jfraser

He was close. Just a little further down. XD

Morning Star arrived like everything else in this "war" -- quietly, without acknowledgment, another day laid over the last until the differences between them became theoretical. The cold did not care that the year had changed; the stones of Fort Amol held the night’s frost just as stubbornly, the broken wall leaned at the same precarious angle, and the men woke with the same slow reluctance, breath fogging as they stepped into a world that had not improved while they slept. 1 Morning Star, 202. A meaningless boundary. Marcus stood in the bailey and watched the fort settle into motion -- water drawn, fires coaxed back to life, the low murmur of men easing into the day -- and failed once again to forget. Five days since the travelers had come and gone; five days since Melissa Shae had stood in front of him and, with quiet certainty, severed something foundational within him. She had carved herself out of the center of his soul with the precision of her blade, leaving a festering wound that would never close. With nothing to alleviate his futile looping thoughts, he distracted himself in the only way available: he worked. As he had for the previous four days, from the moment he woke (well, from the moment he finished his daily drilling, which he now clung to even harder as the only thing left of his connection to his mother -- his real one, left behind on some other Skyrim), he threw himself into whatever work was there, from wall bracing to cooking to cleaning. Small things, contained things -- problems that responded to effort and did not ask questions he could not answer. It was enough, for a while, to keep his thoughts from circling too close to places he did not wish to tread. The courier arrived at midday, horse lathered, cloak crusted with frost. He was young -- barely out of his teens -- with the pinched look of someone who had been riding too long on too little sleep. He handed over a sealed dispatch, accepted a bowl of stew without a word, and collapsed in a corner of the longhouse before anyone thought to ask him questions. Marcus broke the seal standing in the yard as the cold ate into the fingers through his gloves and scanned the document: STORMCLOAK FIELD COMMAND WINDHELM OPERATIONS OFFICE ---------------------------------------- FIELD REQUEST FORM – RESPONSE ---------------------------------------- Requesting Unit: Fort Amol Acting Commander: Tatter Request Type: Morale Support Allocation (Rotation Inclusion) Date Submitted: 21 Evening Star, 4E 201 ---------------------------------------- REQUEST SUMMARY: Petition to include Fort Amol in the established camp follower rotation, citing extended isolation, declining morale, and increased risk of disciplinary incidents among stationed troops. ---------------------------------------- COMMAND REVIEW: Reviewed by: Dragonstomper Rank/Title: Field Commander, Stormcloak Forces Location: Windhelm ---------------------------------------- DISPOSITION: DENIED ---------------------------------------- REMARKS: The rotation is locked until the next review. Submit again in six months. Maintain current discipline. ---------------------------------------- AUTHORIZED SIGNATURE: Dragonstomper Field Commander, Stormcloak Forces Windhelm ---------------------------------------- “About time,” Bent muttered as he approached. “I was beginning to think Windhelm forgot us. What is it?” Marcus handed him the message without comment and watched over the wall at nothing as he listened to Bent’s under-the-breath cursing, then took the message back when Bent was done. “Of course. This is not going to go over well.” “Especially since we’re not going to tell them.” Bent lifted his eyebrows. “No?” Then: “Maybe that is for the best. But they’re going to suspect.” “I know.” Marcus sighed and turned back toward the fort. “We’ll need to think of something before rumors begin to grow.” In that, at least, Marcus felt fortunate, because a different rumor popped up that overrode even the pulsing group libido. The fort had heard about the courier in those few minutes Marcus and Bent were reading (news traveled faster than men in a place this small) but the courier had brought more than sealed orders -- he had brought talk: she-devil sightings. Multiple. Everywhere. A farmer near Ivarstead reported a woman matching her description passing through at dawn. A patrol in the Pale claimed they had seen a flash of light on a ridgeline east of Dawnstar. Someone in Riften swore she had walked right through the marketplace in broad daylight and vanished into the Ratway. A merchant caravan said she had stopped them on the road near Rorikstead, asked for water, then disappeared into the trees. None of it matched. None of it made sense. But every man at Fort Amol had been at Whiterun. They had all seen her -- the figure on the wall, the impossible speed, the even more impossible deflections of catapult stones that turned back and broke the army. That was real; that was burned into them. And now she was everywhere at once, a ghost multiplying across every rumor that carried her name. It was all the camp could talk about the entire day, for which Marcus was grateful. Later that evening, as the fire burned low and the men not on watch had drifted off in twos and threes, their bedrolls waiting, their voices fading into the dark, Marcus sat and stared at the coals as the rejection burned in his pocket while she-devil rumors still circled in his skull. Bent settled beside him without being asked, dropping onto the log with a grunt. He stretched his legs out, crossed his ankles, and said nothing for a long moment. "You're thinking loud," Bent said finally. Marcus grunted. The fire popped. A coal broke free and died on the cold ground. Marcus watched it go dark as Bent added, "The men are restless." "I know." "Hundred men, nothing to do, nowhere to go. Balls swollen large enough to use in catapults. Speaking of, Whiterun's still in their heads. They need to move -- staring at the same walls every day is going to curdle them." “I know.” Marcus turned the dispatch over in his hands, then threw it into the fire. “If command won’t give us what we need, we’ll have to find a way to do it ourselves.” Bent snorted. “Not too many whores out here in the boonies.” “It is, indeed, a whore-free area.” Marcus sighed, then lifted his head as a thought trickled into his mind. “You know," he said slowly, "the she-devil rumors..." Bent raised an eyebrow. "They're everywhere. Ivarstead. Rorikstead. The Pale. Someone should investigate. Properly. Small teams, staggered departures, cover more ground that way." Bent nodded after a moment. “I see what you’re saying. Give them something to do." “Yes. An outlet for this pent up energy. Probably nothing to any of them, but…" “But that doesn’t matter.” “No it does not. In fact, it would be much better if they did not run into that monster.” Bent nodded slowly, the motion carrying more weight than a simple nod should hold. "And if their route happens to pass through a town with an inn and a warm fire and women who don't mind a soldier's company for a few coins -- well, that's just the natural shape of the road, isn't it?" Marcus felt something in his chest loosen, a thread he had not realized he was holding. "I'll draw up the patrol routes tonight. Split them into teams of six. Stagger departures so half the garrison isn't gone at once." "Take a week or two, depending on how deep they go." "Should give them time to find themselves again." Bent clapped Marcus on the shoulder then stood, brushed off his hands, and looked down with an expression that was hard to read in the dying light. "First day of the new year. Maybe this one will be better." He walked away, leaving Marcus alone to chew on his own bitter thoughts. Next chapter Previous chapter Start from the beginning Join the Shae's Discord!

I was born in 2000, a year before the world (Earth, that is, not Nirn) changed forever. Is that too bold to say? Too arrogant? Are a handful of terrorist attacks on one country when other countries have them all the time worthy of being called “permanently world changing?” I guess if the country in question is the most powerful in the world and is run by greedy rich lunatics who are more than happy to make their problems everyone else’s as well, the answer is yes. Iraq and Afghanistan formed the news cycle of my earliest years. Hell, last I saw, the war in Afghanistan was still raging. I watched in horror from the comfort of Columbus, Ohio as news of Darfur, the Yazidi (I have thought of that one a LOT in the past seven years), the Uyghur, the Kurds, the Armenians, the invasion of Ukraine, and more took turns crossing the headlines of the various social media platforms I enjoyed, like the universe’s worst parade. I have bitched quite a bit about how much I hate Skryim, but that’s compared to Ohio – the truth is, the same shit happens on both worlds. And the bigger truth is, I was horrified for those people but I didn’t pay much more than a passing wish for things to be different (“sending good thoughts!”). Until, of course, it happened to me. Where was I going with this? Oh, right. As I recall, the term “ethnic cleansing” was coined during the Bosnian war a few years before I was born, but it has been going on since the dawn of time because people suck. And I have seen enough news reels, magazine photos (before those mostly went away), and videos to know it when I see it. I saw it in the Reach. Or, I should say, I saw that’s what we were meant to be doing in the Reach. I didn’t actually see it because there was NO fucking way I was going to take part in it. My company and I reached… Hmm…I should probably talk about them real quick so there is some context. I was really nervous when I went to where the company assigned to me was…bivouacked? Is that the right term? I don’t know. Where they were staying. It turned out I didn’t need to be nervous because it was the same company (well, the company that contained the squad) that went through Korvanjund with me to get the fucking crown (that I had heard nothing about since) and they remembered me quite clearly. It was the first time in either timeline where I was treated as someone important. Snappy salutes greeted me, including from Captain Hjorn, the guy in charge. I saluted them back to the best of my ability – I hadn’t practiced much – then Hjorn said, “Would you like to address the company?” I did not answer with the truth (HELL, NO!) and he stepped aside, so I took his place in front of them, took a deep breath, and tried to do that trick where you picture your audience naked. This did NOT work because they were all young and in phenomenal shape, so picturing them naked only turned me on. I cleared my throat and gave the best speech I have ever given: “It is an honor to work with you again! I have just one thing to say: no one is allowed to die! That would lead to too much paperwork!” This had the intended effect of causing laughter and ratcheting down the tension. Soon the camp felt like a camp…until I started pitching in with my womanly duties (if you will) by gathering firewood and was stopped by Hjorn. “What are you doing?” he asked I blinked because I thought was it was obvious, but he took the wood from me and said, “You are the naasektenti. An entire squad of mine would be gone if not for you. You do not have to do this kind of work. Nor,” before I could say anything, apparently trying to anticipate what I was going to say, “the other work. There is no need to visit the tents at night, today or any day. Not when you’re with this company.” I’ll tell you the truth, I was elated. Finally, I was in a place where I wasn’t expected to yank a bunch of dicks every day! I hadn’t felt so light in weeks. That lasted about three hours, which was the amount of sunlight left; until the camp started settling down and all the other women started working their ways through the tents. I stood and watched for a solid thirty seconds before I swore a litany of curses under my breath, grabbed some oil, and dove into the dick fray. Now to be clear, I may have imagined the resentment they felt toward me but I sure as fuck would have felt resentful if I were one of them. Rikke was right - you can't be in command and expect people to do things you don't want to do. Not if you want people who will willingly follow you. Being in charge sucks. Anyway, it took a couple weeks to get to the first redoubt. We made it there on New Years Day of Nirn year 202, a little over five months since this whole thing started over. I didn’t know what to expect – although I had spent far too much time with the Forsworn in Cidhna and I had travelled north through parts of the Reach in the first go-round, I had very little understanding of their culture (what happened in Cidhna was a "culture" in the same way a pathogenic bacteria sample is a culture) so my first look at a redoubt took me aback. Picture, if you will, a fort. Not a modern fort. Wait, do we even have forts now? We have places called “Fort Whatever,” but…anyway, sorry, let’s try the other way. Picture, if you will, the earliest forms of a fort you have seen in history books or Wikipedia or whatever: a “wall” made of pointy sticks sort of lashed together with surprisingly stout twine-like rope, huts made of jumbled wood daubed with clay, an open communal firepit, and clothes – what there were of them, they were all nearly as naked (some moreso) as me – made of hide and feathers. The only thing that looked Skyrim-modern about them were the very sharp weapons that appeared as soon as we got close. Now, this is a world where the highest form of single-person weapon is still a crossbow, and even those are super rare (and, yes, I am disregarding magic in this analogy). This was not the equivalent of rolling up on some dinky town in Afghanistan with a fucking tank. Technically they outnumbered us because this was an entire village and we numbered 103. But during those two weeks, Hjorn had filled me in on what was likely to happen, which was this: Warriors would stay behind to fight us while the rest fled into bolt holes that riddled the entire Reach. We would kill whichever poor saps got left behind then find the rest of it deserted and go away. The people would then come back out and resume their lives after they were certain it was safe. In other words, a meaningless cycle of death that accomplished nothing, which was why our orders were slightly different – we had been given twelve heavy wagons (this is why it took two weeks to get there) loaded with what the Imperials called tow jdût, which apparently means “fiery gas" and which, from what I understand, basically eats away anything organic it comes into contact with. And we were supposed to pour this shit into the bolt holes. On the orders I have been given, this had been referred to as “Operation Gopherhole.” It’s probably a good thing it did not go into details or my reaction would likely have ended up with me dead or in a prison cell. Hjorn was...we'll call it pragmatic: “You have to understand, this battle has been going on for centuries. The Reach has been bleeding since before the Mede Dynasty, before the Septims, before the Empire existed at all. All the men here have lost friends or family to the Forsworn.” To which I only had two words: Fuck and You. What I actually said was, “And all of them have friends and family who have been lost to you. That is not justification for genocide. I’m going to talk to them.” He called it suicide; I called it basic human decency. So that was a long interlude to get to where I was at the beginning: Kellan, Kangme, and I walked toward the “gates” of this “fort” with hands well away from our weapons while the entire redoubt bristled. Fortunately, no one from either side attacked. Instead, an old man with a bear-claw necklace stepped through the gates, planted his spear in the frozen ground, and crossed his arms. His eyes swept over the three of us like he was reading a wanted poster. "That's far enough,” he said, and we stopped in place. He was middle-aged, with gray streaking through a beard that had seen more winters than I, even with my extra seven year bump. The scar running from his temple to his jaw was pale and puckered – old and healed clean, but it must have been a hell of a wound when it was fresh. His gaze landed on Kangme first and held there, which made sense -- the Imperial uniform was loud in this light, bright against the gray stone and dead grass. He didn't comment on it, but his jaw tightened. Then Kellan, dressed in his leather and steel, carrying a soldier's posture even when he was trying to look casual. As an aside, we would half made for terrible spies. His eyes finally turned to me (odd that I wasn't the first place they went, for a number of reasons) then stopped. Then blinked once before traveling from my face down to the minimal metal hugging my chest, to my bare thighs, to the heeled boots, and back up. He didn't leer -- he was too old and too wary for that -- but there was a crease between his eyebrows that wasn't there before. "Who are you?" He glanced over my outfit again. "What are you?" "I am..." Several things flew through my head but I shook my head -- this was not time to be philosophical. It was a fucking good question, though. "...someone who wants to talk. Someone who is tired of death." His posture shifted slightly. The spear stayed in place but his weight settled differently -- less aggressive. I mean, relatively speaking. "That's a strange thing for one traveling with Imperial soldiers to say." His eyes flicked to Kangme again, then back to me. "The Empire sends soldiers. Soldiers bring death. That's how it's always been. What's different about you?" Jesus, so many fucking things. "You mean apart from the outfit? And the fact that I'm talking to you at all? I'll tell you exactly what is different about me: perspective. I don't find meaning in killing." The wind tugged at his fur mantle as he squinted at me. "Perspective. Forgive me, but in my experience, the only perspective youth have is in their loins. What possible perspective could you have?" I took a deep breath as flashes of news reels danced before my eyes. "I have seen entire civilizations worn down to nothing. Ethnicities erased in a matter of months. People lined up and shot because their skin was a slightly different tone or they were born on the wrong side of a river. Death and rape and horror on a scale of unimaginable magnitude. All so the people in power could profit. Corporate criminals playing with tan...er, playing with catapults, as the bard prophet Michael Been said." His eyes didn't leave mine. "You cannot have seen so much devastation in your short time. You said corporate criminals playing with catapults. I don't know what ‘corporate’ means but I know what a criminal is. I know what it means when the powerful play games with the lives of the powerless. Is that what the Empire is to you? A game played by criminals?" I smiled. "All governments are that, to one degree or another. Including yours. It can't be helped -- the only way for a nation to survive is to play the same game." I sighed. "I am not here to offer solutions because I have none. Not for the long term. I am here for a short term one, though, and it hinges on you." He studied me for a long, quiet moment as the wind carried a thin veil of snow across the ground between us then pulled the spear off his shoulders and planted it back in the ground, leaning on it with both hands. If I was a better poker player, I’m sure all these tells he was showing would have helped me in some way. “What could you possibly offer that would make me trust a confessed enemy?" "Offer? Nothing but peace for now." I motioned toward the path, though the rest of the company could not be seen from there. "We were sent to destroy you. I would rather not do that. Answer me one question and we'll turn around and go after our real enemy." His hand tightened on the spear shaft and his eyes narrowed, but there was something else there now -- curiosity, wariness, and the faintest flicker of something that might be hope, buried deep and well-guarded. Or I could have imagined that. I probably imagined that. “One question." He glanced down the path then back at me. "Very well. Ask. Then I'll decide if your question is worth answering." "You surely know of the war between the Imperials and the Stormcloaks. Presumably you know of the defeat of the Stormcloaks at Whiterun. I know these are beyond your borders but I also know you are connected to the land. I believe I know the answer already but it must be asked. So tell me this: are your people planning on attacking the exposed underbelly of the Imperial army -- say Dragonbridge, Rorikstead, Solitude itself -- while it stretches to remove the splinter in its side in Windhelm?" He was quiet for a long moment. When he spoke, his voice was lower than before. "The Stormcloaks are not our friends. It was Ulfric, after all, who defeated us the last time things came to direct confrontation. If he wins, we gain nothing. On the other hand, if the Empire wins, we also gain nothing." He shrugged. "Either way, the same boot presses on our throats. Only the color of the leather changes." He took a step closer. "So, yes. We watch. We wait. We sharpen our blades and count our supplies. And when the Empire's back is turned -- when Legion supply lines stretch thin and every available soldier is bleeding at the base of Windhelm's walls -- we will remind them that the Reach is not theirs to hold." He held my gaze. "That is your answer. What will you do with it?" I smiled. "I will make sure the Legion lines do not stretch that way -- I and my hundred men will finish this war ourselves." Uncertain of the protocol, I gave him a small bow. "Thank you for your time." His eyebrows rose slightly -- the first genuine surprise I’d seen from him since we walked up. "A hundred men against the Stormcloaks. Against the Legion. Against the whole grinding machine of war." He said it without mockery, just a kind of tired wonder. "You speak like a saga-walker. Like one of the old heroes." A laugh, brief but without venom. "You know what happened to the old heroes, yes?" He paused but I only waited. "They died. Usually alone." He tapped the spear shaft once. "But sometimes -- sometimes -- they change something first." He gave me a long, measuring look. "I will remember your face, Naasektenti. And your words." He jerked his chin toward the canyon behind me. "Go. Finish your war. And if you live through it..." A pause. "The Reach will still be here. Perhaps we will have more to discuss." I frowned. "Well, hopefully not against the Legion. Although they may consider this deserting. I hadn't really thought about..." An elbow to my shoulder from Kellan stopped me and I cleared my throat. "Um. Yes. Farewell!" I waved then felt stupid and lowered my hand, then just turned and started walking before he could see me blushing. Which likely failed since my entire back was bare. Fortunately, my dark Redguard/Moroccan/whatever the hell I am skin does not show blushes easily. A low chuckle rolled out from behind me, carried on the cold air. Beside me, Kellan was very carefully not looking at me while his shoulders shook with suppressed laughter. "Not a word," I muttered. "I didn't say anything." "Your vibrations said something." Kangme, walking on my other side, made a sound that might have been a cough or a laugh of his own. I couldn't tell and I didn't want to know. It was not until later that night that it occurred to me to wonder how the hell the old man knew who I was. Don't feed the bastards. Feed yourself instead. Next chapter Previous chapter Start from the beginning Join the Shae's Discord!

No need to delete. This is hex's mod and he said he is looking into it.

I was more thinking along the lines of not linking to mods without the author's consent in general, not because of the content. XD

i'm not sure what project AHO is, to be honest, but generally permission from the author of a mod is required to be added as an outcome.

Yep. Back in chapters 56 (Jagged Little Kill) and 57 (Confronting Mortality) of Sian's story, she is given the name (and has a similar linguistic breakdown) and it is referenced from time to time from there.

The nothing happening was a lot -- she gets back and not a single person notices she never finished her assignment, even cicero or the night mother, then she gets assigned to assassinate Sian. That ought to be fun!

The Sanctuary was, as always, quiet when Sloan returned, but the quality of its quiet had changed. The low hum of routine had been replaced by something held in check, a room full of people trying very hard to act like nothing was wrong. Tusef stood near the training racks, arms crossed, staring at nothing. Veezara was visible for once, which meant he wanted to be; he sat near the map table with a cup of tea that appeared to have gone cold. The braziers burned at their usual height, the shadows pooled in their usual corners -- everything looked exactly as it should, and the effort of maintaining that appearance pressed against the air like a held breath. Sloan walked in and stopped. Babette caught her eye from across the room and gave her a nod -- small, controlled, the kind of acknowledgment that said I see you without saying anything that might carry. Sloan returned the nod then crossed to her and asked the question. "What happened?" Babette's smile did not reach her eyes. "Melissa Shae is in Skyrim." She said it the way someone might say there is a wolf in the house -- flat, careful, the words chosen for minimum impact. "Kira has Naza and Lexzal in her office. The rest of us are pretending we did not hear the news." Sloan kept her face still. She had had practice -- years of it, across two lifetimes -- but the name landed in her chest like a blade dropped point-first. Melissa Shae. The reason for the Brotherhood’s sudden fear – and although every one of them would surely deny it was fear, there was no better word for it – become clear in an instant. Delphine’s words from what seemed years but was really only four-ish months ago spilled into Sloan’s head: “What is the Jatbûfî Tong doing in Dark Brotherhood territory? My understanding was that the truce forbade that.” Melissa’s presence, if unannounced (as all signs seemed to indicate) was enough to spark a war. But that wasn’t the reason that name sent a shock through Sloan – hers was a more personal trill. Melissa was the woman she had chased across the first timeline; the name she had built an identity around; the mother she had mourned and then been told was never hers. And she was here. In Skyrim. She had thoughts she could not voice, questions she could not ask. None of them were Babette's to answer -- Sloan nodded once and turned away. Her feet carried her through the familiar corridors without conscious direction, past the dining hall, past the armory, past the training area where Tusef's equipment hung in ordered silence. She did not know where she was going until she realized she was standing at the entrance to the Night Mother's chamber. After a pause, she shrugged away her fear of reprisal and entered. The sarcophagus was open and the Night Mother’s preserved body was illuminated by a single candle placed on a ledge before her. Cicero stood before her, his motley coat hung on a peg near the door, his sleeves rolled up to the elbow, one hand cupped beneath the Night Mother's breast while the other worked a damp cloth across her skin with the slow, absorbed tenderness of a man polishing something sacred. He was murmuring as he worked. Sloan caught fragments -- a low, rhythmic stream of endearments and reassurances, the kind of nonsense words people used with infants or lovers or things too precious to address in language. His bells did not ring. She stepped closer and a name rose in her mind the same way the first one had -- surfacing from depths she could not see, pressing against the inside of her skull like a hand against a door. She did not choose to speak it -- it spoke itself with her lips: "Naasektenti." Cicero's hand stilled. He turned his head, his painted face catching the candlelight at an angle that made his grin look like a wound. "Ooh," he said, his voice carrying a note of genuine delight. "A she-devil! Someone's going to have fun with that one!" He turned back to his work, resuming his gentle stroking, his murmuring picking up where it had left off as if the interruption had been nothing. Sloan stood behind him, the name settling into her chest like a stone dropped into still water. She hadn’t thought about it until Cicero said it, but now that the term “she-devil” had been spoken, it made sense – and carried a much bigger implication than she might have guessed. Naasektenti. Naa didn’t just mean “she,” it was one of the Nord words for whore. But a particular kind, one she was familiar with from the Vixen. A naa was a professional – the highest echelon, silk dresses, the Vixen's upper floors. A naa could be invited to a noble's soiree as a companion -- not to work the room, but to be seen on someone's arm, to laugh at the right jokes and make the host look cultured. A naa had boundaries, had a madam who enforced for her, had a warm bed and hot food and clients who took baths. A naa was respected, in the way people respected anything that cost more than they could afford. A pipliim was what she had been for one night in Windhelm in a dank alley behind Candlehearth Hall with a man who grabbed her by the throat and lifted her off her feet while he “negotiated” her price down to single coins. A pipliim’s clients did not look at her face; they did not care what her boundaries were because she did not have any. A pipliim was not a professional – she was garbage the city had not got around to disposing of. They were both whores. But one could walk through the front door of a noble's house while the other would be chased out of the market square if she tried to sit on a bench. So what did that make Naasektenti? Naa plus aasektenti, prostitute and devil stitched together, got you something that was not quite a woman and not quite a demon, something that walked the line between. A succubus, perhaps -- a Daedric entity that hunted through sex. She had never heard of a contract for something like that but, then, she had only ever had one contract from the Night Mother -- which she had failed, but no one seemed to know that -- and the Night Mother herself felt Daedric enough to make the idea less strange than it should have been. She looked at the Night Mother's still face -- serene, patient, waiting -- and felt no judgment. No displeasure at the failed contract, no demand for an accounting. The silence from that direction was not hostile; it was simply waiting, as if the Night Mother had known all along that Beitild was not Sloan's path. Or perhaps the Night Mother did not account for the kills once the name had been spoken. Or perhaps that strange thread she had pulled had been Beitild’s connection to the Night Mother. Sloan had no idea what the rules were. She glanced once again at Cicero, who acted as if he had forgotten anyone but the night mother existed. He had been incensed when she had been given the assignment to kill Betild, so much so that he had momentarily dropped his caricature of a persona. Sloan had expected relief or a joke or SOMEthing from him when she saw him again. Instead, it was as if that discussion had never happened. She shook her head and turned away. Just like before, once the name was spoken, Sloan had a clear idea where the mark was -- this one was almost due north. She turned and walked out of the chamber, leaving Cicero to his work. She did not ask permission, did not clear it with Kira or Naza or anyone else – the Sanctuary was consumed by a crisis that had nothing to do with Sloan. The thread to the north was waiting for her and she had never been good at staying where she was not wanted. Well, unless you counted Mishi’s opinion. She gathered supplies and slipped out of the loud silence of the sanctuary into the quiet silence of the night. The sky was clear and cold and the first stars were winking their way into existence. The air smelled of frost and pine and loam. It was the last day of Evening Star -- the end of the year, the threshold of something new. The thoughts she had carried on her way south came back – she didn’t have to follow this path. She was not beholden to Kira or the Night Mother. She could just leave and never come back. But that wasn’t the right way to do it – it would lead to being hunted. At best, it would lead to being dragged back to answer to Kira. At worst…well, people would die. There was no need for that kind of escalation. Once things were settled and the sanctuary was back to what passed for normal, they would have that conversation. For now… She rode north into the dark while the Sanctuary grew smaller and smaller behind her, until it was nothing but a shape in the freezing air, receding into a past she wished she could stop carrying. Next chapter Previous chapter Start from the beginning Join the Shae's Discord!

The implication was meant to be that they visited at least once. Never really did a Urag/Nyatt/Che meeting, did I? Hmm See? Everyone was right!

Oops XD I could use 16 days of sleep XD Francis does have a record of betrayal, so this fits. The story has not explicitly said she has been there but it was inferred by Nyatt talking about how their home is ready for them. How would that be possible if they had not been there? Dammit, i read it again just before it posted, too. XD

Francis put his arm around her as they walked and Aithne smiled and leaned into his warmth. Why had she taken so long to say yes? Being with him felt so right. The snow crunched under their boots, the sky a vast bruised purple fading into twilight over the sea, and the world felt simple in a way it had not felt in -- she could not remember how long. She let herself have it. She let herself be held. His hand moved -- down her shoulder, across her ribs, settling on her hip with a thumb that traced small circles against the fabric of her tunic. She nestled into his touch. The pressure of his fingers, the weight of his arm, the solid certainty of him beside her -- it felt good. It felt…safe. She closed her eyes for half a step, just to feel it. His hand strayed further. Down her hip, across the curve of her ass, palming her with a familiarity that bordered on presumption. She tensed; the move changed the timbre of the moment into something tinged with a sharp heat. Which wasn’t necessarily bad -- she had hoped things would move in that direction, after all. It just felt…more immediate, more present than she had anticipated. Still, she couldn’t deny the hunger that had begun to… He squeezed, hard enough to hurt and she cried out and tried to step away from him, twist out of his grip, but he would not let go. Instead, he yanked her back. Her body collided with his while his other hand took possession of her breast. "You never learn, do you?" The voice was not Francis'. It was deeper, more menacing, as familiar as her own thoughts. "You still need to be taught your place, I see." Borkul shoved her forward, face-first into the muddy stone of the shallow cave. She hit the ground hard, her palms scraping, knees sparking with pain at the collision. He was behind her, heavy hands wrapped around her waist in a grip like iron; then he was inside her, his cock ramming into her ass in painful, methodical bursts. The chain from her collar was taut, anchored somewhere in the dark. She could feel every inch of him as he shoved, splitting her open, filling her with that familiar, unbearable length. She screamed -- and the scream did not end, because the cave did not end, because she was still there, still pinned, still being pounded into the cold stone floor. Every grunting shove sent her a little closer to the edge of the cliff; toward the yawing endless chasm below. The dragon landing in front of her, its wings blotting out the world. She yelped and threw her arms over her head as the dragons’ jaws swept down. They passed over her and snapped down on Borkul with a heavy crunch that filled her world -- one clean bite that lifted Borkul off her and out of the world in a single motion. His legs kicked; his roar of rage was silenced in a moment. Something wiggled in Aithne’s ass and she reached back and felt it protruding. She grasped and pulled and found herself holding Borkul’s cock, still hard and pulsing as if it was alive. She shuddered and tossed it over the edge of the cliff, then looked up at the dragon. It hovered before her -- vast, ancient, patient -- and opened its mouth. She expected fire or gnashing teeth, and she held herself still for it. Instead, it made a sound like a cat with a hairball and spat out a key. It landed in her hand and she looked up at the door in front of her. It was the size of eternity yet no size at all. She fitted the key to a hole that had not existed a moment before and turned it. The door swung open with a silence that bordered on deafening. Light poured through the crack -- pure white, brilliant and warm, yet not blinding. It wrapped around her, pressed against her skin, filled her lungs with something that felt like the first breath she had ever taken. Peace, vast and wordless, settled into her bones. She felt held. She felt known. She knew, in that crystalline moment, that what lay on the other side of the door was The Answer. Not just to every question she had ever asked, not even to the questions she would ask in the future – it was, simply, The Answer. To everything. She took a breath and stepped forward. Aithne woke with a suddenness that made her head spin and felt a moment of disoriented panic. Something hovered on the edge of her mind, some tantalizing light that fractured and flaked away as she reached for it. She was left with only the dim residual glow that something momentous had been within her grasp and was now lost. She didn’t know why, but a moment later, she found herself weeping. -- The small table looked almost absurdly normal. Light filtered in through the narrow window in a pale, steady wash, catching on the familiar worn grain of the wood and the rim of a simple bowl. The room smelled faintly of bread and herbs and home -- clean, warm, and quiet in a way that felt so normal, so right. Aithne devoured it in much the same way she devoured the food laid out before her. She ate like she had forgotten food existed, barely pausing to chew before reaching for more. Bread tore under her fingers, fruit disappeared as quickly as she could bring it to her mouth. There was no hesitation, no pacing, no attempt to slow herself -- only a steady, controlled urgency, as if the act of eating itself required her full attention, as if stopping might somehow cause it all to vanish. Urag sat across from her, his cup of tea untouched, watching her with an expression she could not quite name. She fought against her instinct to peer into his mind. "Your husband and wife are asleep," he said after she had slowed from ‘ravening beast’ to merely ‘hungry wolf.’ “They sat with you through most of the sixteen days you were asleep.” Aithne blinked and looked up with a piece of cheese halfway to her mouth. “Sixteen days?” He nodded, expression neutral, mind abuzz with emotions and thoughts Aithne forced herself not to feel or see. “I had to push them out this morning – they were looked worse than you did when we found you.” Aithne flushed as a disjointed memory of leaping into his arms fizzled to the surface. “About that, I…” Urag held up a hand and shook his head. A spike of something Aithne desperately wanted to explore exploded behind his calm façade. “Forget it. It’s fine. I am more interested in what happened. You had clearly managed to break free from whatever he had done -- something to do with those chains hanging from the ceiling, I assume.” She nodded as she leaned back, suddenly no longer interested in food. “He had me chained. Arms and legs. I couldn’t move anything but my head.” “And he was foolish enough to leave you with access to mana. I suppose that’s what he gets for…” “No, he put a restricting collar on me. I couldn’t feel any mana at all.” A pause. Then, “So you beat him physically?” She didn’t need to read his thoughts to recognize the doubt in his tone. “No,” she responded, a bit piqued. “But I probably could have had I had the opportunity. I was a soldier before this, you know.” Urag opened his mouth, appeared to think twice about what he had been about to say, and resorted to clearing his throat before continuing. “How about I stop trying to guess. What happened?” Aithne sighed as she tried to find the best way to answer. “In my…previous life, when you and I were…um…when you were teaching me about magic, you told me the most important thing about magic is imagination. Anyone can learn spells and cast them without thinking.” Urag snorted. “True. That’s how you get hedge wizards and court mages.” Aithne laughed. “That’s exactly what you said, yes. So I was hanging there while Merks was blabbing on about…something, and that came to mind. So I…imagined.” The orc frowned. “I don’t understand. You imagined yourself free and you just were? That’s not how it works.” “Not like that, no. I…imagined the mana all around, then imagined pulling it in. Then imagined releasing it. And it did.” Another pause. A long one. Urag's brow furrowed. "You cast through a suppressive collar." "Yes." “Without a catalyst." "I didn’t have one." "Without a somatic component." "I could not move my arms." He frowned and set down his cup. "What you are saying is theoretically possible, although I sincerely doubt the other me meant his lesson to be taken that literally.” “You’re right, it was a lesson in not allowing yourself to be constrained by the narrow methods of using magic as taught by the college, to use what I know of magic to stretch it within the constraints of the limiters. It did not mean to take a shortcut by stepping outside the limiters completely.” Urag grunted. “Sounds like a wise teacher. That should have killed you." “I know. It nearly did.” “And then you slept for sixteen straight days after Colette healed you.” Another frown. “Although she said there wasn’t much wrong with you physically. Just exhaustion.” Aithne blinked as her heart jumped. “Colette healed me?” Urag nodded. “Of course. She is the best Restoration mage in the college, you know. Possibly the best in living memory, for that matter.” “I…I know.” A myriad of conflicting emotions started swirling in both of them. Aithne tamped hers down as well she could – now was not the time to wallow – but could do nothing but try to ignore his. It didn’t help that a hint of lust was included. She took a deep breath and tried to change the subject. “I didn’t expect to wake up here, in…in your suite. I’m sorry for the inconvenience.” Urag waved a hand. “I don’t know the convalescence ward well enough to teleport directly there – I walk everywhere so I never bothered learning all the sigils – and then Colette said it would be best if you weren’t moved until you woke. It was no trouble.” A clear lie, which Aithne would have known even without being able to feel it – anything that disrupted his life was trouble, by definition. “Still, I appreciate it. I…know you like privacy.” Another grunt but then he took his turn to change the subject. “That cave has been hidden for nearly 800 years. We knew it existed – there are records of it. But some student 787 years ago cast a Memory Rune across the entrance, so anyone who saw it immediately forgot where it was as soon as they looked away.” Aithne sat back slightly, her thoughts already aligning. “In the other timeline…” she stopped and bit down on what she had been about to say (“I was a slave and Merks tried to steal me”) “…Merks tried to do something just like this. He told me he was going to take me somewhere no one would ever find me.” Urag’s expression tightened. “He kidnapped you before as well? Why have you trusted him, then?” “He seemed…different. This time. I think that mask…” She stopped as the memory of the mask blazed a new trail of thought through her. “The mask! We need to…” “It is safe.” “…destroy it or…” She stumbled to a stop and blinked at Urag. “What?” “The mask he was wearing. It is safe.” “It is not safe! I think it was talking to him, telling him…” “I mean, it is in safe hands. We brought it back here. It is being studied. Carefully.” “I…” Aithne paused as her heartbeat slowed. “Good. How did you know?” “How did I know what?” “That the mask is…evil. Or…cursed. Or…something.” Urag snorted. “Well of course it is ‘or something.’ No one in their right mind would pick up something like that and just plop it on their head or give it to someone. Only a fool would start using an ancient relic without first studying it fully. I assume he found it in some ruin somewhere.“ Aithne cleared her throat as she felt a flush roll through her body. “Um. Yes, probably. Um. I think it was whispering to him. Somehow it knew about the previous lifetime and it was showing him things. Except it was…twisting them. He saw parts of that life but not the whole and…came to some wrong conclusions.” “Typical Merks – he never did do due diligence.” They both laughed and, for a moment, it really was like being home – just sitting at the table talking to Urag, laughing about this student or that, sharing gripes about books placed in the wrong places. She half-expected Chtonji to run by screaming. Tears began to well but she shook those and the memories away – that wasn’t here, that wasn’t now. She shifted and stood, then leaned on the chair as her weakened body swayed. Urag jumped up, a concerned look on his face, but Aithne held up a forestalling hand. “I’m…fine. I’m…” she took a deep breath. “Look, I know my presence here has…confused things. I should never have told anyone about…” she waved a hand at nothing; at everything, “…my past life. Especially about you and me. It was…not fair for you. I’m sorry.” She took a deep breath, held up a finger as he began to speak. “We’re…leaving. Tomorrow. Mor Khazgur has built a gnot for us. It was ready over a week ago, but I was…” Putting off leaving, was the truth. “…studying,” is what she said. "Tomorrow." She nodded. She was not supposed to be reading his thoughts -- had promised herself she would not -- but in that moment, the urge was too strong and she allowed herself a peek. Chaos. Part of him believed her. More than believed -- part of him knew, in a way that defied logic, that the story she had told was true. And that part, buried beneath years of routine and stubborn isolation, wanted to ask her to stay. A larger part was relieved -- she was a complication, a disruption. A reminder of something he had not asked for and did not know how to process. When she left, things would go back to how they were -- peaceful, simple, manageable. He could return to his books and his silence and the predictable comfort of a life built around order. And beneath both of those -- smaller, quieter, harder to hear -- a third voice wondered if peace was even possible anymore. If she had changed something just by being here. If the shape of his life, once disturbed, could ever settle back into its old contours. She pulled her mind back, closing herself off as she reached for the last piece of bread. "Make sure the college will still be here when I need it," she averred with a wink. "I still have research to finish.” She couldn’t stop the smile that crossed her face at the palpable relief and hope that coursed through him even as he steeled himself against it. With practiced gestures, she made the motions Ghint had taught her in this very suite, in this very room, in very nearly this very spot and was whisked away in an instant from the life she longed for to the one she had chosen. Next chapter Previous chapter Start from the beginning Join the Shae's Discord!

It would surely lead to outright war between the Dark Brotherhood and the Jatbûfî Tong if Melissa was targeting either of those! Also, if they were her target, she went right by them. Perhaps she is just on a well-earned vacation. Touring the most northern province. In the dead of winter.

I am not sure how Sloan got brought into this but you are surely correct. Having assassin Melissa as your teacher is probably the only thing more frightening than having swordswoman Melissa.

The fire cracked. Someone laughed. Ma’iq’s ears twitched at some comment Marcus did not hear. The world kept moving; he was the only thing in it that had stopped. He forced himself forward. Melissa Shae sat with the fire to her shoulder, one hand wrapped around a bowl of stew. Her face was turned toward the conversation but her eyes roved. The Khajiit was mid-anecdote about a carriage, a goat, and a very unfortunate misunderstanding involving a Jarl's daughter. His ears swiveled toward Marcus and his eyes followed a moment later -- amber, animated, tracking the figure approaching the firelight. He said nothing –just a glance, then his gaze slid away, unhurried, as if he had noted a piece of furniture and found it unremarkable. "Marcus!" Bent waved him over, voice warm with the easy hospitality of a man who had already decided these were friends. "Come meet everyone. They've got news from the south." He turned to the group and thumped a hand on Marcus’ shoulder. Marcus managed to avoid jumping. "This is Marcus, commander of Fort Amol. Marcus, this is Ma'iq -- he's the one with the stories…” a gesture toward the Khajiit, who inclined his head, "…that's Onmund, he’s going to be a great mage some day…" a dusty-haired Nord laughed and waved, eyes shining with the excitement of youth, “…and this is Melissa.” Melissa's head came up at Bent's voice and Marcus, nodding at each person as they were introduced, steeled himself, trying to avoid the inevitable collision of emotions that would surely fight to leap to the forefront the moment he met those familiar blue eyes. All the world seemed to hold its breath. And then… Her gaze flicked over him once -- assessment, the habit of a woman who had survived too long to be careless – and she gave him the barest of nods as a greeting. Then her eyes flicked away, returning to roving as if the interruption had been nothing. He opened his mouth. Nothing came out. He cleared his throat and forced his voice to speak though his throat felt packed with wool – he was filled with a fear that when he spoke, his voice would come out wrong, would carry an accent, a pitch, a cadence that was not Marcus. That his mother's ears, trained by years of hearing Trendil, would catch the thread and pull. "Welcome," he managed. The word came out low, flat, serviceable. A commander's voice. Not his own. Melissa looked up again. This time her gaze lingered a half-second longer. A crease appeared between her brows; the ghost of something – curiosity? recognition? -- flickered and died. She gave another small nod and went back to looking at everything. Ma'iq stretched, his tail curling behind him. "Your fort is small. Ma'iq approves. Small forts have fewer places for things to go wrong." Bent laughed. “This one is so small because everything already has gone wrong.” "Mm." Ma'iq's ears twitched. "Well, if everything has already gone wrong, it must now be completely safe." Marcus smiled along with the banter but stopped paying attention because something was….off. He studied his mother without staring – she was someone who would know if she was being stared at-- and tried to read her posture. The way she sat -- spine straight, weight balanced -- was familiar. It had been drilled into Trendil before she was tall enough to hold a blade properly. But there was something else beneath it. A tension in her shoulders that did not match the stillness of her hands. A readiness that seemed aimed inward as much as outward. Ma'iq said something about a caravan in Elinhir and a camel that had more personality than its owner, and a few of the men chuckled; Melissa didn’t even crack a smile. This was unlike her –Melissa loved to laugh, to engage in stories, to add her own wry insights. Well, with everyone but her daughter. It had been a source of constant frustration with the young Trendil, who never had any of that laughter or lightness directed her way, other than an occasional smile when she actually did something right. This Melissa only seemed to be going through the motions of enjoying the conversation. Marcus watched her track a soldier who walked past her at the edge of the firelight. This was not unusual – Trendil had been trained to keep an active battle map in her head, to know where everyone in the vicinity was at all times, so it would be expected for Melissa to watch where people went. But something in the tracking was off. The Melissa he remembered assessed threats the way a sword assessed the space in front of it -- forward, direct, measuring the distance to engagement, turning her head to gain all possible angles. This Melissa assessed threats the way a shadow assessed the light – secretive, from the corners of her eyes without turning her head. Instead of marking pieces on a mental map, it felt as if she was looking for angles of approach, for blind spots and vulnerabilities. She carried no visible weapons, but that was right -- she had never carried steel. The Shehai lived in the will, not the sheath. He had seen her manifest it once, years ago, in the yard behind their house -- a blade of silver light that hummed with a sound he had never heard anywhere else. But the hands themselves, when she set down her bowl and Marcus got a glance at her palms...they were wrong. The calluses were not in the right places. A sword-grip left its marks on the base of the fingers, along the ridge of the palm. What he saw in the firelight was different -- higher, closer to the fingertips. The marks of a blade held differently. Or a blade of a different shape entirely. By the time the fire burned low and the travelers began to rise, stretching and gathering their packs, Marcus’ thoughts had formed into something like a question, sharp-edged and insistent. But it was a question he could not ask; only test. He watched them, one by one or in groups, move toward the door of the fort. When Melissa stood and followed Ma’iq, Marcus watched her walk, and even that felt wrong. Both Melissas moved like predators, but where his mother’s gait resembled a hunter, this Melissa’s felt more like a prowler. She was the last through the door and paused at the threshold, her eyes sweeping the yard once before she stepped inside. Her gaze passed over him without stopping but Marcus had no doubt she had seen him -- no matter the world or the timeline, one thing would always stay consistent: Melissa Shae saw everything. The door closed and Marcus stood alone in the dark yard for a long moment, staring at the place where she had disappeared. He did not sleep. The question circled him like a wolf, never quite within reach but never leaving him alone. If she was the Melissa he remembered -- his mother, the youngest Ansei in history, the woman who had drilled every form he knew into his bones -- she would recognize the stances. They were hers. She had shaped them into Trendil’s body from the age of six, and no amount of time or distance or gender potions could erase that language. She would see the shapes of the movements and she would know, and knowing, she would react. A correction. A criticism. A blade to his throat. There would be something. If she did not recognize them... He pushed the thought aside, but it kept returning, circling back, wearing a path in his mind. He made his decision in the hour before dawn, when the fort was still dark and the only sounds were the wind and the distant shift of the watch changing. He rose, strapped on his swords. Paused at the door. If the answer was yes -- if she was the Melissa he remembered -- his day was either going to be very long or very very short. But he had to know. Besides, he could not go a day without training -- his mother would kill him. --- The bailey was empty when he stepped into it. Grey light, cold air, the ground packed hard by weeks of boots. He chose the center of the yard, drew his swords, and began. Form one. Variation one. The opening arc -- vod enmê, swift power. The blade sweeping out in the curve that began everything. Form one, variation two. The cross-step, the pivot, the blade cutting upward at the angle that opened a throat from the collarbone to the ear. Form two, variation one. Keep ke us -- flow like water. The transition from offense to defense, the blade becoming a current rather than a strike. He moved through them as the fort woke around him. Form three, variation five -- the watch changed. Form four, variation eight -- the first of the soldiers yawned their way out of the longhouse and stopped, seeing him in the open, and stayed to watch. By the sixth form, he had drawn a crowd -- curious, murmuring, gathered at the edges of the yard. Usually he did his exercises in the wee hours, away from prying eyes. Now they watched him like he was something to see. He was on form twelve, variation two when she appeared. He caught her in his peripheral vision -- a figure stepping out of the longhouse into the grey morning, stopping at the edge of the crowd, folding her arms. Watching. He almost -- almost – faltered but recovered in time. He finished the variation and reset himself into form twelve, variation three. He felt the same temptation he had had as a child – to peek at Melissa out of the corners of his eyes, to look for signs of approval. It was a habit that had been stricken from young Trendil early on and he resisted it now, though it became more difficult with each passing moment -- the silence from her was deafening. He caught glimpses as the stances turned him -- her face in profile, her arms still folded, her eyes following him with that same indifferent intensity she had worn all night. They offered no catharsis – she remained unreadable. She watched him the way she watched everything: from a distance she did not allow anyone to cross. He started introducing mistakes. Small ones. Subtle ones. A wrist angle a degree too shallow; a weight shift that came a breath too late; a line of the blade that drifted instead of cut. Nothing that anyone outside the school would notice -- the soldiers watching would see only the same fluid forms they had been watching for the past hour. But to someone trained in the Shûyaa Shî Yee Y̌êz, to someone who had drilled these stances until they lived in the bones, the mistakes would sing out like a wrong note in a familiar song. He made them deliberately, one after another, each one a question. She remained silent. He finished form thirteen, variation six and stopped, breath ragged, covered in sweat. The bailey was quiet for a moment -- then the men erupted. Clapping, hooting, someone letting out a low whistle of appreciation. Marcus waved them away with a laughing grunt, a dismissive gesture, and walked. Straight toward her. The men broke away to belatedly begin their day, their murmurs falling away like the last gasp of a summer breeze. He closed the distance one step at a time, giving her every opportunity to say something -- anything -- and found himself caught in the strange double-awareness of hoping she would and hoping she would not, both at once, each wish canceling the other into a kind of numb dread. She watched him approach with that same dispassionate expression. Unchanged. Unreadable. He stopped in front of her, still breathing hard, and paused until his lungs had caught up. Then he said, simply, "Well?" She tilted her head. The movement was achingly familiar -- the angle, the pause, the way her eyes traveled over him like she was reading a text she did not quite recognize. "An interesting style," she said. "I have never seen its like. Where did you learn it?" The world fell away; it felt as if the ground dropped out from under him and left him floating in empty air. For a long moment he could not speak, could not breathe, could not do anything but stand there with her words ringing in his skull like bells. It took all his will, all the discipline trained into him by this very woman, except not this woman, to keep from breaking down on the spot. He forced himself to breathe, to return to the moment. To answer with a truth that was simple on the surface but that carried an impossible complexity he knew he would never be able to fully untangle: "I learned it from my mother." Next chapter Previous chapter Start from the beginning Join the Shae's Discord!