Even with her face half-covered by a steel helmet, people can still tell she's searching. It's in the way she walks, in the way her head faces each corner of the tavern, in the way she turns to every person in the room before slumping her shoulders in defeat. She would stop to ask questions most other days, but this time she just asks for a room with a bed and a door. No one sees her until morning, but they're certain they hear voices from inside the room. No one enters, no one leaves.

This is the third time this week.

A few people glanced up from their drinks when she walked in, but she was worth no more attention than that. Another traveler, possibly one of the Imperials (no, her armor was all wrong for that) passing through. Whiterun saw many of those, stopping by to use the Skyforge or buy some potions, and maybe stay the night if the weather was bad enough. It was no surprise when the traveler, face covered by her helmet, began making her way toward the bar.

A man struck up friendly conversation with her, and challenged her to a drinking contest. No one but her knew that his name was Sam Guevenne, and by the time she learned it, she was already too drunk to care.

There's a new bard in the tavern tonight. He's a young boy, fresh out of college, with a tambourine and a high voice. She asks him is he's new in town. He says yes. She asks him if he's been traveling through other inns in other towns. He says yeah, he's on his way to Solitude. She tells him if he meets anyone named Sam Guevenne, to send word back here right away. He asks her who to send the couriers to. She says tell him to look for the Dragonborn.

The bard doesn't believe her, but agrees anyway. It doesn't matter though: he won't meet anyone by the name of Sam Guevenne, because Sam Guevenne doesn't exist.

She held the crooked, gaudy staff in her hands, mindful of the shark spikes lining its handle. Fashioned into the shape of a rose, it looked almost ridiculous when compared to the person it was named after. She looked this person in the eyes, and saw that they were the same color as the staff; it was his namesake, after all.

She thanked Sanguine for the staff before disappearing.

She rolls the Sanguine Rose across her lap, watching the light play off its dull, abused spikes. She wants to bring it to the Forge and repair it, make it good as new, but an amateur blacksmith like her can't take a hammer to the enchanted metal, and she doesn't trust it in any other hands. She reaches into her armor and pulls out a leather pouch, much emptier than she remembers it being. She upends it on the bed and two gems fall out.

The larger one is nearly ten times the size of the smaller one, and much heavier. She grabs it and rolls it in her palm, weighing them against each other. Would the smaller one be enough? Would she have to use the larger one?

She uses her last grand soul gem to charge the staff. She sticks the smaller one in the pouch and puts it back in her armor.

The staff was almost forgotten by the time she left Morvunskar. All thoughts of drunken nights on the town had left her mind. Another day, another episode, another weapon. She made plans to pawn it off at the nearest town on her way back up the mountain.

It wasn't until she was sprawled across the ground, dizzy from impact, that she realized she needed help. A frost troll loomed over her, a reminder that she was no longer within the safe walls of Whiterun, roaring and snarling its battle cries. The same cries were echoed from either side of the snowdrift, and more trolls poured out of the woodwork.

As she reached for her weapon, her hand bumped the polished metal of an ugly staff. She could have drawn her sword to fight (to run). She could have saved herself. But instead she brandished the staff at the troll and gave it an investigational wave.

She prayed for a miracle (for something exciting). Sanguine smiled upon at least one of those requests.

"I can't buy stolen goods," the shopkeeper says with finality. The traveler closes her fist around the necklace, grimacing. "I made it. I mined the silver and amethyst myself."

"If you really need the money, how about that armor? Steel is pretty expensive nowadays. I'll give you a good price for it.

She shakes her head. "I can't go without armor."

"Or the sword, eh? I don't think you can travel without that, either."

"I need my sword."

"You've got that staff there, it looks pretty old but it can probably do some damage."

She glares at him, fire in her eyes, and he backs off. After a sigh, she slips her gauntlets off and puts them on the counter.

She gets enough money for a couple of soul gems.

It was just a Draugr, she told herself. She could handle zombies. Stop overreacting.

Lungs searing, sword arm on fire, she allowed herself to overreact just a little bit. She wanted nothing more than to leave this crypt, treasure be damned. She threw back another potion and felt a little better, but found her supply dwindling.

When she reached to find another bottle, her hand instead closed around the smooth rose-shaped staff. She used it.

As soon as she's alone, her hand instinctively closes around the staff. She uses it.

What was at first bright light seemed to become a black hole, making the crypt even darker as it became solid. A blur of red and black moved alongside her, its sword swinging in tune with hers, aiding her in expelling the corpses. Absently, she counted the seconds, ticking by slowly how long she had until she was on her own again.

The zombies were gone quite suddenly. She felt eyes on her, and this time, it was not an altogether unpleasant experience.

"Again, mortal?" the one summoned by the staff drawled. His voice was deep and slow, unlike his lord's. It was also annoyed. "It's beyond even my understanding how you have survived for so long, if you find it necessary to call for help with such frequency. Unless, that is, you are simply lazy."

She bristled at his words, but refused to give him the satisfaction of knowing he was right. "Actually," she tossed out, "I was hoping to get the name of the Dremora who's been so helpful, if a little condescending." It wasn't an outright lie, since she'd found herself curious as to what identity to stick to his face. It did wander into her thoughts more often than usual lately.

Really, she wanted an excuse to have summoned him.

"You want my name?" he repeated, letting his voice carry in the dank crypt. "Then you are out of luck! I do not have one that is unique to myself. What do you think me, a god?" He laughed harshly at his own comparison.

"Then perhaps give me a title? I realize our time is limited."

He stopped laughing. "A mortal wants to address me by title? Oh, how proper! A churl could do the same!"

"So I will have nothing to call you." She coaxed.

"All you need to know is that I am a Kynreeve, one of the highest in the Dremora line. It's not something that I expect a mortal to understand, but the fact that I can speak to you is proof of it."

"Okay then," she challenged, desperate to get the last word in, "I guess I'll have to call you Kynreeve then."

His lip curled up. "You intend to call me, call upon me, further?"

"For as long as you'll come."

As he started to fade, his glare met hers. "I cannot turn down a summons."

The glow slowly moves from lighting the room to sucking the light right out of it, telling her that she's not alone. The Dremora's blank eyes are the first thing she sees, not even realizing she's begun counting the seconds. They pass too quickly. Counting down how long she has until she's left alone.

"Kynreeve," she says simply. Sadly.

"Mortal."

"I've run out of gems."

He nods in understanding. "You've run out before."

"I had things to sell before. I have nothing to my name now but what I'm wearing."

"And the staff."

"And the staff."

"Were it not for the staff, you would be in no short supply of gems, among other things."

"The staff is worth it."

"I daresay it is."

They're silent for a few precious seconds. She fills it hastily. "I don't care what it takes."

"You're going to keep using the staff."

"I'm not going to leave you."

He laughs, a deep and melancholy sound. "You can do nothing for me, my mortal." When she opens her mouth to protest, he grows angry. "You owe me nothing! You can give me nothing! You should leave me be!"

Her mouth hardens into a line. "And yet you continue to come."

His arms cross with a series of protests from his armor. "I cannot turn down a summons."

He says he cannot, but she knows he means he will not.

She hopes he will not.

The first time she called him without need of aid, it was night in the hills surrounding Markarth. She looked toward the town walls, with intents of entering eventually. It wasn't entirely her decision to pull out the staff, but once she'd waved it she knew exactly what she wanted to ask.

"Why do you fight, Kynreeve?"

The Dremora casted around for signs of danger, before taking in the Dragonborn's frame, lazily and carelessly laying on a hay pile. "What foolishness is this?" he hissed, sheathing his sword, "You've called upon me for no reason?"

"I have a reason," she objected, rolling onto her side to see him, "it was to ask you that question."

He snarled at her. "Why do I fight? I fight for my lord! I fight to prove the supremacy of my kind, though incomprehensible to this plane it may be. I fight for bloodshed, for the sight of my foes falling."

She shook her head, bringing her hand back to grab the staff. "You fight by yourself for those reasons. But why do you fight beside me?"

"I fight because you call me to."

Her mouth drooped into an expression of thought. "Because I hold the staff, right?"

"Because I am bound to the staff."

"Do you have a choice whether or not to come?"

"It is my choice. But my lord wished that I heed the command of the staff. Thus I will."

"What would he do if you didn't heed it?"

His booming laughter was like the barking of hellhounds. "What better expression of debauchery than to neglect it! No, he cares not for my fidelity to a mortal artifact. My return is based on naught but my own will, Nord. I can take my leave of you at any time of my choosing!"

"Indeed," she agreed delicately, "and I thank you for not doing so."

"Why do you want me here, mortal? What purpose do I serve in being here?"

His question was not immediately answered, for at that moment his body wavered and flickered from existence. The traveler was already raising the staff again, calling him back to her.

He was met first by her calculated response. "Why are you here? For the same reason you came in the first place. Because you wanted to. Were that not the case, you could be elsewhere. I realize that. This meeting is on your terms."

He peered down at her from his haughty, upturned face in satisfaction. "You'd do well to remember that, mortal. But here remains the fact that you conjured me, that half of the decision being your own. And here remains my question as to why."

"I wanted to ask you that question. And I did."

"A question! How understandable, the Nord can't find a book to stick her nose into, so she summons a Daedric warrior to sate her petty curiosities! Forgive me for not remembering how lazy you are."

"A book couldn't tell me whether or not you want to be here."

"I do nothing I don't 'want' to do. Of course I am not simply here for your entertainment! Did not it suit my liking to remain, I'd be gone! You'd continue swinging that staff, filled to the brim with mundane inquiries, and they would never be answered because your Dremora slave couldn't be bothered to come wipe the gruel from your chin."

"I don't see you as a slave. Far from it, actually. I just want to know why you haven't refused me your presence if you feel used."

He sneered widely, looking like a ghoul in the moonlight. "I have not left because it pleases me to be here. Even in your company, I prefer this plane to the one I'd otherwise be in."

Too many more seconds ticked by in the silence that followed, before she realized she could not leave the conversation on such a note. "If you could, you'd be here all the time, wouldn't you?"

He paused, and his voice dropped to a deep, rumbling murmur. "If I didn't have to return to Oblivion, I would not."

That was all she needed to know.

The traveler returns to Morvunskar, again scouring every chest for any artifact she can find. When she sees a glimmer of pale purple light, she lunges for it, but what her hands close around is an amethyst, not an enchanted gem. She slips it into an empty pocket along with an ingot of silver, calculating how much they'll sell for when crafted into a necklace. It's not enough. She lifts a half-empty bottle of poison from the corpse of an unfortunate apprentice mage.

She's heard that soul gems are cheaper in Winterhold. But she can no longer make that type of journey. Not without proper equipment; not without money.

She's decided to sell her armor.

She doesn't plan to travel far from Whiterun, since that was where she first saw Sam. The town was familiar enough; she could easily subsist on the nearby farms.

Pickpocketing gems from the Dragonsreach mages.

She's not sure how much longer she can go on like this.

"You are in no danger," he remarked pointlessly.

"Right. I already killed everyone. Quite a while ago, in fact."

"And yet I am here."

"Yes. You see, this is Morvunskar, the place where Sanguine initially sent me to find him. Though he wasn't here in the castle; he opened a portal which led me to him. I hoped to find the portal again."

"Why are you seeking my lord?"

She turned to him and took a deep breath before answering, slowly and carefully. "To ask him to unbind you from this staff."

His crystalline brows knitted first in outrage, then confusion. "What inane purpose could you possibly serve by doing that?"

"Of course, I could disenchant the staff on my own, but that would only banish you from Nirn." She meets his eyes. "I want to bind you to something that would keep you here."

He froze, searching her face for any sign of deceit or malice. "Never have I heard such committed and stupid words come from a mouth at the same time."

She resisted the urge to break his gaze out of shame. "Is that not something you want?"

"It is not something you could offer! A mortal could never have the means to do something of that nature. My kind does not belong on Nirn. I am fated to return to the Planes of Oblivion, and no human could change that."

"That's why I'm looking for Sanguine."

He met her with a sidelong glance. "The day my lord does a thing for you is the day I dare to hope."

She held up the staff, which, as she had last checked, was a thing.

She finds a brood of mages camping inside the southern watchtower. She would've skipped right over them, had they not had the misfortune of mistaking her for a vulnerable farmer, thanks to her lack of proper armor. As she slides the last one off of her sword, magicka crackling and dying, a feeling of excitement, and dread, overtakes her.

She forces herself still, and calmly, with only the slightest tremble in her step, makes her way to their arrangement of tents.

When she sees the runes of arcane enchantments, her heart flies to her throat. She abandons the charade of composure, and stumbles over herself in her great compulsion to reach them. Her bare hands come down on an altar of enchantment, sending small dagger sheaths and hunks of iron ore clattering away at her touch.

Her hand flies to a lockbox, which she sees wasn't closed properly, rendering its sophisticated lock useless. She throws it open, eyes wide, and watches in elation as a pale pink glow is cast about the altar, throwing the arcane runes into an eerie light.

She counts three, four, five gems, all aglow like flames. Her hand floats out in front of her, a bare-skinned phantom, collecting each one as though it were a precious egg or a delicate flower, and holding it in sanctuary against her chest. The Sanguine Rose is already in her other hand, proffering it to the gems as though it were a sacrifice or a banquet.

She watches as the gems react, the magic within them turn into dust, into mist, into air, swirling about the staff as a miniature gale, then cease to be. Her precious gems were converted into more-precious time, starting the instant she swings the staff.

The Kynreeve appears before her yet again, but this time she does not greet him with a question, or any other arrangement of words. Instead, they size each other up for a moment: he looking dignified as ever, she in a toiler's clothes.

She takes a few steps forward, arms extended, and embraces the Daedra, uttering a single question:

"What have I done wrong?"

He, not knowing the value of the gesture, remains stoic and watches the top of her head.

"Tried to help me, mortal. That will be your only downfall."

"It's been weeks," was the first thing she said after summoning him.

He shook his head. "I told you to give up, human."

"I won't."

"Why are you so stubborn? Nothing I do can dissuade you. Perhaps next time I'll fail to appear, just so you can cease this fool's errand!"

"You don't have to thank me."

He lashed out, toppling an arrangement of bowls from the dresser beside him. With another motion, they hit the wall opposite, splintering. Still unsatisfied, he grabbed her roughly by the shoulders. "I should be cursing you! Why do you continue to tease me so? Do you pity me, mortal? Is that your reason for attempting the impossible?"

She winced and stared at the wall roughly above his shoulder.

"How foolish I have been to be tempted by this woman! Her honeyed words are as naïve as the rest of the races of Nirn. With more foresight, I never would have appeared to you! I would have let you believe the staff broken. I would have left you to the trolls. I would have spared myself any false hope. I pray it's not too late to take that opportunity."

He let go of her and spun on his heel. Without a second thought, her hand flew out and grabbed him by the arm. "Wait!" she cried, only then realizing that he'd be able to feel nothing through the bulk of his armor. He paused in mid-retreat anyway.

"What words have you for me?" he growled, voice dropping dangerously low, low enough to send chills up her spine.

"I don't tease you. I don't pity you. I wish to help."

"Who are you to help me?" He sneered back at her.

"A fellow warrior. An ally. Right now, a companion," she added experimentally, sizing up his response.

"The word is familiar."

"Not all has to hinge on battle."

"If you can separate anything from battle," he said, turning once more to see her, "I will gladly be your companion."

"It's been months," is the first thing she says after summoning him. "I told you I wouldn't give up."

"And I told you it was a fool's errand," he says idly.

"So you did," she agrees, sadly running her fingers over the staff.

"And you're giving up now."

"I didn't say that."

"It's what you wish to say." He places his hands on her shoulders gently. She winces.

"I wish to say that I've succeeded."

"I wish you not to lie."

Her laughter is choked and bitter. "And you have been my companion this entire time. There have been no battles."

"Reasoning with you is battle enough. Though I have found you to be companionable, so yes. I did hold up my end of the bargain."

"I… I'm afraid I could not do the same."

"I thought you weren't giving up."

She turns on her heel and shrugs off his hands, unable to meet his eyes. "I don't want to."

"I understand. It was my fault for allowing myself to hope."

She pivots again, catching him in a glare; cheeks high and red, eyes fiery and wet. "What have I done wrong?" she hisses through her teeth, squinting to see him better through a blurry veil.

Their eyes lock. For an instant, she doesn't see blank concrete. For a moment, he doesn't see her mortality. For the first time, minding not her pale skin but her colorful mind, he pulls her into an embrace. He knows not how it feels through his armor, though he does know what it means. This is a gesture she's taught him. He can give back that much.

"Nothing, mortal."

The words ring until his arms disappear from around her. When she opens her eyes, he's gone.

A few weeks ago, the Dragonborn hid a soul gem in a tree trunk in the middle of a forest, knowing she'd need it.

Today, she knows it's time. She returns to the spot in the dead of night and reaches her arm into the trunk, half-hoping that someone has found it and stolen it.

Her hand closes around it. She sighs in relief and sorrow.

For the last time, she takes the Sanguine Rose from her back. Hands shaking, the two items come together. The gem disappears. The staff is charged.

With her lips set, she summons the Dremora.

"Why don't you like being in Oblivion?" she asked him as innocently as possible.

When he turned his patronizing gaze toward her, it softened. "Nirn is a beautiful place," he answered simply.

"Is Oblivion not beautiful? I've never been."

"Ah," he responded, eyes searching some faraway place for memories. "So you wouldn't know the torture it is to be there. The black of night, visible through the daytime. The ceaseless crowd of bodies, each seeking something different, yet always similar. The inescapable din of crowds and hedonistic delights, the tantalizing Mazken, the drunken Aureals." He spat on the ground in disgust. "I'd rather be here, away from that. And Sanguine's realms hold nothing and no one for me."

Nodding, but not taking in the full meaning of his words, she asked, "What does Skyrim hold?"

In the silence that followed, they both realized there might have been an obvious answer to that question. The Daedra cleared his throat and supplied it, though in a much more diluted manner than they'd both been thinking. "I do quite enjoy the conversation I get here."

She couldn't help but smirk, casting him a sidelong glance. "You enjoy talking to me?"

"Don't flatter yourself. You're not the only one here who can talk."

"There's no one else you talk to."

"I'd enjoy conversation with any creature intelligent enough to compose speech."

"So you do enjoy it."

A slight pause. "Yes, I do," he conceded.

He appears with as little fanfare as ever. When he sees her face, he nods.

She nods back, even though she doesn't know exactly what they've told each other.

He steps forward, looking more like a Daedric statue in the moonlight than ever before. It isn't until he's feet away that the small movements of his face are visible. The corners of his mouth turn down.

"You do not intend to use the staff again, am I correct?" he asks.

She clutches it to her chest, mirroring his frown. "I don't."

He solemnly nods. "It will be better that way." He reaches out a single hand and his fingers curl around the staff. He tugs lightly, expecting her to allow it to slide out of her hands. But if anything, she grips it tighter.

The Dremora sighs and grips the Sanguine Rose with his other hand. She expects him to tear it away from her, and she knows she couldn't win that fight. Instead, he steps closer, holding it between them gently. The metal handle is the only thing separating them, after it being for so long what was holding them together.

Their eyes don't leave each other's.

"Will things be better?" she finally asks, wanting reassurance more than anything. He nods, again tugging on the staff. "Everything will be better."

"What if it's not?" She plants her feet and braces herself, prepared to fight to maintain her grip. "Then," he answers sternly, "this will be one less thing to worry about."

She bites back the angry objection that springs to her lips, steadying her body and voice. There's so much she's wanted to say, but now none of it will come out. There's not enough time, she wants to complain, just let me think for a minute.

"I understand how you feel," the Daedra says helpfully, but she just shakes her head. He presses on, "I have thoroughly enjoyed my time here, and yes, I am grateful."

She lets out a sigh which accidentally turns into a sob. She claps a defensive hand over her mouth, wishing to take back the sound, not wanting to ruin their last conversation with a display of weakness. Unable to think of anything to say, she just slides her remaining hand down the staff, resting it on the Kynreeve's. She's still not sure if he can feel it.

He slides the staff away from her, stepping back slowly. Her suddenly-empty hand reaches out for the staff (for him) of its own accord, and she has to lower it. As he steps further and further away, he says over the widening gap, "And thank you, for all you've done. I've had no greater pleasure."

She opens her mouth to speak again, but at that moment, he raises the staff above his head using both hands. With a single sweeping movement, he snaps the Sanguine Rose over his knee.

The Dragonborn cries out as he does it, taking a vain step forward. He holds the two halves in his hands, looking at her, and the two of them are frozen.

The sixty-second mark passes. She knows it; she's gotten very good at counting minutes at a time. She doesn't take her eyes from him, doesn't blink, afraid she'll miss the moment when he ceases to exist with her.

He drops the now-useless metal on the ground to either side of him, a smirk (or a smile) blooming across his face as he speaks again, stepping forward to pull her into his arms. "By the way, Sanguine says hi."