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The mage tasked with helping Matthias drops another tome on the table, crossing her arms as he starts to flip through it’s pages.
“Do you read Old Bretic?” Matthias asks her.
She’s standing over his shoulder. “Of course,” she says. “Does the Dovakin not know his classics?”
She prefers to use that word instead of his actual name, throwing it at him each time with a sneer. Insulting him.
He only knows her as Nina. A much harder thing to say with such contempt.
“I can read the common language just fine,” he says, gritting his teeth. “But since you’ve been bringing me books in Orcish, Jel, Goblin-”
“Perhaps the issue is that these are too advanced,” she says. “Do you want me to go fetch you more books?” Her tone is one she would give a child. “Maybe something about what magic is. Maybe something explaining the concept of dragons.”
Her malice is equal parts frustrating and terrifying, and getting steadily fiercer.
Matthias worries she’s mere minutes from shooting fire at him.
“I understand I’m imposing on the College,” he says, looking up at her. “But given the stakes of the situation, I’d appreciate just a modicum of your actual help.”
She doesn’t wear the apprentice hood like the other student mages. She seems too tempestuous, too rebellious for that.
It makes it too easy to look right at her pretty, furious face. “I am helping.”
“Have I done something to offend you?” His hand rests precariously on his last page, a half-hearted effort at bookmarking. “Because if I’ve managed to in the day and a half I’ve been here, I can assure you it wasn’t my intention.”
“How noble of you,” she says, pressing her fingers with faux-daintiness to her collarbone. “Should I fall to your feet and weep at your kindness?”
“I’m asking you a serious question,” he says. He’s going to crack his teeth if he keeps clenching them like this. “I think this situation is a bit too important for you to be actively obstructing me.”
“This is the best I can do, ” she says. “I apologize if my humble knowledge of the arcane arts are not enough for you.”
“That is exactly what I’m talking about,” he snaps. “What did I say to imply I thought you lesser? When did I insult your intelligence? I assure you, it was a miscommunication. An accident.”
She lets out a low, mirthless laugh at that, a smile that is more like a showing of teeth. “I don’t need to be lectured on diplomacy by a Stormcloak.”
He feels that insult in his very bones. The same chill of doubt that’s been chipping at him since this whole ordeal began. “I’m not- I don’t- I’m from Windhelm, yes, but-”
“I’m from High Rock,” she tells him. “Does that bother you?”
“No,” he says. “That’s not the part of you that bothers me.”
She frowns with a violent blush in her cheeks. Flushed red with anger. “You don’t deserve it,” she says.
He lets it hit. She’s not the first one to express the sentiment. It bothers him more, hearing it from this infuriating and unhelpful brat of a woman, but he tries to swallow the feeling of shame that brings him.
He knows exactly what she’s referring to. Still, he says, “What don’t I deserve?”
“Would you like a list?” she asks. “Armor. A Jarl. A city. Your sword. Your bow. Certainly not your shield-”
“So I’ll just go die in the ice, then?” he says.
“What an ego you have,” she says. “I was referring to all of your brothers in arms.”
He bites his tongue to keep from shouting at her. Then offers, “I’m not a Stormcloak.”
“That’s not what I’ve heard,” she says.
“It’s what I’m telling you,” he says. “Don’t you think I’m a little more reliable, given that I’m speaking about myself?”
“Not even slightly,” she says. “Stormcloaks have principles based only on want and greed. Today you want my help. Tomorrow you’ll want to plunge us all back into the age of barbarians.”
“Is that your issue?” he says. “That they’re not devoted enough to the cause?”
“Partially, sure,” she says. A step forward. “But the cause is shit, if you’re asking.”
He wonders if she’s trying to threaten him. Moving closer. “I’d assumed that much from your tone.”
“My tone?” she asks. “You’ll excuse me for not wanting to help you. We don’t have the same moral fiber.”
“Enlighten me,” he says. “What morals do you find me lacking?”
Her hips sway when she moves. Just slightly, as she’s taking small, mincing steps into his bubble of space. “Well, for one you’re either a liar or an idiot, though I’m leaning towards both.”
In anger, he curls his fingers, feeling the book page shift and then tear under his fingers. He turns his head. “Fuck-”
She snatches the book out from under his grasp, slamming it shut. “You’re as dull as a hammer looking for nails.”
His mouth tastes almost coppery with rage. “I’m stupid?” he asks. “Do you have any idea what the stakes of this little arrangement are? Do you care so little for the safety of others? I don’t need to be lectured about my own moral failings when you’re so blinded by your prejudice you can’t-”
“My prejudice?” she spits. “From the man that follows Jarl Brum?”
“That was-” He realizes he’s raised his hands, as though he intends to strangle her in agitation. “That was before!”
“Before you found out you were the fucking Dragonborn?” she yells, her voice booming enough to lift dust. “Shouldn’t you be proud? Shouldn’t you be happy? Now your Jarl gets a weapon, and the rest of get, what? To leave? To die?”
“I-” He balls his fingers tightly into fists, just pinches from her jaw. “Am not a weapon.”
“Did the dragons tell you that?” she says, her voice sharp with saccharine-cloaked bitterness. “Did they tell you you’re special?” He realizes she’s hopped onto the tips of her toes, to better reach his height.
Nina’s gaze is still just below his eye-line. He’s tilted his head down to meet her. Her hands close tightly over his wrists.
Her next words are lower. Intended to level cities. “You’re not. You’re just another stupid boy with a stupid cause and a power you don’t deserve.”
Her grip is not to prevent him from fighting her, but inviting him to. She wants to see him try.
A part of her must find his anger quaint. He doesn’t know magic. How much harm could he be?
It boils over his blood. “It must be so hard for you,” Matthias sneers, tugging his arms to his chest, pulling her closer. He leans in, so close he can note the way her nostrils flare. The way her pupils are dilated with adrenaline. “You spend, what? Years studying all sorts of magic and potions and enchantments.” His voice is barely above a whisper. “Did you study Dragon, witch? Did you learn all the words, so that perhaps you could teach yourself, one day? Did you want the power for yourself?”
“I don’t need it,” she says.
“I didn’t say need,” he said. “I used your word. Want. You want it, and I have it. And I didn’t lift a finger to get it.” Her expression twists into something unholy. Powerful. He can barely keep looking at her. “And now you have to help me, and that envy of yours is eating at your bones.”
He watches her lips move as she tries to find the best way to express her hatred of him. He’s not clever enough to think he’s baffled her.
Her grip is tighter than he’d expect. Certainly stronger than someone who only casts spells.
Nina is squeezing his wrists like she wants to snap them.
“You want help?” she says. Her tone matches his, soft but full of horrible things. A shiver runs down his spine. “I know exactly where to find what you’re looking for.”
“Where?” he asks.
He expects her to say Oblivion.
They’re still precariously close. “There’s a tomb south of here,” she says, a glint in her eye that speaks only of danger. “I’ll take you.”
“Why would you do that?” he says.
“I’m more than happy to lead you to your death,” she says.
“Of course,” he repeats. “Which is the only reason you’d want me to go. Find something else.”
She won’t let go of him. “It’s your best option,” she says. “It has what you’re looking for. You wanted maps of all the old dragon burial grounds, right? It’s down there.”
“I don’t believe you,” he says.
“If you read Old Bretic, you would,” she says.
“You really do think I’m stupid, don’t you?” he says. One of his hands grabs the collar of her cloak. If he moves her any closer, their noses will touch.
“I’ve made that abundantly clear,” she says.
He almost finds her response funny. “If you’re so sure it’s in there, come with me.”
And now it’s her turn to almost laugh. “Scared, Dovakin? ”
“I’m not scared of anything you have to throw at me,” he says. “But it brings me comfort to know if we went, you’d die alongside me.”
“That’s almost romantic of you,” she says.
“You disgust me,” he replies.
The tip of her nose touches his. “Good,” she says. “I’ll take you, then.”
It feels like she’s promising something. He’s not sure what. “Why should I?”
“Because,” she says. The feeling of her hands leaving his arms is almost staggering, pulse-pounding where she’d be squeezing his circulation. She drops back onto her heels, collar slipping easily from his grasp. “Deep down, you know I’m telling you the truth. Which I am. And you need the map. And most importantly, you want to prove me wrong.”
It’s horrible how right she is. Absolutely unfair.
“Fine,” he says. “Are you just taking me, or will you go with me through the tomb?”
“I haven’t decided yet,” she says.
“Scared, Nina?” He feels like he should follow that up. Perhaps smirk at her. He doesn’t.
She offers him a roll of her eyes.
The gap where her body was is now only cold, still air. She’s already put a good distance between them. “Meet me at the front gate at midnight. Don’t be late,” she says. “And bring a lantern.”
“Can’t you just…” He gestures with his hand, twisting it in the air. “Conjure light?”
“Of course I can,” she says. “But if I don’t go down there with you, you'll get lost in the dark.”
“That makes your job easier, then,” he says.
“That's not a fun death,” she says. “All you’ll do is fall to your doom.”
“So you are coming in with me,” he says. “Are you intending to do it yourself, then? Is that good enough for you?”
“Undecided,” she says.
He hates her. Simply cannot stand her. “Can’t you get someone else to take me?”
“I have knowledge of the dead you might find handy,” she says.
He should be more concerned about that. “I think you actually want to help me,” he says, pressing luck he doesn't have. “I think for all your posturing, you know how important this is.”
“No, I just want to see you torn asunder by a bear,” she says. “Or a sabre cat. Whichever we encounter first.”
“Midnight,” he repeats.
“It’s your funeral,” she says.
“I suppose it’s good to already be in a tomb, then,” he says.
He watches her almost smile at that. Almost laugh. She puts her hand over her mouth. “Don’t do that.”
“What?” he asks.
"Try to be clever like that again," she says. "And I really will have to kill you myself."