A/N: Oblivion and its characters are copyright to Bethesda, I'm just borrowing them for a bit, and I promise to clean them off before I give them back.

Warning: Contents are hot, and may burn. Shake before opening. Batteries not included. The "M" warning is in this one for a reason, dear readers. Not at first, but it gets there. I'll warn you all again in the chapters where it matters (and get specific, yay!).

- A Lesson in Restoration -

"Teach me how to heal," I ask.

He looks up from his meal, brow creased. I don't think it will uncrease again. Not for a while. A long while. He's got a smear of soot over one cheekbone, and I think we both smell of burnt wood and dead scamps. I've got blood ground so deep under my fingernails I don't think it'll ever come out, but I didn't even have the strength to wash.

We've stopped at an inn on the way from Kvatch – what was left of Kvatch, I mean. I'm trying hard not to think about it. Unfortunately, I still wear the guard's uniform, and I've been fending off questions all day. Not that I have any answers. Neither does he.

I should take off the armor, but I can't. My head insists that it's protection against...against whatever's out there. I know it's stupid, but I can't help it. Even though now it's more like bait for people desperate for news of what happened, and is it really gone, and what was it like, and are more coming, and on, and on, and on.

I'm sick of it, and I insisted that we be allowed to eat in peace. Begged, more like it. Not much luck there. We ended up having our dinner up in an inn room, a wooden door between us and the prying eyes and flapping tongues. We eat together because we're half-afraid to be alone. Soup and bread. Neither of us is up for much more than that. Neither of us have eaten much.

"Heal? You know how to heal," he tells me. "I've seen you do it."

"Not well," I insist. "I need to get you back to the Priory in one piece. What happens if you get hurt, too hurt to heal? I'm no spell-slinger."

"You cast well enough for the road."

"But not for Daedra." If I'd known more spells, maybe…maybe I could have saved Menian. "Hedgewitch spells and wise woman herbs aren't going to help us here."

"And potions?"

"I only have a couple left. If I run out…" I trail off, looking expectantly at him. He doesn't want to teach me. He's tired. I'm tired. But it's important for both of us, and I tell him so.

He stares into his bowl of soup, stirring it slowly like he hopes that an answer will finally surface. I watch him. He's very tired. So tired that he's weaving a little in his seat. Gods, why hadn't I noticed? It was his city. His home. He was there through the whole thing, not just the end.

I wonder when he last slept. One day? Two? There are lines in his face, circles under his eyes. His shoulders are slumped. His lips are tight and pale. I suspect that the gray in his hair will only get grayer from here on out. Very deliberately, his spoon mashes a boiled chunk of potato into pulp.

"It's important," I insist again, though my voice trembles. "I wouldn't ask you if it wasn't important."

"I know. But Restoration isn't my strength. I didn't learn it until recently. I don't know how much I'll be able to teach you."

I frown. "That's silly. Everyone knows that healing is what priests do." I regret the words as soon as they leave my mouth. His lips go even tighter. I don't really understand why. I apologize anyway.

He shakes his head, "No, it's not your fault. I used to…I used to be in the Mages Guild, studying Conjuration. I only know a few simple healing spells, likely not many more than you. We didn't get a great many injuries in Kvatch. The Arena there gave us the most, and even then, they have…they had their own healers. I was rarely called to aid." He pauses, a slight spark of bitter humor suddenly flashing through the exhaustion. "I could call a Daedroth for you, though, if you like."

I force a laugh. "Gods no! I've had enough Daedra for now."

The spark dies and his face closes like a door, turning back to his soup. "Then I don't think I'll be of much help to you. Sorry."

"Do you know Convalescence?"

A hesitant nod.

"Good, I don't. Teach me that, then. I'll learn other ones later."

He shakes his head.

"Why not?" I demand, beginning to get annoyed at his excuses. "Don't you see how important this is? If you get hurt…"

"…your mission will have failed, a pity, find another heir," he finishes sharply for me. His lips tighten even further, going bloodless. He waves a hand at me, dismissing my shocked expression. "You know as well as I that I'm not the only one left with Septim blood – if that is even true. I simply happen to be the most convenient." I try to protest, and he waves that away as well. "I've seen adventurers before. They come…came into the chapel sometimes. Mostly, they're a self-centered lot, constantly on the quest to become a hero of some kind, with little or no care for any normal person who happens to be in their way. Did you ever question any of the little jobs you were given? Did you ever consider that maybe some people simply don't want to be helped?"

I'm angry, furious. How do I explain why I need to do this? How do I tell him that I've never done anything honorable in my life, but for some reason I've found myself in this mess and now I want desperately for us all to make it out in one piece? How do I tell him there was something I saw in his father, something I see in him, and it makes me want to protect him? How do I tell him to shut up and this isn't some 'little job' and he could die?

"I'm no adventurer!" I snap, "I'm a normal person who was just in the wrong place when your damn idiot father decided to let the assassins kill him! He's dead because he decided to stop fighting! I'm no hero, either! Menian should be the hero, he wouldn't let me waste time helping him, even though he's…he's trapped…" My eyes are filling with tears and I swipe angrily at them. The last thing I need right now are more tears. "I didn't want any of this to happen. I just don't want us to die too."

He stands suddenly, pushing his bowl away, stalking stiff-shouldered over to the window. He's angry too. We're both too damn tired to be fighting like this. We shouldn't even be here. I should be waiting back in prison, counting the bricks to see if the number really was different from my usual cell and pulling faces at that nutty Dark Elf. Martin should be preaching or reading or whatever it is he does in his chapel. We shouldn't be in some tiny inn fighting over the best way to keep him alive. I shouldn't have to keep reminding him that there are a whole lot of people who want him dead. I should tell him I'm sorry.

"I apologize," he says.

I blink.

"I'm sorry that I lashed out at you. I – I should, I don't know, I suppose I should be better than this – taking my anger out on you after all you've done for us, simply because you're convenient. I do know this is important, and I do know you're right. It's just…in order to teach you to heal…well…I need an injury. I don't have the books I'd need to show you otherwise." He turns back to face me, running his hand through his hair and looking at me helplessly. "And Akatosh knows I've had my fill of injuries. I can't imagine hoping a traveler should come wandering in with a broken leg, just so you can learn how to cast a spell correctly."

"Oh," I say. "An injury." Is that all? I wish I'd asked back in Kvatch. Or watched him a little closer when he'd insisted on healing the guards.

An idea comes to me. I stand up and get my pack from the corner of the room. He watches me, looking confused, as I dig around until I pull out a dagger. I tug at the chainmail covering my left arm and manage to pull it and the padding underneath back a bit. It's not hard, really. The Captain's armor is pretty big on me, but I'm not one to turn down free chainmail, even if it did belong to a guard.

He doesn't quite manage to grab my wrist before I run the dagger down the back of my forearm.

"What the – what are you doing?" He looks shocked. Understandably. But it doesn't really matter. I have plenty of scars already. One more won't hurt.

"I need to learn. You said you needed an injury. It doesn't hurt that much."

"I – You – I didn't mean – you're crazy!" He's really upset with me now.

"It doesn't hurt that much. It's su-super-" I screw up my face, trying to remember the word.

"Superficial," he says, trying to sound calm again. He's examining my arm now, his fingers digging into my wrist so hard he leaves white fingerprints. He notices and relaxes with obvious effort. His forehead is still creased with worry, though. Probably anger too, now. "You're a little idiot," he tells me. "But now I'll have to give you your way." I nod, feeling pleased with myself. Until he glares at me and squeezes my wrist again. Hard. He's really strong. "Don't you dare do this again," he warns. "Ever."

I nod again.

"You must promise me," he insists. "If you believe me to be the Emperor's heir, you must promise, and keep your promise."

An easy promise. Even ignoring the fact that stabbing myself isn't a regular habit of mine, I don't really care if he's Septim blood. The Emperor's always been a far off figure to me. Protecting him doesn't mean I have to swear anything to him. Just get him safely to Jauffre, get some coin in my pocket, and I'm done, right?

I think he can tell what I'm thinking. His blue eyes hold me. The glib reply dies on my lips. This is important too. What good is a wounded bodyguard? I duck my head, feeling ashamed. He didn't really need this on top of everything else.

"I promise." I think I mean it.

"Good." His hands are gentle again. He places fingers on either side of the wound and spreads it out. I make a hissing noise when air hits it. Blood runs down to the crook of my elbow. "I should wash it out," he says. "Most people don't realize what they're healing into the wound when they cast the spell. Dirt, poisons, sometimes worse. I've seen people with arrowheads healed into their bodies. If you can, wash out the wound. That is your first lesson."

The water from the washbasin is cold and it stings. I yelp. My blood runs down my arm with the water in lacy red patterns. He dabs at it with the cloth. Some of it still drips onto the floor and sinks into the wood. "It's actually harder to heal other people," he tells me. "You have to want the spell to succeed. When it's your blood, you will always want the spell to succeed. Beyond that, it is simply a matter of concentration. You merely need to convince the flesh to speed up a natural process. That is why Restoration is the easiest school to start in."

"Good," I say, still staring at my arm. "I'm not very good at magic." I only really know enough spells to crack a lock and cloak myself in darkness. Those were hammered into me for years. Restoration was secondary, with the reasoning being if I actually screwed up enough to need to heal myself, no one wanted me back anyway. Being arrested was normal. Being stupid enough to get yourself shot or stabbed was…well…stupid.

My arm is dry now, though the blood is not. It's still flowing. He rests his fingertips at my wrist, at the beginning of the wound. "Watch," he orders. I do.

It's different from when I heal myself. Very different. My spells warm my skin for an instant. Sometimes they even hurt as I clumsily attempt to close my wounds. But his spell… For the first time, I feel that the blue light fills me completely, like a cresting wave, until it spills out of me to tingle all the way down my skin. I dare not breathe and break the spell, only let my eyes fall shut as it fills me.

"Open your eyes," he tells me. "I can't teach you if you don't watch." I force myself to obey. Watching my flesh knit back together is fascinating, but disturbing. "I'm doing this slowly, for your benefit. You will likely heal slowly at first as well. You will soon become more proficient with the spell, with practice." He laughs bitterly. "I pray you won't get a chance to practice."

His fingers move slowly down my arm, burning with a soothing flame. I sigh. The light still fills me. It's wonderfully warm. I could sit here like this forever. Then he stops, and the warmth leaves me. I can't help but shudder. The room is ice-cold in comparison. My cut is still partly open, and the pain comes back as his fingers leave my skin.

"Your turn."

"What?" I'm a little befuddled, staring at my arm like it belongs to someone else. My body feels like I've just woken up from the most wonderful dream, only to discover I'm sleeping outside in the rain. I'm unwilling to let go of the memory of the warmth and the light.

"You try now." He shifts so that he holds my wrist lightly between thumb and forefinger. "Your mind should have caught on. And Convalescence isn't much different from the spell you already know, simply stronger, so it will work on others."

I try to call up my magicka. It works – to a point. I will my flesh to heal and it does. Starting so slowly I can barely see any change. But it doesn't feel right. It works, but it's not right. My feeble light gutters and dies, and I'm left staring at my arm in dismay. "I can't do it," I whine. "It's not working."

He lays his hand over mine. It's gentle, but I can feel his tension, his annoyance. At me, at himself, and at the world. "It's the first time," he tells me. "You can't expect it to go smoothly. It might hurt a little; and it will be difficult, perhaps for a while. But then you will feel it – try to find that spark and carefully coax it until it swells at your command. Picture it. Picture your hand cupping it. Now gently, gently pull towards yourself." His hand moves slowly over mine, drawing my fingers across my arm. "Yes, like that. Now – from your hands into your body. Push it in deeply. Let it fill you. Yes. Exactly."

My cheeks are hot with blood. I'm not sure why. My spell sputters and wavers even more than before. If it weren't for his hands on my wrists, I'd give up. Despite my divided attention, the wound finally closes and I all but sag in relief. I secretly suspect that some small part of the light was his, but I know better than to say so.

I'm suddenly exhausted and my head slumps against his arm. The rough cloth of his robes scratch my face and I jerk back up, blushing. He laughs quietly, "You do need practice. Sleep now, my friend. I will teach you more on the morrow."

He stands and picks up his dinner from the table. He nods at me as he leaves, closing the door behind him. When he's gone, I think it feels a little colder in the room. I stare down at the drops of blood on the floor and tell myself I'm being silly. I'm tired. My mind is playing tricks on me.

I'm barely able to undo the buckles holding my armor on. The little spell took all the rest of my strength to cast. He's right – I need to practice. What good would it be to heal him and then fall fast asleep right afterwards? At least on the field I won't have him holding my hand and whispering completely innocent instructions that nevertheless make my cheeks burn and my stomach clench. I'll be able to concentrate completely on the casting.

Damn.