"You think it hasn't been tried before?"

The Dragonborn ignores the question and readies another arrow.

"You think you're some special case, right? Just because you can Shout and talk to dragons?" The Vigilant turns to the side as best as she can and spits red across the ground. Her breath, shorter than ever, comes inward in gasps and outward in cackles.

"You know, I thought you'd be better at begging for mercy," the assailant jabs, bow slightly steadier than her voice.

Sensing the Nord's hesitation, the Vigilant retaliates. "You know nothing about mercy! And you won't up until the day It kills you!"

The Dragonborn doesn't have time to consider this answer, because before the Vigilant of Stendarr can take another breath, a Daedric greatsword cleaves her head from her body.

"Tell me you weren't listening to that," the blade's owner drawls, already swinging the sword onto his back. "It's the same drivel we've heard a hundred times before."

The Nord idly begins collecting arrows from the ground, face unsuitably puzzled for the simple task her hands are doing. "…Did she say my mercy was going to kill me?"

The Kynreeve only pauses momentarily before turning back toward the path. "Don't be so naïve."

Before they can leave Skyrim, the Nordic woman falls ill. Donning his cloak, he drags her to an alchemist and demands that they stop traveling until she gets better. And she does get better. Bit by bit, the Dremora realizes that she's not going to die. Bit by bit, he also realizes that she's going to die.

Their current place of residence is an abandoned mineshaft under Winterhold. While the Dragonborn sleeps, the Kynreeve keeps watch at the mouth of the cave. He should be sleeping too, but there's a restlessness clawing at the pit of his stomach, keeping him standing at the edge of the snow like a sentinel. Something's different tonight.

"Can't sleep, or kicked out?"

There it is.

The Dremora turns to the voice. It doesn't come from the mineshaft, but instead from the snow-blanketed cliffs outside. Out of the night materializes a figure, pitch black against the gray-white backdrop.

The Daedra's back straightens, stiffens, with recognition. "My lord," he addresses the other cordially.

Sanguine stands before him, the scarlet of his armor glowing through the light layer of snow accumulating on it.

"So," the Prince bellows, "it looks like you haven't come back yet! Surprising, surprising. You still don't regret staying here?"

Taken aback, the Dremora allows himself a few seconds of thought before responding. "No… I do not regret the decision. Not for a moment."

"Give it time! You've got plenty of it. She might not. But you can't hold out forever." He pauses for the moment it takes for the Kynreeve to wince almost-imperceptibly. "Most of the others cracked by now."

"The others?" the lesser Dremora repeats carefully.

"You guys can never handle being here for too long. Always begging to come back, once you get what you want. That's what happens when you think about the short-term, instead of the big picture." Sanguine peers out into the snow, a sardonic smile arresting his lips.

The Kynreeve nods, also turning to watch the storm. "You're right, it might yet happen. Once there's nothing for me here, I'll have no choice but to go back."

"Right, right. This was all for some dame. That's usually the reason, too. I'm surprised you haven't gotten bored of her though." When he gets no response, Sanguine presses on. "Most of the time, they'd have killed the girl by now."

The Kynreeve's eyes dart to meet the Prince's in a sidelong glance.

"Oh! So that's the problem. Excuse me, maybe I should go find an expert for this. Tell me, how would you like answering to Dibella for the rest of eternity?" Sanguine punctuates the question with a cackle. The Kynreeve, thoroughly not amused, glares stoically into the snow. "Well, I guess there's a first for everything. Leave it to the Dragonborn to whip one of my soldiers." Sanguine takes a step outside. "See you when she dies, which could be any day now. Mortals are fun, but they're ephemeral. Get your kicks out of her while you can."

Without another word, Sanguine disappears into the snow, leaving the Dremora alone, bathed in torchlight, but feeling very, very cold.

"But," the Dragonborn objects breathlessly, "we're not married."

The statement, however, gives neither of them pause in their current actions. It only brings up his response, "I did not think you one for tradition."

Giggling, she nods. "I can make an exception."

This makes him pause for just long enough to say, "You are not dragging me into a temple of Mara after this."

The tone of his voice and the feeling of his hands are just persuasive enough that she doesn't argue.

One early morning, after waking up, still draped over him, the Nordic woman comes to a realization.

"Are you up?" she whispers, eyes straining in the pre-dawn darkness.

He grunts in response. She hears it low in his throat, where her ear is still pressed.

"I'm not going anywhere," she announces quietly.

He blinks his eyes open. "Certainly not, in your current state of dress."

She snorts. "No, not right now. I mean, I'm not going anywhere. For a long time."

"How long?" he challenges, pulling the blanket across her bare shoulders.

"I don't know. But I know you've been worried about it lately. But I'm here now. And I will be for as long as I can."

"I know that."

"Okay."

They're silent for a few dazed, thoughtful seconds.

"Thank you," he finally says.

"You're welcome. Nothing's going to kill me, especially with you around."

The Dremora props himself up on his elbows, an amused expression on his face. "Not even your mercy?" he laughs.

"Oh yeah!" The woman sits up. "I finally figured out what that Vigilant meant. She wasn't saying that my mercy would kill me." She knits her eyebrows together. "She meant that you'd kill me."

Her partner, her companion, her lover, nods. "That seems to be the popular assumption."

She groans in frustration. "Why does everybody think that?"

Sparing a laugh, he answers in the most truthful way he can. "They have no idea how stubborn you are."

"Damn straight," she agrees, lying on his shoulder. "You're not getting rid of me that easily."

"Certainly not." He runs a hand through her hair. "Especially in your current state of dress."