- III -

"Wait, slow down! I said I was sorry!" came Faendal's voice from a considerable ways behind her.

Meleske stared straight ahead, lips set in a flat line as she continued taking long strides on purpose along the winding road.

"I admit that my response of, 'What's that?' when you mentioned Direnni Tower was ill-thought out. Nay, I wasn't thinking at all when I blurted it!" Faendal called. "Would you accept my apology? And not lob fireballs at me next time?"

"Do not speak to me, worm, and go scurry back to your insufferable Riverwood. I'm afraid the Nords have already decayed your brain beyond all hope of repair," she answered, not bothering to stop or look back.

"Come now, don't be like that. We were getting along so… er, splendidly," he declared with clear strain. "Let's make the rest of our travel a good experience."

"An impossible endeavor. I'd much rather you disappear. Or at least stop talking," Meleske snapped.

She disregarded his further appeals to wait for him, storming ahead as the tall buildings of Whiterun came into view in the distance. Dusk had descended and bathed the environment in orange hues, a sight that reminded her of the twilight in Balfiera. She studied her surroundings while walking, taking in the sun dipping behind the mountains and the reflection of its lingering rays in the rushing stream nearby. A frown tugged the corners of her mouth downward. None of it compared to the flourishing scenery around Direnni Tower, but even she could admit it held a certain quality that made this land a little less reprehensible.

Meleske kept on the path and caught up to a small troop of Imperial soldiers escorting a bound Stormcloak prisoner. Still harboring a strong grudge against both factions, she took the time to berate all of them for their severe lack of etiquette and decency, even flicking her hair over her shoulder as she ignored their resulting outrage and marched off. Behind her, she heard Faendal talking the soldiers down from drawing their swords once he finally caught up.

Farther along, the pair reached Honningbrew Meadery, and Meleske scoffed at a passing Whiterun guard's assertion that it produced the finest mead in all of Skyrim.

"'Fine' or not, mead is such a caveman's beverage," she remarked, nose in the air. "Only Firebrand Wine or Colovian Brandy are acceptable forms of drink."

Faendal sighed next to her as they proceeded past the quaint buildings. "You know, Meleske, it's better for the soul to not be so haughty all the time."

"Did I hear speech from something that shouldn't be here?"

He demonstrated an impressive amount of patience by merely shaking his head.

Up ahead near a wheat farm, a battle raged between a trio of humans and an incensed giant. Meleske stopped in her tracks when the surface beneath her feet quaked from the gargantuan creature's club striking the ground. She scowled at Faendal's suggestion that they lend their assistance, and instead, began skirting her way around the fight in an effort to sneak by without detection. In the event that the giant squashed the three lunatics nipping at its knees, she intended to be long gone.

Suddenly, a thunderous boom accompanied the powerful tremor of the giant's collapse, which knocked her off balance. Meleske yelped as she toppled to the side in yet another mortifying display of gracelessness, cursing half the Nines on her way down. Faendal fared better beside her and reached over to help her up as soon as the world ceased shaking. Snarling another oath under her breath, she brushed herself off and resumed her trek, daring one more thing to impede her progress.

"You there!" that exact impediment hollered.

Meleske clenched her teeth and attempted to snub the woman who came jogging up to her.

"Well, that's taken care of. No thanks to you."

"Be gone, Brunhilda, for I have my own business to attend to," Meleske barked, still striding forward.

"I am Aela the Huntress. And a true warrior would have relished the opportunity to take on a giant."

"I couldn't care less about either of those sentences." Meleske glanced at her and grimaced. "Also, you appear to have streaks of cow manure over your face."

Aela halted at the observation, growling, "This is war paint!"

"Whatever you heathens call it, it's ghastly," Meleske declared over her shoulder. She caught something about a "Whitemane" and "Companions" before tuning out the adamant woman's words of challenge and commenting to Faendal about how noisy the area had become.

Once enough distance separated her from the ongoing spiel about "Shield-Brothers" and all that other nonsense, Meleske rubbed her forehead in weariness. She wondered what crime she'd committed to earn all this karma, for the gods certainly weren't holding back on heaving disaster and disruption across her path at every opportunity. Only the stables ahead offered her any encouragement, though something yanked her backwards by the collar when she made a beeline for the carriage.

"Hold on there. You're supposed to report what happened at Helgen to the Jarl, remember?" Faendal reminded her helpfully as he toted her protesting form past the bemused carriage driver.

"Unhand me!" Meleske ordered, struggling and swatting at him in a most unladylike fashion. "I have half a mind to set that ridiculous white ponytail ablaze!"

"As it so happens, you're not the first woman to threaten me with that," Faendal chuckled, still dragging her along.

His incessant good nature both irked and astounded her. Accustomed to earning contempt and antipathy everywhere she went due to her high maintenance attitude—which she carried with delusional, narcissistic pride—she found Faendal's tolerance a little disorienting. His laidback demeanor was foreign and odd, yet not altogether unwelcome. After a while, she huffed and settled down enough for him to let her walk on her own, deciding against scorching one of the rare individuals able to put up with her antics.

They traveled toward the city gates just as the sun disappeared below the horizon. The unexpected stench of horses wafted over to assault her nostrils as they ambled by the full stables, and she covered her nose with both hands while glaring at the stable master, whose wry expression only fueled her ire. Faendal led the way through the overpass and up the sloped route as Meleske fanned herself from both the pervasive smell and the exertion.

"Must they make the incline of this road so steep?" she complained, already sweating in her armor. "It has me gasping for breath when I would rather not inhale the offensive odor of these equines."

"You'll be okay. Just a little farther," Faendal told her.

Fiery golden eyes narrowed at his back, and Meleske briefly entertained the idea of whirling around and sprinting for the carriage while he wasn't looking. However, he either read her mind or learned of her intentions from some traitorous Divine whispering in his ear because he turned at that moment to send her a meaningful stare. Her gaze went skyward as she lamented the bothersome tribulations cast upon her life.

Curses. Foiled.

Glowering back at him, she threw her hands up in resignation and followed him across the short drawbridge toward the two guards standing watch at the gates.

"Halt! City's closed with the dragons about. Official business only," one proclaimed.

"Oh, get out of the way, you babbling buffoon," Meleske fumed, prepared to plow on through. "I've had it up to here with you aggravating lot—"

"Uh, what she means is, she has news of the dragon attack and would like to speak to the Jarl," Faendal interjected hastily.

The guard grumbled something about upstart elves, but granted them access at Faendal's diplomatic persuasion. Meleske stomped up to the vast doors and pushed at the heavy wooden structures with difficulty, eventually snapping at her companion to open them for her when they refused to budge. Once she slipped inside, a jaded sigh escaped her as she paused to survey the busy district in distaste.

"Before you start criticizing," Faendal quipped right as she opened her mouth to do just that, "why not try and find something positive about what you see? Whiterun is known as the crown jewel of Skyrim, after all. Come on, Dragonsreach is this way."

She wrinkled her nose and trailed after him as they maneuvered around the Whiterun citizens peering at her in curiosity. "Positive? The only thing positive about this hovel is that at least there are no chickens or bovines running amok like in Riverwood—"

A group of clucking hens scurried in front of them in that instant, followed by a cow making its lazy way back to its pen near one of the houses to the left.

"…I stand corrected," Meleske said dryly. "Crown jewel, indeed, with poultry strutting about freely instead of adorning a dining table as the supper entrée…"

Faendal gave her an amused look and continued up the steps toward the high palace. She plodded along without enthusiasm, studying the exterior of Dragonsreach to avoid eye contact with the lesser beings around her. The architecture was far too crude for her tastes, but she did take note of the sturdy construction of the arches and walls. A few more guards made comments about the dragon's presence at Helgen when she and Faendal neared the entrance, prompting her to verbalize her scornful surprise that news traveled so quickly in such a primitive province like Skyrim.

Once Faendal managed to convince the guards to not smack her with a bounty for her belligerent annotations, he ushered her inside the keep, much to her displeasure. The Great Hall bathed them in immediate warmth from the hearty blaze roaring at its center, and she swept a wary glance around the space, realizing belatedly that this marked her first official meeting with a dignitary outside Direnni Tower. She hesitated even as Faendal tried to prod her forward, wondering how to present herself.

One wrong move, and I could ruin the Dirennis' political standing across provinces in the long-run, she thought, taking stiff steps toward the man seated on the throne. But at this point, should that even matter to me?

She stopped short when a female Dunmer garbed in tan armor advanced on her, sword drawn.

"And who are you to waltz in here unannounced, high elf?" demanded the gray-skinned woman.

Meleske made a split-second decision, succumbing to trained instinct. "I humbly request an audience with the Jarl, for I have crucial firsthand information about the dragon attack."

She felt Faendal's questioning gaze on her at the sound of her altered speech, but she paid him no heed as the Dunmer backed off and instructed her to approach "Jarl Balgruuf the Greater." The Whiterun ruler looked quite comfy slouched in his ornate chair, and she plastered on a neutral expression when he beckoned her over. If anything, her impartial countenance was better than her customary sneering.

"So. You were at Helgen? You saw this dragon with your own eyes?" Balgruuf asked.

No, I saw it with a pair of eyeballs I happened to be borrowing while sightseeing in the middle of an Imperial execution—yes, I saw it with my own eyes, you tiara-wearing fool.

"That is correct. The dragon destroyed the town once called Helgen, and it's possible Riverwood may be next," she replied out loud.

Balgruuf's blond brow furrowed as he exchanged a few heated words with his steward about assigning a security detail out there. After a few minutes, the Jarl won the argument and ordered the Dunmer housecarl, Irileth, to send a detachment of troops to Riverwood. Tension thickened the air in the Great Hall as Proventus stalked off in quiet defeat, and Meleske had to bite her tongue to refrain from comparing Nord politics to the interpersonal communication between monkeys.

While Balgruuf issued a few more instructions to Irileth, Meleske maintained her proper posture, wishing her parents knew what a favor she was doing them. Behaving in a professional manner was not in her usual repertoire of social interactions, but her aversion to her family didn't extend so far that she sought to sabotage their relations with outside groups. She would play the fair aristocrat role in this dusty human Hold while wearing this ugly man-made armor.

All for the people who had groomed, sold, and sealed her future.

Never say the Direnni heir lived and died a selfish wretch. At least, not completely.

"You have done well seeking me out on your own initiative. I want you to know you did Whiterun a great service, and I am grateful," Balgruuf stated, once again addressing her. "Tell me, what is your name and from where do you hail?"

"Meleske Direnni. I come from the Isle of Balfiera," she responded, giving him the truth without thinking.

"Direnni? I understand the Direnni bloodline runs in the rulers of Solitude," the Jarl mused as she shifted in discomfort. "But what brings a Direnni woman from Balfiera all the way to Skyrim?"

By the Nines, but you humans are nosy. "I was… to act as an ambassador of sorts."

"Was? I assume the incident at Helgen proved to be a setback?"

"That is an understatement," Meleske seethed before she could catch herself. Clearing her throat, she went on, "So if you need nothing else of me, I must take a carriage west and begin my journey home."

"Actually, if you have the time, there is another thing you can do for me," Balgruuf declared, rising.

Meleske's stomach plummeted. "I… ah, I'm afraid I should be going—"

"Come with me. I want to introduce you to my court wizard, Farengar. He has been looking into these dragon rumors and may have need of your services." Balgruuf swept past her and headed for an adjoining room beyond the dining tables.

Faendal strode to her side, grinning. "Wow, you've definitely made a good impression on the Jarl. I had no idea you could switch demeanors like that," he whispered, quite fascinated.

Meleske grabbed a fistful of his tunic and tugged him toward her when all witnesses left the Great Hall. "Yes, and what a mistake I've made. Now that I've blurted my real identity, I can't simply tell him to plant his lips on my arse and scamper off," she hissed. "Help me fix this."

"Oh, um…"

"Also, how dare that yellow-haired ingrate presume I'd be interested in lending my further assistance to this miserable fleapit—"

"All right, all right. Let's just see what this Farengar has to say, hmm?" Faendal suggested. He took her by the elbow and steered her toward the court wizard's quarters.

Once they entered what looked like an arcane laboratory, Balgruuf finished speaking with a man dressed in standard mage robes and introduced her.

"Fill Lady Direnni in on the details. She may be able to help you with your dragon project," the Jarl declared.

Some of Meleske's anger temporarily evaporated at the title as flattery took precedence over emotion. "Oh, I actually am not called 'Lady Direnni,' but I appreciate such a compliment—"

"Ah, yes. I could use someone to fetch something for me," Farengar remarked, peering at Meleske like one would examine livestock.

Her tone went flat. "Excuse me?" Fetch?

"Succeed in this, and I will see to it that you are suitably rewarded," Balgruuf told her before heading back toward the exit. "Farengar will brief you on this task."

The court wizard scratched at his hairline beneath his hood once the Jarl left. "Well, 'fetch' as in delving into a dangerous ruin in search of an ancient stone tablet that may or may not actually be there."

A few beats of stunned silence went by. Meleske stared back and forth between Farengar and Faendal, attempting to gauge their reactions and determine whether or not this was a jest. When neither man's expression changed, she released a sharp, humorless laugh, too incredulous and livid to keep up appearances.

"And what makes you think I, a prominent member of an esteemed bloodline, will agree to such an idiotic and suicidal quest?" she snarled, small bursts of flames igniting at her fingertips.

Farengar's sight flickered down to them before returning to her face. "So you're a mage, then. Destruction school, too. That will make your job easier. This stone tablet I've tracked down to Bleak Falls Barrow is a Dragonstone, which contains a map of dragon burial sites. If you retrieve it and bring it to me, we will be able to look into the dragon sightings more thoroughly."

Meleske took an ominous step toward him. "Again, why should I concern myself with the troubles of Skyrim when they have nothing to do with me? You're all lucky I even came here to report what I saw at Helgen. Jarl Balgruuf was mistaken when he got the impression I was willing to help more than I already have."

Unfazed, Farengar crossed his arms. "How long do you think it will be before the dragons cross into the other provinces? This problem is not only Skyrim's, but everyone's as well. And since you're already here, why not aid us? Yes, you could turn around and walk away right now, but weeks or months down the road when those creatures are razing your homeland, how much will you regret letting this chance slip between your fingers?"

Her jaw tightened as the answer flashed across her head. I could watch Direnni Tower crumble to the ground, the Isle of Balfiera get swallowed by the sea… and I would feel nothing.

Still, an innate part of her understood his point, and as much as she wished her branch of the Direnni Clan didn't exist, the duty to protect her family had long been instilled within her.

"Fine," she relented. "I will embark on this senseless task for you. And if I die, I will return as a thrall to haunt your waking hours."

"Fair enough," Farengar replied with smug satisfaction. "Though if you survive, I'd suggest that you apply for the College of Winterhold. I can tell from here that your spells need work."

Meleske's temper skyrocketed. "Why you simpering, ill-mannered—"

"Well, I wish you the best of luck, Meleske," Faendal piped up, inching toward the doorway.

She whirled on him, her lip curling. "And where do you think you're going?"

"Ah, I'm just doing what you told me to do earlier and disappearing—"

"Oh no, you don't." She closed the distance between them and seized his tunic again. Leaning in, her voice dropped to a threatening pitch. "You are coming with me."

x-x-x-x-x

"Should we wait any longer, Legate?" Maramal asked.

Fasendil frowned as he stood at the entrance to the Temple of Mara, seeing no sign of the one he'd been waiting for. The stall merchants had already begun packing their wares in the market as evening encroached upon Riften. He donned his Imperial helmet and turned back toward the priest at the altar.

"No. She's not coming. Just cancel the ceremony." The disappointment laced his words, stemming from more than one reason.

Maramal sighed and nodded for Dinya to clear off the decorations. "You have my condolences. Wherever your bride is, I pray to Mara that she is safe."

The Altmer Legionnaire sent him a curt nod and marched down the front steps of the temple. Her failure to show up wasn't that shocking, but as the commander of the Rift Imperial Camp, he couldn't afford to take leave two days in a row and waste his time like this. Furthermore, the absence of his betrothed posed more trouble than just a breached matrimonial contract.

He spotted an idle courier loitering at the main gates and flagged him down. "You. I need a message delivered."

"Of course, sir," the courier responded at once, hurrying over. "To whom?"

"The Direnni family on the Isle of Balfiera," Fasendil stated, glaring sternly when the other man blanched. "Take a horse and a boat. I don't care how you do it. But they need to know that Meleske Direnni is missing."

x-x-x-x-x

A/N: It's been almost exactly a year since I updated this, but recent interest from some new readers motivated me enough to crank out this chapter. I can't promise the regularity of future updates since I'm juggling several fics, but I definitely won't be abandoning this story. Thanks for reading, and I'd love any feedback!