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I Didn't Know You Were Keeping Count — Part X: Swan

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Author's note: The results of the poll are in! We're splitting this chapter right down the middle! Look for Swan, continued some time next week or so.

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Content Warning: Nothing special for this chapter.

#######

“There’s nothing to discuss so long as that traitor continues to lead an insurrection against the Empire.”

“With all due respect, General, the dragons pose a greater threat.”

“They’re a nuisance, but I wasn’t sent to Skyrim to slay dragons. I intend to put down this rebellion, dragons or no dragons.”

They had been going around in circles for nearly half an hour. Leara had to respect Tullius’s ability to give her the runaround. As a tactic against politicians and the Aldmeri Dominion, it was no doubt a very useful skill, but Leara wasn’t a politician, and as for the Dominion, well, that didn’t count, did it?

Across the room, Legate Rikke stood over the map of Skyrim; while she appeared focused on the flags marking Stormcloak movement, her attention was very obviously on the discussion between the Dragonborn and the Legion General. Leara didn’t know much about the legate, save that she was well-respected even by the Stormcloaks (or so she’d heard). What would Rikke say if Leara brought up the threat of Alduin? Unbidden, she recalled how that one Stormcloak general had scoffed at the idea. As much as she’d like to chalk belief up to an inside joke for Helgen survivors – and how morbid was that? – Leara was sure Tullius wouldn’t appreciate how serious a threat the World-Eater was. She couldn’t blame him. She hadn’t understood it herself, not until she was face to face with Alduin in Kynesgrove. Dragons meant something different in Skyrim than to the rest of the Empire. Dragons were not a symbol of Imperial sovereignty and Divine salvation. To the Nords, dragons were first overlords and later the stuff of legends. And those legends came back to burn the world to ash. Still. He was at Helgen. Tullius knew what they could do.

“Given the trouble that one dragon caused the Legion last summer, I can’t imagine the growing number of attacks is doing your troops any favors,” Leara said.

Grave, General Tullius looked at the leather folios stacked near the map. “Perhaps,” he said. Tapping a finger on the stack, he added, “But all accounts show that the Stormcloaks are just as affected as we are. The dragons are just another condition we all must reckon with. The legion can weather the winter, we can deal with the dragons.”

Legate Rikke pursed her lips but remained silent.

Leara settled a contemplative expression over her face, though inside she wanted to roll her eyes at the general’s bluster. She wouldn’t accuse Tullius of arrogance. No, he was too cunning a strategist for that. But his push to stick with the conflict as if the dragons were another natural phenomenon to work around was dangerous. The kind of dangerous that would see both sides razed by dragon fire. Leara inclined her head. “For everything there is a season. Am I right in my understanding that forward progress has been slow this year? Tensions will soon reach a boiling point and, forgive me, but the peace council may be able to circumvent any more unnecessary bloodshed.”

“Ulfric’s forces are stretched thin as it is, and soon his supporters will see for themselves the consequences of opposing the Empire,” Tullius said, his hand curling into a fist. “This war will be over soon enough.”

Legate Rikke coughed.

“Is it really so simple?” Leara asked.

Tullius’s fist tightened. “Of course, it’s not,” he sighed, “Look, Miss—”

“Just Leara is fine.”

“Leara, then. The Nords seem to put a lot of stock in you being ‘Dragonborn.’ I won’t pretend to know what that means here, but the Legate has told me that you’re some type of hero. But I can’t afford to depend on one person to take care of this war. Tell me, how can you enforce this proposed peace when it’s taken legions to get this far?” He pinched the bridge of his nose, and Leara wondered if Tullius was as tired as she felt. “If the Emperor would just send the reinforcements I’ve asked for, this business would be done with!”

Now that wasn’t simple. Leara knew that much. She remembered the legions mobilizing through Colovia and the West Weald when she was still in the Imperial City. Back when the war in Skyrim was just another topic to gossip about with customers. Maybe once did The Black Horse Courier run a front page spread on it, but that was when High King Torygg was killed, and the lines were first drawn. As a Blade, Leara couldn’t help but empathize with the Stormcloaks’ desire for free Talos worship, but at the same time, she spent years in Cyrodiil and in Alinor before that. She knew what the bigger picture was and it turned her stomach. People in Cyrodiil were more concerned about their backdoor than the northern frontier, and they had a right to be. If the Emperor diverted more men to Skyrim, then the line between the Imperial City and the threat from the Aldmeri Dominion would be weakened, and they couldn’t afford that.

And that was without the dragons to contend with.

“I can’t guarantee anything,” Leara admitted freely. “What I can do is advise using this peace council as a means to solidify Imperial support in Skyrim. If the Empire shows themselves willing to talk, then getting the people’s support will be easier.”

Tullius studied her for a long moment. Leara waited. He didn’t see the traitor that lurked just below her skin. Ulfric suspected it was there, but Leara prayed that the idea didn’t even enter Tullius’s mind. She was the Dragonborn, and she needed to be seen as such. Not as a Blades agent nor as a Dominion officer.

“We could use the breathing room – if you can pull this off,” he said at length. “Fine, we’ll come to this peace council, for all the good it’ll do. I still have my doubts, but who knows? Under these conditions, even Ulfric might agree to your little truce.”

“I doubt that, sir,” Legate Rikke said, face drawn. “He’ll be there. He won’t disrespect the Greybeards’ invitation, but he won’t come quietly.”

“He overestimates himself,” Tullius nodded. “That will be all, Legate.”

“Of course, General.”

Relaxing her shoulders, Leara smiled. From a pouch on her belt, she withdrew a card. “This has the details for the council,” she said, handing the card to Tullius.

He turned it over. “Two weeks. You knew I’d agree to this.”

“I was optimistic.”

Legate Rikke laughed. “You’ll need that if you think you’re going to get Ulfric to agree to anything!”

Leara only continued to smile as her anxiety over Ulfric wormed its way through her insides, squirming and gnawing.

·•★•·

Solitude was beautiful in high summer.

Winding her way through the Market District, Leara peaked at the open stalls from underneath the protection of her hood. The potent tang of salmon and other fish brought in by the morning boats wafted through the air; many were piled up in barrels and crates, but some were strung up on wire threaded between stalls where their scales caught the sun at high noon. But fish were only one of the many offerings of the Solitude market. Imports from High Rock, Cyrodiil, and the Summerset Isles glittered in the hands of merchants haggling with shoppers. It was a pleasant day and the streets were crowded with men, elves, and beast folk. It reminded Leara of a pale version of the vibrant Imperial City.

She eyed a line of shops, each with signs carved and painted in the classical cosmopolitan styles of the Heartland. Passing by a dress shop, she spied an ensemble not unlike one she recalled the Duchess of Colovia wearing to the Midyear’s celebration a couple of years before, peeking through a window. Next door were several tables displaying handcrafted leather bracers and jackets. Most were Nordic, but she spied the odd Nibenese or Colovian design in the mix. Solitude, or at least its merchant class, seemed to take many of its cues from the Imperials. Hopefully, this boded well for her hunt for a decent bookshop. She desperately needed to study some of these ancient Nord legends that were so intrinsically tied to being Dragonborn.

Although, as much as Solitude seemed to mimic the Imperial City, the lack of a common newspaper gave her pause.

Maybe she could blame that on the civil war.

Ducking through an alley, she tucked her cowl tighter around her mouth. Despite the pleasant weather, an absent breeze wound its way through the city, chilled by the Sea of Ghosts. But even if it were stifling outside, she’d keep her hood and cowl on. Solitude reflected the Imperial City in many ways, including the presence of the Aldmeri Dominion within its walls. She was too lax before when she infiltrated that party at the Embassy. And again, when she spoke with Ancano at the College. The Dominion was always watching.

Electricity teased her spine, and Leara shivered.

The familiar urge to run nipped at her feet. But no. She had come too far to run now. Even with the Dominion and Ulfric Stormcloak out to get her, she still had to think of Skyrim. Akatosh ordained it so.

Crossing the street, she slipped through the door to The Winking Skeever. Warmth and laughter pulled her in, inviting her to join the chattering patrons clustered around fish plates and bowls of mead. Her stomach twinged. Winding her way to the bar, Leara adverted her gaze from the platters of food on the nearby tables. Food could wait.

A gentle yip! brought Leara’s attention to the ground. Karnwyr slipped from under a stool, his tail wagging, and bounded up to her. “Well, hello to you, too!” Leara giggled, letting the wolf lick her hand.

“None for me, sweetness?”

The giggle petered out. “No, thank you. You reek of alcohol.”

Bishop snorted, a near-empty tankard in his hand. “There’s nothing else to do when you’re off doing gods-know-what.”

Karnwyr whined when Leara’s hand slipped from his reach, falling to her side. Clearing her throat, Leara settled on the barstool beside Bishop. “I’m done,” she said. “Tullius agreed to attend. We can leave Solitude in the morning.”

“I’ll be glad when we can put this prissy hole behind us. Their alcohol tastes like horker dung,” Bishop grumbled, throwing back the rest of his tankard.

From the other end of the counter, Leara caught sight of the innkeeper’s son, rolling his eyes, exasperation painting his face. Clearly, this wasn’t the first comment Bishop had made about the tavern’s alcohol menu.

“We’ll be back on the road in the morning.”

Bishop eyed her, his pale eyes trailing over the hood stained dark with dragon’s blood and the silver armor in desperate need of polish. “You’re done with that Legion guy?”

“Yes.”

Bishop’s mouth lifted into a crooked smirk. “Well, well, I can think of a few things we can do to pass the time till we head out again, starting with this.” He leaned forward, the scent of fermented honey and yeast curling from him into Leara’s nose as he tugged the cowl down past her chin. “My, but you do look sweet enough to eat, don’t you?”

Her chin between his fingers, Leara could do nothing but offer a weak smile. “Actually, I was planning on finding a bookstore.”

“A what? More books?” Bishop groaned, releasing her to scrub his face. “You’ve gotta be kidding me!”

“No, I’m quite serious.”

“Listen, darling,” Bishop said, resting his elbow on the counter. “It’s about time you got your head out of those books and paid attention to more important things.” He waggled his eyebrows. “Like me.”

“I do pay attention to you,” Leara said, patting his knee. Then she withdrew before he could snatch her hand in his. Standing up, she quirked her head to the side. “But I need to pay more attention to Skyrim.”

Bishop scoffed, but Leara ignored him as she slipped down the counter to where the innkeeper’s son, Sorex Vinius, stood pouring drinks. Leara waited quietly as he finished filling the tankards on one of the serving girls’ trays. As soon as the Breton girl whisked it away, he turned to Leara, raising a dark eyebrow. “Ah, Ormand, right? Here to order lunch?”

“No, thank you,” Leara smiled. “I was actually wondering if you could point me in the direction of a bookstore.”

Sorex nodded, “There’s a few options, depending on what you’re hunting for. There’s The Scholar Ship down by the docks, run by an Isabel Bourdon. That’s the place to go if you're looking for exotic, rare books. Then there’s always Bound to Please over by Radiant Raiment.”

“What sort of books do they sell?” Leara asked, not fancying a trip down to the docks if she could help it.

Sorex’s jaw slackened, “Uh, well, they specialize in—” He made a vague gesture, his eyes darting across the room before returning to Leara. She raised an eyebrow, and Sorex shrugged. “Spell tomes and, um. They specialize in,” he cleared his throat, “erotica.”

“I like the sound of that one!”

Leara winced as Bishop saddled up beside her. “I was looking for a more generalized selection.”

“Yes, of course you are,” Sorex coughed. “I’d recommend The Prints and the Paper. Run by an old seller from Wayrest, or so I’ve heard.”

“Really?” That piqued Leara’s interest. “Where is it?”

“Let’s go to that Bound to Please place,” Bishop whispered in her ear.

Sorex eyed Bishop, his brow creased. Leara couldn’t help but wonder how much trouble Bishop already caused the staff. And it was only half past twelve by the cathedral’s bell tower.

“‘round the corner from Bits and Pieces,” Sorex said slowly.

“Thank you,” Leara nodded. Then, grabbing Bishop’s wrist, she dragged him toward the door, Karnwyr bounding behind them.

“Woah, sweetheart! If only you were this enthusiastic in the bedroom!”

Leara hung her head, her hood falling over her eyes. And if she ran Bishop into the door jam as they left the Skeever, well, she wasn’t watching where she was going, was she?

·•★•·

The musky fragrance of leather covers and thick stacks of parchment teased Leara’s senses as soon as she stepped through the door. The Prints and the Paper was full of the warm dust notes that always hovered over old books despite best efforts. It wasn’t the Arcanaeum at the College, but there was a special kind of magic in a bookstore that stirred something homey and comforting in her chest.

Of course, Bishop took the opportunity to ruin it for her.

Naturally.

Picking up a particularly thick book on the Miracle of Peace, he snorted as he flipped through it. “What could you possibly want with any of this old stuff? There’s no pictures.”

“Well maybe if you learned to read,” Leara grumbled under her breath.

“What?”

“I said, some people use their imagination.”

Karnwyr sneezed, and Leara patted his head, absently. Taking the book back from Bishop, she set it back on the table where a stack of books on late Third Era High Rock geopolitics caught her eye. Topics ranging from the War of Bend'r-Mahk to the succession of the kings of Daggerfall stood out with bright gold and silver inlay on the spines. Other tables were spaced out along the central aisle, each piled high with books of various sizes and colors. In between a copy of The Real Barenziah and an anthology collection of 2920, she spied an expanded edition of The Annotated Anuad bound in a glossy black leather that could only be made from salamander skin. Leara swallowed, recalling a similar volume in Lord Varlarata’s parlor in Firsthold. Tearing her eyes from the memory, firelight drew her to the rest of the show room. There were rows and rows of bookshelves, tightly packed and dimly lit by scattered candelabras and wall sconces mounted at the ends of shelves. Leara eyed the fire with some hesitancy at its proximity to the books.

“Good afternoon! If you need any help, just let me know!” a wizened little Breton said, popping from between two stacks near the back. His overlarge spectacles gave his face a wide, rather goofy look.

“Yes, hello!” Leara said, practically sailing across the room from an exasperated Bishop. “I was wondering if you had any books on Nordic legends. I’m looking for the story of Olaf and the dragon!”

“Ah, yes!” the shopkeeper nodded. “I have a new edition of the Prose Edda edited by Viarmo that contains some rather fascinating annotations to the Olaf story!” With that, he disappeared between the stacks before Leara could mention anything about sightless creatures and old folktales.

“Well, that’s it, right?” Bishop asked, arms crossed. “You get your book and we can get back to more important things.”

Exhaling through her nose, Leara propped a hand on her hip. “And what do you call more important than the good of Skyrim?”

“The ‘good of Skyrim’? Please, sweetness, what does some old poem about a dead king have to do with the dragons flying around and eating people?” Bishop chuckled to himself, low and deep. But his eyes pressed into her, leering. Leara wanted to squirm. “Too bad Skyrim needs you as her savior. I could find a thing or two for you to do in my service.”

“Bishop, I don’t—”

The little bell over the door chimed, a light airy sound that was out of place in the thick atmosphere that threatened to choke her. But Leara welcomed it. She’d been avoiding the truth of her talk with Balgruuf and the plan to trap a dragon in his keep all week. It’d been painfully easy to distract Bishop from her near-confession with a kiss and a bit of heavy petting, but she could only stop him on the cusp of unbuckling her armor so many times before he snapped. Yet as much as she didn’t want to admit to the Dragonsreach plan, a greater part of her didn’t want to sleep with Bishop. Divines save her, she didn’t even want to kiss him!

But it was necessary.

She feared the day when she would believe sleeping with him would be a necessity, too.

Suddenly, the air was too warm, claustrophobic, and Leara realized that, yes, she could suffocate in her hood. She busied her hands by pushing it back from her hair, avoiding Bishop’s intensity with forced composure.

“Sweetheart, I—"

A throat cleared nearby. “Forgive me for intruding, my lady, but I believe you are whom I am looking for. Are you the Dragonborn?”

The jolt that rocked through Leara was so violent that she was stunned when, a moment later, she realized she was still standing. Her mind had wandered too far, she needed to come back. Karnwyr growled, his side pressed into her leg. Bishop scowled, and for a fleeting heartbeat, she thought it was directed at her. But no, it was toward the voice. Wrenching around, Leara locked eyes with a tall man wearing gleaming knight’s armor. Very out of place in Skyrim, but, she mused, perhaps not so much in imperialized Solitude as it would be in Whiterun or Riften. His dark hair was swept to the side, neatly combed and totally untouched by sweat or exertion. He had to have muscles. He couldn’t wear a heavy suit of armor like that without them. But somehow Leara doubted this man did much fighting, real or otherwise.

And . . . he just asked if she was the Dragonborn.

“Yes, I am,” she said, tone thin. For once, could she go somewhere without people somehow automatically knowing she’s the Dragonborn? “And who are you?”

“Oh brother, that is just great,” Bishop groaned.

“My lady,” the knight took her hand, bowing over it, “my name is Casavir. I have been searching for the Dragonborn for some time now, in hopes of aiding you in your journey to keep the dragons at bay. I would like to offer my assistance.”

Leara gaped at him, her hand caught in his as her mind tried to catch up with his proposition. Assistance with, with the dragons? Wait, Casavir? The name tugged at something in her memory – and then she recalled a golden quiff and a snobbish voice telling her about being arrested just for performing a bit of on-the-nose magic in the Solitude streets. Darren. Winterhold. Of course. That unfortunate little mage whose nose met the business end of Bishop’s fragile masculinity. Yes, she remembered now. He mentioned Casavir as being offended by his good fun.

Recalling Darren’s definition of ‘good fun,’ Leara concluded that Casavir’s ego was as delicate as Bishop’s. Yeah, no thanks. She didn’t need that hovering over her shoulder. There was enough to deal with when it was just Bishop whining in her ear.

“If it isn’t everybody’s favorite white knight,” Bishop sneered. “I was not expecting to run into you here, but the irony of it all definitely suits you. What brings you to a bookshop of all places? I think you’re looking for that other one, the spicy one.”

Clearing her throat, Leara made to pull her hand from the gloved grip, but Casavir held on. The glare he shot Bishop was anything but chivalrous. “I merely wish to assist her, much as I imagine you are doing now, Bishop.”

Bishop scoffed, suddenly too close to Leara’s shoulder. Air closed in around her. It was still too warm. “Do I look like some nerdy clerk to you? Listen up, she doesn’t need you. Go help someone who wants your holy righteousness, it’s not wanted here.” With that, he latched onto her arm.

Casavir drew her other hand closer to him, and Leara felt caught in a tug-o’-war between two children. “At least with me her moral aptitude wouldn’t plummet to the flaming depths of Oblivion, which I’m sure in your company, it has been sorely tempted to do!”

“You think a little too highly of yourself, Paladin!” Bishop laughed, cold. “With you along, she’d get so bored she’d sprint and dive headfirst into those flames, anything to make her feel alive—”

“That’s enough, both of you,” Leara heard herself say. Akatosh, but she sounded far steadier than she felt! She needed to lie down. Or at least get out from the streams of hot air blasted her from both directions. “Now, if you would be so kind—” She pulled at her hand.

Casavir dropped it. “Forgive me, my lady. I—”

“And here it is! Viarmo’s annotated Prose Edda, bound right here in Solitude by our own Bards College!”

Free of Casavir, Leara yanked herself away from Bishop to meet the shopkeeper. The old Breton buzzed to the counter, a large volume bound in emerald-dyed leather. It had to be several hundred pages in length. The cover was embossed with runic flowers and interconnecting lines crisscrossed with geometric precision. This was properly Nordic in its entirety. It was beautiful. Leara traced a thin finger lightly across the pattern in awe. “How much?”

The twinkle in the clerk’s eyes was amplified by his spectacles. “New release, forty septims!”

Air strangled in Leara’s throat. “Forty . . .?”

The shopkeeper beamed.

Well, that was more expensive than she anticipated. Still, she recalled books made with similar craftsmanship and significance going for twice that in The First Edition in the Imperial City. Three times that on a good day, if Lux Hebenus was in the mood to haggle. “That’s,” a lot, but then, if she didn’t get any other books, it might be justifiable. And besides, she quickly reminded herself, keeping up with Bishop cost her a great deal more than forty septims! If he could waste money on booze and bail money, she could buy a book. “I’ve got that right here,” she said, fishing her coin purse from her satchel.

Forty septims. Well, she was going to miss dinner reading anyway.

“Thank you, miss! Will that be all?” the shopkeeper asked.

The soft smile Leara offered him hardened when she turned around to find both Bishop and Casavir missing. Sitting primly beside a table overflowing with cookbooks, Karnwyr blinked at her and smiled, his tongue hanging. The bell over the door hadn’t rung, so she was sure they were still in the shop somewhere, probably in the stacks. She entertained taking Karnwyr and her new book and just skipping out, but quickly decided against it. As much as she didn’t want to get between whatever in Oblivion was going on between Bishop and Casavir, she remembered all too well the visceral hatred that twisted Bishop’s face at the mere mention of Casavir’s name. Then there was what happened when she left Bishop alone with Alec to consider. Sure, Alec annoyed Bishop, but it was nothing compared to the disdain he’d shown back in Winterhold. On top of that, Alec was just a bard; there wasn’t much he could do against Bishop’s ire but cry. Casavir was apparently a knight, and had a known history of arresting people who bothered him. Sure, Bishop got on her nerves too, but money for his fines was not in her limited budget. Besides, an uneasy feeling prodded her, if she couldn’t bail Bishop out, the threat of his exposing her as a former Dominion agent hung over her head. As much as she feared Ulfric Stormcloak’s anger, the wrath of the Aldmeri Dominion was far worse. If they found her, if they caught her . . . And weren’t they already hunting her, anyway? The last thing she needed was for the Thalmor to realize that the Dragonborn Blades agent and a known deserter from the war were the same person.

Bile clawed at her throat. Leara swallowed.

It was best to keep her thumb on Bishop.

“I think I’ll just browse if you don’t mind,” she said over her shoulder to the shopkeeper.

“Of course, of course!” he said, jovial. “There’s a bit of work I’ve got in the backroom, but please call out if you need anything!”

“Thanks,” Leara nodded, already beelining for the shelves. Where were they?

Karnwyr squinted at her, then shook as head. Leara sighed. “C’mon, boy.”

The shelves were stacked high to the ceiling. Passing by a ladder, Leara wondered if the old Breton had an assistant who stocked the top shelves and retrieved books for customers. She used to do that. Maybe if she survived, she could do that again, if being a living legend didn’t work out. Fingering a copy of The Eight Divines, Newly Revised, she again contemplated her idea of becoming a priestess of Akatosh. There was a comfort in religious ritual and piety, but there was a danger, too, if history was worth believing.

Her expression soured. She knew that, too.

A murmur of voices plucked at her ear. Down the narrow aisle and around a corner, she followed the charged hum until she was just out of sight.

“So that’s it. You want to know all about the Dragonborn, don’t you?” Bishop was saying. “You must be getting pretty knotted up if you’re lowering yourself to talk to the likes of me!” His laugh was coarse.

Casavir’s huffed in indignation. “It has nothing to do with her!”

“Oh, you can cut that crap out right now because you and I know both know damn well that there’s nothing else you’d want to discuss with me!”

There was a low growl – Casavir? “I am watching you, Bishop. I do not trust you, and neither should she.”

Karnwyr squinted at her, and Leara cast Muffle over the two of them just as a low whine rung itself from the wolf’s throat.

“Shh!” she cautioned, finger to her lips though there was no chance of either man hearing them. Karnwyr lowered himself to the floor, his head on his paws.

“Are you serious?” Bishop was saying. “That’s all you’ve got? You must be the hundredth lust-filled, lick her boots, sing her praises maniac that’s tried to warn her off me.” There was a pause; Leara could imagine him shaking his head in contempt. “Funny though, that’s exactly what I’ve told her before, to steer clear of you.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“She knows what you do to people who cross you funny. She’s been around. And when we’re done here, I’ll tell her more. I’m going to make her see that you’re not half the saint that you pretend to be.” Bishop’s voice lowered, direct. “You’re the worst kind of liar, Casavir, and do you wanna know why? You’re so desperate for people to accept the image you put on that you convince yourself that what they see is the truth. You’re a brown-noser who can’t put his vices to bed. Tell me, when you look in a mirror, what do you see? I bet you’ve even got your reflection brainwashed.”

“Keep your forked tongue behind your teeth!”

What in Oblivion? What in the realms of the Princes was going on between them? Leara sank to the floor, her Muffle spell hushing the clank and thud of her armor hitting the wooden slats. By the Nine, what?

“No, no way, this goes way deeper than that. There’s not an ounce of honesty in those eyes.” A dark chuckle. “Go on, make your little proposal. She’s too good for you, and she’s gonna see straight through that mask you put on. If – if – she says yes, I know how this’ll go. You may begin the night as this ‘saint’ paladin. But the man in you will want that wench in his bed, just as any red-blooded man would.”

What the bloody Hell?

“How dare you speak of her that way!” Leara barely registered Casavir’s enraged tone. Her mind was whirling. What were they even talking about?

She didn’t want in anyone’s bed! She didn’t even have her own bed. She wished people would stop trying to get her in theirs!

A warm tongue caressed her shaking hand, then a soft head pushed up on it. Reflexively, Leara began scratching behind Karnwyr’s ears. The wolf’s big brown eyes were on her, wide and warm. Constant, caring, comforting. Leara sucked in a breath, and held it, and then let go. She did this three more times.

Bishop was still talking. He was always talking.

“Don’t show off like another one of her sycophants. She doesn’t need you or anyone else to jump between her and a dragon’s teeth. No, she’s more than capable of defending her own honor. Your lust blinds you to that fact, and to the fact that she’s too much woman for you to handle.” Was there a compliment in there somewhere? Or was she a tool used to emasculate Casavir? “No,” Bishop continued, smug, “what she wants is a man who’s not afraid of making the hard decisions, who will do what must be done. She wants a man who’s a sight more honest than anyone who wears a temple’s cloak on their shoulder. A man who carries himself like some kind of standard for others to look up to—”

Leara was on her feet and out of the shop before either man even realized she was there.

·•★•·

“There you are, sweetness. I was wondering where you got off to.”

Leara didn’t turn away from the well. At the sound of footsteps, she simply sighed and continued to stare into the abyss below. So dark, so deep. Like the Void.

“Fair warning, Sir Dickwad is coming over.”

Was he? Ice crept along the weathered stones from her hand.

“My advice, ignore him. Actually, better idea, let’s walk away now—”

“My lady, forgive me for intruding,” Casavir’s lower timber cut through Bishop’s like an axe. “There was something I wished to discuss with you.” A pause. “Away from intruding interlopers.”

“What is it?” Leara asked, not caring whether Bishop was there or not. Casavir seemed to already have told him anyway, if she understood their exchange in The Prints and the Paper. Bishop knew what Casavir wanted and seemed keen to degrade him for it. And while she wasn’t overeager to humiliate others, the implications of their conversation, the idea that she was just another pretty face whose only enduring quality was to tempt men to destruction, was unsettling. Was that why so many men were obsessed with her? Because they saw her as some seductress like, like Mephala? A spider who, once she had a fly in her web, drained them of their youth and vitality until all that was left was a decayed husk.

And men wanted that. Men wanted that.

“I know we’ve just met, my lady,” Casavir said, unaware or uncaring that she was frozen. “But I want to request your company at a ball being held at the Blue Palace, here in Solitude. I am still new to Solitude, and so I am unfamiliar with the local customs. I was hoping you could offer me some guidance.” Leara watched as ice crawled down the inside well shaft toward the water below. Would it freeze solid? “If you choose to decline, I understand.”

Despite his insinuations in The Prints and the Paper, the urge to spite Bishop seized Leara with the cold fury of her own Frozen Façade spell. The ice in the well cracked and hissed. “Yeah, all right, I’ll go.”

“You what?”

Leara rounded, her hands pushing against the well. Apparently, Bishop hadn’t left, and Casavir didn’t really care about ‘interlopers’ as much as he put on. That made sense. These two seemed especially crafted by the Divines to antagonize each other whenever possible.

“You delight me, my lady,” Casavir purred. He made to take her hand, but thinking better of it, merely bowed – at the bloody waist. “I am overjoyed that you have accepted my request.” Then he shot a smug side-eye at a spluttering Bishop. “May I suggest acquiring a ball gown?”

“What?” Leara said, the implications of her acceptance catching up to her.

“I don’t know, Casavir. Personally, I can’t see you in a dress, but if that’s what you want—”

This time, the glare Casavir shot at Bishop was full-on and filled with poison.

“There’s an excellent shop here in Solitude, called The Jewel,” he said, focusing back on Leara.

“I can’t possibly afford—”

“I am told they have an extensive collection of gowns fit for the noblewomen of Haafingar,” he pressed on, as if not hearing her. Leara’s mouth snapped shut. “I am certain they will have one that interests you. I have already informed the owner of the ship that I will compensate her for anything you wish to purchase.”

“You did?” Her voice was faint.

Casavir’s smirk was shining and suave. “Am I correct to assume you are staying at The Winking Skeever?”

Leara nodded. “Stalker!” Bishop coughed into his hand.

Casavir ignored him. “I will be there at six to escort you to the ball. Until this evening, my fair lady.” And then he really did take her hand and kissed it and Leara wanted to throw up. But she didn’t.

It wasn’t that Casavir saw her as a seductress. No, no, it was worse than that. He saw her as an object, a way to one-up Bishop in whatever Divines-forsaken rivalry the two adolescents had going on.

Leara blinked and then closed her eyes. One heartbeat, two, then ten. She opened her eyes and Casavir was gone. She barely registered the distant sound of his armor clanking, drowned by the steady hum of the crowd as Bishop quickly dominated her vision.

“You’ve really gone and done it now, sweetness,” he said, arms crossed.

“Have I?”

“Yeah, and would you like me to tell you why, or will you continue to throw away my advice like trash?”

She already knew. “Enlighten me.”

“Do you know what Casavir is? He acts like some holy saint who’s the gods’ gift to humanity, but he’s still a man. I don’t care how he justifies the lies he tells himself: He can’t deny his manhood.” Bishop caught Leara’s hands in his, tugging her closer. “You’re the kind of woman that gets a man’s heart beating and the blood flowing. He’s not going to be able to lie to himself about that. So, you better be ready when he breaks.”

Was that a warning? “If you’re worried about me, then why don’t you go too?” Because lack of invitation never stopped him before, she thought, recalling Alec’s performance in the Palace of the Kings. To her surprise, she found herself missing Ulfric, of all things! But, she quickly reasoned, better the threat you know than the one you don’t.

Laughter burst out of Bishop, loud and aghast. “No! Hell, woman! Do I look like some sissy-pants noble? I’d rather walk off the dock than get roped into attending that sort of thing!”

Karnwyr hmphed, and Leara remembered Bishop’s behavior at the performance. Yes, it was best he didn’t come. All the better that his absence was of his own choosing!

“C’mon,” she said, gently disentangling her hands from his. “I need to go get this dress. The sooner, the better.”

“And here I thought we could get a late lunch. Damn paladin ruining perfectly good plans,” Bishop groaned.

Her thoughts turned to the Prose Edda safely tucked into her satchel. Yeah, she could agree with that.

·•★•·

Bells twinkled overhead when she opened the door.

“Hello and welcome to The Jewel,” greeted an Imperial woman in a linen gown cinched with a gold rope. She was light and airy, her face pale. If a breeze swept through, Leara was certain the woman would blow away on a wisp of cloud. “My name is Victoria. Are you the Dragonborn?” Leara barely accented before the woman, Victoria, clasped her hands together. “Casavir informed me that I should be expecting you. Welcome.”

Proof of Casavir’s surety that Leara would agree to this whole ball thing would have been disconcerting if she wasn’t already put off by Victoria’s porcelain nature.

Bishop whistled. “I’ll be damned, that bastard played you like lute!”

Victoria’s smile grew brittle as her eyes slid from Leara to Bishop, and then fell to Karnwyr between them, “Ah, how precious,” she said, clearly thinking Karnwyr was anything but. “I’ll have to ask your companion to take your dog out. It’s our policy, you see,” she said, placating. “No wild animals.”

If a wolf could look unimpressed, Karnwyr did.

“Are you serious?”

Leara wanted to echo Bishop’s disbelief, but she knew better. Lower-end dress shops than this in Daggerfall, Evermore, and the Imperial City had strict no-animal policies. She wanted to kick herself, wishing she’d thought of it and spared herself and Bishop the embarrassment. And Karnwyr.

“It’s fine,” Leara said before Bishop could press the issue. If he shattered Victoria’s serene façade, Leara got the impression the woman would cut him like glass. “You and Karnwyr head back to the Skeever. I’ll finish up here and meet you back there before Casavir comes by. Trust me, dress shopping would bore you to tears,” she said, ignoring Victoria’s sharp inhale.

Bishop rolled his eyes. “Yeah, whatever, ladyship. Let’s go, Karnwyr. I know when we’re not wanted.”

With a backward glance at Leara, Karnwyr followed Bishop out the door, his tail between his legs. Leara watched them go. Bishop didn’t look back. The bells twinkled as he and Karnwyr left, and then Leara was alone with the dress designer.

For all that she enjoyed pretty clothes and sparkling jewels – just as any self-respecting Altmer, half-elven or otherwise – the prospect of being alone to be fitted for a gown to attend a ball she didn’t particularly want to attend was almost as daunting as the coming peace negotiation between General Tullius and Ulfric Stormcloak. Perhaps more so, given its immediacy.

“Shall we?” Victoria asked. Wagging a dainty finger, she led Leara deeper into the shop. It was a large room, about as big as The Prints and the Paper but all the more spacious for its lack of bookshelves. Windows set high in the upper walls filtered in pale afternoon sunlight. It must have been around two o’clock, Leara thought, as she took in the gossamer drapings and gilded decorations. There was neither rhyme nor reason to the opulent décor, as was usually seen in places where folk tried to emulate the rich while lacking the refined tastes of the aristocracy. The most sensical aspect of the room was the various dress mannequins, each adorned in a gown more extravagant than practical.

A stray thought went back to the blue lace number folded carefully in the bottom of her bag When did she buy that, fifteen years ago? Ten? No, eleven. When she was in Camlorn.

Victoria sailed over to a mannequin outfitted with a heavy gown, its full linen skirt was a dove grey, overlaid with cobalt silk and embroidered with golden lace and delicate bows. Its bodice was set with golden embroidery and capped with small, off-the-shoulder sleeves. Victoria traced the pink sapphire nestled in the dip of the sweetheart neckline. “I had it designed specifically in the likeness of the Blue Palace. My own rendition.” Her voice was dreamy. “Jarl Elisif herself will be wearing the original. This is just a show model. Would you like to browse my finest dress collection?” she asked. “Everything you desire will be given to you, compliments of Casavir.”

The Dominion instilled in its agents a statuesque poise that was only breakable by their superiors. More and more Leara found herself retreating into that familiar state of frosty distance. “Certainly.”

There were dresses in deep jewel tones and in floral pastels. Several had lacy trim, while others were embroidered with metallic gold and silver threads. A startling white piece was studded with white crystal and mithril thread over the bodice; displayed across from it was a crimson piece with a silk bodice and overskirt so black that it matched the Void night in Alduin’s scales. To look at it sent a chill down her spine. Silk was a prominent feature. “Imported from the Summerset Isles,” a smug Victoria sniffed, as if the King of Alinor bequeathed the material to her himself. Leara’s lip curled in distaste; the full skirts and bustles were enough to incur ridicule from the echelons of Altmer society. The tightness of the bodices was another matter entirely. Having a slim waist and narrow hips, Leara knew she would fit into any one of the dresses she chose, but the majority of Solitude’s female populace consisted of powerfully built Nords and willowy but short-waisted Bretons. Who in Oblivion were these dresses even for?

Unwitting, the Blue Palace piece drew her attention. She’d seen Jarl Elisif at the Embassy party. The girl was lovely; after all, she was known as ‘the Fair’ for a reason. Yet the would-be queen’s soft curves and full chest would be positively distorted by one of these gowns. Divines, these dresses weren’t meant for the women of Skyrim. What the Oblivion kind of circus was this fiasco?

Leara trailed past dozens of dresses, lingering just long enough to take in how each piece was absurd in its excess in its own way. There was a dress so brilliantly yellow that Leara could think of nothing but the yellow roses in the Queen’s garden at Castle Daggerfall. Another was of such rich forest green that it would have blended into the vales of the West Weald without issue. The pink was too much, a rose blush touched with the pallor of death. The lavender was little better: Once Leara thought of death, the cascading shades of purple, fading from dusk to dawn, reminded her only of electric arcs and rigor mortis.

The longer she looked, the more dismayed Leara became.

“Perhaps one of these?” Victoria offered.

Leara found herself faced with a pair of dresses in deep emerald and sapphire respectively. Identical save in the color of their crushed velvet weave, the skirts lacked the evident bustles that were so prominent in the majority of Victoria’s designs. Golden thread in delicate twirls curled up the bodice from the waistline, reaching across the velvet as creeping vines. Over the Imperial designer’s shoulder, Leara spied the same gowns in ruby and amethyst, dark and vivid. As excessive as they were, there was a certain majesty about these dresses that the others in Victoria’s collection lacked. Caressing the midnight sapphire with a tentative hand, Leara wondered if it was the sameness of their design, like Victoria had settled on one pattern so beautiful that she needed to make it four different ways, each a cardinal point on its own.

“They’re beautiful,” she admitted.

Victoria’s expression of satisfaction was more a sparkle than a beam. “I’m pleased you think so! The sapphire was meant to be Jarl Elisif’s last season, before the ball was canceled.” Her shining eyes shuttered. “What a horrible business, it was! That barbaric Stormcloak murdering such a lovely boy as Torygg! It’s a waste.”

Bile burned at Leara’s throat. Not the sapphire, then. Nor the ruby, she decided, eyeing the Imperial quality of the blood ruby and the aetheric gold. The amethyst was tempting. Cool and enticing in turns, from the velvet dusk to the threaded streams of dawn, it was positively royal in its entirety. Perhaps too much. She was the Dragonborn, not a princess or a Jarl’s wife. Though she almost sneered, if only to herself, she couldn’t see any self-respecting woman in Skyrim choosing a dress from this shop because they wanted to.

She didn’t want to, but she was still doing it. Given how Casavir viewed her, Leara supposed she wasn’t expected to have much self-respect anyway.

“The emerald,” she settled.

“A perfectly wonderful choice!” Victoria simpered. The sapphire was placed back on the hanging rack, as none of the four jewel dresses were on display. The emerald draped over her arm, Victoria led Leara to the back of the showroom. A short hall cut through the back to a room with a screen and a stole. Bolts of fabric were stacked against the walls, filling in gaps between side tables cluttered with sewing implements like thread and needles. A screen dominated one corner, opposite a full floor-length mirror.

“We’ll need to fit the gown, though you appear quite well proportioned, I must say!” Victoria giggled. “My, but doesn’t Sir Casavir have fine taste?”

Fine taste, as in fine taste in women. And ‘women’ in this case meant Leara, singular. She almost grimaced.

Victoria ushered her to the screen, and Leara hurried behind it with mixed relief. The dress was pushed into her hands, along with a shift and stays that Leara certainly didn’t pick out. There was a pair of sunkissed slippers, too, and a bone corset she was certain was an adolescent’s size. Trepidation clung to her muscles as she began stripping off her armor. It came off easily, unstrapping and stacking together in a comforting familiarity. Then her pants and undershirt went, and suddenly Leara was cold. What was she doing, trying on a ball gown she couldn’t afford for a ball she didn’t want to go to?

Leara pulled on the shift.

The corset was its own challenge, but Leara didn’t spend years of her life in Alinor and High Rock without learning to tie a corset by herself. Somewhere beyond the screen, she heard Victoria call out, asking if she needed help, but Leara didn’t answer. She’d been dressing herself since before the woman had even been born, thank you very much, and if Leara could do nothing else, she would continue to do that until age or dragon took her!

Stays in place, Leara stepped into the dress and pulled it up. It was heavy in a way her armor wasn’t, yet not unbearably so. It was cool and stifling and hot and freeing all at once. She tried to cinch the back closed, but unlike the straightforward practice of the corset, the dress’s ties proved far more complicated.

Victoria appeared as soon as Leara called for her. Her hands, making quick work of the ties, had Leara bracing against the wall as they were pulled to a near-constricting bind. As she knotted the ties, a faint and toneless humming whispered from Victoria’s lips. Leara gasped for breath. “Must it be so tight?” she asked. A morbid curiosity begged her to nick a measuring tape and wind it around her waist. She was already on the small side. What’d this do, shrink her measurements to the single digits?

How unnatural.

“It’s the fashion,” Victoria said matter-of-factly as if corsets were meant to suffocate rather than support.

The fashion where? Leara wanted to ask but didn’t.

“There,” Victoria declared. “That is a fine choice! You look stunning, marvelous, absolutely breathtaking! You will have all the men falling at your feet!”

Leara wondered if her face matched the hue of her gown.

Suddenly she wished she’d had lunch, if only so she could have something on her stomach to actually throw up.

Well, there was plenty of opportunity to fall apart before the night was over.

#oc: leara roseblade #last dragonborn #skyrim #bishop #karnwyr #casavir #general tullius #legate rikke #fanfic #ao3 #i didn't know you were keeping count #tes #the elder scrolls #mod post #solitude #grand crystal ball

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