Hello, everyone! I'm writing this Author's Note three years after I first published this story. While Night Eye launched me into the FFN Elder Scrolls fandom and was wonderful fun to write, I can't deny the fact that it was written by a beginner showed, and that some elements didn't fit the canon I later created for my characters. Now the third instalment of the trilogy is on the way, I think it's high time for a rewrite. No doubt it'll take some time, but sooner or later it'll be done!

Bear in mind this story is set five hundred years after the events of the game, so several elements are different. It's also AU, obviously – the main difference, naturally, is the return of Alduin, but smaller differences will appear as the story goes on. To remain neutral, I'm not going to state any kind of conclusion to the Civil War.

I hope you enjoy the story!

NIGHT EYE

PART ONE- A'JIRA

CHAPTER ONE - TAKING FLIGHT

A'jira hurried down the steps and turned the street corner in time to be framed for murder.

There was no time to react, and no time to stop what happened. By the time her eyes had taken in the Nord beggar cowering against the wall of the alleyway, and the hulking Orc with eyes smouldering with drunken madness who was pinning him there, the Nord was already falling, and the Orc's dagger was streaked with blood.

As so often happened in her life, A'jira suddenly found herself waging a mental war. Her head told her to leave, and leave now, to turn and flee back into the shadows of the alley before anyone, especially the Orc, could see she was there. And her heart told her to draw her own weapon and run forwards, to shout at the Orc to leave the man alone.

It was a split-second decision. She knew the consequences of what she was doing. She knew that it could see her arrested, fined, thrown in jail.

But she also knew that if she didn't do it, she would never be able to live with herself again.

'I'm insane,' A'jira murmured ruefully, and, pulling her dagger from her belt, she stepped out into the open.

'Leave him!' she shouted.

The Orc whirled around, and his eyes narrowed. 'And what do you think you're doing here, cat?'

A'jira felt her tail begin to lash. 'Khajiit,' she corrected him, though she knew it was hardly the time to begin that argument. 'And right now, I'm asking you to step away from him.'

The Nord, doubled up on the cobblestones, let out a ghastly coughing, his eyes – wide and desperate - fixed on A'jira. 'For the Gods' sakes, help me,' he choked out. 'Please!' The final word was a shout that rebounded down the alleyway, and A'jira couldn't stand still any more.

With a warning snarl in the Orc's direction, she dashed to the Nord's side. His hands were clamped over his right side, where a dark stain was slowly spreading across his tunic.

'Hold still,' A'jira told him. 'Don't speak. I… I'll do something, I swear, I'll – '

You can't do anything, the logical part of her mind snapped at her. He's dying. You can see he is. You've got no healing potions, and you don't know any Restoration spells. And if you go for help, you'll be arrested.

A'jira bit her lip. The Nord's struggles were fading. The Orc, drunk as he was, hadn't thought to run, not yet. She breathed in deeply and prepared to call for help.

And at that moment a figure in the unmistakable mail tunic and yellow sash of a town guard rounded the corner, to see her crouching over a dying man with a dagger in her hand.

The first feeling that flooded through her was relief – the guard might have a healing potion on him. And then she realised exactly what this scene looked like to him.

Several things happened at once then. A'jira slipped her dagger back into its sheath and rose to her feet, lifting her hands, the words to explain forming on her tongue. The Nord gave a strained sigh and went limp. And the Orc threw a finger in A'jira's direction and shouted, 'She did it! Grab her!'

Eyes widening, A'jira gave a panicked shake of her head. 'No. No, I didn't –'

The guard drew his sword and pointed it right at her.

'You can tell lies to your fellow prisoners, you furred scum,' he snarled. 'Put down your weapons and come quietly.'

A'jira's eyes flicked between the smirking Orc and the guard, his expression hidden behind visor. For a moment, she wondered if she could convince the guard of the truth. She looked at his extended blade and realised she could not.

She turned to cast one final look at the Nord. Part of her wanted to be angry with him. Because she'd tried to help him, she'd ended up on the wrong side of the law. Again. And she'd done nothing wrong.

But how could she be angry with someone who had died so pointlessly?

'I'm sorry,' she told him, and ran.

The pounding of booted feet from behind her would have told her the guard was giving chase even if his cry of, 'By order of the Jarl, stop right there!' hadn't. Now a wave of anger did sweep through her, because the real murderer would be taking this time to escape, and the Nord's killer would go unpunished. And all because I've got fur.

Yet again, the fact that she was a Khajiit had been her downfall. No matter what the rest of the world tried to make her feel, she wasn't ashamed of being one. She would never be ashamed. But sometimes, she felt she would have given anything to become a human or an elf. Even an Argonian. Even one day in a different body would be a gift from the Gods, so she could have just the briefest experience of normal life. One day understanding what it would be like to be allowed into cities, to be protected by the law, and not to be seen by everyone as a thief, or an assassin, or a Skooma dealer.

She knew her people's reputation wasn't entirely undeserved. Their natural agility, stealth and ability to see in the dark made them suited to underhanded professions. But when the entire world of accused you of being an entire race of scum, and barred their doors and blocked their job offers, what else could you do but drop into the underworld?

You could, of course, do what A'jira had done. Set out into the wild, hunt for yourself, live alone and free. But sometimes that wasn't enough. Sometimes you had to climb a city wall, slip inside unnoticed, meet up with one of the shady characters willing to sell to and buy from Khajiit, make a few Septims, just a few pitiful Septims.

Unless that led to you being pursued by the entire Whiterun guard and several shouts of 'Stop that cat!' of course.

A'jira hurdled a cart full of cabbages pulled by a startled-looking Breton, then an equally surprised-looking cow, and kept running. Perhaps she'd been impulsive. Perhaps should have stayed and tried to defend herself to the Jarl. She'd heard good things about Jarl Brandor; it was said that he was a fair, just man, loved by his people and determined to put them first. But even those Nords kindest to their own kind could have a fog of prejudice cloud their minds when a Khajiit stood in front of them.

Besides, she was faster than the guards, who were weighed down with armour and weapons. She could make it.

Outside the city, maybe, a voice hissed in her head. And what then?

A coldness settled in A'jira's stomach. She might make it to the gates of Whiterun, might be able to get out of them before the guards could catch her, but then what? They'd keep chasing her. And they could borrow horses from the stables…

She knew what she had to do, and she hated it.

She had to steal a horse. She had to grab one from the stables and get it moving, ride as hard and fast as she could. She'd never ridden before, but she knew the theory, and she had no choice but to try. But that meant she'd forever be branded in Whiterun as a thief and a murderer, and she'd face worse than a prison sentence if she was caught. She could never return.

This is what you do to us! she snarled mentally at every Nord who had ever lived. Because you wouldn't listen when I said I wasn't a murderer, I have to become a thief. This isn't my fault. This is all you.

The gates were just ahead. A'jira covered the final distance and scrabbled with the bolt. It shot back with a clang, and with a pant of relief she wrenched the gate open. A hand clamped down on her shoulder as she turned to run again, but she twisted out of the person's grip and slashed at them with her talons, not looking to see who they were. A howl told her that she had hit her mark.

I'm sorry, she shouted to them silently. But I've got no choice. No choice at all.

She made straight for the stables, her breathing becoming strained. Most of the horses were firmly locked inside their stalls but one – a sturdy black mare – had been led out and tethered to a wall by a thin rope. A stable hand was adjusting its bridle, while a man in a fur-trimmed coat waited a short distance away. Clearly this was his horse, and A'jira hated herself even more for doing this right in front of him. But she made a beeline for the mare all the same, her ragged leather boots threatening to fall to pieces as she ran. Mentally she begged them to hold for just a bit longer. Like everything A'jira owned, they were worn, second-hand and in desperate need of replacement. Her dagger (iron, the cheapest she could find) was rusty, her tunic was filthy, threadbare and full of holes, and her coin purse held next to nothing. She couldn't afford to pay the fine that would come with being apprehended, meaning that she'd be thrown in prison for months, maybe years. Even if she managed to somehow prove her innocence, she'd still face a fine for being a Khajiit inside the city walls – a fine she could not possibly pay.

A'jira leaped up, her claws digging into the stable wall. She scrabbled to find a hold. If she could just get over it, she could reach the horse, slash through the rope that held it, jump into the saddle and be gone. She heard a twang and a whistle as something shot over her head and buried itself in the roof of the stable. An arrow.

Terror lent A'jira strength, and with a final heave, she reached the top. Using her tail to balance, she prepared to leap down into the stable yard. It was quite a drop, but then Khajiit always landed on their feet. She tensed, ready to jump.

Another twang. An arrow smashed into the wall beside her. Startled, A'jira leaped away from it, acting on instinct. Before she could stop herself she was falling off the wall- the wrong way. She twisted in mid-air, and hit the ground lightly and perfectly – but the damage was done. The few moments she used to right herself were all it took for the guards to catch up.

They closed in around her, swords drawn.

A'jira was backed against the wall. If she tried to climb it again, she'd be a sitting duck. If she fought, she'd be killed. She had no wish to be jailed, but she knew when surrender was the only option. Biting her lip, she pulled her dagger from her belt and threw it onto the ground at the guards' feet, then unslung her bow and quiver from her back and dropped them too. And she held up her hands in surrender.

The leader took a few steps towards her, weapon extended. 'You have committed crimes against Skyrim and her people. What say you in your defence?' he growled. It was the same speech every time; A'jira was surprised they didn't get bored of saying it.

'I didn't kill him,' she replied, striving with all her might to keep her voice steady.

'So there's a perfectly reasonable explanation for you having been found over the body, holding a dagger,' the guard snapped.

A'jira swallowed hard. 'Look at it.' She dared to move her hands for long enough to point at the weapon. 'No blood.'

The guards' heads turned towards the weapon, and A'jira thought the eyes of a few widened behind their helmets.

'Indeed it is,' one of them said slowly. 'You plead innocent?'

'Yes. That Orc was the one who killed him. I was trying to help him.'

'And why'd a Khajiit want to help?'

A'jira's fur began to bristle. 'Wouldn't you have tried to do something if you saw a man being stabbed? Gods, the fact that I've got fur doesn't change anything.'

'It does,' the guard leader told her coldly. 'You shouldn't have been inside the city. Whether or not you're guilty of murderer, you've still broken the laws of Skyrim. We'll take you before Jarl Brandor and he can decide whether he thinks you're a killer or not. And then you'll pay the trespass fine, or see the inside of the Dragonsreach dungeons.'

He turned to his men. 'Did anyone grab the Orc?'

They glanced at each other, and shook their heads

'He was a tall one,' a voice called – A'jira recognised it as belonging to the guard who'd first tried to apprehend her. 'Dark green skin. Brow spikes. A scar on his right cheek.'

'I know him.' The guard captain sheathed his sword. 'Ugmak gro-Gunal. Kalda and Gerdon, go to the house on the right of the potions store. That's where he lives. Bring him to Dragonsreach. The Jarl can judge him and the cat together.'

'What's the point?' One of the two chosen guards folded his arms and fixed A'jira with a belligerent glare – at least, she thought it was a belligerent glare. It was a little hard to tell, because of the helmet. 'The Khajiit's trying to lie her way out of trouble. She shouldn't get a chance to try and blame someone else. Just throw her in the dungeons and have done with it.'

A'jira's 'remain calm' plan evaporated instantly.

'Do you think I asked to be born a Khajiit?' she snarled, flattening her ears and lashing her tail from side to side. 'Just because I happen to have talons fur and a tail, it doesn't mean I'm guilty of everything!'

'Your kind are raised as thieves and skooma dealers,' the guard spat. 'It's all you know.'

'I was raised in the Riften Honourhall. By Nords.'

Memories flashed through her mind – the travelling merchant who'd delivered her to the Honourhall, the conversations between the staff she'd heard about how it was a mystery what had happened to her parents, since there'd been no traces of bodies, or a fight, anywhere near the place where she'd been found, and the day she'd turned fourteen and decided she was old enough to head out into the world beyond…

That had been two years ago now. Two years of utter nothingness. Hunting to get food. Running short and having to sneak into a city to buy some. Traipsing across the wilderness with nothing but her clothes, her dagger and the bow and arrows she'd managed to buy. No friends, no purpose, no real existence. A'jira suddenly realised that she didn't care what became of her now. Maybe it would be easier for the guards to simply kill her than to keep on living this wretched existence, mistrusted and hated because of something she hadn't been able to choose.

'We can't risk punishing the wrong person,' the guard captain said calmly. 'There's doubt about who's the murderer, so we have to find the truth. That's our job.'

A'jira breathed out, suddenly aware that she'd been holding her breath. It wasn't much, but it was a chance of a fair hearing. Perhaps there'd be some way to prove to the Jarl that she hadn't killed the man. And then it'd be only a week or two in a cell, maybe a month at most, for breaking the no-Khajiit-in-the-cities law.

The guards gathered up her weapons, and the guard captain placed a hand on her shoulder, leading her back towards the city. A'jira knew it was so she couldn't run again, but she found it oddly comforting. The captain, at least, seemed to be a man of reason, someone who took his work seriously. If she wasn't in friendly hands, she might at least be in safe ones. She raised her head and held her tail high as the guards led her back inside the gates, defying anybody to say she had been beaten. She had nothing left now except her pride, and she was going to hold onto it as firmly as she could.

She'd read that once, Whiterun had been a fairly small town, divided into only three districts. That certainly wasn't the case now. The 'Old Town,' as it was called, built upon the vast rock that jutted out of the plains, bore the historical sites – Dragonsreach and Jorrvaskr, and Gildergreen tree – and beyond the ancient wall that surrounded this area was the 'New Town,' a thickly built-up area that had sprawled out around the city centre as time went by. This was a place of thin alleyways and closely-packed houses; A'jira always stayed within this area on the rare occasions she snuck inside Whiterun. In the right areas of the New Town, people cared less about the no-Khajiit rule, and traders could be found willing to deal with them. That was what had brought her here today – she'd needed new arrows, and quickly. She'd never gone past the gate into the Old Town, and she found herself, despite the circumstances, a little excited to see what lay beyond.

If Khajiit were occasionally ignored in the New Town, it certainly wasn't the case in the Old. A'jira felt curious eyes scan her as she passed through the city streets and heard whispers pass between the townsfolk. She tried to ignore them, focusing on the sights around her. There was the famous Dragonsreach, the place where – if you believed the old stories – the Dragonborn had captured a dragon in order to fight Alduin the World Eater. A'jira liked to believe that it was true, if just because it reminded her that there had once been heroes in Skyrim, people willing to risk everything to do what was right.

They reached the palace. As A'jira dimly wondered when a Khajiit had last dared to put a foot in a place like this, the guards pulled open the doors, and the captain gave her a light push inside.

A'jira had never seen so much wealth, nor so much glory, in all of her short ife. The ceiling was so high that she was sure that if all of the six or seven guards surrounding her stood on each other's shoulders, they still wouldn't be able to touch it. The two tables on either side of the hall were laden with silver plates and goblets. The dishes were filled with food- bread, meat, fish, sweetrolls… A'jira felt her mouth watering and forced herself to look away. She expected that if she sold everything she owned, she wouldn't be able to purchase an eighth of this feast. How could people live like this, hoarding away all of this splendour, never giving so much as a single Septim to people like her, who had to save up for weeks to buy a loaf of bread? Fury rose up within her, but she forced it down. Getting angry wasn't going to solve anything.

She let her gaze travel the length of the hall and settle at the man who sat at the far end. So this was Jarl Brandor. The man who had power over her fate. He had a very typical Nordic look – golden hair, pale skin, beard separated into two thick braids. At his side, speaking to him in a low voice, was a figure with white-blond hair and steel armour – his Housecarl, A'jira guessed. That was why she was surprised to see, when he turned around, that he was a Bosmer. Nords, in her experience, didn't trust members of other races – especially not the non-human ones – with their protection. The elf's hair was braided, though, and he was far stockier than any Bosmer A'jira had seen before. Perhaps he was a half-blood – Nord father, Bosmer mother.

The only thing that A'jira could determine about either of them was that they were surprised to see her there. Obviously skinny Khajiit teenagers in torn tunics weren't commonly escorted into the Jarl's palace under armed guard.

'Garmund,' the Jarl said, nodding towards the guard captain. 'Is there a problem?'

'That's for sure. What we don't know is who caused it.' The captain gestured for the guard who had found A'jira standing over the Nord's body to step forward. 'Sorlaf found the Khajiit within the city walls, crouching over a man who'd been stabbed, holding a dagger. When he tried to arrest her, she protested her innocence, then ran. We caught up to her just outside the city gates. She still says –'

'I think it might be better if we hear that from her.' Brandor sat up straight in his throne, fixing A'jira with an even grey gaze. 'What do you have to say?'

A'jira breathed in deeply; what she said now might determine whether she was thrown in jail for five days or five years. 'I'm innocent. I swear it. I confess to being in the city, I know I shouldn't have been. I may be a trespasser, but I'm no murderer. I went around a corner, and I saw the man being attacked by… by some Orc, I don't know who he was. He looked drunk. He yelled for help – the man who was stabbed, I mean – so I drew my dagger in case the Orc tried something again, and went to see if there was anything I could do. But there wasn't. And then the Orc shouted that I'd done it, and this lot – ' She jerked her head at the guards – 'Believed him.'

The Jarl gave his beard a stroke, and held up one hand for her to stop. 'Garmund, did someone apprehend the Orc in question?'

'I recognised him. His name's Ugmak gro-Gunal. Lives in the Mist District of the New Town. Might be worth mentioning that I've had trouble with him before. Drunken brawls and so on. I've got men fetching him now.'

Brandor slowly inclined his head, then turned those penetrating grey eyes back onto A'jira. 'What's your name?'

'A'jira.' She'd been four or so when she'd been brought to the Honourhall, and she'd been able to remember her name, if nothing else.

'A'jira,' Brandor repeated. 'Can you tell me what you were doing in Whiterun?'

'Buying arrows.'

'You were aware that it's against the law for Khajiit to enter any the cities of Skyrim?'

'Yes. I was also aware that I'd starve to death if I didn't have any hunting gear. I'd already been to two towns looking for someone who'd sell to me. I got turned out of Rorikstead, and Halfway. I'd not eaten anything but a few plants I scavenged from the plains in a week. I was starving. I still am.'

She didn't intend for it to come out so fiercely, and she instantly regretted it. It was dangerous to do anything that could offend this man. Wrapping her tail around her legs, she waited for Brandor's reply.

To her surprise, it was the Bosmer housecarl who spoke. 'May I see your dagger, please?'

A'jira glanced around at the guards, and one of them stepped forward, dropping A'jira's bow and arrows on the ground and holding out the dagger. The Bosmer walked forwards and plucked it from the guard's hands, turning it over carefully, examining every inch of the surface.

'Well, Faenlor?' Brandor called.

'Not a speck of blood,' the housecarl reported. 'It's not wet at all, either, and it would probably take some washing to get blood out of this blade, what with the rust on it.'

Hope flared in A'jira's heart.

Setting the dagger back into the guard's palm, the Bosmer knelt down and picked up her quiver. 'Tovak at the weapons shop in the New Town makes these kinds of arrows. And most of these look fairly new.' He turned to A'jira; his eyes were deep forest green. 'Can you describe the man who sold these to you?'

A'jira hesitated. 'You planning to arrest him, too?'

The Bosmer shook his head. 'No, I'm hoping to confirm your story.'

'I'm not sure I'd feel right. Even if you know I was in Whiterun buying arrows, that doesn't prove I'm innocent. And the man who sold me those is one of the only people who's ever done anything to help me. I don't want to get him into trouble.'

The Wood Elf frowned, and A'jira registered a flicker of surprise in his eyes. 'Very well.'

'You say the Orc killed this man,' Brandor said, getting up from his throne and moving forward to stand beside his housecarl. 'If that's the case, why did you run?'

A'jira looked at the ground. 'Because I didn't think there was any chance of me getting a fair trial if I handed myself in. And because even if I can prove that I didn't kill the guy, I'm still getting thrown in jail for breaking the no-Khajiit law. Besides, I'm… kind of used to running away from things by now.'

Brandor looked contemplatively at her. 'I would have hoped I'd have a better reputation than that.'

'I've heard you're fair. As Jarls go.' A'jira's whiskers twitched. 'But fair is relative.'

The Jarl looked almost amused. 'Well, we can't get to the bottom of this until we question Ugmak. In the meantime, perhaps you'd like some bread.'

A'jira blinked at him, and ran his words through her mind to make sure she'd understood them properly. 'Me?'

'You're the one I'm looking at.'

'But I'm under arrest.'

'And clearly extremely hungry. Whatever you may be guilty of, I'd rather not have people fainting from starvation in my hall.'

Brandor nodded to the Bosmer, who instantly walked over to the nearest table, selected a loaf of bread, and pressed it into A'jira's hands. She stared at it.

'You're supposed to eat it,' he said.

A'jira closed her fingers around it. It had been far too long since she'd held real, good food like this. Bread. She'd forgotten what it tasted like.

She sank in her teeth, and remembered.

She tried to eat carefully, since it seemed somewhat disrespectful to scatter crumbs all over the floor of the palace. By the time the guards returned, the Orc in tow, there wasn't a scrap left.

The guards escorted the Orc forwards to stand beside A'jira, and she'd taken a step away from him before she even knew she was doing it. Brandor, now returned to his throne, tilted his head slightly, examining the two of them. 'You are Ugmak gro-Gunal?'

The Orc grunted in assent. A'jira wrinkled her nose at the stink of mead on his breath.

'The situation is as follows, I believe,' Brandor announced, pressing the tips of his fingers together. 'According to A'jira here, you attacked a man and killed him. You then accused her of the murder. Is this correct?'

A'jira nodded.

'Rubbish,' Ugmak growled. 'She killed the old man. Then she attacked me.'

The captain of the guard stepped forwards. 'She attacked him with her own dagger?'

'Yeah. What else would she use?'

The Bosmer folded his arms. 'Her weapon was found clean. No blood.'

'She had time to clean it,' the Orc countered.

'Not really, since she ran from the guards instantly,' Brandor said mildly.

A'jira's eyes widened. Were the Jarl and his housecarl really listening to her over the Orc?

'You're not seriously listening to her, are you?' Ugmark's lip curled. 'Gods, I'm a citizen of Whiterun. What would a cat be doing here? She wouldn't be here if she wasn't up to no good.'

'I'm not a cat!' It was a small thing really, but it was the last straw. 'I'm a Khajiit!'

'You're a murderer,' the Orc snarled.

'You're that and a liar!'

'Stop this now!' Brandor stood suddenly, and A'jira swallowed back the insults she'd been about to hurl. 'Patience and understanding will achieve far more than rage and violence.'

Ugmak glowered at him, and his hand moved to the empty sheath at his side where his dagger should have been. Most likely he'd disposed of it as soon as he'd had the opportunity, knowing it could lead to his arrest if he was found with it. By the Divines, surely that was enough? His missing dagger, and her clean one? Not to mention his attitude.

But unless she could prove his guilt…

A'jira looked at his dagger sheath, and her eyes widened as she noticed something.

'The man,' she said tentatively. 'The man who was stabbed. He was stabbed here, wasn't he?' She placed one hand on her right side.

'Sorlaf?' the captain asked, and the guard who'd found A'jira first glanced down at the ground, clearly thinking, then nodded.

'In the side, yeah,' he said. 'Right side.'

A'jira sucked in a long breath, and pointed to the Orc's dagger holder. 'You're left-handed, Ugmak.'

He stared at her. 'Yeah. So what?'

Thinking hard – if she didn't voice her thoughts carefully, this would count for nothing – A'jira dropped her hand to her own sheath, strapped at her left hip. 'Well, if I had a dagger, and I was attacking someone, and I wanted to knife them from the side, where they wouldn't see it coming… I'd do this.' She swung her hand around, mimicking the motion. 'And I'd hit them here.'

She tapped her left side. Glancing up, she saw Brandor's brow furrowing, and the Bosmer slowly nodding.

'It'd be a fairly awkward manoeuvre for a right-handed person to stab someone in the right side,' he said. 'But fairly easy for a left-handed man to do.'

'No, wait! That doesn't prove anything!' The Orc's eyes widened. 'She- how do you know she's not left handed too?'

The Bosmer regarded him for a moment, then reached down and scooped up A'jira's bow and arrows. 'Catch,' he said, tossing them to her.

A'jira did so, frowning. 'Um. You're arming me.'

'Well noticed.'

'In the Jarl's palace.'

'Indeed.'

'When I'm accused of murder.'

'You're probably un-accused now, but we need to be certain.' The housecarl took a shield from one of the guards and propped it up against the wall of the hall. 'Shoot this for me, please.'

A'jira nocked an arrow to her bow, then relaxed the string, shaking her head. 'If I miss –'

'You'll just damage the wall, and that's not the end of the world.'

With a shrug, A'jira drew back the bowstring again. Breathed in, breathed out. Fired.

The arrow struck the horse head painted on the shield in the centre of the eye. Exactly where she'd aimed.

Allowing herself a small, satisfied smile, A'jira glanced up at the Bosmer. 'Right. Now the left hand, please.'

With considerably more difficulty, A'jira loaded the bow, drew back the string, and let loose the arrow. It missed the shield by a few inches and embedded itself in the wall. The Jarl's steward – a Breton who had been silently watching the entire scene with a face of stony disapprovial – sniffed quietly.

'I think that settles things nicely,' the Bosmer said, collecting the arrow. 'I'm an archer myself, and that wasn't faked. A'jira is right-handed. You, Ugmak, are left-handed. Have you anything further to say?'

The Orc spluttered slightly, but gave no sign of forming any actual words. Brandor pursed his lips. 'Take him to the dungeons, please.'

A couple of the guards stepped forward, grasping the man's arms and hauled him away. A'jira waited until the door had shut on his yelped protests before letting her shoulders sag from relief. Her wits were her best weapons after her bow, and she'd put them to good use.

'Well, I'm glad to have that sorted.' The Jarl rubbed his hands together. 'But I'm afraid you mustn't think you've completely got off, A'jira. Innocent of murder you may be, but you are still guilty of breaking the laws of Skyrim and entering the city.'

'That shouldn't be a crime.' She knew it was a risky thing to say, but she hated to simply sit back and accept it.

The Jarl frowned, but A'jira saw sympathy in his eyes. 'Well, I'm afraid that the law can't be ignored. Whether that law is or isn't just, you broke it. Medwin, what's the sentence?'

The steward cleared his throat. 'One hundred Septims, or a two-week spell in jail.'

Two weeks. Two weeks locked away from the sun. Two weeks of being treated like a criminal because of something she hadn't chosen.

'I can't pay that,' she said quietly.

Brandor relaxed back into his seat. 'I understand your predicament, A'jira – at least, I can understand why you chose to disobey the law. And I'm sorry that my guards accused you of murder without an attempt to discover the full truth. But I'm afraid the law is the law, and I have to uphold it.'

'I get it.' A'jira shrugged. 'I'm not going to complain. I know I'm getting off lightly after… what could have happened.'

She held out her bow and quiver, and the Wood Elf stepped forwards to collect them. 'You have good aim,' he murmured as he did so, and she couldn't hold back a smile.

'Take her away, sir?' the captain asked.

Brandor paused, then nodded. 'Please, Garmund.'

The guard leader gestured towards the door. 'Come on, then, cat. Quick march.'

A'jira glanced past him, at the Jarl and his housecarl, both watching her through narrowed but not unsympathetic eyes. 'Thank you for hearing me out,' she said. 'And thanks for the bread.'

Both their mouths twitched at the corners.

With a soft sigh, A'jira dipped her head to the guard captain, and let him lead her away.

A'jira had thought that the loss of freedom would be the worst part of being in jail. It wasn't. The worst part was the boredom.

She'd hoped that the hours might blur together, but when there was nothing to fill them, it was impossible. She tried to amuse herself by composing poems in her head, but she ran out of words to rhyme with bored fairly quickly. It didn't help that if she got up and started pacing around the cell to stretch out her legs, she'd usually have a shout of, 'Cut that out, cat,' directed at her. She knew the guards posted to cell-watching duty were probably as bored as she was, but at least they had homes to go back to and things to do once their shifts were over.

At least there was food. Nothing in the same league as that wonderful loaf of bread she'd been given, but it was edible, and it came regularly. And used as she was to going days without a meal, that was a blessing.

Still, it was tedious. As a day turned to two and then to three, A'jira found herself wishing she'd turned and ran in the opposite direction when she'd seen the Orc attack that man. She couldn't have helped him anyway.

If you'd have run, you wouldn't have known that, she told herself. And then you'd have felt guilty for the rest of your life.

It was as she puzzled this over, wondering whether there'd even been a right choice, that the Jarl's housecarl paid her a visit.

She'd been so absorbed in her thoughts that she didn't notice him arrive until he gave a quiet cough. A'jira glanced up, her curiosity instantly piqued – if just because there'd been nothing else remotely curious in her life for the last three days. 'Um, hello.'

'Hello there.' The Bosmer swept a quizzical gaze over her. 'It's A'jira, isn't it?'

'That's right.'

He nodded. 'I doubt you caught my name on Tirdas. It's Faenlor. May I ask you a few questions?'

'Go ahead.' It had to beat sitting around with no one to talk to.

Faenlor moved a little closer to the bars of the cell. 'How old are you?'

'Sixteen.'

'And how long have you been surviving on your own?'

'Two years. Since I left the orphanage in Riften.'

Another nod. 'During that time, you've hunted your own food?'

'Yep.'

'With the bow?'

'Yep.'

'How good would you say you are?'

'With the bow?' A'jira sucked her lower lip. 'Pretty good, I guess. I can hit most times. If I find prey, I'll usually kill it. It's finding it that's the problem.'

'How gifted are you at stealth?'

'Reasonably. I'm a Khajiit, we're pretty good at sneaking around.'

'Are you bored in here?'

'Is a mammoth fuzzy?'

The elf let out a chuckle. 'Right then. You'll do perfectly.'

And he produced a key from a pocket and unlocked the door of the cell.

A'jira glanced between the now open door and the Bosmer. 'I'll do for what?'

His answer was to turn and walk in the direction of the exit. 'Come with me. You'll see.'

And with nothing else to do, and nowhere else to go but behind bars, A'jira followed him.

She soon realised that they were heading back to Dragonsreach, and her frown deepened. Did the Jarl want something with her, and if so, what? Her first, paranoid thought was that they'd changed their minds about her innocence – but then, why had Faenlor asked her all those peculiar questions? He'd seemed interested in her ability to fight, but… what use could she be to them as a fighter.

The first thing she noticed when they entered the palace was that it was deserted but for Brandor. The Jarl took one look at A'jira and burst out laughing. 'Her! Faenlor, will you ever stop surprising me?'

'You'll have to kill me first, my friend.' Faenlor grinned. 'And why not her? Think about it – she's just what we need.'

Brandor pulled himself up from his throne and walked towards them, examining A'jira closely. 'Can you fight?'

'A bit. I mean, I've fended off a few bears and sabre cats and things.'

The Jarl raised an eyebrow.

'A draugr dies easier than a bear, Bran,' Faenlor said. 'And I think we can be assured of her silence.'

Brandor nodded. 'You're probably right. A'jira, you're probably extremely confused, so let's put you out of our misery. The simple fact is that we need your help. Whiterun needs your help.'

A'jira paused, then placed her hand on her chest. 'Me?'

The Jarl laughed – it seemed that away from his steward and guards, he was a more laid-back character. 'Yes, you. Come and sit down, and I'll explain.'

He pulled out a seat at one of the tables and gestured for A'jira to sit opposite him. Utterly uncertain that it was the done thing for scruffy Khajiit prisoners to sit at the same table as the Jarl, A'jira obeyed, and Faenlor dropped into the chair behind Brandor.

'A little while ago, the Jarl of Falkreath sent a package to Whiterun,' Brandor began. 'An important one. Battles between the Holds of Skyrim are extremely rare, but about two hundred years ago, one of my ancestors became engaged in a family feud with the Jarl of Falkreath. Some business about someone's daughter marrying someone's son without permission. The result was a small but extremely bloody battle in which my ancestor was killed, and his sword was taken as a trophy by the Jarl of Falkreath. Now, that sword was an enchanted blade, hence its longevity, and it had become something of a symbol of Whiterun. Myth says that it was given to a Jarl named Balgruuf by the Dragonborn himself. I may not believe that, but I do believe that this sword was extremely important to this Hold for several hundred years. Only recently did the bad blood between Falkreath and Whiterun die down enough for me to ask Jarl Indla for it to be returned, and for her to agree.'

He poured himself a goblet of wine and took a sip before continuing. 'Well, so far so good. Except the sword was meant to arrive a week before now. We went a courier to Indla, asking her what she was playing at, and she insisted it had been sent. It appears some harm befell the courier – except the man was guarded by several town guards. No one expected harm to come to him.'

He lowered the goblet, swilling the contents around in a circle. 'I sent men out to investigate, and they found the courier and the guards dead near a Nordic burial site called Ulfgard. Around them were the corpses of several Draugr. They're undead creatures that live in our old tombs. And while it's rare for them to come to the surface, sometimes they do. And from the looks of things, they'd taken the sword. Draugr are known to hoard valuable items, giving them to their leaders to wield.'

'This is where you come in,' Faenlor said. 'We don't want to send more guards out to retrieve the sword. That's not what we pay them for – they're peacekeepers, not questors. Besides, many of them have families – we'd have a riot on our hands if people learned we were sending the men and women who guard their streets into Ulfgard.' He bit his lip. 'And I know this may sound cold, A'jira, but we need someone who'll be willing to do this job, and who…'

'Who people won't care about if they get killed,' A'jira finished for him, as he hesitated. 'You can say it.'

'It doesn't make me feel very good, though.' Faenlor looked at her apologetically. 'Brandor and I were both impressed by your attitude on Tirdas. Even when being insulted and put under pressure you remained calm. Not to mention the fact you've got a sharp mind and skill with the bow. I'm going to head to Ulfgard to try and retrieve the sword for Whiterun, but it'd be easier if I had a companion. If you'll accompany me, you'll receive a full pardon – not to mention a hefty reward.'

A'jira felt her eyes grow round. Never in all her life had anyone offered to reward her for anything.

'I won't make any kind of pretence that this won't be dangerous,' Faenlor told her. 'But something tells me you're the right person to pick.'

So, a decision. A'jira closed her eyes. She could say no, go back to her cell, be bored but safe for eleven more days and she'd be free. Back to her old life. Or she could say yes, go with Faenlor, have her life put at risk, but emerge from it a free woman. And with money. Money enough, maybe, to get new clothes, new gear, even to make herself presentable enough to get a job somewhere.

And she'd have done something for someone else. A quest, a mission, an adventure. She'd be a very small hero.

A'jira lifted her head.

'I'll do it.'

Hooray, the first chapter is rewritten! The next should follow soon. Changes I made: I added the scene at the beginning, so that the murder was witnessed first-hand , and the prison scene, since I felt A'jira got off a bit easily in the original version. Also edited some information about the Dragonborn and the role of the Jarl's sword.

Thanks for reading!