Chapter One: To Aetherius and Beyond

"It's a stick."

One delicate eyebrow slowly rose as eyes of glacier blue took in the sight of the weather-beaten, wooden thing that, moments ago, had been held highly and proudly aloft by none other than an old mage by the name of Tolfdir.

Said old mage immediately looked affronted by her less than enthusiastic response as they stood in the Hall of Elements in the College of Winterhold, not paying any heed to the many mages tossing destruction spells left, right and center all around the room.

"A stick? A stick?" He almost howled in outrage as he waved the object in his protégé's face, "This, my dear, is about to become the favoured weapon of mages all across Tamriel!"

Jorun tossed her jet black hair over her shoulder, trying to picture being killed by the twig in Tolfdir's hand. She scoffed in disbelief at his claim.

"I think the worst you can do with that is poke my eye out!"

The rather blunt statement caused him to pause momentarily, thoughtfully considering the stick in his hand; "Well, I suppose that, at this very moment…" he shook his head as though to clear the contagious doubt from his mind, "But, Jorun, tell me, how dangerous is a mage's staff?"

"Well, that depends, is it enchanted to blow someone up, or stick a glob of light to the wall?" Jorun folded her arms thoughtfully across her chest, her brow knitting together, "Eh, I suppose you could always smack 'em over the head with it either way."

Tolfdir let out an exasperated sigh; "Eloquent as always my dear," he muttered.

Jorun merely shrugged, and Tolfdir wondered briefly at what had happened to the bright-eyed, eager young girl he had once known.

She never talked about the events that had changed her; not with him, not with Mirabelle, Savos, Onmund, Brelyna, J'Zhargo, or even Urag. In fact, any mention of it at all, her status as Dragonborn, the defeat of Alduin, the stinging betrayal of the Blades, the peace treaty that shattered the moment Alduin's death was confirmed…all of it caused a darkening in her eyes, a pursing of her lips, and a sad shake of her head as she whispered in a quiet, dangerous voice:

"Don't. Just don't."

It had been two years since she had killed Alduin, and showed up in the Hall of Attainment in bloody rags a month later, looking more like a reanimated corpse than the living being she was. The Arch-Mage, Tolfdir, and Mirabelle hadn't even known their wayward student (who had never returned from Cyrodiil like she was supposed to months, and months, and months ago) had finally come back until Onmund had burst into the Arcanaeum during their weekly meeting, calling for Colette, because damn it, she needs a healer now!

He could still remember staring at her broken form, thinking that no, this couldn't be the little Nord girl whom he had practically raised since she showed up on the College doorstep at the age of fourteen. No, this couldn't be the strong, confident young mage who was off to visit the Imperial City on a pilgrimage at the age of twenty-five because I want to see the Avatar of Akatosh, Tolfdir; I want to see the place where the last Dragonborn saved Tamriel.

It all seemed so ironic now. So stupid and unfair and planned.

"…dir…Nirn to Tolfdir!"

The old mage shook his head vigorously to be rid of the disheartening memories, taking a step back as he found Jorun waving her hand in his face.

"Oh, uh, yes, anyways my dear," Tolfdir cleared his throat, mentally grasping at his wayward thoughts, "Tell me, what is a staff?"

Her brow furrowed; "It's a big piece of wood from any kind of tree which has been fed with magicka; it is then stabilized with a soul gem in order to cast a particular spell without drawing from the mage's own magicka reserves."

"And what is a stick?"

She paused, confused; she'd expected to, from that point, be treated to a long, technical lecture about magical theories so complex that even she, claimed to be something of an expert by her fellow students (or, at the least, a very, very skilled adept) would have difficulties understanding.

"Um…it's a small piece of wood…" she paused, eyes widening as Tolfdir's earlier ramblings suddenly made sense; "Oh."

"Now you see it!" Tolfdir exclaimed victoriously as he began to pace back and forth in front of her, hand stroking his beard, entering his lecture mode, "If a dagger can be enchanted with the same effects as a greatsword, which is ten times its size, then why shouldn't it be possible to enchant a stick the same way you do a staff?" His old blue eyes were lit with excitement, "Think of it, no more cumbersome staves, and you can easily hide a stick up your sleeve or in a boot so no one knows it's there, and it would be so much easier to carry multiple sticks with different enchantments for when you drain your reserves in an emergency situation! I simply cannot understand why no one has thought of this before!"

"Maybe they did, but just decided 'hand me my staff' sounds much more formidable than 'hand me my stick,'" Jorun suggested sarcastically, though she was certainly eyeing the little twig from a different perspective now.

At that, Tolfdir stopped his pacing, eyes aimed up at the tall ceiling, "Yes, I suppose we will have to come up with a proper name for this newest invention, won't we? Hmm...perhaps I can find something in Ehlnofex or Ayleidic that is suitable…" he tapped his chin thoughtfully and began to pace once more, muttering quietly under his breath and shaking his head on more than one occasion.

The pale-skinned Nord let a small smile touch her lips at the familiar, almost comforting sight, before taking it as her cue to leave her mentor to his musings, now that he had gotten his excitement off his chest and could think clearly about actually implementing his idea. She turned on her heels and departed, thinking that perhaps she should go find Onmund and annoy him…

"Jorun! Jorun!"

Jorun whipped around at the frantic calling of her name, finding none other than the Arch-Mage himself hurrying frantically towards her.

The Dunmer didn't stop once he reached her, instead taking her by the elbow and pushing her in the direction of the college's library; "Pull on your hood, get to the Arcanaeum, and keep your head down until someone comes to get you," He hissed quickly.

The tone of his voice was so unusually urgent that she reflexively pulled up the hood of her robes in response before opening her mouth to speak.

Savos Aren cut her off before she got the chance, "No time, just go."

The tone brooked no room for argument, and Jorun hurried off, yanking open the door to the Arcanaeum just as the great doors of the hall creaked open.

She paused momentarily, watching from the corner of her eye as Mirabelle stepped in, with a very unwelcome sight following after her in the form of a tall, golden-skinned elf garbed in black robes that bespoke of his species nearly universal arrogance.

The Thalmor had set their sights on the College.

"Shor's blood, what in Oblivion is Savos thinking, letting the Thalmor in here!" Urag grumbled as he flipped through the book in his lap, never pausing to actually read any of it. The old orc looked up at the Nord sitting across from him, head bowed as she diligently worked through Enchanter's Primer, taking notes on some parchment as she did so. "Especially considering—"

"Let's not talk about that, hmm?" Jorun interrupted, subconsciously reaching up to tug on the edges of her hood.

It really sucked to be number one on the Thalmor's hit list, and she had hoped that the gods would let her remain hidden from them for longer than just a few years. Tiredly, she rubbed at the bridge of her nose, "I just hope he leaves soon…" she muttered with a sigh. There was a moment of heavy silence before Urag spoke again.

"You know, the Stormcloaks would…" he began.

Jorun scowled viciously, "Would what? Use me as a political pawn to put their arrogant prick of a leader on the throne? I will not live in a Skyrim that Ulfric Stormcloak rules, and similarities in belief be damned. He's a murderer and a fool who hides behind pretty words and preaches traditions that he doesn't even follow."

"Better than you being killed by the Thalmor, isn't it?"

"No," she replied bluntly, "it isn't."

"Then what about the Empire?"

"The Empire has lost its spine Urag; they'd hand me over to the Thalmor the moment the Aldmeri Dominion threatens war if they don't," She paused, running a hand through her hair with a tired sigh as she closed her eyes and wished that her life was simpler. She could still remember General Tullius approaching her after the peace conference at High Hrothgar, Elenwen glaring on, and remarking that, after all of this was over, the Empire would hail her as a hero, a Dragonborn, a woman who shared the dragon blood with the Septims themselves, and would stand on par with that lost dynasty. There had been a hidden meaning in those words, the hopeful glint in his eyes, she knew, but she did not want to delve deeper, did not want to uncover it; to do so would mean no going back.

Ulfric had been far more direct when they had found themselves alone together. She had spoken with the would-be High King upon occasion in the past, having escaped with Ralof at Helgen; Ralof, whom she had counted as a friend (had once briefly fantasized could be more than that) though she knew his loyalty would never lie with her.

"With the defeat of Alduin," he had said, a calculating look upon his face, "You will rival even Talos' glory."

"If I live," She had pointed out.

"Oh, you'll live," Ulfric replied, sounding quite sure, and amused at that, as he folded his arms across his chest, "and, when you return, I know that all of Skyrim will be willing to throw itself at your feet, and I…" it was there he hesitated, eyes flickering to the doorway as though expecting one of his old mentors' to step out from the shadows and demand his departure before he got the chance to finish. Afterwards, she kind of wished they had.

"I can think of no other who would be a worthier High Queen."

She had gaped like a fish for several moments before the blind fury set in, because she knew it wasn't her that he was seeing at that moment—he had probably never seen her except for when her head had been on the chopping block and she was just a nameless face—it was the Dragonborn, it was her status, it was the army of hero-worshippers that would follow her if she swore allegiance to his cause. What he saw was the way he could turn the last of the fence-sitters like Balgruuf to his side, if only he preached to them that, though the Empire may, the Stormcloaks would never give her, their saviour, their hero, to the Thalmor.

For they had all known, even then, that once Alduin was gone, the Thalmor would demand her head.

Her own words came back to her now, "You manipulative bastard," She had hissed, and watched with satisfaction as Ulfric took a single instinctive step back, "How dare you! Do you think I can be bought like a common whore? Do you honestly think I can't see what you're trying to accomplish?"

"Dragonborn—"

"Do not call me that!" She had snapped, "I have a name, not that you, or anyone else, has ever cared to learn it!"

"You're wrong."

She said nothing, eyes hardening, and waited for him to go on.

"Your name is Jorun; you were born in Riften to a man who committed suicide when you were nine after being imprisoned for thievery. At the age of fourteen, you left the Honour Hall Orphanage and took a carriage to Winterhold, where you convinced the Arch-Mage to allow you to study there, and you have been a student ever since."

She had gritted her teeth, and subconsciously lifted her chin higher in an effort to show that nothing he knew about her would give him any sway.

"You've been in contact with the Thieves Guild," It was a statement, not a question, and the would-be High King had grimaced at her directness.

"Every man has his connections."

Unbidden, memories had risen up then; of her father being dragged away by Riften Guards, screaming that he had been framed, that it had to be the Thieves Guild who had done this. When, that didn't work, he, in a very un-Nord-like fashion, begged; please believe me, it's the truth—I don't have the money for a fine—you can't take away our shop, where will we sleep? How will we live?—please, for my daughter's sake.

Nothing had worked. The guards seized everything of value that they owned, and when her father was finally released, the first thing he had done was swallow stolen poison (the only theft he had ever committed), leaving her with nothing but a note that said: I'm sorry. It's better for you this way.

The one memory that stuck out most in her mind, though, was that of the redheaded Nord that stood at the street corner, watching as the guards dragged her father away, and the Breton man standing beside him handing over a coin purse jingling with gold.

Her keen ears had barely caught the words "nice job" as they were uttered; and, with a vindictive sense of satisfaction, she recalled twisting that same redhead's (Brynjolf, she remembered) arm behind his back and slamming his face into a table at the Bee and Barb after he tried to negotiate a favour in exchange for Esbern's location. She remembered the dawn of horrid recognition in his eyes as she leaned over and hissed in his ear: "Fourth era, year 185; the twelfth of Rain's Hand, Andor Ever-Winter."

She had let him stand then, so she could look her father's killer in the face, trembling with the need to incinerate him where he stood even as she uttered, with all the dangerous force of the dragon's soul that coiled in her chest, "You already owe me."

Jorun had always hated the Thieves Guild with a passion, but, at the moment when he stood before her, pretending to understand what he was too arrogant to comprehend, she hated Ulfric Stormcloak more.

"Get out," she had hissed between clenched teeth that were aching, and she felt the burning in her eyes, but refused to let those tears surface.

"Jorun—" (How she would've preferred he called her "Dragonborn" then.)

"Get. Out."

He had opened his mouth to argue then, even though it should've been, quite obviously, pointless, but a wizened old voice cut him off.

"I do believe it is best that you leave," Master Arngeir stated quite clearly from his place in the doorway, voice seemingly neutral, though anyone with eyes could see the quiet fury—the anger, the disappointment in the man before him, both past and present—that burned in his own.

Ulfric left with a curt farewell after that, and Jorun returned to Whiterun with Jarl Balgruuf to catch herself a dragon before marching on to Sovngarde—to Alduin—completely alone, while everyone else in Tamriel simply kicked back on their heels and watched, fingers crossed.

After killing the World-Eater, she had stumbled down the slopes of the Throat of the World to High Hrothgar, left a blood-splattered note for the sleeping Greybeards that simply said "It is done," and then walked out and never looked back.

It was a month later, after being attacked by several more dragons, more bands of bandits than she could count, and being cornered by four Dark Brotherhood assassins, that she finally made it home to the College and promptly collapsed from accumulated injuries she had never bothered to properly treat. In all honesty, though she fought as well as she always had, the thought of not making it back hadn't frightened her; not really. In fact, each time she found her conjured blades crossed with the solid forms of her opponents', she found herself thinking, hopefully; maybe this time I won't be fast enough, maybe this time I won't be strong enough.

Maybe this time I will die.

It would've been easy for her to take her father's way out—she wasn't skilled enough at alchemy to create a poison that would give her a quick, painless death, but she had figured she was used to pain enough by now that it wouldn't be so hard to endure—but that kind of death would not have opened the doors to Sovngarde for her…she certainly hadn't seen her father feasting and drinking in Shor's Hall of Valour, and somehow, cruelly, it was only the thought of that afterlife—achieved only after death—that kept her alive.

And kept her cursing her enemies for being too weak to kill her.

By the time she had arrived in Winterhold, word of Alduin's defeat had long since spread beyond even Skyrim's borders, the Thalmor had declared her a known Talos-worshipper (she preferred the teachings of Akatosh and Julianos, thank you very much) and sent their justiciars scouring the land (difficult, considering they didn't even know her name), and the Empire as well as the general populace had begun to question if she was even still alive.

A Stormcloak messenger arrived at the College not long after that, and she quite nearly Thu'umed him to Oblivion on sight. Fortunately for the poor messenger, he happened to be Ralof.

"Jarl Ulfric only wishes to say, friend, that he is grateful you live, that none shall learn of it—any of it—from us, and that the gates of Windhelm will always be open to you."

That was the last she ever heard from any of them, and she had enjoyed two relatively blissful years at the College afterwards, even as the Civil War raged on and the Thalmor devoted more of their efforts to finding a body than a living woman, just to assure themselves beyond a doubt that she was dead and gone. Though, in all honesty, she had half-suspected that they wanted her alive.

But that was all threatening to come crashing down now that the Thalmor were pushing for one of their own to be the Arch-Mage's advisor. All it would take is the smallest of accidents (forgetting to pull on her hood, having the wind blow it off; black hair was rather distinctive for a Nord after all), and she would be exposed.

And then she would either be forced to seek out sanctuary in Windhelm, or she would be dead; though, she wasn't sure she minded the dead part so much.

"Jorun!"

Startled, she leapt to her feet and whipped around, reaching for the lucky dagger at her side. The cold, steel-edge of the gift from Valdr (it seemed like ages ago now) stopped mere inches from the face of one Phinis Gestor.

Giving a sigh of relief at the sight of him, Jorun sheathed Valdr's dagger, and, from the corner of her eye, saw Urag raise an eyebrow at her reaction.

"Are you trying to take my head off?" the peeved Conjuration instructor demanded angrily once the shock of his near-death abated, "Really, do you make it a habit to wave a weapon in the face of anyone who calls your name?"

"Uh, not on purpose…" she sighed, tugging on the edges of her hood again. "What do you need, Phinis?"

The bitter man's face darkened considerably, "As difficult as it is to admit, I…need your…" he gritted his teeth, as though having to force the words out required physical effort, "…assistance, with a small matter."

"What kind of matter?"

"A Conjuration matter."

"What kind of Conjuration matter?"

He scowled deeply at her and she shrugged nonchalantly, "Will you just shut up and follow me, girl?"

"Phinis…" Urag growled warningly from his desk, his narrowed brow warning the Conjuration expert not to mess with the Orc's favourite student, unless he wanted to find out first hand exactly how devastating and truly Orc-like he could be.

Phinis clenched his jaw tighter, and Jorun thought she heard a few teeth crack. "Jorun, will you please accompany me to the roof of the Hall of Attainment so you might assist me in a delicate bit of Conjuration research? The Arch-Mage said he wouldn't mind if I, ahem, 'borrowed' you."

"Well, since you asked so nicely…yes."

Phinis gave a sharp nod, shot a glare at Urag, and then marched rather angrily from the room. Gathering up the materials she'd been using, she slipped Enchanter's Primer back onto the shelf she'd taken it from and departed with a wink to the old Orc, who simply shook his head in exasperation, and only let the smirk manifest once he was alone in the Arcanaeum once more.

"So…what are we doing?" Jorun demanded after several moments spent watching Phinis meticulously paint a Conjuration circle she had never seen before. "I can't exactly help you with this if I don't what you're trying to accomplish."

"I," he began, "am attempting to…" he paused, looking up at her hesitantly, as though wondering how she would react, "create a portal."

She was immediately suspicious. "A portal to where, exactly?"

The Conjuration expert noticeably tensed, and seemed suddenly uncomfortable with her line of questioning; he knew not answering was not an option though. "Well, now that we know it can be done, I originally considered attempting Sovngarde…"

"WHAT?" She shrieked, leaping to her feet, trembling in some strange mixture of terror and rage as she unsteadily backed away from the circle, staring at the runes as though they would carve themselves into her flesh if she approached them. "Phinis, are you an idiot? Trust me when I say that the living are not meant to walk the plane of the dead!"

"You did," He stated quite simply, eyeing her in exasperation, "Besides, if you had let me finish, I would have told you that I set my sights on something else."

"What?" she snapped.

Again he was uncomfortable, and it was a few minutes before he responded.

"If it goes according to plan, an undiscovered plane of Aetherius all together."

Now, Jorun was gaping, and it took her several moments to recover enough to say:

"You are an idiot."

Phinis bristled at the statement; "You can't honestly tell me you've never wondered what other realms there might be in the immortal plane? What other afterlifes there might be besides Sovngarde? This is our chance to finally, once and for all, answer the questions that have been plaguing mages since the dawn of time; if we're lucky, we might even find out if Aetherius is truly the home of the Aedra as everyone suspects."

"And if we're unlucky, your stupid little ritual will kill us, or send us to Oblivion!" And, quite frankly, she didn't think 'death-by-stupidity' would get her into Sovngarde.

"That is why I need your help!"

Now she was just confused. "What, in the name of Julianos, makes you think I know anything about this?"

"You went to Sovngarde. You're the only mage in Tamriel, in the past two hundred years, to have been to a plane of Aetherius."

"All I did was kill a creepy undead guy and stick a staff in a hole on the ground!"

Phinis visibly perked up at that, asking eagerly, "A staff? Do you still have it?"

She glared at him, "Yes, I keep it under my bed and take it out to go on midnight jaunts to the afterlife…of course not you idiot! I destroyed it!"

"You did what?" Phinis gaped, horrified, and a moment later was seething, "Do you have any idea how valuable that staff was? How much we could've learned from it?"

"I don't regret a thing," Jorun stated bluntly, crossing her arms and glaring down at his still-kneeling form. Finally, he stood with a sigh.

"Jorun, please. Do you think I haven't looked into the subject? Taken every necessary precaution to ensure we are very much alive afterwards? Aren't I the one who taught you to summon a Dremora Lord?"

Her icy eyes narrowed. "No, you gave me a book and said 'off with you brat.'"

He waved a dismissive hand, "Oh, technicalities."

She glared, but he ignored it and went right on talking.

"As for what you can do, you can tell me about the magical phenomenon that was this…portal to Sovngarde; absolutely everything you can remember."

Jorun bristled, sorely tempted to spit in his face and run screaming to Arch-Mage Aren about the Conjuration expert's utter stupidity for even thinking to attempt this on College grounds (especially with the Thalmor present); what if he sent the entire building into the ocean, or warped half of it to Black Marsh and the other half to Oblivion? Yet there was this nagging voice in her head, pulling her mind back to her memories of Sovngarde, to the longing she still felt for it, to the questions that had plagued her mind when the World-Eater lay dead.

Do I have to go back? Can't I stay here forever?

There was still that part of her that wished she would die (valiantly of course), just so she could go back to that paradise and feast, and drink, and sing for all eternity, no longer being hunted, and with concerns of the mortal world far behind her.

And the thought of seeing it again, no matter how small the chance was, was too tempting to ignore.

So (hating herself for it, a small voice still telling her to walk away) she hesitantly sat down and found herself falling into an in-depth discussion with her hated Conjuration instructor about his fool-hardy endeavour. (She wondered briefly if fools, even valiant ones, would be shunned from Sovngarde).

"What are you using for a transliminal artifact?"

Phinis sat down beside her; "That, I'm afraid, is where I'm stumped."

"What about a sigil stone?"

He sneered, "I want to open a portal to the Aetherius, not Oblivion you dunderhead," he folded his arms across his chest, "Was the staff the only artifact involved in the Sovngarde gate?"

Jorun sighed; "Insofar as I could tell, yes. Though how that's possible, I can't say."

Phinis reached up and rubbed thoughtfully at his chin, "I'm assuming it was originally in the hands of one of those blasted 'Dragon Priests'?" She nodded, "Did you recognize the material?"

She pursed her lips and thought back rather reluctantly, trying to push back all other memories and focus only on the staff. "Well…it was metal, I'm not sure what kind…bronze perhaps," she frowned, rubbing her thumb and index finger together as though trying to recall the feel of some long-gone texture, "it was smooth, and always warm to the touch; could've been just the magic, I suppose. It didn't flow quite the same as through a wooden staff, it was more…linear, focussed almost."

Phinis looked perplexed, "Moonstone? That's the best metal for enchanting."

"Maybe," she paused thoughtfully, and shook her head at their line of discussion, "Honestly, I think it was only used for activation though; the actual portal was formed from the biggest damned Conjuration circle I've ever seen…I think there was a star-map on it, but I didn't exactly take the time to look."

The older mage shook his head sadly at her, muttering, "Absolutely no sense of scholarly spirit at all…"

She bristled at the remark, but wisely abstained from biting his head off, instead remarking "What if we use some form of meteoric glass as the artifact? It originates in Aetherius, after all."

"And where exactly do you expect us to find something that rare?"

"Welkynd and Varla stones are fragments of it aren't they?"

Phinis opened his mouth, perhaps to deliver a scathing retort, only to pause and close it as he mulled the thought over in his head; "Well, yes…maybe that could work, but we don't exactly have access to any Ayleid ruins at the moment."

Jorun bit her bottom lip then, mind travelling to the chest at the foot of her bed in the Hall of Attainment as she recalled her pilgrimage to the Imperial City. She had a burgeoning adventurous streak back then (one that had left her after the dragon fiasco) and had bravely—perhaps foolishly—visited a fair share of Ayleid ruins on the way. After being ambushed at the border on her way home, she had counted herself lucky she had sent some of her more valuable finds ahead to Tolfdir, including several Welkynd Stones and two Varla Stones.

Her beloved Alteration instructor had returned them to her after she had finally come home, thanking her for the opportunity to study them ("Quite marvellous really; the nature of the glass's magicka conductivity seems to both support and undermine Galerion's Third Law…") and they had sat at the bottom of her chest ever since, her appetite for scholarly investigation having been dulled by the horrors she had seen.

"I have some," she finally admitted to Phinis after a long moment of internal debate; she hoped this damned ritual didn't destroy them though, they were too valuable to be lost so foolishly, "I sent them to Tolfdir during my pilgrimage."

"Well, what are you waiting for then?" Phinis snapped, and she could see the eager gleam in his eyes, "Go get them!"

"Stupid, stupid Phinis," Jorun muttered angrily under her breath as she threw open the lid of her chest and pushed aside some spare robes to get at the glimmering stones below, "Stupid, stupid, me."

As she packed the stones into a bag and snapped the chest shut, she tried to ignore the pit in her stomach that told her this was a stupid idea. She already knew that, of course, and she wasn't about to talk herself out of it after just having talked herself into it.

Getting to her feet, she headed for the door to the roof, only to stop in horror as it swung open and admitted Mirabelle and the Altmer she'd nearly forgot she was supposed to be avoiding at all costs.

The black-clad elf was doing an admirable job of suppressing his shivers, and, based on the glint in the Master Wizard's eyes, Jorun could only assume she had chosen the battlements as the route for this tour particularly because of the lack of shelter from the biting winds.

Quickly, however, she ducked her head, thankful that the hood of her orange robes was still sheltering her face, though it did not stop her from noticing the startled widening of Mirabelle's eyes and the disdainful—but calculating—frown of Ancano as he briefly surveyed her.

"Is something wrong, Master Wizard?" he demanded with a sneer, dismissing Jorun as he turned to Mirabelle, who had stopped halfway through a sentence.

"A moment please," she said, having raised a hand to halt him as she turned to Jorun, thankful the other woman was still wearing her hood, and, with the gentle scolding of a stern instructor (which she prayed to the divines would cover up her unease), "I believe you are supposed to be assisting Phinis on the roof, apprentice; don't keep your instructor waiting."

Jorun nodded her head gratefully towards the Master Wizard as she stepped aside to allow the Dragonborn to pass her by. The black-haired Nord breathed a sigh of relief as she heard Mirabelle resume her tour with the Thalmor emissary behind her as she slipped out into the cold, snowy weather of Winterhold.

"…and this is the Hall of Attainment; the living quarters for our students. Here, we encourage them to engage in personal research so long as it does not endanger…"

It was several hours later that the circle was completed to the best of Phinis' abilities, and the older mage was currently placing lit candles at seemingly random points, having muttered something about the stars being gates to Aetherius and mimicking their alignment. At the centre of the circle was a Varla Stone, and, at each of the four cardinal directions of the circle, a Welkynd Stone. When he finished with the candles, he looked up at her, with a self-satisfied and eager look in his eyes.

"Shall we test our theories?"

Jorun worried her lip with her teeth, "Are you sure the protective runes will be able to disengage—"

He waved a hand at her in an irritated gesture, "Yes, yes; I am not an apprentice fresh from the gate, girl. Are you ready or aren't you?"

No. "Yes."

She knelt opposite him with trepidation, hands out at her sides and the words of ancient magic ready on her lips even as he did the same.

The circle sprung to life.

Please review!