasant gulp. The person who makes a disease cure that doesn't taste like rancid guar bile will be the richest mer in Tamriel. He pulled another potion from the pack, one that restored magicka, but couldn't quite bring himself to drink it. Blues always left him feeling a bit like he'd hit the sujamma too hard the night before, and he didn't truly need any more magicka at the moment. Serana seemed to be well and truly asleep, after all.

Serana…

At that thought, and with his immediate concerns of infection dealt with, he could no longer put his travelling companion out of his mind. What in Oblivion is going on with her?

She was hungry, that much was obvious, but everything else was shockingly out of character for her. She'd always been extremely physically reserved, and now she was curled up on top of him. With a jolt, he realized that he was running his fingers along her head, tracing the braids woven into her black hair. Ancestors! He jerked his hand back. Serana mumbled something in her sleep.

Think. Clearly she had been through an ordeal this past night, pushing herself as she had. Was that enough to make her act like this? Perhaps her hunger, and its relief, was enough to render her into this state.

It was getting harder and harder to think straight and keep his eyes open. His arm wasn't doing anyone any good held up like that, so he let it fall. It lay somewhat awkwardly on her shoulder, so he snaked it around her neck and let it fall over her chest. There was something there that could have been improper, but his mind wasn't sharp enough to make heads or tails of it. If she minds, she can try not falling asleep next time.

His thoughts were much fuzzier than they had been. It probably wasn't blood loss, since he'd been replenishing that, but even having his blood restored by magic didn't leave him in a good state. Maybe I could just close my eyes for a moment.

He adjusted himself a little, trying to find a spot of wall that wasn't too rough. Serana grunted in apparent displeasure, but failed to wake up. Velandryn felt the dark rising to claim him, and only one last thought remained.

This isn't how I saw this going, but I don't hate it.

"All I'm saying is, you don't want to go to Riften."

Fastred opened her mouth, but Lydia held up her hand. "You want a city? Go to Whiterun. Kyne's breath, go to Falkreath or even Cyrodiil if you want it warmer, but don't go to Riften."

"But Bassianus knows a man who can set him up with good work. We'll be out of this town, finally!"

The Vilemyr Inn was mostly empty, so Lydia felt fine with pounding the table for emphasis. "For some insane reason Mara chose me to advise your love, so here's my advice. Don't. Go. To. Riften!"

Across the room, Lynly giggled. Ordinarily, that would have done funny things to Lydia's stomach, but she would be damned if she let Fastred make this mistake. "Look, Bassianus, Klimmek, whatever. They both seem fine if you like men. I don't care which of them you're with. Go with both for all I care, so long as you don't do it in Riften!"

Fastred's face had fallen, but Lydia wasn't done. She'd been in Ivarstead for almost two weeks now, and had just about had her fill of chasing off bears and wandering the roads waiting for something, anything, to happen. "Look. I get it. You want excitement. But the way I see it, you're either staying or leaving, and the only reason to do that is because you want to. Who you love, that's important, but it doesn't come first."

"You have to be the worst representative Mara could hope for." Somehow, Lynly had snuck up behind her. The woman had a very light footfall. Her words, however, were no reproach. "I'm with Lydia, Fas. Riften is no place for you."

Fastred glared at the both of them. "You don't understand! Bassianus can give me a good life, he can—"

"And Klimmek?" Lydia was well-versed in the woman's problem by now. "He can't?"

"I mean, he's been wonderful, but all he wants is to stay here, keep farming and hunting. He won't even ask for my hand! I can't wait for him forever!"

"So don't." Clearly Fastred had a different way of looking at the issue than Lydia. Which might be why she has two lovers right now and I haven't had so much as a kiss in months. Still, she was fairly certain she'd figured out how to get through to the girl. "Do you want to leave or stay?"

"Leave." Fastred's answer was immediate. "I've lived my whole life here."

"Now, if you had to take one of the two with you, who would it be? They would go with you, no complaints."

"Oh." Fastred's eyes were distant. "I…I don't know. Bassianus is so thoughtful, so loving, but Klimmek…"

"I suggest you figure that one out first. He still loves you, I've spoken with him enough to know that." Lydia found Klimmek more palatable than Bassianus, but she was not Fastred. Thank the gods. "Talk to them, see which one lights a fire in you."

"Or, maybe neither one does." Lynly had been here longer than Lydia, and seemed to be approaching a point of frustration with her friend. "You don't need a lover to live your life."

Not for the first time, Lydia wondered what Lynly's story was. She wasn't from Ivarstead; Lydia strongly suspected she came from the east, near Riften. She also disliked the city, though she was less vocal about it than Lydia. She was a fairly good bard, though there was an undeniable sadness in her. She never played love songs unless it was requested; her preference seemed to be wordless music in spite of her lovely voice.

Lydia knew herself well enough to recognize the warning signs of infatuation; the combination of Lynly's beauty and her sadness was one that could spell trouble. Lydia had always gravitated towards women who needed saving. Freya had called it her 'hero's soul.'

Now, she was doing her best to ignore those feelings. I'm here on a mission. Velandryn would arrive soon, and they would leave this place. All the rest of this, it's secondary. She hoped Fastred would find her love and Lynly could find happiness, but she couldn't let it distract her.

Although, of late treasonous thoughts invaded more and more often, worrying over just how overdue Velandryn was. She'd gone over the travel times using a map Wilhelm the innkeeper kept in his room, and her thane should have been here long before. Skyrim was not Cyrodiil, true, but you could take a cart to or from any city or town of any real size. Even if he had to take a boat back from the castle...

The truth was, she had no way to know for certain. All she could do was sit here and try to fill her days with hard work and Fastred's troubles, and sometimes let her mind drift to Lynly. Better that than worrying.

Still, sooner or later she would have to make a decision. Each day she woke up sure that this day would be the one that rewarded her patience, and by evening she was always disappointed. Even now, with the light through the windows fading into the colors of dusk, another day had passed without any sign of—

The door opened, and Velandryn Savani walked in. Lydia froze, half-sure that her mind had finally snapped and simply created an image out of her hopes. However, this was not Velandryn as she'd left him. He moved with a grace he'd lacked before, and the lines of his face were somehow different, as though he'd spent a long time outdoors. His eyes, too, had a look in them that she couldn't quite place. He was looking at the fire, and had entirely missed her table tucked away in the corner.

The Dragonborn exhaled loudly, and a puff of steam left his mouth. "Molag's balls, but it's cold out there!" He stretched, something in his back cracking audibly. Then, he looked around the room. "Don't suppose you've seen—" his eyes met hers "Hello, Lydia." An odd smile broke out on his face, one that looked startlingly unpracticed. "It's been a moment or two, hmm?" Then he started to laugh. "Ancestors, but I've missed you!"

She gaped at him, disbelieving. He was just standing there, as though nothing had happened. "You...you...you!" She realized she was laughing as well, for some mad reason. "I've missed you too, my thane!" She wanted to hit him. "It took you long enough!"

The door opened again, and Serana walked in.

Fuck.