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Chapter Text

She felt the bone-deep creak of tension vibrate through the wooden frame, heard the protesting screech of the leather straps being stretched, the sharp inhale of breath before and the relieved exhaled sigh after the assistant turned the crank, moving the cogs and gears to the next notch.

It was easier to think on these things, to focus on the device she was strapped to, than to let herself dwell on the pain that was coming next. And pain was coming. Strong and bone-breaking and spirit crushing and…

The assistant turned the crank again, and she screamed, her young body pulled too tight. This time it was her shoulder that gave out first, not the tendons but the bone in her arm just outside the joint, snapping like a twig underfoot. Fresh tears slipped past her closed eyelids, mingling with the blood and sweat and grime soiling her dark gold hair.

“We know you’re a spy,” that hated voice cooed from just beyond her reach. “There’s no reason to deny it, to put yourself through this torment. Confess and you’ll be allowed to rest. Given clothing. Taken to a cell. Perhaps one day you may even be exchanged for ransom or pardoned, and allowed to return home.”

She wanted to laugh. She wanted to ask him, what home? She had barely stepped foot in Skyrim before they caught her, accused her.

Tortured her.

She opened her eyes, so dark a blue they became violet, and studied the face before her. She wanted to remember him, this Thalmor, his face and his voice and his name—if she ever learned it—and one day she would find him and torture him and…

The assistant turned the crank again, bringing pain that drove all thought from her head. She registered someone screaming, supposed it had to be her, wondered why it sounded so faint, so far removed…

Then the blackness. That sensation-less void that brought release from the pain, a release that was almost pleasurable. She could stay there, at least she wanted to, but her interrogators had other plans. The cool and tingling ripple of a healing spell swept her body, pulling her away from the void and thrusting her back into the torture chamber.

It was the second time today he had done that, broken her limbs, nearly killed her, only to bring her back to life with a healing spell. Thinking back beyond this current session was hard, her thoughts shying away from the pain and the anguish and the time…

Had it only been three days? Four? No, three; three times she’d been visited by the Thalmor Interrogator and his assistant. Three times they’d spent eternal moments, stretched between pain and healing, questions and silence. She began to despair of life, and hope for death.

“There you are,” her tormentor purred when she opened her eyes. His gloved hand gently stroked her cheek, wiping away the trails of her tears. “I really think you should tell me what I want to know. I don’t know how much of this your body can take, it being so weak. I tell you what: why don’t we start with something simple. Tell me your name, and we’ll be done for today.”

Her name. Aye, she wasn't so far gone that she had forgotten her name, but damn her soul to Oblivion before she’d tell him. He might end today’s torture, but he wouldn’t grant her freedom. And he’d never concede to her innocence. She was no Stormcloak spy; she’d never stepped foot inside Skyrim until just before… just before… they caught her… they beat her… they stripped her…

Her eyes rolled back into her head as she tried to run away from those memories, too painful—like this was—to admit.

“No, no, no,” he chided, hitting her with a mild lightning spell. Her body jerked between the restraints, a gasp escaping her clenched teeth, that sweet, senseless void slipping from her grasp. “We’re not done yet. I want a name. Just tell me your name, and then you can rest. I might even allow you to lie on the table, rather than leave you strapped to the rack.”

The table… the table…? No, she couldn’t quite recall why, but a feeling of dread filled her at the merest thought of the table… Her memory was fading further, trying to wipe out everything about this place, this time, this pain…

She knew it was never going to end. He could keep her here, dancing on the verge of death, on the very cusp of eternity, and never let her find her rest. How long would it be, she wondered, before she did break and tell him what he wanted to know? Before he got her to confess to being a spy, something she was not, if only to get him to stop, or allow her to die?

Tears welled up again, hot and bitter and full of angst, so far removed from the thoughtful, resourceful, light-fingered urchin she had been all her life. What would her father say, if he could speak to her now? At that moment, in a rebellious youthful rage, she didn’t give a fuck. He had sent her to Skyrim, to deliver a message he had been too fearful to deliver himself. And she had wound up here. It wasn't fair! It wasn't right!

She was just a girl!

The Thalmor leaned in close, reading her expression, seeing her come close to that breaking point. “Your name…” he purred, coaxed, and cajoled.

Whatever she had stumbled into was way over her head. All she had wanted to do was come home to Skyrim, a home she’d never known, a land she’d never seen. She only had to deliver her father’s message, a deathbed confession really, and then she’d be free to live her life, whatever that might become. All that was gone, now; whatever dreams she might have wanted to dream had vanished like smoke in the wind. She would die in this room; it was only a question of when.

She pursed her lips, worked the saliva in her mouth until she had a good wad, and spit it in his face.

He started back a little, blinked as his gloved hand wiped the pinkish spittle from his cheek, and lifted his other hand to signal to his assistant…

Voices carried through the door, loud and determined voices that were echoing down the hall. The Interrogator waved his assistant to stand down and turned to face the door.

She listened, not because she wanted to know what was going on, but because her tormentors were obviously listening as well. The voices were raised in a heated argument, a man and a woman, the words becoming more distinct as the volume rose, signaling their approach.

“You can kill the rest; I only ask for the one. I’d like to entertain him again, for old time’s sake.”

“You mean torture,” the man answered, his voice gruff and louder than necessary. “No, he dies with his men. Cut off the head of the snake, and you kill the snake. That’s what these Stormcloak rebels are; a venomous snake poisoning the Empire. The sooner they’re crushed, the better.”

The door opened, making the voices clearer, but neither one stepped inside right away. “Very well, General, if you’re adamant about it,” the woman, a Thalmor judging by her robes, gave in. “But I will be there to witness this historic event.”

“Like I could stop you,” he groused, a high ranking Imperial—didn’t she call him a general? Now his voluminous voice made sense; Imperials always liking to shout to make themselves appear more intimidating.

She stepped into the chamber, but the man—the general—remained in the hallway, carefully averting his eyes. Briefly the girl wondered if it was because she was naked, or because she was being tortured. “Norilar,” the Thalmor acknowledged, giving away the name of the Interrogator. The girl filed that information away deep inside behind her dark violet eyes.

“First Emissary Elenwen,” Norilar bowed, his assistant bowing also even though he was essentially ignored. “You honor me with your presence. How may I serve you today?”

Elenwen looked like some sort of gross slug was climbing up the side of her boot, but erased the expression before either of the other Thalmor looked back up. “I was curious to see how you were coming with your latest guest. Any progress yet?”

Norilar straightened, glad that he had gotten rid of the spittle on his face before Elenwen’s arrival. “Not yet. She has proven to be,” he paused to pick up the girl’s braided hair, messy and grimy like the rest of her, “Deliciously challenging, though she is close to breaking.”

“What have you gotten out of her so far?”

He blinked, obviously trying to hide his discomfort over the question. He couldn’t avoid answering it, however unpleasant the truth would be to admit. “Nothing. She hasn’t even told us her name. I was about to put her on the table, but I fear such a thing would kill her. I’d much rather keep the more drastic measures as a last resort.”

Elenwen had an expression on her face like she was trying to teach a backwards child; and she didn’t have the temperament for it. She looked at both of the men, then at the girl stretched helpless on the rack, then back to them. “You’re both male, correct? Rape her. That might loosen the chit’s tongue. I’ll be in Helgen,” she said regally as she swept towards the door, hardly batting an eye after handing out such a brutal sentence. “Send word to me there regarding your results.”

Gerhild choked back a sob; she would have flinched at the sound of the door banging closed if she could have moved. No no no this wasn’t real this couldn’t be happening not to her it wasn’t fair this had to be a nightmare…

…but it had gone on too long to be just a dream, even a bad one. How long had she been a prisoner? She could no longer remember, her mind unable to cope, as it now scrambled to shut away even more unpleasantries. It had been a long enough time, her muscles too weak to allow her to give more than a token resistance, as Norilar—she’d never forget that name—and his assistant took her down from the rack.

They tied her wrists together, stretching her arms above her head to hang the leather strips from a hook in the ceiling. There wasn’t much she could do, dangling with her feet off the ground, other than twist and kick. It didn’t do any good, the two Thalmor laughing at her ineffective struggles, entertained in a contrary way by her futile efforts.

Stuhn, help me, she prayed to the ancient Nordic god. This was not how she had envisioned losing her virginity. She had grown up an expatriate Nord in Cyrodiil, her father a fugitive and a cripple, the two of them constantly moving, trying not to be noticed by any kind of authority. She had been thin and scrawny, especially for a Nord, a late bloomer when it came to developing a woman’s body. Because of this, she had never garnered the interest of any boy. She had the childish idea that that would change, once she reached her home, once she stepped foot on her native soil of Skyrim. How could she have been so wrong?

She tried, gods how she tried, to push it away, the pain and humiliation and… Norilar was in front of her, his breath hot and smelling of something dark and peppery. He adjusted his robes, undoing the top of his leggings and pulling himself out, already hardening with anticipation. He gave it a couple of encouraging strokes and smiled hungrily at her. She tried to turn away, but her arms pressed against either side of her head, keeping her facing forwards. She heard the assistant behind her, the rustle as his clothing was also shunted out of the way. Ah, gods, they couldn’t mean to… not both of them… not at the same time…?

She was kicking again, moaning something incoherent through clenched teeth, heat burning her face as she only succeeded in making them laugh harder. Hot bitter tears spilled down her cheeks, dripping off her chin, falling onto her naked breasts. Her vision was blurred, her ears muffled by her arms, but there was nothing to block the sensation of pain.

She cried out; she felt the sound tear its way past her throat to fill the chamber. Yet she had no way to make them stop, not unless she confessed to something she was not. She wasn’t that desperate—not yet, anyway.

Oh Stuhn oh Stuhn oh Stuhn it hurt… she moaned to herself. She had felt the small, sharp pain, the little bit of blood dripping out, perversely coating their members and easing the friction of their thrusts. Her young body trembled with the pain, with the force, with the frustration. Damn them!

Through unshed tears she watched Norilar’s head bob up and down in front of her, up and down, up and down, taunting her, filling her vision, erasing the rest of existence. His eyes were half-closed, his mouth parted slightly, his breath in time with his motions. Up and down. In and out. He was sweating a little, his hood having slipped off his head, revealing the little beads of moisture at his temple. Over and over and over he and his assistant moved within her, stretching, tearing, dehumanizing…

Norilar turned his head to the side, his breath quickening. Now his ear was before her eyes, bobbing obscenely, close enough for her to imagine she felt the wind from its passing. Forever afterward, she would never be able to describe where the impulse had come from, what possessed her or gave her such an idea. She didn’t pause to consider her actions, or their implications; she simply leaned forward, timing it just right, and clamped her teeth down on the auditory sensor.

The scream that followed—for once—wasn’t hers. Both of them were immediately out of her, a welcomed relief, Norilar clutching at the bleeding side of his head as he reeled back across the room. The assistant raced around her to reach him, casting a healing spell as he went, his other hand trying to grab him and hold him still.

She held on to the mouthful, not sure what to do as she watched them scramble and argue and curse. She didn’t know if they might try reattaching it, and she didn’t want to give them the opportunity, so she started chewing. It was an odd sensation, soft skin and springy cartilage, her molars grinding as much of it as possible. She might have swallowed a bit, she wasn’t sure, but she knew she swallowed some of his blood, the taste a bitter triumph.

Norilar finally pushed his assistant away, one hand still covering the bloody stump. He had been healed, but there was still dismembered gore that needed to be cleaned away. He stared at her, hate filling his eyes, lips pulling back in a feral sneer.

She expected retaliation, of course. The blow to her ribs was sudden and hard, breaking the bones and jabbing into her lungs. She coughed, expelling the pulpy mess as her breath was forced out of her. She heard it plop wetly to the floor, but she didn’t see where. Not that she cared. Norilar had taken hold of her braid, forcing her head up and back, exposing her throat. “You bitch!”

He punched her again, right in the mouth, keeping hold of her braid so her head couldn’t fall back too far. Then he turned away smartly, pulling his hood up. “Whip her! Whip her to within an inch of her life. Scar her back from her shoulders to her knees.”

The assistant eagerly grabbed the lash from among the implements hanging on a rack. She lost sight of him as he went behind her, but the practice crack of the lash made her flinch.

The second crack coincided with a sharp pain, slicing across her back from her right shoulder to her lower left rib cage.

She whimpered, and Norilar turned to look at her, obviously enjoying her suffering. He stuffed himself back inside his clothing as the lashes continued to fall. Her vision was darkening already, too weakened to endure very much, but she thought she heard him mutter, “…see if there’s room for one more on the execution carts…”

A final crack, her body jerking of its own will, and her mind slipped away into the peaceful void.

17th of Last Seed: 4E 201

The noises were cacophonous, ringing through her skull, affirming she was alive despite seeing nothing more than the blackness of the grave. Emotions swelled up within her, making the breath catch in her throat. First to come was disappointment, followed quickly by fear, the feelings overwhelming her. Still she didn't make a sound, not even a whimper, though she had more than earned it. Instead she focused on identifying the sounds, so different from what she was used to—the screams of prisoners, the sharp snap of a whip, the creak and moan of the rack.

Horses. The sounds she heard were from horses, from the earth being crushed beneath horses' hooves and cart wheels. There was movement, too, a lolling of her head on her shoulders as if her neck had gone boneless. A breeze ruffled her hair briefly across her face, and the stray thought entered her mind that she needed to re-braid her hair. A horse neighed, and she opened her eyes.

Slowly the darkness let go of her vision, allowing her to see she was riding in the back of an open cart, staring at her feet. A taste of bile was in her mouth, along with blood, though most of it was not her own. Carefully she worked saliva—what little she could muster—around in her mouth until she could spit. Some of the discolored drool was left dangling from her lip, forcing her a second time to remove the refuse from her mouth.

Having cleared away the unpleasantness, she took note of herself. She had been dressed in a rough tunic and leggings with rags for shoes. Her wrists were bound in front of her, the harsh rope etching deeply into her already bruised flesh. Her back was raw and wet feeling, the coarse fabric of the tunic abrading the welts and cuts left over from her torture. Her side ached with bruised and battered ribs. Her other hurts and sores were minimal, mostly what was expected after the abuse she had been made to suffer. Not wanting to think about that, she lifted her head timidly to take stock of her surroundings.

A man came into view, sitting across from her, the dusty blue mantle of a Stormcloak soldier wrapped around his shoulders and flowing down his front. He was a good ten or fifteen years older than her, with the sturdy Nord build, blond hair and kind blue eyes. A braid hung down the left side of his face, and his chin was dusted with at least a day's growth of beard. He sat hunched forward slightly, his elbows on his knees and his wrists bound in front of him the same as her. He smiled when he caught her eye, and spoke when he thought she was coherent enough to hear him. "Hey, you. You're finally awake."

His lilting Nordic voice sounded musical to her mind, a welcome change from the sneering and self-righteous tones of the Thalmor. She couldn't answer, other than a swallow and a nod, the fear blocking the words in her throat. She was awake, but the nightmare wasn't over yet. And unlike the man across from her, she had an inkling what their fate would probably be, having heard Norilar’s threat before she blacked out. Her eyes fell to her bound wrists, wishing she could free herself, wishing she could run away, wishing…

"You were trying to cross the border, right?" he asked. Apparently he wanted to have a conversation. Too bad her words were frozen in her heart. Yet his words made her remember her reasons for coming to Skyrim, for coming to a home she had never known. She looked back up at him as he continued, "Walked right into that Imperial ambush, same as us and that thief over there.” He pronounced the word with a soft "t" sound, rather than the "th" she was used to hearing. The man was a true Nord, alright.

"Shut up, back there!" the driver of the cart called out. That accent was pure Cyrodiil, full of Imperial rules and regulations. She turned to give him a quick glance, wondering what he might do if they kept talking, thinking it couldn't be any worse than the fate that awaited them at the end of the cart ride. Or any worse than what she had already been made to endure.

The soldier and the thief were talking. She wasn’t really listening to them, her thoughts on other matters, bitter and painful and regretful. But at last something of their conversation pushed past the wool in her ears.

"What's wrong with him, huh?" the horse thief asked, indicating the man sitting across from him, and next to her.

"Watch your tongue!" the Stormcloak rebuked him. "You're speaking to Ulfric Stormcloak, the true High King."

She jerked her head up at this, recognizing the name despite having lived all her life outside of Skyrim. Slowly she turned to face him, scared and curious at the same time, her brows scrunched in trepidation. He was bound same as they were, with the addition of a gag. She hadn't believed the stories she heard, about how Ulfric used the power of the Thu'um to Shout apart the former High King. It was obvious the Imperials did believe the stories, however, as they had stopped his mouth.

Her gaze lifted from the gag to his eyes, and the fear heightened. The look he gave her was tinged with recognition, as if he could tell who she was, or rather who her parents had been, just by looking at her. She swallowed but held his gaze, refusing to show weakness. His eyes showed sympathy for her apparent circumstances, and full knowledge of where they were heading and what would await them at their destination. And acceptance, as if he knew, even though they were facing their deaths, everything would be alright. His faith and strength were encouraging, and his eyes boring into her offered this calmness.

She needed that, needed him. Her life was over, as short as it had been, and the thought overwhelmed her with fear and anger and resentment and panic and… Ulfric sat there, staring at her, lending of his strength, willing her to be strong with him. She wanted to, by the Nine she wanted to be strong, and with a supernatural effort, she trussed up her panic and locked it away.

In fact, she pushed all emotion aside, every twinge of fear or regret or even hope. Considering their fate—sitting in a carriage on the way to their execution—she decided there was no longer any reason to feel. Though this was not the way she had wanted to end her young life; apparently there were times when fate wouldn't allow one to have what one wanted. She decided to face her death the same as Ulfric, stoic and strong and sure, and put her faith in Sovngarde.

He seemed to understand the change in her, and gave a brief inclination of his head as if approving her action. She would have smiled at this, but her newfound coldness kept even the positive emotions at bay. He turned then to face forward once more, and she saw his eyes carefully scan the trees along the side of the road. She followed his gaze quickly, but was too slow to catch whatever it was that he saw. She did notice movement, though she was unable to see what caused the movement, whether animal or man.

The horse thief and the soldier were still talking, their conversation turning sad as they talked of home. Her home, at least the place where she had been born, was back in Cyrodiil. The house was gone, as were her father and her mother. Now her home was Skyrim, for however brief a time, and she lifted her eyes to look around her at the mountains, the snow, the trees, the foxes…

"General Tullius, sir, the headsman is waiting," a voice called out. She wanted to curse it for interrupting her thoughts, but could no longer find the emotion to spark the anger to make the effort.

"Good," an old man said from the front of their little caravan, pausing his horse before they entered a small village. She looked at him, noting his proud bearing and gruff voice, and remembered his face. He had stood just outside the torture chamber… "Let's get this over with!" he continued, sounding as if he would be late for another appointment if this wasn't finished quickly enough.

"Shor… Mara… Dibella… Kynareth… Akatosh…" the thief tried to remember all the names of the gods. Giving up, he finished, "Divines, please… help me!" She considered correcting him, finishing listing all the gods, including Talos who was conspicuously absent from his recital, but thought better of it. Speaking would only turn his ire towards her.

The Stormcloak ignored him now, looking instead at the General prancing ahead of them on his horse. "Look at him. General Tullius, the Military Governor. And it looks like the Thalmor are with him, damn elves!" He leaned forward to spit on the floor between his feet. "I bet they had something to do with this."

She turned to see what he had seen, and immediately noted an old Thalmor, the same one who had ordered her rape. Elenwen was the bitch's name. She was too far removed from her emotions, however, to even feel satisfaction when Tullius received the same cold disdain as anyone who wasn't Thalmor.

The sound of the gates closing behind them echoed within her dead heart. She faced the Stormcloak soldier once more as he—still thinking of home—reminisced about his youth. "This is Helgen. I used to be sweet on a girl from here." He sighed, his mind wandering through his past and the streets of this village. "I wonder if Vilod is still making that mead with juniper berries mixed in."

She looked around them dispassionately, mildly curious about the place where she was to die. She supposed she should envy him and his memories—a lifetime of Skyrim was available to him, whereas she had only a few short days, and very little of it pleasant.

"Funny," he spoke again, his voice carrying only so far as her ears, "When I was a boy, Imperial walls and towers used to make me feel so safe."

She nodded slowly, having felt the same in her own youth. He was right; it was funny how something so comforting could turn so ugly, and not through any action of her own. Snatches of conversation floated by her again, but she was burrowing deeper and deeper into the cocoon of ice, leaving all her emotions—all the fear and panic and pain—outside where it could no longer touch her.

"Get these prisoners out of the carts!" an Imperial Captain ordered.

"Why are we stopping?" the thief asked, his voice panicky once more.

"Why do you think?" the Stormcloak answered softly. "End of the line." He swayed slightly as the cart finally stopped. When he spoke again, all regret was gone, replaced with a brisk, business-like tone, "Let's go. Shouldn't keep the gods waiting for us."

"No. Wait! We're not rebels!"

The soldier had finally had enough of the whining. "Face your death with some courage, thief!"

"You've got to tell them," he pleaded, even as he was forced down from the cart. "We weren't with you. This is a mistake!" It was touching the way he tried to include her in his plea for pardon, but even if it were miraculously granted, she wouldn't accept it. Not now. Not from Thalmor hands.

They were made to face the Captain and another soldier, this one a Nord who had sided with the Imperials. He also had a kind face, like the Stormcloak next to her, though his hair was brown instead of blond. A list was in his hand, a quill in the other, already hovering over the parchment as if eager to tick off the condemned. "Step towards the block when we call your name, one at a time," the Captain instructed in a voice that was meant to sound intimidating, but only made her seem foolish.

"Empire loves their damn lists," the blond soldier muttered.

The Nord with the list called out clearly, "Ulfric Stormcloak, Jarl of Windhelm."

The bound Jarl stepped forward proudly, and his captured men and women cheered, refusing to bend their necks to the Imperials. The Imperial soldier tried to ignore the shouts, almost apologetically ticking the name off his list.

"Killing him will be their worst mistake." She muttered her first words since waking, as she watched him make his way to the ring of prisoners already gathered around chopping block.

"What do you mean?" the Stormcloak asked quietly, curious as to why she chose now to speak, as well as why killing Ulfric would backfire on the Imperials.

"Alive, Ulfric can be forced to stand trial, even an unjust one, and be made to look like an outlaw, a rebel, a murderer, all the things they would accuse him of. But dead, executed quickly without a hearing, he will be made a martyr. A martyr is a powerful symbol, and not as easily destroyed as a man's life. The Imperials, and the Thalmor, will grievously regret their actions today."

The soldier nodded agreement to her wise words. He looked at his leader and spoke softly, "It has been an honor, Jarl Ulfric."

"Ralof of Riverwood."

He stepped forward then, giving the traitorous Nord a glower and a muttered, "Hadvar," in acknowledgment. The two men must have known each other, but the Imperial refused to meet his eyes as he checked the name off the list. Her heart was too far gone to feel regret at Ralof's leaving, even if she could have considered a man she had only known for less than an hour a friend. But she sensed he was a good man, a gentle soul, who only did what he did because he had to, not because he wanted to. Though he was being killed justly—he was a traitor to the Imperial government—his execution was in an unjust manner. A Nord should die with a sword in his hands…

"Lokir of Rorikstead."

Again her thoughts were interrupted. She turned from Ralof to see the last man from her cart step forward. He looked hesitantly at the Captain's face, and finding no compassion there, panic took him in its unbreakable grip. "No! I'm not a rebel! You can't do this!"

He began racing away, down the street they had just come, screaming that he was innocent of being a Stormcloak. The Imperial was quicker, calling to her archers to fire. No less than six arrows impaled his back, felling him to the ground. She could hear his moans as his life slowly ebbed from his veins, the arrows making his death much longer and harder than the headsman's axe.

She would not see him in Sovngarde tonight.

"Anyone else feel like running?" the Captain taunted in her ridiculously puffed up voice.

The soldier with his list showed some sense, looking back and forth from his list to the last prisoner, and completely ignoring his haughty Captain. "Wait," he locked eyes with the prisoner, gesturing with his quill as he continued, "You there, step forward." She obeyed, registering in the back of her mind that all eyes were watching her. She stopped when she was standing in front of the soldier and waited. "Who are you?"

"Gerhild." Her voice was calm and steady, not too quiet nor too loud and boastful, but clear and full of strength nonetheless.

Hadvar paused long enough to research the list on the parchment, still not finding the name, so he didn't see the frown that creased the Thalmor bitch's face. Gerhild didn't respond to her; though a few moments ago she would have had the flickering impulse to stick out her tongue, now she was content to stand impassive before her executioners. She had been tortured for days and hadn't revealed even so little as her name to Norilar, yet she readily gave it to the headsman's assistant. She hoped it rankled on her nerves.

He finished and looked back up to her. He lifted his brows expectantly, but she didn't answer his unspoken question. At last he gave in and asked, "Where are you from, Nord?"

She supposed she should feel a little guilty—Hadvar was a fellow Nord and shouldn't be made a fool of—but he had joined the Imperials. And besides, she had pushed aside all her emotions, killed her heart ahead of time so her death wouldn't hurt quite so much. Lifting her bruised chin still caked with blood from her split lip, she answered in her same clear voice, "Skyrim."

The Stormcloaks laughed, a few cheering her cheekiness, others praising her loyalty. Without looking she could feel Ulfric's eyes boring into her again, but she didn't want to see the expression on his face, unsure if it would be proud or reproachful. Truthfully, there was no other answer she could have given. Her mother and father were Nords, but she had lived in too many places in her short life to know what to call home.

He caught the jibe, but chose to let it pass. "Captain, what should we do? She's not on the list."

The Captain replied eagerly, almost thirsting for blood. "Forget the list. She goes to the block."

"By your orders, Captain." Hadvar turned back to face her, his expression sad. "You picked a bad time to come home to Skyrim, kinsman. I'm sorry your life is ending this way. At least you'll die here, in your homeland."

"Save your pity," she answered, "For those who need it. I have no use for it."

This time the barb cut deeper, and he let it show. Screwing up his face, he added a little too harshly, "Follow the Captain, prisoner."

She turned from him to join the others in line, ready to wait her turn at the block. She stood next to Ralof, the top of her head barely reaching his chin, and he brushed her shoulder in a somewhat comforting manner.

There was less and less time available to her, and more and more interruptions to steal what was left. General Tullius imposed upon the next few moments, desiring to posture and pontificate before the headsman's grisly work could begin. He strode out before the assembled Stormcloaks. Though he faced only Ulfric, he was addressing all of Helgen, undoubtedly making them unwitting witnesses to legitimize the unlawful execution. He droned on and on, condemning Ulfric’s actions, denouncing his intent, while Ulfric stood there grunting into his gag, no doubt wishing to Shout at the arrogant bastard.

The wind kicked up just then, making a strange sort of howling noise as it ripped through the trees. Eerily, Gerhild felt no ruffle in either clothing or hair or skin to mark the passage of the wind. It was like it was merely the sound without the movement.

"What was that?" Hadvar asked, his voice tinged with superstitious guilt.

"It's nothing," Tullius brushed it aside, but quickly changed his mind about finishing his speech, deciding it would be prudent to get the matter finished before something could go wrong. "Carry on."

"Yes, General Tullius," the Captain bowed promptly, eager to do his bidding. When he stepped back, she gestured to the priestess of Arkay standing nervously behind the headsman. "Give them their last rites."

The numbness crept deeper within Gerhild as time began to slow. The priestess stepped forward, her arms raised in blessing, but her words washed over Gerhild like rain. She listened without hearing, until one particularly impatient Stormcloak heckled the priestess into silence. "For the love of Talos! Shut up and let's get this over with!” He strode towards the block as the priestess backed down, his attention on the Captain. "Come on," the soldier taunted, "I haven't got all morning!"

The Captain scoffed and acted tough, but Gerhild could tell she was unsettled by the man's bravery. She kicked him behind the knee, forcing him into the dirt before the block. Dimly she watched as the headsman stepped forward and raised his axe. Just before it swung, the soldier got in one final goad. "My ancestors are smiling at me, Imperials. Can you say the same?"

The sound of the blade slicing through muscle and bone and sinew echoed through her soul, making her think she could feel the ground beneath her feet shake from the force of the blow. The head dropped into the basket, the body remaining on its knees until the Captain stepped forward to kick it off to the side.

Gerhild could hear several catcalls, from both Stormcloaks and Imperials, but it was Ralof's comment that filled her ears. "As fearless in death, as he was in life." She turned to look up at him, but instead found herself watching Ulfric. He wasn't looking at the man who had just died for his cause, but at a place just above the outer wall. Again, whatever he might have seen was out of sight by the time she looked. Ulfric caught her eye next, nodding his head slowly as if trying to tell her something. Yet whatever mystery he wanted to impart came too late, as the Captain's voice rang out.

"Next, the girl!"

Immediately afterwards came the sound of the empty wind again, howling and echoing like it was sweeping down a vast canyon. The sound was supernatural, and the effect was superstitious.

"There it is again. Did you hear that?" Hadvar asked, his voice slightly panicky.

"I said," the Captain repeated louder, as if the volume of her voice was directly related to the breadth of her courage, "Next prisoner!"

Hadvar sighed, motioning to Gerhild. "To the block, prisoner. Nice and easy." The pompous ass still refused to use her name.

She moved, almost as if in a dream, the others parting to allow her to pass as she walked calmly to the center of the courtyard. She stopped when she reached the Captain, looking her squarely in the eye before saying quietly, "Kick my legs out from beneath me, and you'll lose a foot before I lose a head."

The quiet bravado worked, making the puffed-up Imperial swallow and step back half a foot. Gerhild paid her no more attention, turning to the block and kneeling in front of it. In a last moment of consideration, she pulled her long, half-unraveled braid of dark-blonde hair over the shoulder opposite the headsman. It was a little awkward with her hands bound, but the Captain was still too wary to get too close to her. Then all prepared, she bent over and settled her neck against the block. The first head was still in the box, and not wanting to look at it she turned her face towards the executioner.

She felt like she was in a dream, as time slowed down and the oddest details became crystal clear. She felt the earth beneath her knees shake, and the motionless wind tear through the courtyard like a screaming gale. Something dark and winged flew through the small patch of sky she could see between the headsman and a tower. She thought it was a bat, but the day was too early for bats.

"What in Oblivion is that?" she heard the General ask.

"Sentries, what do you see?" the Captain ordered.

She watched the headsman spit onto both hands, taking hold of the shaft of his axe and hefting it behind him. As he prepared to swing it up over his head, she wondered if she would have time to feel the pain before she woke in Sovngarde. But the dream turned into a nightmare.

"It's in the clouds," an Imperial soldier shouted.

"Dragon!" another voice screamed in a heavy Nord accent.

The wind screamed again, low and angry and full of power. The earth shook, and the headsman fell to the ground, dropping his axe behind him. The tower was now in full view, and perched on top of it was the source of all fear. The face was ancient, with glowing eyes and a cavernous mouth filled with jagged teeth. As it leaned over the edge of the tower, long limbs stretched out to either side, ending in curved claws bigger than a man. Horns filled out its silhouette like a mane, and when its mouth opened, fire and wind and power issued forth. The headsman had been trying to regain his feet, and inadvertently rose up between her and the dragon just as the force of it would have hit her. Instead, he died instantly.

She must be dead as well, but instead of the beautiful dream of Sovngarde, she had the torturous nightmare of Oblivion and soul-eating dragons. Light and sound and feeling began fading away from her…

"Don't just stand there. Kill that thing!" Tullius shouted…

"By Ysmir, nothing kills it!" another voice answered…

"Get the townspeople to safety…"

Chapter Text

"Take cover! Quick!" Ralof hissed, dropping behind a boulder as he roughly shoved Gerhild under a bush.

Of course, she thought to herself, with all the trouble of trying to escape Helgen, they had forgotten about the damned dragon. It roared, and even while hidden she could feel the power of its cry reverberating through the air, echoing within her very soul. The downdraft from its wings buffeted them, making Ralof audibly flinch. Yet after only one circle, the dragon moved off, flying back over the eastern mountains from whence it came.

"I…" Ralof had to swallow, his voice cracking with his attempt at speech. "I think it's gone now." He pulled his eyes away from the lofty white peaks, just in time to see her turn back to him. He felt that unreasonable urge to kiss her again, as he had after that skirmish back in the tunnel. He also wanted to jump up and dance and shout with joy that they were alive. This time, however, he controlled the impulses, seeing as how they were both rather scathed and exhausted. Realizing he was staring at her cool violet eyes staring at him, he cleared his throat and asked, "How are you holding out?"

"I'll live," she answered, not feeling particularly like tallying her injuries just then. "You?"

He snorted, feeling the residual ache from the spider venom poisoning his shoulder, "I could use the services of a healer, but my sister will have to do."

"Sister?" she asked, curious, as they regained their feet.

"Aye," he nodded, taking up her hand and starting through the forest. "My sister, Gerdur, lives in Riverwood, not too far away. She and her husband, Hod, run the lumber mill there. In fact, you could say she runs Riverwood, as her mill is the main industry of the town." He paused to help her up a steep ravine, at the top of which they found a road. "Look. There are fresh tracks along the road. Looks like others managed to find their way out of Helgen, though I can't tell if they're friend or foe."

He paused to look back along the road towards the ill-fated town, but he couldn't see anything through the trees other than smoke. "I hope he made it out alive."

"Who, Ulfric or Hadvar?"

Ralof seemed taken aback by her question. "Ah, Jarl Ulfric, of course. Why would you think I was worried about Hadvar?"

She shrugged, immediately regretting the action as it aggravated her wounds. "You were just talking about Riverwood, where you and Hadvar are both from. I got the impression that at one point the two of you were friends, of a sort."

He snorted, taking up her hand once more and starting down the road away from Helgen. "Aye, if you consider only that we're about the same age, and from the same town, and had each other for playmates when we were children. But I no longer consider him a friend. If he survived Helgen, good for him, but neither will I mourn at his graveside."

They were quiet for a time, each journeying within their own thoughts as they progressed down the road. She couldn't say why she stayed with Ralof, other than it was a comfort to have someone by her side in a land that was so new and strange to her. She didn't try to draw him out of his dark mood, no matter how bad she knew it would be for him to linger on those thoughts. Instead she settled into her own funk, thinking back to her father and all the things he taught her about fighting and whether or not he would be proud of the skills she used during their escape.

It was with no small relief when the road began to level out. They had been going steadily downhill, so steep that Gerhild's legs were hurting from the strain, when the road met a river and turned to follow alongside it. After one short waterfall, at which point the road had to briefly swerve away to find an easier course, they at last came within sight of Riverwood.

The sun was setting, casting the small town into reddish shadow. Gerhild briefly got the impression that the whole town was covered in blood, but quickly stifled these morbid thoughts. She thought she saw Imperial soldiers marching across the wooden walkway erected above the road, and she had to blink several times before she realized she had imagined them and the walkway was empty. She knew it was a bad sign, her meandering thoughts and blurred vision, but she couldn't summon the effort to alert Ralof to the fact. Instead she trusted that he, and his sister, would see to her needs.

She blinked again, and took one last look to assure herself there were no Imperials. She was wrong.

She turned her head to face front and immediately seized Ralof's arm, pulling him off the road and into the shadows.

"What?" he asked, instantly alert, his hand on his war axe ready to pull it out. She was unable to reply, but Ralof didn't need her answer. His eyes quickly settled on the blacksmith, whose establishment they had been walking towards. The smith was standing beside his forge, talking with a man dressed in Imperial armor. "Hadvar," he mumbled, casting dark glances his way. "Well, that question's been answered. Others have made it out of Helgen." He waited until Hadvar and the smith left the outdoor smithy for the inside of his home. "We'll leave him with his uncle, Alvor. Come on, Gerdur's mill is just to the other side of the smithy."

Ralof tugged her arm, and she followed obediently. Her last bit of energy, however, had been spent in discovering Hadvar before he discovered them, and she now listlessly followed Ralof back behind the building and across a small bridge to an island.

Gerdur's mill was large, silently attesting to the prosperity of the business as well as its importance to the town of Riverwood. Ralof walked around it, until he found a woman standing beside a large pile of lumber waiting to be cut. "Gerdur!"

The woman turned, took in the sight of the two Stormcloaks approaching her from the evening shadows, and immediately smiled. "Ralof!" she answered, but as quickly as her smile appeared it was replaced with a look of concern. "You've been hurt. Both you and your friend. Come! We'll go straight to my home."

"Quietly, sister, there's at least one Imperial about, and we'd like to avoid any confrontations."

She looked between the two of them a moment before nodding. "Aye, I can see that. This way. We'll talk once we're inside."

Gerhild could barely keep her eyes open, not sure if the dimming light was due to the setting sun or her exhaustion. It seemed like a year had passed since this morning, when she awoke to find herself on a cart sitting opposite this man who now strode beside her. She felt his good arm tighten around her shoulders, as if he could sense her weariness, and allowed him to all but carry her through the small town.

She blinked, and the next thing she saw was the interior of a cozy house. A warm fire sparked and crackled in front of her, and a small boy with large eyes stood by her elbow. "Are you awake?" he asked, his finger still poised to poke her. She realized quickly he had already nudged her, probably none too gently if the renewed pain in her ribs was any indication. She shifted on the chair, not bothering to wonder how she got there, and gave him a tired nod in answer. When his finger went to prod her again, thinking she was nodding off once more, she moved with lightning quick reflexes. The boy found his finger caught within the vice of her hand, being slowly bent backwards until he whimpered, "Ow! I hope monsters come and eat you!"

"Frodnar," a woman's voice called, and Gerhild recognized Gerdur, "I told you to leave her be. She needs her rest."

"But she's awake, Momma," the boy protested, quickly pulling his hand away as soon as she loosened her grip. "So I can talk with her if I want to."

"Hod…" her voice was almost pleading, and worn out by exasperation.

"I'll take the boy out for some more firewood," Hod, the boy's father, assured her. "Come along, Frodnar. We'll need extra wood for tonight."

"Aw," he whined, already forgetting how badly his finger must be smarting him, "But I was being nice. And we were being quiet. Why do I have to do chores now?" The door closed before any more protests could be heard.

Gerhild breathed a sigh of relief, and tried to straighten up further on the chair. A hand was on her shoulder, keeping her still. "Easy," Gerdur said, making sure she wasn't trying to get up. "You're safe here. Rest, and give the medicine a chance to work."

"Where's Ralof?" she asked, accepting the cup being passed to her.

"Over here," his voice answered. She twisted in her chair, regretting the movement when her ribs and back pained her yet again, but relaxed when she saw Ralof. He was sitting in another chair beside a small table, his armor and shirt removed for the time being. Someone must have been tending to his shoulder, as the poison from the spider had been rinsed off and the area bandaged neatly. "I'm a little worse for wear, but I'll recover. Now it's your turn." He looked meaningfully to the cup in her hands, untouched and half-forgotten. She gave him a nod, lifting it as if toasting his good health, and took a healthy swallow of the contents.

"All of it," Gerdur's stern, motherly voice commanded, a tone Gerhild might have smiled at if she had heard it a week ago, or even a day ago. This evening, she was too numb, too deadened inside to acknowledge the familial tone. Obediently she drank, downing the rest of the contents, ignoring the bitter taste.

"Ralof," Gerdur started, taking away the empty cup. "I'm going to have to dress her wounds. You probably shouldn't be in here when I do it…"

"…But he cannot go outside," Gerhild finished, "Or Hadvar might see him." She lifted her face to the other woman, her expressionless visage speaking volumes. "I'm not uncomfortable in his presence, Mistress Gerdur. Do what you must."

Gerdur seemed about to protest for a moment, but if the girl didn't feel awkward about stripping in front of her brother, then neither should she. "Very well. Let me help you undress, while you tell me where all your hurts are."

Gerhild remained in her chair by the fire, reciting her injuries as Gerdur gently removed the armor and weapons. "My ribs might be bruised. Some were broken, but I've already had a couple of healing potions, so they are better. There's a knife wound in my calf, and another along the back of my arm here,” she added the injuries received while she and Ralof had fought their way through the tunnels beneath the Keep. “My back's been whipped…" she ended quickly, hissing as Gerdur tried to pull the rough-spun prisoner's tunic off her torso. The fabric had soaked up the blood on her back, and as it congealed, it sealed her clothing to her skin.

"Sorry," she mumbled, deciding she'd have to remove the tunic a different way. "Ralof, hand me that dagger, would you?" When he had passed over the weapon, she returned her attention to cutting away the front of the scratchy fabric and leaving the back where it was stuck fast. "Go on. Any other hurts?"

"No, except for the odd bruise or scratch," she answered, letting the front of her tunic fall unwanted to the floor.

Gerdur nodded, her attention now focused on removing the clothing as painlessly as possible. "Alright. We'll start with your back, then your arm and leg, and do what we can for your ribs, though I don't think anything other than rest and healing potions will help with those." She dripped water onto the fabric, trying to soak it to loosen the blood from her skin.

"Do what you can," she acknowledged, gasping a little as the back of the shirt was pulled away from the welts and cuts. "I'm grateful for any help you can give me."

"It is I who should be thanking you," Gerdur countered. "If it wasn't for you, Ralof may not have gotten out of Helgen. Imagine," she muttered, her main focus on cleaning the wounds. "A dragon."

"I don't have to imagine," she muttered. "I was there. I saw it."

"Yes, of course," she shook her head, trying to regain her focus. "Forgive me, but to me it's still hard to believe. I don't doubt you or Ralof, but I don't want to admit such a thing is possible."

"No one would," Gerhild agreed.

They were silent as Gerdur tended to her wounds, the main sound within the cabin the crackling of the fire. Again Gerhild felt herself sliding towards unconsciousness, but managed to stay awake until her back had been tended.

"There, that's the best I can do for it, for I'm no healer, but you should recover in time. Now, let's see to your arm."

"Gerdur, I think we should put her to bed," Ralof's voice sounded far away to her ears.

"I think you're right. In the morning, we'll decide what's to be done with you two. For now, you both need rest. Ralof, help me get her to my bed, then you can take Frodnar's bed for the night… don't worry about… he'll manage the floor just fine for one night… sleep, and tomorrow…"

Gerhild's eyes closed once more, the voices finally fading to silence, the pain releasing her to sleep.

The Silver-Blood Inn was busy, filled with the usual mixture of Nord and Breton, when the door opened and allowed one more body to enter. He was tall and broad, with the thick neck and thicker accent of a Nord. Though it had been awhile since he had been to the city of his birth, Markarth hadn't changed all that much, and the fact made him feel welcomed. He smiled at hearing Kleppr and Frabbi, the couple who ran the inn, in the middle of a row as he walked up to the bar. It was a familiar sight, and part of the charm of the place he liked to call home in between jobs.

"There are customers waiting for their drinks," Frabbi said, sounding exasperated.

"I only have two hands, woman," Kleppr replied, almost sounding bored, "You could always serve the customers by the fire."

"Humph! That's only because those at the bar are the ones who gossip, and you're too lazy to walk over to the fire!"

"Vorstag!" a voice called, slightly slurred, "My favorite drinking buddy. Let's get some mead."

A man dressed in the rough clothing of a beggar, and walking off-kilter, came up to the newcomer. Vorstag was amazed he had been noticed so quickly, or so clearly, by the old drunk. He held out a hand to steady the man, placing it squarely on his chest. It also helped to keep his fumed breath away from his face. "Degaine," he acknowledged, hefting his pack in his other hand and wondering how to extricate himself before he was talked into spending money on drinks. "Ah, how are you?"

"Thirsty," he muttered, but his comment was drowned out by another voice.

"Vorstag! You son of a bitch! What part of Skyrim did you blow in from this time?"

"Ogmund! You honey-worded whore!" he shouted back, slipping past the drunk beggar. He stepped up to the old bard and grabbed his forearm in a fierce grip, his grin splitting his face. "It's good to see you, too. I was all the way in Winterhold this time."

"Ah, and you missed my singing so much, you hurried home." The two men took seats by the fire, a small table between them.

Frabbi came up and asked sullenly, "So, you're back. I suppose you'll be wanting your old room again?"

"Any room would do, Mistress Frabbi," he replied politely, but he knew she was more bark than bite, and would give him the moon if he asked her. "First, though, could I order some dinner? Whatever is hot would be fine. And a mug of mead." He put the coin in her hand, already anticipating the amount.

"Make that two mugs," Ogmund added, "And I'll be singing for mine."

"When you sing," Frabbi replied over her shoulder, having already turned to fulfill Vorstag's request, "Then you'll drink. Not before."

Vorstag couldn't help it. Looking around him at the familiar faces, he smiled and sighed contentedly. "I'm home."

Ogmund scoffed. "Some home. No wife. No children. No business."

"What need would I have for a wife?" he asked, nodding to Frabbi who brought a plate of stew with a small, fresh baked loaf. "Frabbi here does just fine, cooking my food and cleaning my room. I have no need of children, with their high-pitched, irritating voices and constant whining. As for business," he paused to shovel a full spoon into his mouth, "Working as a sellsword suits me just fine."

"That's because you've got the muscles for it," Ogmund replied. "Wait until you're my age, with no wife and no children, and your hair has turned gray, and your muscles have weakened. Then you'll wish you had that wife and child to care for you."

"Oh, I'll never get as old as you, Ogmund," Vorstag teased, and the old bard gave a short bark of laughter.

"Fine, you insolent pup! Do as you wish. But first, tell me about your latest job. It seems you were gone for years this time."

Vorstag paused to belch. "Two and a half years, in fact," he refilled his spoon with more stew. "Wasn't too much trouble. I was a guard for a mage studying the effects of frostbite venom on ice wraiths. There were two others besides me, and mostly we sat around waiting for wandering bandits to attack. The mage wouldn't let us attack the ice wraiths, as they were part of his 'experiment'."

"Sounds dull," Ogmund agreed. "So, what's next for you?"

Vorstag shrugged, cleaning his plate with the last bite of bread. "Don't know. And right now, I actually have enough coin that I don't care."

"You mean, for once you didn't spend more money than you made?"

Vorstag actually blushed a little, sensing the rebuke behind the teasing tone. He shrugged good-naturedly, hiding his embarrassment, "There was no place to spend it. We were out in the middle of nowhere; the only entertainment was gambling with my fellow hirelings. And you know how I feel about gambling…"

Ogmund laughed, and after a moment Vorstag joined in. The two men spent the next three hours exchanging gossip and reminiscing. Vorstag at last had to push his mug away, thinking it was either his fourth or fifth, and give in to his yawn. "Ah, forgive me, friend, but it has been a long journey home. Let's continue this conversation tomorrow."

"Aye, Vorstag, you young 'uns need your sleep. Get to bed!"

He smiled, reached his feet only a little bit unsteady, and patted Ogmund's shoulder as he passed. At least, he told himself he was patting the shoulder, and not using it to keep himself from stumbling. "Mistress Frabbi," he declared, "I am ready for my room!"

The woman heaved a patient sigh, rolling her eyes. "You know where it is, Vorstag, unless you're too drunk to find your way."

He laughed, the alcohol easing away all insults from her jibe. "The day I'm too drunk to find my room, I'll just get a new room. Good night, fair lady," he kissed her cheek, gaining an embarrassed giggle from her and a short oath from Kleppr.

He continued to laugh, not exactly sure what was funny, but feeling good about himself and life and being home in Markarth again. He never noticed the man who had watched him talking with Ogmund all evening.

"Did you find out anything?" the voice came out of the shadows, but it was all Thalmor, cold and superior.

"No, sir, not yet, sir," the man answered. He stood on the street, at the entrance to an alley. The Thalmor he spoke with stood just inside the alley and out of sight of any passersby. Even though it was well after midnight and foot traffic had stopped for the day, he didn't want to take the chance of being spotted by a patrolling guard.

"What do you think I'm paying you for, Breton?" he asked in his sneering voice.

"To get close to Ogmund," the Breton answered honestly, not recognizing the sarcasm, "So he'll confide in me that he worships Talos."

A gloved hand snaked out of the shadows, wrapping its fingers around his neck and squeezing.

"But… but… I was speaking with him tonight… but then… someone…" he coughed, unable to continue. The Thalmor let go, interested in what he had to say, but left his hand poised claw-like a foot away from his neck. The Breton coughed, clearing his throat, his hand rubbing the bruised skin. "Vorstag came back to town."

"Who is Vorstag?"

"A Nord. Mercenary. He's been gone for a couple of years. Some job up north. I tried to sit close enough to hear them talking, but only caught a bit of their conversation."

The Thalmor took a moment to puzzle through this cryptic answer. "You mean to say, this Vorstag came here after being absent for two years, and he and Ogmund spent the night talking, so you weren't able to talk with him?"

"Y—y—yes…" the Breton swallowed.

The Thalmor finished withdrawing his hand back into the shadows. "Keep trying to gain Ogmund's confidence, Cosnach," he ordered. "This Vorstag sounds interesting."

"You," he paused to swallow, his neck feeling tender at the action. "You're not going to ask him to spy on Ogmund, are you?" Fear of losing his job, and all the promised coin, made him approach the shadows. "I can do it! I can get close to him, I tell you! I just need a little more time. Please. I can do this. I can get you the evidence!"

Cosnach reached into the shadows, but found only cold, empty air.

Something tingled her senses, some premonition of danger, and without opening her eyes, Gerhild shot her hand out and once more grabbed onto a pudgy finger. The owner of the bruised digit let out a yelp, hastily trying to pull out of her grasp.

One lid cracked open, fixing Frodnar with a glare before she let go of his hand. "I wasn't going to poke you again," he denied, pouting and rubbing his finger against his chest. "I was just checking to see if you were awake. The floor isn't very comfortable to sleep on, and I wanted to sleep on the bed, but I had to wait for you to wake so I could ask you to share."

She opened her other eye, taking in his stubborn chin and mischievous eyes. "Sleep by my feet," she gave in, too tired to argue with the child, sensing it was probably safer to have him close to her where she could keep an eye on him, as well as somewhat pacified. He grumbled something about smelly feet, but not too loudly in case she decided to remove her offer. He curled up at the foot of the bed, but before he laid down he looked up at her face with a twinkle in his eyes. "Before you try it," she warned, "I'm not ticklish, and I have a very strong kick."

He smirked, but decided to let the matter pass. Sleep was more tempting than tickling her feet, anyway.

Gerhild relaxed into the pillows, listening to the sounds around her as the night slowly gave way to dawn. Stuhn’s Shield she was tired, and her whole body ached, but she was alive and—thanks to Gerdur's nursing—healing. She heard the first birds wake and sing to the sunrise. She saw the gray light turn yellow and break through the curtains at the window. Shortly afterwards a particularly verbose rooster crowed, waking the whole household. Everyone, that is, except Frodnar who stubbornly refused to wake now that he had a piece of a bed beneath him.

Sometime later the door opened a crack. "How did that boy get up there?" Gerdur's voice sounded frustrated as she came into the room.

"It's alright," Gerhild answered her quietly so as not to wake him. "He's not doing any harm, and there's enough room on this bed for both of us." She struggled to get her elbows under her, trying to sit up. The other woman was there in an instant, helping her, steadying her as she shifted back against the pillows. "Again, Mistress Gerdur, my thanks to you for your help."

"And again, mine in return," she countered, matching the quietness of her voice. "Now, tell me truthfully, how do you feel this morning?"

"Tired and stiff," she answered, "And there's still some pain, but I can move."

"Good." Gerdur hesitated, looking away from her face as she struggled with something. "Gerhild, I have no right to ask this of you, and you have every right to refuse…"

"What is it?" she asked, putting her hand over the other woman's arm.

"Not here," she looked meaningfully at Frodnar. "Do you think you can stand? Good, then come with me."

She helped her out of bed, and as she slipped out from beneath the covers she found not only had her wounds been bandaged, but her clothing replaced with a simple gown. Undoubtedly it was one of Gerdur's older dresses, worn and faded in parts and ill-fitting her smaller frame, but serviceable. Her feet were still bare, something she chose to ignore as she padded into the main room of the cabin.

Ralof and Hod were there, talking in quiet voices beside the fire. They looked up and smiled as the two women entered, managing to look both pleased and relieved to see Gerhild on her feet. "You're looking much better this morning," Ralof complimented her, "Your cheeks are nice and rosy."

She didn't smile, but neither did she frown at his clumsy advance. "How is your arm?"

He saw the coldness there, the lack of feeling, and felt all the worse for it because he had seen it happen—he had seen her break. Still, there wasn’t anything he could do about it, not yet anyway, but he promised himself he would help her someday. ”Better, but still numb from the poison. Did Gerdur speak with you?"

"No, other than she had a favor to ask."

"We all have a favor to ask," Hod added, motioning to a chair at the table for her to take. When she was situated, he passed her a bowl of porridge for her breakfast. "Gerhild, Ralof told us what little he knows about you. Undoubtedly you have been through more than he knows, more than you're willing to share, and you have every right to slip away from here and find someplace to start your life over. No one would begrudge you that."

"But…" she let the word trail away as she focused on her breakfast.

"But," Gerdur sighed, "There's a dragon out there, somewhere, and who knows where it will strike next. Gerhild, Riverwood is the closest town to Helgen. What if the dragon comes here? We're practically defenseless, without a wall or any soldiers. We need help from Whiterun, the Hold capital."

"And Ralof can't go there, because it is an Imperial controlled city, and he is a Stormcloak," she guessed. Turning to look at him, she added, "Besides, your shoulder isn't healed."

"That's not entirely true," Ralof spoke up. "Whiterun is currently neutral, the only Hold in Skyrim that is, but Jarl Balgruuf is leaning towards the Imperials. Regardless, he is the Jarl for this Hold, and Riverwood needs his soldiers in case of a dragon attack. Though I could make the journey, as you pointed out, I am a Stormcloak and could be recognized as such. That might make Jarl Balgruuf less inclined to believe me."

"But I'm not a Stormcloak," she nodded, setting the empty bowl on the table, "So my word about dragons would be more easily believed. Don't try so hard, Ralof, Mistress Gerdur, Master Hod, I am willing to take your message to Jarl Balgruuf. Just point me in the right direction, and lend me a pair of shoes."

Hod brought forward an extra pair of old boots from beside the door. "We have no right to ask it of you…" he started, but she cut him off.

"This is not the time for niceties. The dragon takes precedence." She stood to test the boots, amazed that she had the strength to keep her balance, and turned to look gently on Ralof and his family. "If I return to Riverwood someday, then you can repay me, if you still feel you must."

"You will always be welcomed here," Gerdur stepped forward and embraced her quickly. "Here, this isn't much, but it should see you to Whiterun." She pressed a small coin purse into her palm.

"I'll walk you to the door," Ralof offered, signaling the other two to back away. His good arm took hers, and together they stood beside the door leading outside, waiting for Hod and Gerdur to disappear back into their bedroom. "Take the road out of town, and turn right just after the bridge that crosses the river. The signs at every major road crossing will point you the rest of the way, but it's not really that far. Listen," his hand moved from her arm to her cheek, cupping her face tenderly. "Stay alive. I don't like the idea of us splitting up, at least not until I can give assurances to Jarl Ulfric that you are alive…"

"I'll be fine, Ralof."

"Still, he entrusted me with your life. If you're able, make it to Windhelm soon, for my sake?"

"Is that where you are going?"

"Once I'm sure Hadvar won't spot me, and there are no other Imperials around. I do have to report back to my commanding officer."

She clasped his hand still at her cheek, gripping him as fiercely as she held his gaze. "Then I will see you in Windhelm, before the year is done."

He nodded. "In Windhelm. I'll treat you to an ale at the Candlehearth Hall."

He watched a small smile, almost genuine, cross her lips. When she pulled his hand from her cheek, he allowed it. Wordlessly he opened the door for her and held it, following her with his eyes as she walked down the path that led to the main road. "Keep safe, Gerhild," he whispered to her back, then closed the door and trusted her fate to the gods.

"What do you mean, I have to report to Understone Keep?" Vorstag was grumbling, frowning into his bowl of porridge. "I'm a citizen of Markarth."

"But you've been gone for two years," Ogmund tried to explain patiently. "The law was enacted while you were gone, so technically you're not on the books as a citizen. Without citizenship, you can't sell goods or be hired for any jobs or own property."

"A census is a stupid idea," he continued to frown, "Unless… By the Nine! The Jarl isn't about to start taxing the people, is he?" In his sudden concern he almost dropped his breakfast.

"Keep your voice down!" Ogmund hissed, grabbing Vorstag's forearm fiercely. Looking around he reassured himself that no one was paying them any attention. "You know the Empire has banned Talos worship, and there are only eight gods. And the Jarl is very careful to keep to the White-Gold Concord, especially when a Thalmor Justiciar is in residence. At. The. Keep." He stressed the last three words, making sure his friend was looking him in the eye.

Vorstag let loose an uneasy breath, but begrudgingly nodded. "Aye, Ogmund, I understand now. Keep my head down, and my nose clean, and follow the letter of the law."

"That's a good boy," Ogmund managed to pat his cheek three times before he brushed him away. "Now finish your breakfast. You should have reported to the Jarl last night, but you can say it was late and you were very tired. He won't raise a fuss, as long as you don't ruffle any feathers."

"When have I ever ruffled anyone's feathers?" he asked, his eyes wide with innocence.

Ogmund laughed obligingly. "You're easy-going, Vorstag, I'll give you that, and you manage to make friends and gain confidences easy enough." He leaned in closer across the table, speaking softly for his friend's ears only, "But the Justiciar is a tricky bastard. Don't trust him. And don't antagonize him."

"All Thalmor are bastards," he agreed, "But I understand your warning. Thank you, Ogmund." He sighed, pushing away his finished bowl and leaning back in his chair. "I suppose I might as well go now. Gods, I hate dealing with bureaucrats."

"The sooner you do your chores, the sooner you can go out and play, young pup."

Vorstag laughed at Ogmund's barb. "And you'd better start singing, or you won't have earned your supper by tonight."

"Why would I have to earn my supper?" he smiled up at him, "You're back in town; you can buy my supper."

"But what if I want to do something else with my money?" his lips made a gentle pout as he hefted his bulging coin purse.

"What, like buy a whore? You know you've never figured out what to do with a woman."

Vorstag rolled his eyes, but refrained from laughing, the barb too close to the truth. "Cease, old man. Go and sing. I've got business at Understone Keep."

Ogmund's rough laughter followed him out of the inn, but he didn't let it bother him. The old man had always been like an uncle to him, someone who kept an eye on him while he was growing up. After his parents died, Ogmund continued to watch out for Vorstag, everything from steering prospective clients his way, to alerting him when the guards were looking for extra bodies to work in the mine. Vorstag appreciated their special friendship, especially during times like now, when a new law had been implemented that might lead to his arrest. Vorstag had only once served time for a crime, a drunken fistfight with a friend when he was younger. While serving out their sentences in Cidhna Mine, his friend had died. It taught him that justice in Markarth was harsh, and he had no wish to experience it again.

Understone Keep was nearly at the highest point in Markarth, and the furthest from the front gates. Vorstag was out of breath by the time he reached the top step, but he refused to show it. He used to race up and down the steeply-stepped streets when he was a child, and never had trouble as he did now. He figured it was due to spending two years at sea level, doing very little other than sharpening his iron war axe and practicing with his fellow mercenaries. He was going to have to work to get back into shape, but that would have to wait until after he finished registering.

"State your name and business," a guard intoned, his voice bored.

"Vorstag. I'm a citizen of Markarth, but I've been gone for a couple of years. Just found out about the census. So," he shrugged good-naturedly, flashing his charming smile that showed the barest hint of white, straight teeth, "I'm here to register."

"Vorstag?" the other guard asked, leaning forward curiously. "Aye, I remember you. Let him pass, Gaban. He is who he says he is."

The first guard, a Breton judging by his name and build, nodded sullenly and stepped aside. "You'll need to speak with the Steward to enroll in the census," he advised.

"Thank you," Vorstag nodded to both of them. He stepped between them and pushed open the heavy doors.

Understone Keep, like the rest of the City of Stone, never changed. It was still and cold, the high ceilings sucking away the warmth with the light. Piles of rubble and rock lined the walls, an inconvenience that had been pushed out of the way hundreds of years ago, yet never seemed to get removed. The stones beneath his feet echoed his footsteps as he ambled through the dank corridors. Guards stood at their posts around the Keep, but no one patrolled. Vorstag knew it was because the dogs did most of the patrolling, day or night.

After he passed through a tunnel-like hallway, he noticed that something had changed. It almost caused his steps to stumble, but he managed to cover his surprise in time. There were stairs before him, leading up to the main audience chamber and living quarters of the Jarl and his servants. Pacing along the top of those steps, his dark robes creaking with his movements, was a Thalmor agent. Vorstag judged him to be a high-ranking Thalmor, if the two honor guards in gleaming elven armor following him were any indication.

He walked calmly up the steps, neither staring at the Thalmor nor ignoring him. As the man adjusted his pace to meet up with Vorstag, he didn't show any anxiety or concern, merely idle curiosity as the Justiciar bore down on him. "You're new here." The words were accusatory, sharp and loud. "Who are you?"

"Vorstag, good sir," he inclined his head politely. "I'm a citizen of Markarth, but I've been away for almost three years. Heard about the census when I got back last night, so I came to register first thing this morning." He kept the wince off his face, realizing just how much he had lisped through his statement, a habit he had of doing whenever he was overly stressed. If the elf was going to judge him due to his lisp, like most people did, then there was nothing he could do about it now.

The Thalmor looked him up and down. Though he had left his iron war axe and shield back in his room, he still wore his horned scale armor, not wanting to spend the money to buy a second set of clothing he would rarely use. "You're a mercenary."

It wasn't so much a question or a statement as an accusation. Vorstag refused to let himself get rankled, however, having come across the disdain and distrust before. He had a ready answer, several in fact, and used his best one on him. "Some call me a mercenary, but I like to think of myself as a freelance adventurer for hire." He flashed his most charming smile as well, but it was all wasted on him. He waited, but after a few moments he realized the Thalmor wasn't going to return the courtesy. Giving a small cough, he asked, "You are?"

The Altmer drew himself up even taller, if that was possible, to stare down his long nose at Vorstag. "You have the honor of addressing a member of the Thalmor. Bask in it."

"Of course, sir," Vorstag inclined his head, deciding a hasty retreat was the best option. It rarely happened that his charming personality had no effect on someone, but when it failed, he had learned to leave the person well enough alone. "The honor is mine. Thank you for your time." He moved off as politely as possible, and grew even more determined to finish his business quickly.

He entered the audience chamber, close enough to draw the attention of the Jarl's Housecarl, but not close enough to appear threatening. Faleen stepped away from the throne, where Jarl Igmund was talking with his uncle, Raerek, about the recent string of bandit attacks north of Markarth.

"State your business!" the Redguard woman barked, just before she recognized him. "Vorstag! You good-for-nothing bastard! Where have you been for so long?"

He smiled, taking her forearm in a warm embrace. Though not a Nord, she seemed to adapt to the Nord customs and tough manner easily enough. He liked her, but not in a romantic way. "Faleen, it's good to see you, too. I've been working. Two and a half years up near Winterhold. Just got back last night, when I heard about this census. So, I came here first thing this morning. Wouldn't want to break any laws."

"No, I don't suppose you would," she agreed. She was one of the few people who knew about his youthful incarceration, though she didn’t know the whole story. "Raerek, you have work to do."

"What?" the old man asked, distracted. He squinted in Vorstag's direction, but couldn't quite make him out, other than the armor. "Oh, another mercenary. I've no time for this, Faleen. Tell him we don't need his kind in Markarth, and send him on his way."

"It's Vorstag, you blind old bat," she rolled her eyes, pushing him forwards. "Do you see him now? He's back from his latest job and needs to register."

"What? Oh, oh, oh, the census. Yes, of course. Vorstag, ah, my boy, good to see you," Raerek smiled at him, now that he was in focus. He reached out to take the younger man's hands in both of his, pulling him to sit down beside him. "Come here, come here. Now, tell me, what have you been up to? It's been years since I've seen you."

"I've been on a job," he answered, "Working, as always. Me and two others were hired to guard a mage while he conducted experiments up near Winterhold. Nothing difficult. We were mainly there to guard against any roving bandits. Fairly boring."

"But it paid well?" Raerek asked shrewdly. He laughed at Vorstag's answering sheepish grin. "Ah, those are the best jobs. But enough gossip. You came here because of the census, yes? Nah, don't worry about it; just a trifling matter as we try to create work to justify our own pay. Shouldn't take more than an hour to finish."

Vorstag kept his impatience in check, but he was still glad when he was finally able to leave. It was already early afternoon, despite Raerek's assurances it wouldn't take so long, and his stomach growled with emptiness. All the time he'd spent traveling home, when he only ate twice a day, and only if he managed to catch a rabbit or some fish, his stomach had been more than agreeable to skip a meal. But being home again, knowing he didn't have to forgo a meal, meant his stomach wouldn't keep silent. He sighed, waving a last good-bye to Faleen, and turned towards the steps.

"You're a mercenary, you said," a voice called out to him, though softly, from the shadows. He paused, looking around until he found the source. Quickly brushing away any irritated look that might have been on his features, he nodded and smiled at the Thalmor. He didn't like that particular word, as it usually came with unsavory connotations. Sellsword had a much nicer ring to it.

Yet this wasn't the time, or the person, to argue the point. ”Aye, sir," he answered readily, but one foot was on the first step, the second ready to follow it.

"What type of mercenary work do you do?" the Thalmor asked, falling into step beside him as he walked down the stairs. He noticed that the honor guard was missing, but knew better than to comment on it.

Vorstag shrugged. "The usual. Mostly protecting caravans or travelers from bandits and wild beasts. Occasionally I take on a job where one person wants vengeance on another, like where a farmer's robbed and wants his goods back from the bandits. Sometimes, though, the job can get too personal, like if a woman believes her husband is cheating on her." He shook his head. "I stay away from those; too messy. If you've got a good, clean fight, then I'm your man."

"Hmm," the Thalmor nodded to himself, "A simple man."

Vorstag shrugged, thinking the Altmer made to insult him, but he took no offense. He really couldn't care what he thought of him. "You could put it that way."

"And you live here, in Markarth?"

"Aye," he answered truthfully, wondering where this was going and not liking what he was imagining.

"Hmm," the Thalmor thought to himself again. As if just making up his mind, he spoke, suddenly friendly and holding out his arm to be grasped in the Nord fashion. "My name is Ondolemar. I'm the Thalmor Justiciar here in Markarth."

"An honor to meet you, sir." In contrast to the warmth of his words, there was an icy chill of warning crawling along the back of Vorstag's neck.

"I wonder, Vorstag," he leaned in close, "If you would be open to a little job I have. It's nothing too strenuous," he gave Vorstag's biceps a quick pat, "But it's perfect for a man of your muscle. There's someone I need intimidated…"

"Excuse me, sir," Vorstag drew to a halt, just inside the door to the Keep, "But I've just gotten home from a long job. I'm tired, with a full purse and an empty belly. For the next few months, I want to do nothing more than eat and drink and spend my coin. When my purse is empty again, then I'd be open to work, but not before." It was a blatant lie, as he usually liked to earn as much coin as possible and hoard it away, but the Thalmor wouldn't know that.

Ondolemar straightened himself taller, once more looking down his nose at Vorstag. "Yes, well," he hedged, "Perhaps I didn't understand. I haven't dealt with very many mercenaries."

"We're each different," he shrugged, continuing to lie. "There are those who are always going from one job to the next, saving up as much coin as they can. Me? I like to wait until I've spent the money from one job before I look for the next. No need to be greedy."

"Ah," Ondolemar made a non-committal sound. "Well, friend, congratulations on your good fortune. If you change your mind or spend your coin faster than you planned, you know where to find me."

"I do. Good-bye, Ondolemar," he used the Thalmor's first name and took his hand again, seemingly in Nord friendship, but more just to piss him off knowing he couldn't prove it. Then he left the Keep.

Blinking in the bright sunlight, he started down the steps back to the Silver-Blood Inn. Whatever Ondolemar had wanted him to do, he was sure it wasn't legal or healthy, and he wanted no part of it. He was glad for the warning Ogmund had given him, and knew he'd have to buy the old skald his supper tonight, by way of saying thanks.

"So, they speak together often?" Ondolemar asked.

"Every night," Cosnach confirmed, nodding his head. "They're good friends. I think Ogmund was a close friend of Vorstag's parents or something. He acts like an old uncle to him."

"If only I could have hired Vorstag, but I suppose he's too good a friend to snitch on Ogmund's Talos worship."

Ondolemar was thinking aloud, but Cosnach thought he was being addressed and felt the need to answer. "They're very good friends. Family, almost. I don't think Vorstag would ever testify against him, even under torture."

He had spoken in jest, but when he saw the Thalmor's eyes narrow, he stuttered to a halt. Ondolemar took notice, however, and smiled to try to reassure the Breton. "Don't worry, Cosnach, I wouldn't resort to torture. It's too messy and takes too much effort. No, I want something quick and clean, like finding an Amulet of Talos on his person, something that can't be easily denied." He finally caught himself talking aloud, and decided to dismiss the Breton. "Don't worry about it. Keep on eye on Ogmund for anything relating to Talos. And on this new Nord, Vorstag. If either one of them even swears with his name, I want to know immediately."

"Yes, Lord Thalmor, sir, of course." He held his hand out, and a few coins were deposited on his palm. It was a lot less than he was hoping for, but it would have to do.

Ondolemar watched Cosnach walk away down the street, but his thoughts were on Vorstag. If he couldn't get the mercenary to work for him for money, perhaps he could be blackmailed into cooperating. He was also a Nord, and more than likely a worshipper of Talos, too. All he needed was a little time, and a chance to search his room at the inn. Perhaps Cosnach would consider doing that, but he'd have to make sure Vorstag wouldn't find out. He'd have to make sure Vorstag was away from his room, but not from the city. Some small job within Markarth, perhaps. Tapping his chin, he turned away from the street and returned to Understone Keep.

Chapter Text

23rd of Evening Star: 4E 201

Gerhild's entrance into Windhelm was very different from her entrance into Whiterun. Four months ago she had walked on foot wearing borrowed clothing into a city she knew very little about. The Whiterun guards were fairly indifferent to her, as they were to all citizens living in the Hold capital, regardless of race—as long as she didn't commit a crime. The people living there were open enough, friendly for the most part and offering help in exchange for favors, which suited her minuscule coin purse. She had met the blacksmith first, an Imperial woman who, after doing a few favors around her forge, gave her an introduction to her father, the Steward. From there it was an easy manner to convince the Steward to arrange an audience with the Jarl, especially when she mentioned Helgen and the dragon. Even men loved to gossip.

She brushed aside her meandering thoughts. Though she wasn't in danger now, safe within a sea of Stormcloak soldiers, she still had a job to do. It was nearing the end of the year, the time when she had promised Ralof to meet him in Windhelm, and she kept her promises.

She hopped down from the open carriage, her pack strap held tightly in her hand. She wore a shift of soft linen, covered by a gown of dark red silk. Over her shoulders lay a cloak of fine sabre cat fur, from an animal that she had killed herself. Her feet were kept warm by a pair of soft leather boots. Her appearance here in Windhelm was a very far cry from the one she had first presented in Whiterun.

She gave the driver the second half of his payment, and a little extra, as he had been chatty the whole trip and offered plenty of gossip and history on the hold of Eastmarch. It was invaluable information to her, though he had no way of knowing that, and she felt obligated to repay him. He saw the extra coin and made to hand it back, but at her nod he smiled and pocketed the money. It was winter, after all, and there were fewer travelers about, preferring to wait until the weather warmed and there was less snow blocking the roads. The extra septims would help keep his body and soul together until another fare hired him.

Turning her back on the beaming driver, she shouldered her pack and lifted her eyes up to the towering walls and spires of Windhelm. The stones seemed black to her, and in curiosity she looked down at the blocks on the bridge she now crossed. She saw that the stones were merely dark gray, but the atmosphere dimmed by cloudy weather darkened the color, and the contrast from the white snow etched into every nook and cranny made the color appear even darker. She left her study of the stonework to focus her attention on the guards around her. They all wore the uniforms of Stormcloaks. Even though she thought the hold of Eastmarch would have had its own uniform, no doubt it had been replaced with the Stormcloak uniform just as Ulfric's family name had been replaced with Stormcloak. She made eye contact with several of the soldiers, who returned her gaze with polite but aloof nods. They saw she was Nord, and gave her the benefit of the doubt because of it, but they were obviously uncomfortable around strangers. She set aside their xenophobia for the time being—as they were at war and that meant spies could be anywhere—but didn't forget it entirely.

The doors to Windhelm were as massive as the city itself, and just as closed and slow to move as the guards. She stood before the great portal, and two bristling guards, and wondered how she was supposed to gain entrance. At Whiterun she had merely stated she had a message from Riverwood, and the guards reluctantly allowed her into the city. But here at Windhelm, they wouldn't care for a message from Riverwood, and they would already know about the dragon at Helgen.

"State your business!" one guard commanded, breaking into her thoughts.

She took a deep breath, wishing people would just for once give her time to think, and noticed their eyes were locked on her bosom. She resisted the urge to roll her eyes; all her previous years as a young adult she had hoped and prayed that her body would finish growing, but now that it had started to, it seemed the increased height and rounder bosom would be more a nuisance than a benefit. "I have business with Captain Ralof," she answered clearly. "We are to meet at the Candlehearth Hall."

One of the guards scoffed. Though his eyes readily drank in her form as a Nord drinks mead, as soon as she spoke the spell was shattered. She didn't have long to wonder where she had gone wrong so quickly, as he answered, "'Captain' Ralof, eh? Your information is a little out of date. 'Captain' Ralof was demoted months ago; he's patrolling the sewers now. I doubt he would be able to keep your date at the Candlehearth Hall. The other customers would complain about the smell."

He laughed at this, but the second guard nudged him in the ribs. "I heard he was demoted even further the other day. Now he's 'patrolling' the prison."

She could feel the hairs on the back of her neck bristling at their enjoyment of an officer's demotion, and briefly wondered if Ralof was in the prison as a guard, or a prisoner. Thinking only of helping a friend, she knew she had to gain entrance to Windhelm quickly. She flashed her dimples—one asset she had always had at her disposal—at the guards and tried again. "Nevertheless, I have business within the city."

"With who now?" the first guard asked, as he was first to gain his breath.

"The Jarl."

They started hooting with laughter again. "Aye," gasped the second guard, leaning on his fellow to hold himself upright, "You're a pretty one, and barely of age by the looks of it, but you have no skill at spying. Try your tricks with less experienced men, little girl. The stableman has a boy who just turned eight; he'll believe your stories."

Gerhild kept her cold, emotionless eyes upon the two men, and her smile faded away. "Let's try this again," she said in a deadly calm voice, dropping any guise of persuasion or guile. "I have business in Windhelm. I am here to meet my friend, Captain Ralof, at the Candlehearth Hall. I also wish to see the Jarl, whom I believe is expecting me."

"What is going on here!" a booming voice demanded, shouting more than asking, from off to their sides. The two soldiers straightened up as quickly as their humor would allow. They saluted the officer now stalking towards them, vainly keeping the grins from their faces.

"We were just warning this little girl," one of them said, "That her skills at spy-craft are lacking. We didn't want to arrest her. She's too young and pretty for that."

"Aye, prison would destroy that innocence she exudes." He turned to her, "I'm sorry, little one, you should have left while you had the chance. We'll be arresting you shortly, soon as the Captain is done questioning you."

She remembered her imprisonment, how it changed her, how it already took away her innocence. She didn't have too long to contemplate much less respond to this, as the officer demanded her full attention. He rounded on her, piercing her to the ground with his gaze. Or at least he intended to, but as she felt no guilt, she was able to return his stare calmly. "My men have accused you of being a spy. Are you?"

She raised one delicate eyebrow. "You shouldn't ask a question you don't expect an answer to. I obviously wouldn't answer 'aye', as that would mean I admit to being a spy, a crime punishable by beheading. And you obviously wouldn't believe an answer of 'nay', so there's no point in my trying to deny it." She shifted to face him squarely before continuing. "Why don't you ask a question I can answer, one you might believe the answer to?"

He looked her up and down. It was something she had grown used to, though it occasionally left her feeling naked, as it did today. Nord men liked to look at her. She hadn't gotten as many stares the whole time she lived in Cyrodiil as she had these past four months in Skyrim, but she hadn't been around many Nords in that nation. Here, it seemed Nord men preferred Nord women, and there was something about her she hadn't figured out yet that apparently exemplified the ideal Nord woman. Oh, she had learned a few skills in getting a man's attention, and keeping it, but there were times like these when she wasn't quite sure what she was doing that deserved such intense study.

"Who are you?" he finally asked.

She was thankful he had considered her words, and wasn't as inclined to jump to a conclusion as his men were—which is probably why he was an officer and they were still guarding the front door. "Gerhild."

He looked at her askance, and much as Hadvar had done, waited for her to add the name of her home town. Finally giving up, he asked, "Where are you from, Nord?"

"Skyrim."

She only now noticed that the other two men had fallen silent. Out of the corner of her eye she could see their astonished faces. Amused by the fact that her name carried weight, she wondered if Ralof might have told a story or two about her and Helgen. No doubt he would have exaggerated her part in it, as he had with Gerdur, claiming that she saved his life when it was the other way around. Then again, if Ralof was disgraced, it couldn't have been him who relayed the story of Helgen to these soldiers. Yet it was obvious, from the way the officer acted and the fact that the questions he asked were exactly as Hadvar had asked, that someone spoke admiringly of her.

"Excuse us, Lady Gerhild," the officer bowed. "We have been expecting you for quite some time, though the description we have of you did not do you justice. Please, accept my apologies on behalf of my men for any embarrassment or inconvenience they may have caused. Open the door, quickly, damn it!" he ordered this last part at his men. Turning back to her, he held out his arm and offered, "Would you allow me to escort you to the Palace of the Kings?"

She was surprised at the quick change in her treatment, but nothing showed on her features or attitude. She gave her head a small shake, waving his arm away. "Thank you, sir, that is a very kind offer, but I will decline. I intend to first rent a room at the Candlehearth Hall, and then see about my business with Captain Ralof," she affirmed his title, thinking to lend some of her newfound and mysterious power to her friend, "And the Jarl."

"Oh, of course," he bowed. She thought he might be worried that she would report him and his men for their rudeness, but in reality she did not care. Still, perhaps a little anxiety for him and his men might be a good thing. Leaving their fates ambiguous, she turned from them and strolled calmly into the city of Windhelm.

The streets were no less cold than the people who walked them, or vice versa. Immediately upon reaching the steps of the inn Ralof had mentioned to her, she saw a group of burly Nords intimidating a Dunmer. Though thanks to her own imprisonment and torture and near execution, she held no love for the Thalmor, she didn't extend that opinion to all elven kind, or even to all Altmer. Yet the fate of one elf was not hers to decide, and she swept past the ugly scene as if it didn't exist.

Upon entering the Candlehearth Hall, she was immediately enveloped in a heated atmosphere. She wouldn't call it warm, as the looks she got for being a stranger were hard and calculating. The elves were conspicuous in their absence here, where at Whiterun she had seen them in every establishment, either working or as customers. Redguards and Bretons—and of course Imperials—were absent as well; and obviously Orcs, Arogonians and Khajiit were not even allowed within the city walls. Here there was a distinct 'Nord only' feel to the place, which she barely passed.

She approached the bar, returning the innkeeper's unfriendly stare with indifference. "I would like to rent a room," she said in her clear voice.

The woman paused long enough to let her know she didn't feel the need to jump at her business, and if the sounds coming from upstairs were any indication, she had plenty of business. Gerhild stayed her ground, however, and merely waited for her to either agree to show her a room, or tell her there were no vacancies.

"Alright, there's one room for rent," she agreed finally, coming around the bar to stand before her. "It's ten septims a night, paid for upfront."

The price was outrageous, but she didn't respond other than to pass over the coin into the innkeeper's outstretched hand. She hefted the coin in her hand, as if counting it by weight, then nodded towards the back hallway. "I'll show you to your room."

Gerhild followed her down the hallway, outwardly showing mild interest in the rest of the inn, but inwardly taking in every detail with shrewd eyes. The room she was given was small, at the far back corner of the inn, and closest to the kitchen. Though there were obviously other available rooms, it appeared this was the only one she would be offered. She nodded her thanks to the taciturn innkeeper, and entered the cramped quarters. Shrugging her pack off her shoulders, she turned and closed the door, dismissing the woman who was no doubt hoping she would ask about food or ale, or even demand a better room for which she would undoubtedly be charged extra. Gerhild allowed her pettiness, as it didn't really matter to her, as long as the door was stout and there was someplace to keep her possessions safe from thieves.

Alone in the room with her thoughts, she let herself wonder about Ralof. The guards had been laughing at his expense, almost gleeful that he had been demoted, and possibly imprisoned. The Ralof she remembered was good-natured and just, a man who should be loved by the soldiers underneath him, not jeered. There was no reason she could think of that would cause him such a reversal of fortune. She had to get to the bottom of his predicament as soon as possible. Sighing, she knew she had to forgo freshening up after her journey and immediately make her way to the palace.

She stuffed her pack into the chest at the foot of the bed, turning the key in the lock to secure her belongings. She had left most of her things back in Whiterun, now that she had a house there and a housecarl to guard them. There were some items she couldn't do without, however, and had brought these with her. They were invaluable to her, regardless of their value in coin, so it was important that she kept them either on her person at all times, or secure and within easy access.

Pocketing the key to the chest, she turned on her heel and made for the door. In the hallway, she spied a back door of the inn through the kitchen. She ducked into the smoky, overly warm room and sneaked around the cook unnoticed. She slipped through the doorway as quickly as possible, but the difference in temperatures from the kitchen to the outside would undoubtedly cause a draft. Her departure wouldn't go unnoticed, though the cook wouldn't be able to tell who had opened the door. Her return, however, could not be through the same doorway, not without alerting the cook to her presence.

Again filing the information away—the back of her mind was cluttered with various yet similar debris, a habit she had picked up out of necessity—she made for the Palace of the Kings. The guards outside the palace doors saw her coming, and must have received a message of her description from the gatekeepers, because they knuckled their foreheads with respect. "Lady Gerhild?" one of them asked as she reached the door.

"Aye," she responded, not seeing a need to deny it, though still amused by the title. At the relieved look on his face, she again wondered what kind of stories had been told about her—and who had told them.

"We were told you would be on your way here. Hurry, I mean… Jorleif is waiting for you. Inside." He pulled the heavy door open, almost shoving her in his haste to get her inside. She ignored his rudeness, her only concerns finding Ralof and discovering the identity of the one responsible for the exaggerated impression of her.

The Palace of the Kings was massive, made from the same dark stone as the rest of the city. The main hall, the first room she entered after passing through the foyer, was large and sparsely decorated, with the ceiling reaching high above her head and almost fading into darkness. A long table ran for at least half the length, lit with candelabras and covered with a fine tablecloth of dark green linen. Torches guttered in sconces along the walls, casting shifting shadows about the echoing hall. Though it was evening, she had hopes the Steward at least would be willing to see her, especially if word of her arrival had been sent ahead. Remembering the guard had mentioned a man named Jorleif, she started towards the throne on the raised dais at the far end of the hall, hoping to find him or the Steward, or even Ulfric, still at work.

She was disappointed; the throne sat empty and without guard. Ulfric had not been there for quite some time, nor did it appear he intended to return any time soon. She gave a small sigh of irritation, and cast about for some clue as to what to do next. Raised voices came from a room off to her left, almost as if on cue to her need, and her feet began taking her towards them.

The voices weren't raised so much in argument as in excitement, or some other emotionally charged state. A door stood ajar, and she pushed it the rest of the way open to see into the room clearly. Two men were standing around a table cluttered with maps, reports and missives. They were agitated, though again it didn't seem to be towards each other. One man was dressed as a Stormcloak officer, a rich fur mantle covering his shoulders. The other was wearing the fine clothing of a wealthy merchant or citizen.

"That's what is being claimed, that she is here today…" the citizen was saying, his words dying away as he looked to the movement at the door and spied her standing there. She made no effort to hide her eavesdropping, but finished stepping into the room now that she had their attention.

"Excuse me, sirs," she dropped a small yet graceful curtsy to them, "But I'm new here to Windhelm. I had hopes of seeing my friend, Captain Ralof. One of the soldiers I've spoken with directed me to inquire with a man named Jorleif."

"By Talos," the civilian breathed, "You are the spitting image of your mother."

Gerhild's suspicions grew at that point, on whom it was who had told outrageous stories about her. Apparently, whether she felt like it or not, she was going to have to have that talk with Ulfric sooner rather than later. "My mother?" she asked in her gentle voice. "You knew Maeganna Battle-maiden of Windhelm?"

"Aye," the man breathed, still drinking in the sight of her. At the Stormcloak's cough, he shook and brought himself back to his senses. "Excuse me, my name is Jorleif. I serve as Steward to Jarl Ulfric. This is Yrsarald Thrice-Pierced, a Stormcloak officer."

She once more curtsied to them gracefully, dropping her name with her knee, "I am Gerhild."

"Aye," Jorleif breathed again. "Oh, your timing could have been better, my dear, but it should be good enough."

"Timing?" she formed the single word into a question, hoping Jorleif would elaborate and perhaps dispel some of the mystery around her unearned reputation, or Ralof's equally unearned disgrace.

Jorleif stepped forward and took her hand, "Aye," he repeated. "I can't explain now, it would take too long. Ulfric and Galmar have already left for the prison."

He began pulling her back towards the door she had just come through. She didn't resist him, but she did wish he would explain even a little of what was happening. "Does this have to do with Ralof?" she decided to ask as he urged her faster across the main hall. Of course he would be heading towards the opposite corner.

"This has everything to do with Ralof," he answered, already a little out of breath due to his age. "Quickly, child, no more questions. We must get there and stop them from doing anything rash."

She closed her mouth, saving her breath for her running, and soon discovered he began to lag behind her. She slowed to his pace, but he gave her an ungentle shove forwards. "No…" he panted. "Down the stairs… turn left… third door… hurry…"

She didn't waste time or breath arguing, but raced ahead of the Steward, following his directions to the letter. She found the door he indicated and nearly fell through it in her haste to get to the bottom of this mystery. Thankfully the door wasn't locked, or she would have been nursing a bruised shoulder. As it was, the sight that met her eyes filled her with astonishment.

She stood at one end of a prison, the sides lined with cages, more than a few of them occupied. On the far wall were the shackles and racks and whipping posts and more devices of torture. She knew them all intimately, and so, it seemed, did Ulfric. He was standing there with two other men. One appeared to be a high-ranking Stormcloak officer, judging by the fur mantle across his shoulders. His helmet was made from the head of a cave bear, the first such helmet she had ever seen, making him remarkably unique.

It was the man whose back was to her, however, that made her heart jump into her throat. Though she couldn't see his face, and he was dressed in the rough-spun tunic of a prisoner, she knew he had to be Ralof. His wrists were bound as he knelt before the other two, his shoulders straining with the effort of remaining at attention even though he had obviously been beaten recently. With a determined set to her jaw, she brushed away a guard who tried to encourage her back out the door, and set her steps for the far side of the prison.

"Ralof," boomed the Stormcloak, his voice carrying throughout the prison and to her ears, "You stand accused of several crimes against the Hold of Eastmarch. One, you have disobeyed a direct order from your Jarl. Two, you have failed to fulfill a direct order to the best of your ability. Three, you have deserted your post. How…did you get in here?"

Ralof tensed, wondering what was happening behind him, but determined to stay at attention for as long as his body would allow. He was tired and sore, and knew more pain would come tonight, but stubbornly he held on to his pride. When he heard that clear, cool feminine voice answer from just behind his shoulder, however, it was almost too much to bear.

"The Steward, Jorleif, directed me here with the utmost haste. He felt my presence was necessary in this place." She gestured vaguely to the trappings of the prison, as if finding such items distasteful. Truthfully, she felt neither fear nor revulsion at seeing the inside of a prison once more; she had survived one before and knew she could do so again. Rather her focus was on delivering Ralof out of whatever mischief he had managed to get himself into.

"Who… are you?" the officer asked, his voice bewildered.

It was hard to suppress the sigh. "Gerhild, and before you ask that ridiculous question, I'll add that I'm of Skyrim." She rounded on Ulfric next, as if scolding a small boy, and finished, "You've been telling tales about me, haven't you?"

The officer laughed, throwing back his head with the force of his humor. "By Talos!" he swore, "You were right, Ulfric. She has the visage and coloring of her mother, but Ulgaarth left his heavy stamp on her actions and character." He stepped forward, forgetting the whip still coiled in his hands, and made to embrace her. "Welcome home, Gerhild Battle-maiden."

She endured the bear-hug with feigned good nature, but her eyes remained locked with Ulfric. He had suspiciously remained silent so far, and that silence warned her that more danger was to come.

"Aye, welcome home," he added in his deep, considered voice. Once the officer released her, he stepped forward to offer his own embrace.

"You have a lot to answer for, Lady Gerhild," the officer scolded, meaning to shake his finger at her but he was still holding the whip. Realizing the leather lash was there, and not wanting her to think he would use it on her, he coughed and dropped his hand back at his side. "Excuse me."

She pulled away from Ulfric, looking purposefully at the whip and the kneeling Ralof. "I am the one who should ask to be excused. It seems I have interrupted something important."

"Ah… well… so it would appear, however…"

"Captain Ralof is a friend of mine," she continued, knowing it was dangerous to throw her weight behind the man when she didn't understand the nature of his peril. She did owe him her life, however, and thinking this might sway their opinions of his supposed crime, she added it to his defense. "And has saved my life several times. I owe him. I know this matter is none of my business, but if there is something I can do to help him…"

"You could clear up a matter or two concerning his conduct," Jorleif panted from behind her, finally reaching the tableau. "My Jarl, I know this is highly irregular, but if anyone can confirm Captain Ralof's story, it would be the Lady in question." Silently she thanked the Steward for following her lead and affirming Ralof's rank. Jorleif, at least, seemed like a just and good man.

Contrarily Ulfric seemed aloof, stepping back as Jorleif took over the defense, and the officer continued the prosecution. It effectively removed him of any liability concerning this unusual trial, a fact that did not go unnoticed by Gerhild. She wondered if he were the one responsible for putting Ralof into prison, and what were his motives for such an injustice. "Very well," his deep voice rumbled slowly. He turned to pierce her with his steel blue gaze, and again she was able to return the look guilt free. "Tell us what happened at Helgen, starting from the time I charged Ralof with seeing you safely to Windhelm."

She coughed delicately, dropping her gaze a moment before returning to look at his face. "Excuse me, Jarl Ulfric, but I remember your command a little differently. You ordered Ralof to get me out of Helgen and to take me someplace safe. You mentioned my importance to you, and charged him with my life. In short, you ordered him to get me to safety, or die trying." She paused, tilting her head a little as she added, "You never mentioned Windhelm, at least," she dropped her gaze here, submitting to his authority, "Not to my remembrance."

Ulfric's eyes narrowed, knowing she had repeated his command almost verbatim. He did not like to be pinned, especially as the other two were trying their best to keep him from getting too entangled in what was becoming a messy and embarrassing situation. Gerhild, however, had no qualms about seeing him take responsibility for his actions, if as she suspected he was trying to make Ralof suffer unjustly. "Go on," he coaxed, setting aside her implications.

Briefly she sketched in the rest of what happened in Helgen, including their brief separation and Hadvar's involvement. She didn't lie or withhold any part, believing Ralof did nothing that was dishonorable, including the brief kiss in Helgen Keep. She ended at last with their arrival in Riverwood, and Gerdur's generous treatment of her wounds. "I know I owed them nothing, but as Ralof couldn't leave until his arm healed, especially with Hadvar lurking around, I agreed to take the message to Whiterun. I did, however, promise to meet Ralof here in Windhelm before the end of the year. He in turn promised to buy me an ale at the Candlehearth Hall." She turned towards him at last, but he refused to meet her eyes, staring intently straight ahead. His cheeks were red and his mouth set grimly, and his whole body trembled with the stress of trying to stay erect when every bruised muscle demanded collapse. She pulled her gaze away, deciding she would have more effect staring down Ulfric.

Everyone was silent for several moments, the only sound the spit and spat coming from the torches lining the walls. Even the other prisoners had ceased their moaning to listen to her tale. No doubt she had made an impression, standing in her vibrant red silk gown, her dark gold hair still windblown and mussed from her journey, her cheeks flushed and bosom heaving with the exertion of running through the palace to defend her friend. Though she was calmer now, the flush and heaving stopped long before, she imagined she could still feel every man's eyes on her, drinking in the sight as only a Nord could do.

"Galmar," Ulfric addressed the officer, his heavy and commanding voice overriding the dank atmosphere of the prison. "It appears the charges against this soldier need to be amended. I suggest you take care of it."

Galmar's lips pursed as if he had swallowed a lemon whole. He didn't like being left holding the bag, but it appeared he would do anything for his Jarl, including taking responsibility for unjustly accusing a fellow soldier. "As you command, my Jarl." He turned back to Ralof. "Ralof, you stand accused of the crime of deserting your post. How do you plead?"

No surprise showed on her face, but she was confused. She thought she had removed all doubt against his character. Before she could interject, however, Ulfric was already taking her arm and leading her away. "Come with me, Lady Gerhild. I wish to speak more with you."

"Guilty," Ralof's tired voice answered, sounding defeated and resigned to his fate.

"Come," Ulfric repeated for her ears only when he sensed her hesitation, his grip on her arm tightening until it almost left a bruise. "You won't want to see this."

"The penalty for deserting one's post in a time of war is thirty lashes," Galmar's voice rang out behind them. "Do you submit willingly to your sentence?"

"I don't understand," she muttered softly, her words going only so far as Ulfric's ears. "If I've arrived here safely, proving his innocence, what is he being punished for?"

"I do." Ralof's voice sounded even fainter. There was the sound of ripping fabric, and a stifled grunt as a body was mercilessly shoved.

"Do not question this," Ulfric answered. "You have made a big enough mess." He glanced down at her face as they passed out of the door, just as they heard the first of several lashes fall against Ralof's body. "Come. We will dine together tonight. And all will be well by morning; you'll see."

"Of course, Jarl Ulfric," she acceded. She was determined still to help Ralof, but it appeared she had done all she could for now. She hoped he would survive his punishment; thirty lashes wasn't exactly a death sentence, but it could be if he had been starved and beaten too severely beforehand. Praying to Stuhn to give him strength, she let the door close behind them, blocking out the cracking sound of the lash.

Chapter Text

Gerhild sat demurely at the table, her appetite affected by her concern for her friend. Ulfric sat at the head of the table, placing Gerhild to his right and Jorleif to his left. They were passing the time in idle chatter, Jorleif going over some last minute business for the day, when Galmar joined them. He sat to her right, as she had undoubtedly been given his place at table. He didn't seem overly concerned by this, however, as he helped himself to a large portion of the pheasant before him.

She was shocked, having not expected him for quite some time yet, but hid her concern as she did all her reactions. She didn't even bring up Ralof, no matter how strong her curiosity. Instead it was Jorleif, her unlooked for ally, who came to her aid.

"So, Galmar, how did Ralof fair his punishment?"

She picked up her cup of wine, her ears burning, but her hand rock steady as she sipped.

"Like a true Nord." She heard pride in his voice, and barely kept herself from rolling her eyes. "Not only did he willingly submit to the lashes," Galmar stabbed a roll with his knife and took a bite without removing it from the blade, "But he did so without making a sound, or losing consciousness." Swallowing, he turned to face Ulfric. "I showed mercy, reducing his sentence by half, seeing as he admitted his guilt and accepted his punishment. I hope that is satisfactory."

Ulfric nodded. "I trust your judgment in this matter." He didn't look at Galmar, however, but waited until Gerhild looked at him. She saw his expression, a knowing look, as if he could read her thoughts and was trying to tell her that he told her everything would be alright. She still didn't agree with him, but knowing she could never win that argument, and it was a subject that was done and finished with anyway, she didn’t bother to pursue the matter.

"Oh, but this is an indelicate topic of conversation for the dinner table," Jorleif proclaimed, his voice sounding only a little false, "Especially when there is a lady present. Forgive me, Lady Gerhild. My concern for poor Ralof was so great I forgot you were here."

"That is quite alright, Jorleif," she acknowledged in her gentle, though somewhat cool manner. "Your concern for your friend speaks volumes to your character."

The jibe was not lost on the three men, but instead of the rebuke she believed would be forthcoming, laughter roared from the half-filled mouth of Galmar. "Shor's bones!" he paused to swallow, seeing as he sprayed a bit of chewed food onto the sleeve of her gown. "I said it before, I'll say it again. You have Ulgaarth's manner about you. Straightforward and honest in his opinion. And damn the feelings of any man he might insult!" He paused to finish swallowing his food, using a gulp of mead to help wash it down. "So, tell me, how is the old war horse?"

Gerhild turned to face him, her eyes as clear as her voice as she answered, “He passed away several months ago." She took a sip of wine in the silence that followed her statement, preparing herself for the chore of divulging her past to these men.

"I am sorry to hear that," Ulfric was the first to respond, his words considered and rumbling as always. "He was a good man, and a better friend. How did it happen?"

"He had been crippled, years ago," she admitted quietly, now that she had their complete attention. "Before I was born, actually. His debilitation finally took him, a little more than six months past. I saw to his burial, and as per his final wish, made my way here to Skyrim."

"And…" Ulfric hesitated, as if fearful of asking, yet already knowing he had to ask, even if asking would put to rest any lingering hope. It was the first hint of deep emotion she had seen from him, "Your mother, Maeganna?"

Gerhild sighed at this point, knowing what was to come and also wishing she could avoid it. She had promised Ulgaarth, however, and she would always have it said of her that she kept her promises. "I barely remember her. She died when I was five."

A brief flash of pain crossed Ulfric's features, affirming the stories Ulgaarth had told her about the man—and her mother. She thought she knew what would come next, and squared her shoulders in preparation for acknowledging her parentage, but Ulfric surprised her yet again. "It is late, Lady Gerhild, and this day has no doubt been taxing for you. I… I have a matter I would wish to discuss with you, but it can wait until morning. Jorleif, see that she has a place to stay here at the palace."

"There's no need," she broke in. "I have already rented a room at the Candlehearth Hall."

"I'll send someone around to collect your things," offered Galmar, his voice also sounding saddened. "And assign you a personal guard. As Ulfric said, it is late. We can continue this conversation later, after you have had a chance to recover from your journey."

And Ralof a chance to recover from his lashes, she thought to herself. Realizing she was being dismissed, she stood up from the table and curtsied to the men. "Then I bid you good night, and thank you for your hospitality. Oh, Galmar," she added, reaching into the pouch at her waist and pulling out a small key, "When you send someone to the inn, he'll need this to retrieve my pack, in the chest at the foot of the bed. It's all I traveled with."

"I'll have it brought to your room immediately," he stood to accept the key.

"Come, Lady Gerhild," Jorleif was also standing, holding out his hand for her. "Let me show you to your room. Is there anything you would require before retiring?"

She didn't look at Ulfric as she fell into step beside the Steward, but she knew he was the only one who remained seated at the table, his eyes staring at something only he could see. She knew she would have to set him straight soon enough about her identity, but for the night she would leave him to his memories. And his mead. Tomorrow would be soon enough to confess to him. No doubt her privileged status would be revoked at that time, but for tonight at least she could say she had slept in a palace. "Everything I need is in my pack, Jorleif, but thank you for the offer. No, I don't require a bath. My journey here was not all that stressful; I rode in the back of a carriage. And thankfully the weather held fair enough during the trip—only a light snowfall without a strong wind." She kept up the polite chatter all the way upstairs and down the hall, until they reached what was to be her room.

At this point Jorleif stopped, taking both her hands in his as he strove to find the right words. "Gerhild, I know your impression of Ulfric must be tainted by what you saw today." He looked down at their hands, refusing to meet her eyes. "But he is a good man. A just man. He wants what is best for his people. For Skyrim."

She raised a delicate eyebrow questioningly. "And who's to decide what is best? Ulfric? Is he infallible?" She stopped when she heard the approaching steps of a patrolling guard. She knew her words were bordering on treason, though she had yet to officially swear fealty to Ulfric. She doubted that would make much difference to him, having already seen a typical demonstration of his rule. "I am tired, Jorleif. I think I will go to bed now."

"Of course, Lady Gerhild," he nodded, bowing his head over their hands. "I shall assign a maid for your use in the morning."

"That isn't necessary," she dodged, "But I thank you for the offer. Good night."

"Good night," he sighed, holding the door for her and closing it softly behind her.

Gerhild stood in the center of the room, her arms wrapped around herself as she slowly took stock of her surroundings. There was a fire newly lit in the hearth, just taking to the logs and hardly managing to push back the cool air. A large window reached nearly to the ceiling along the wall opposite the door, the thick velvet curtain working fairly well to keep the winter cold from creeping into the room. A small desk and a rather large wardrobe were also available for use by whomever occupied the room. But the one thing that drew her attention was the giant bed, its heavy canopy rich and dark to shut out the cold of night or the light of day. She looked to it longingly, but felt the need to see to a few necessities before allowing herself the luxury of climbing up onto the mountainous mattress and burrowing beneath the down-filled comforter.

Turning her back on the temptation, she moved to the hearth and stoked the fire, filling the air with a burst of light and heat. Next she went to the wardrobe, curious at what she would find, and was thankful there were extra gowns and shifts available for her use. She had only packed one spare dress, and if the servant didn't return soon with her pack, she might just have to make do with what was at hand. Leaving the wardrobe, she moved next to the desk, discovering several rolls of paper and a charcoal stylus.

The one thing she wished for most, however, was missing from the room. Sighing, she took the seat in front of the fire and began to undo her intricately braided hair, resigned to the fact that she would have to use her fingers to brush her hair. As she worked out the snarls and snags, she hummed a tune Ulgaarth liked to sing while he worked. She always suspected he changed the words whenever he sang it in front of her, as the song was about a young soldier deflowering a farmer's daughter, but whether a vulgar conquest or a tender first love, the tune had always been pleasing to her. More so now that he was dead, and it reminded her of a time she would never see again.

Lost in priceless memories, enveloped by the warmth of a fire, she never saw sleep creeping up to overtake her.

He walked slowly up the steps, knowing it was taking too long, but there was no way in Oblivion he was going to be able to move any faster. Damn Galmar for assigning him as Gerhild’s personal escort. Or at the very least not waiting until morning to do it.

At least the sentence had been reduced by half. Ralof gave a softly grunted sigh as he reached the landing, leaving the stairs behind him. His face was pale, his skin sweaty, his back sticky with welts and ointments, but he was alive, thanks to her. He supposed he should be thankful; as her escort, at least he’d have the excuse to spend time with her. But by the Nine, couldn’t it have waited until morning?

Her pack was light in his hands, but heavy enough for his weakened condition. And after the beating and whipping he’d suffered, having to tend to his own wounds, roused from his bed, sent to report to Galmar, then to the Candlehearth, then up to the highest part of the palace where Gerhild had been given a room…

Gods, he was tired!

He passed a patrolling guard, who gave him a respectful nod upon seeing his Captain’s uniform. He returned it without thought, his vision wanting to tunnel down to that door, that goal. If he could just knock on the wood and hand over the pack, then he could finally find his bed.

In the hallway just outside her bedchamber, he at long last lifted a shaking hand and knocked on the stout door. A moment passed, while he tried to calm his breathing. Movement was making his uniform rub the raised welts, aggravating the ones that were only abraded until they too began to ooze. He could feel the fabric of his tunic catch and pull, almost with each breath.

The door hadn’t opened yet, and he was sure he had been standing out in the hall for at least a minute. He lifted his hand and knocked again, a little louder, a little more insistent, and fought off the nagging paranoia that he had knocked on the wrong door.

Inside the room was warm and dim. Gerhild hadn’t meant to fall asleep, so it was with no small amount of chagrin when she started awake. Blinking at the hearth, she thought perhaps the snap of tree sap still within a log had awoken her, and was about to stoke the fire when the knock on her door sounded again. Feeling a pain in her neck from having fallen asleep in a chair, she pushed herself to her feet and crossed over to the door.

Opening the portal, she came face to face with Ralof. The two stood staring at each other for several moments, Gerhild in shock and Ralof merely wishing to drink in the sight of her. Finally he came to his senses first, and gestured with the pack in his hands. "I've brought your things from the inn. And I've been assigned as your personal guard, for while you are here in Windhelm."

Snapping out of her surprise, she stepped aside to allow him entrance to her room. As he passed her, she quickly took in his appearance. He was once more in uniform, and appeared to have regained the rank of Captain. His hair was still dirty and lanky, however, the once careful and precise braid down the side of his face completely undone. His face was pale, pinched with pain and sweaty with exhaustion. He held his body carefully, his movements stiff and measured as he crossed the room towards the desk.

"Here," she said, following him and taking the strap from his hands. "Let me do that. You need to rest."

"I'll live," he argued, but let her take the pack away. "Thanks to you."

She felt his praise unfounded, and told him as much. "It appeared like you were in trouble, thanks to me." Setting the pack down, she asked, “Has anyone tended to your wounds yet?”

He nodded, but apparently she didn’t believe him.

“Lie down,” she motioned to a low couch, “And take off that uniform.” She turned back to her pack and rummaged around inside until her fingers latched onto a small jar of salve.

Ralof did as commanded, not sure if he did it so he could stay with her, or because it had been too damn hard to dress his own back and he would appreciate the help. He unwound the dusty blue mantle from his shoulders, and stifled the grunt as he lifted his leather cuirass off. The damn chainmail underneath was heavy and awkward, but a moment later and Gerhild was there, her fingers taking up the metal mesh and lifting it from his shoulders. The padded under-tunic was also removed by her, and once his back was exposed to the air, he allowed himself to relax front downwards on the couch, propped up on his forearms.

“So what happened? Had I known my delay would have caused you distress, I would have come to Windhelm sooner.” Her fingers were cool and gentle as she unwound bandages to take a look at his hurts. She didn’t so much as grimace at the angry red flesh, raised and in some areas broken, oozing pus and blood. She took up a small cloth and wet it in a basin of water she had brought with her.

"It's not your fault," he sighed, enjoying the coolness against his heated skin and the lightness of her ministrations. "I should have known, if Jarl Ulfric commended your safety to my hands, that I was to deliver you personally to him, not merely a vague, unattested statement that you were alive."

"So that's what happened. He imprisoned you because you didn't bring me to Windhelm."

"Not exactly," he coughed, looking away only a little embarrassed.

"Then what?" she asked, fixing him with a stern stare, "Exactly."

He could feel her staring at the back of his head, even if he couldn’t see it. Still he hoped to change the subject. ”I left Riverwood for Windhelm, after the soldiers from Whiterun arrived. Thanks again for your help in that."

"As I said to your sister, the safety of Riverwood came first. So, after the soldiers arrived and you were able to slip away, you returned to Windhelm," she prompted. She finished cleaning the sores and began dabbing the salve onto them.

"Aye," he nodded, seeing that she wasn’t going to be distracted from learning the truth. The salve was cool and numbing, and just the small amount on his back was already easing the pain into silence. "I reported to Jarl Ulfric that I had gotten you safely out of Helgen, but we parted ways shortly after, you going on to Whiterun while I stayed in Riverwood. He wasn't pleased with that, and asked how I could prove you still lived. I told him you had promised to meet me here before the end of the year. He didn't like that answer either," he grimaced with remembered pain, "And had me demoted on the spot. I was assigned to…" he hesitated, not sure how to phrase the next part so as not to offend her.

"Sewer patrol," she supplied. "I heard about it from some soldiers."

"Well, then you can imagine what such an assignment is like. I won't bore you with any details, but it was plain to me that Galmar at least, if not the Jarl, was making me pay dearly for my oversight. After more than three months on patrol, the job was starting to get to me. I got sick, I won't explain how or exactly what happened, but it was either I abandon my post, or die where I stood. I chose to abandon my post. I staggered to the alchemist's and got what I needed to cure my illness."

"They wouldn't give you time off to go to the alchemist?" she asked, bewildered. He heard the sound of ripping fabric, and felt her cool fingers as she wound fresh bandages around his torso. "Couldn't anyone else have gone in your stead?"

"No," he sighed, "To both questions. My assignment was from eight in the morning, to eight in the evening, the same hours the alchemist is open. And word was spread through the ranks that I was out of favor with General Galmar. No one wanted to stick his neck out for me after that."

He grew silent, but Gerhild wasn't finished yet. "So, in a fit of unjust spite, Ulfric had Galmar demote you and give you an assignment that would surely kill you. Or if not kill you, cause you to disobey orders, which would lead to your arrest and subsequent punishment. No doubt Galmar was to sentence you to a hundred lashes, and in your weakened condition that would easily equate to a death sentence." Her lips hardened as she considered the coldness of the man, and perhaps she tugged a little too hard while tying the ends of the bandages. "Nice and neat, and he was never directly involved, so he never got his hands dirty."

"Lucky for me," Ralof broke into her thoughts, turning towards her—amazingly without pain—and taking her hand, "You arrived today."

She looked up at him then, and even in the dim light he could see how cool and deep and dead her violet eyes had become. "Aye, lucky for you. Unfortunately, this luck won't last."

"What is that supposed to mean?"

She shook her head. "Never mind. I find myself in a morbid mood tonight." She stood, using his hand to help him to his feet, before handing him the padded under-tunic. "It's late, Ralof, and I am very tired. I believe you could use a good night's sleep as well. Go to bed, sleep in as late as you wish tomorrow, then come and collect me. I won't go to see the Jarl until after you have recovered." She helped him into the leather cuirass and rewrapped the mantle over his shoulders. Then she walked him to the door, his chainmail in his hands. "And take something to help you heal. A fine personal guard you'll be if you can't manage to lift an axe in my defense."

"I cannot," he looked at her sheepishly. "It's a matter of pride and honor. I have endured my punishment like a Nord, now I must endure the scars."

She had seen the scars he had already accrued, whether from past battles or previous punishments, when she tended his back and shoulders. Yet she said nothing to him, and instead inclined her head before allowing him to plant a chaste kiss on her cheek. She stood and watched him as he carefully made his way down the hallway. A soldier on patrol was just coming towards him, and had stopped to salute him as he passed. It seemed he was right, that in admitting and accepting his unjust treatment, he re-earned the respect he never should have lost in the first place...?

She closed the door and blew an exasperated breath out of her cheeks. “Men!"

Gerhild didn't over sleep, but she did refuse to get up after waking. At sunrise Jorleif sent her a maid, even after all her protests from the night before. Gerhild sent her away, refusing to even unlock the door to allow the woman to stoke the fire. Instead she lay burrowed deep within the furs and blankets and pillows, tracking the passage of time and considering optional courses of action.

Ulfric had taken the news hard last night, that Maeganna was dead, but after a score of years he shouldn't have expected otherwise. Gerhild's lower lip sought solace between her teeth, wishing yet again that she had never made that promise to Ulgaarth on his deathbed. The only good to have come out of that ill-fated vow, other than the chance to see her native Skyrim, was…

Never mind. The only good to have come out of that ill-fated vow was the chance to see her native Skyrim. Everything else since then, every occurrence and action these past six months had only—eventually—led to pain and heartache. She held no hope that this would change any time soon. Not with the message she still had to deliver to Ulfric.

Sighing, and judging that the morning was nearly gone, she pushed back the covers and darted quickly into a handy robe. Crossing the cold stone floor on bare feet, she knelt before the hearth and rekindled the fire. It was a simple matter, using the flame spell she had learned from the court wizard in Whiterun, though seeing flames spurt from her hand almost made her want to cringe. Then she went to the table next to the window to crack the thin film of ice on the water in the basin so she could rinse her face and hands.

She was dressed and re-braiding her hair when Ralof finally knocked on her door. He stood just outside, his uniform unwrinkled and the metal polished to a mirror-like reflection. His hair, too, had been cleaned and the braid redone. Even his face looked better after a good night's sleep, the shadows beneath his eyes a little less pronounced. She was thankful he had thought to bring some food with him, though she didn't like the way he appeared to be straining with the weight. Without a word she took the platter of dried apples and goat cheese and nodded him into her room.

"I thought I had overslept," he said by way of greeting, "But when I learned you had refused both a maid and food, and it's nearly noon, I decided to break my fast with you."

"I appreciate the company," she responded, placing the tray on the small table near the hearth. "Tell me, have you caught sight or word of Jarl Ulfric yet today?"

He sat gingerly across from her, bringing a chunk of cheese halfway to his mouth. "You know, I thought there had to be some reason for your sluggishness this morning. As a matter of fact," he shook the morsel at her, "The palace guards were muttering about the Jarl being out of sorts today. Grouchy. Or sick, perhaps. What do you know of it?"

Gerhild finished her small bite of dried apple before answering. "He received news yesterday that was… unpleasant. I figured he would have spent the night reliving the past, with the help of a tankard or two."

Ralof nodded. "So, he's hung-over after a night of drowning his sorrows. I can sympathize where that would leave him sick and grouchy." He finished his bite and fixed her with his light blue eyes. "And you were the one who brought him this upsetting news?"

"Aye," she didn't bother to deny it. "And I have more to deliver before I can leave Windhelm."

"Which is why you figure your luck will turn, eh?" Ralof asked, remembering her foreboding words from last night. He shook his head. "You have no need to fear his wrath, Gerhild. Ulfric is not your Jarl; you owe him no fealty or loyalty, no service or patronage. And I am sure he would do nothing to you, nothing near like what happened to me, if that's what you fear."

She lifted her eyes to his, rising to the bait. "I do not fear him or his wrath." When she saw the twinkle in his eyes, she knew she was being teased. Softening just a little, she added, "It is not out of fear that I decided to avoid him this morning, but out of consideration. I wish to give him as much time as possible to recover, before I deliver an even harder message."

"And what might that be?"

She shook her head. "I am sorry, Ralof. I consider you a friend, and under any other circumstances I would confide in you, but this is not my confidence to give. I must speak with Ulfric first, and Ulfric alone, before it is decided who else may know."

He leaned back in his chair, then thought twice about it when the welts on his back protested. "Did… Were you being executed in Helgen because you were a spy, and the Thalmor caught you? Do you have bad news to deliver? From Cyrodiil?"

She shook her head. "Do not over-think this." She brushed off her hands, letting the crumbs from her fingers fall back onto the empty tray. "Come. Take me to see Jarl Ulfric. As with any unpleasant task, the sooner this is seen to, the sooner it is done."

"Always wise beyond your years," he muttered, but too softly for her to hear. He coughed, in case she had heard him say something, and groaned as he regained his feet. "If you don't mind, Gerhild, while you are here, I would appreciate it if you stayed safely within the palace or within the company of a large group of Stormcloaks. I am your personal guard, and I will give my life to protect you, but in my current condition I'm afraid that doesn't say very much."

She took his arm and inclined her head. "I will follow your suggestion, Captain Ralof."

They left her quarters then, arm in arm, and carried on a simple conversation as they walked down the hallways. When she saw that their steps were taking them back to the main hall, she almost faltered. Again she regretted the promise she had made, but as if Ulgaarth could hear her thoughts from Aetherius, someone within the hall mentioned her name. It was the gruff voice of a man used to shouting orders over the din and heat of battle, and she knew it belonged to Galmar. Exchanging a look with Ralof, more to bolster her courage, she allowed him to let go of her arm and open the door further for her to enter first.

"Lady Gerhild!" boomed Galmar. "I was just about to send someone to fetch you. Where have you been this morning?"

She kept her pace steady and calm as she approached the throne, noting the pained expression on Ulfric's face. He was obviously suffering from over-indulgence last night, but if Ulgaarth's stories of him were true, he probably felt he deserved the pain and suffering.

And it was just as obvious that Galmar, who hadn't indulged, was making Ulfric get the most worth out of his self-imposed punishment.

"Excuse me, Jarl Ulfric," she dropped a graceful and deep curtsy to him once she deemed herself near enough to the throne he was sprawled upon. "General Galmar, Steward Jorleif," she dropped additional curtsies to the two men, "But I felt a little indelicate this morning. I suppose my journey here was more taxing than I realized."

Galmar laughed, a hearty sound with more mock than mirth. "Your indelicacy, or Ulfric's?"

She didn't rise to his derision, but kept her attention focused on Ulfric, other than noting a slight difference in temperature that signaled Ralof's body close beside her. "My father mentioned he and my mother were once close friends to you. Though I have had time to mourn, allowing my pain to dull, you have only just learned of their passing, and your pain is fresh and will remain sharp for some time. I only sought to give you an excuse, should you not wish to speak with me further on this subject just yet."

"Your… father?" Ulfric repeated, making it sound like a question. Gerhild didn't feel like answering, at least not around witnesses, so she kept silent. "Aye, I suppose he would have told you that. Simpler, that way."

"What?" Galmar heard the words, but he was unwilling to jump to the conclusion that Ulfric and Gerhild were dancing around.

"If you please, Jarl Ulfric," she stepped forward, slightly impertinent in her haste to head him off before he said something assumed as truth. "Ulgaarth had a further message he made me promise to deliver to you. In. Private." She stressed the last two words, hoping he would overlook her audacity and listen to her authority.

Ulfric, it seemed, wasn't in as cooperative mood as she wished. "Whatever you have to say—or whatever Ulgaarth wished you to say to me, you can say in front of Galmar and Jorleif. I have no secrets from them."

Gerhild took a deep breath, fully aware of how it made her bosom more pronounced, but more concerned dealing with an uncooperative Jarl. Once more it was Jorleif, in his quiet and almost timid manner, who came to her assistance. "Jarl Ulfric, I think it would be wise for you and Lady Gerhild to retire to a more private atmosphere," his practical voice penetrated the leader's senses. "The rest of Ulgaarth's message would be personal, and this chamber is far too public for private messages from old friends."

Ulfric straightened a little on his throne, his self-induced illness forgotten as he tried to piece together what he could have possibly missed, that Jorleif had obviously picked up on. Galmar was saying something, posturing and making demands in his parade voice, and she thought of amending her earlier impression of Imperials. It wasn't only Imperials who raised their voices to make themselves more intimidating; perhaps all officers did so. She made up her mind then and there not to become an officer.

"Very well, we will retire to a private chamber," Ulfric's deep voice rumbled across the hall, making heads turn and eyes dart around curiously. Gerhild kept the heat from her cheeks, and when he descended from the throne to stand before her, she graciously laid her hand on his forearm. "Galmar, Jorleif, I wish for the two of you to remain here."

"I'll do no such thing," Galmar objected, stepping forward to block their path. "You are my Jarl, my commander, and most importantly my friend. Furthermore, I am responsible for your safety. I'll not leave you alone with anyone, even a young woman, who only has vague claims of being the daughter of a couple of friends you haven't seen for more than twenty years." He stopped suddenly, seeing the look on Ulfric's face. He quickly looked at Gerhild, as if only just beginning to sense what it was Ulfric believed about her. Before he could say anything more, Ralof also stepped forward.

"If it pleases you, I have been made responsible for Lady Gerhild's safety. I, too, cannot leave her side, unless I am assured of her continued safety."

"Ralof," this was one Gerhild was going to insist remain out of the conversation, "As I said before, this message is private. If I have the authority, I dismiss you from your duties as my personal guard." She turned her shoulder to him, hoping he wouldn't take it personally, that he understood she was doing this for his well-being.

"Twenty years…" Galmar's voice trailed away, looking closely at Gerhild as if her age was stamped upon her forehead. She kept her peace, letting Ulfric command his men.

Ulfric sighed, feeling unsure of what his actions should be, and turned his head to speak to her, his voice barely reaching her ears even though they were merely inches apart. "Do you object to Galmar or Jorleif accompanying us?"

"They are your men," she answered clearly, though just as quietly. "What I have to say will not be easy for you to hear, and it may help to have a friend or two near. If you trust them with your secrets, then I have no objections."

He gave a small nod. "Galmar, Jorleif, you will accompany us. Ralof, you will remain here until Lady Gerhild returns."

Ralof watched his Jarl walk off with Gerhild in his custody, Jorleif and Galmar bringing up the rear, before turning to find a quiet corner to wait. "Talos protect you, Gerhild," he muttered.

Chapter Text

Ulfric walked with Gerhild to a small antechamber off the side of the Hall. She recognized it as the same one she had entered upon her arrival yesterday, where she found Jorleif talking with the Stormcloak, Yrsarald. The young man wasn't in there today, for which she was thankful. Ulfric walked her to a chair near the fire, and after he made her sit, took the chair opposite. He opened his mouth to speak, but Galmar beat him to it.

"How old are you?"

Gerhild broke away from Ulfric's gaze after he nodded, giving her permission to answer. She looked steadily at the old General as she answered, "I turned seventeen this past summer."

Ulfric looked stricken, his body slumping in the chair, his face falling away from her to stare at the floor. "I thought… you were merely young-looking… for your age… You should be more than twenty years old, not less."

Her expression softened, her heart almost waking enough to feel sorry for him. "I know what you thought," she admitted. "At least, I feared that you might have gotten the wrong impression of me. I know, or rather, I've been told that I take after my mother in looks and coloring, to the point where I look nearly as she did in her youth."

"Aye," Galmar's gravelly voice rattled in a near imitation of a sigh. "You're a little less broad in stature, but your hair is the same dark blonde as Maeganna's, and your eyes the same deep blue. Your cheekbones, mouth… but there's something about you that speaks to Ulgaarth."

"My nose and brow, and my personality," she said with such a straight face, that he didn't know if she was teasing or honestly truthful.

"Then Ulgaarth truly is your father?"

Ulfric's words rang like a death knell in her ears. Whatever hope he had held for the past four months, she had just squashed beneath her slippered feet. "Jarl Ulfric," she grew sober and formal once more, deciding that distancing herself would be the best course of action—at least, for him. "Let me give you Ulgaarth's message. I believe then you will have your answers.

He looked to her at last, his bloodshot eyes dry and angry, but nodded for her to proceed.

"First I'll tell you a little of what I personally know. My father, Ulgaarth North-Wind, had been a cripple since before my birth. My mother, Maeganna Battle-Maiden, died when I was five. I was too young to truly remember her, but my father assured me that she loved me very much." She paused, marveling slightly at the lack of pain or loss that she felt. Always before she had cried whenever she thought of the night her mother died. This afternoon, however, her eyes were as clear as her voice. "There was a fire one night—that I remember—and Mother got Father and I out of the house, but she died in the flames. Afterwards, Father and I traveled around, as it was difficult for him to find a way to make a living. Ten years later, he finally succumbed to his debilitations. As he lay dying, he told me the truth of he and Maeganna, and asked that I return here, to Skyrim, to you, Jarl Ulfric, and give you whatever comfort and closure could be possible. This is what he told me:

"Maeganna was from Windhelm, a Battle-Maiden, who was as beautiful in visage as she was skilled in battle. She was a commoner, however, and loved a man above her station, a man who was of some importance within Eastmarch. This man returned her love, though secretly, and she was content with what they shared. At some point he had been taken prisoner or fell prey to an ambush, I can't quite remember which one, somewhere around Markarth. Maeganna led a group of soldiers to free him, though she didn't know that she was with child until after her love was rescued. The man was overjoyed, and vowed to claim the child as his own, but he had unfinished business with those who had betrayed and imprisoned him. So he charged Ulgaarth, who had come with Maeganna and was also a close friend of the two, to see that she got safely back to Windhelm, or die trying."

If anyone found similarity between the order given to Ulgaarth, and the order given to Ralof, no one had the bad taste to point it out. Gerhild didn't pause in her story, but swept along, locking everyone's attention to her. "Unknown to the other two, Ulgaarth had long ago fallen in love with Maeganna. It pained him to see her with his friend, and it pained him even more to know his heart was full of jealousy every time he thought of the babe growing within her. He vowed to himself, after he saw Maeganna home safely, he would leave Skyrim and never return.

"He never got the chance to fulfill this vow, at least not in the manner he intended. Not far into their journey, a group of Imperial soldiers started chasing them. Somehow they had Maeganna's description, and orders from the Thalmor for her arrest. To escape, they decided to change direction and head away from Windhelm, entering Hammerfell and heading towards Cyrodiil. The Imperials caught up with them at an inn near the border. Ulgaarth knew the innkeeper would turn them over to the soldiers. So he made Maeganna hide within a chest, and promise not to come out, and prepared to take on the eleven men himself. He cleft down half their number at the doorway, making them have to climb over their slain brethren if they wanted entrance. Two men, however, thought to circle around from outside and climb in through the window.

"Maeganna heard the noise of the fight, and being a Battle-Maiden, the sound made her blood boil. She found herself unable to remain in hiding, and when the two men came in through the window and attacked Ulgaarth from behind, she burst from the chest and took up a sword to fight beside him. Back to back they held off their attackers, until only three were left.

"The Captain had waited a pace away from the fight, until he saw an opportunity. Maeganna's attacker had stumbled back from her, and she stepped forward to press her advantage, leaving her side open to the Captain. Ulgaarth saw this, saw the Captain about to strike her with the hilt of his sword, and turned to run the man through. This left his own side open to attack, which his opponent took full advantage of, striking with his battleaxe on Ulgaarth's back, leaving a wound from shoulder to hip. Maeganna saw him fall, and left her own opponent to kill the man with the battleaxe. The last soldier saw his chance, and stepped forward to run her through, no longer caring to take her alive as he saw he was the only Legionnaire left. She tried to spin away, and Ulgaarth from the floor reached out and grabbed the soldier's ankle, tripping him so his whole body crashed into Maeganna. Both fell to the ground, breaking furniture with the force of their fall, and for a moment Ulgaarth thought he had allowed her death. He closed his eyes and prayed for his own death."

She stopped here, feeling her throat dry from all the talking. No one spoke, even as she gave a small cough to try to clear it. Jorleif did, however, present her with a goblet of wine. She nodded her thanks to him, took a sip, and returned to spilling her tale into the otherwise silent room.

"Maeganna and Ulgaarth both lived, and it was solely through her efforts that they escaped the inn, stole a horse, and crossed the border. When Ulgaarth came to his senses, they were already several days' journey into Cyrodiil. She had managed to find an abandoned cabin for them to hide within, but they had no healing potions or bandages, nor coin to purchase them. It took months for him to heal, and during that time Maeganna nursed him as best she could. It wasn't until the wounds had faded to tight and twisted scars, that he noticed how much time had passed, and that Maeganna had not grown heavy with child. He confronted her, and she confessed to him what happened. At the end of the attack, when the other soldier pushed her into the furniture and then to the floor, the point of her blade had run him through, while the hilt had struck her hard in the stomach. Because of this injury, she lost the babe.

"Ulgaarth was grief-stricken, not only for her and his friend, but because it was something he realized he had secretly hoped for. He knew his guilt was plain on his features, and so he vowed never to return to Skyrim. He told her this, confessing all to her, and urged her to return without him. Maeganna, however, also felt grief. She, too, was unable to face their friend, the man she loved. She told Ulgaarth she couldn't return to Skyrim, knowing she had failed to remain hiding within the chest, and in doing so had not only endangered her life, but also caused the death of her unborn child. She vowed her own self-imposed exile, and together they traveled even further into Cyrodiil where the Imperials were not looking for her.

"Their life was difficult. Maeganna had to earn coin for them both, as Ulgaarth could barely walk much less earn a living. She worked as a servant at an inn, while he begged on the streets. Neither one found Cyrodiil sympathetic to two destitute Nords. In their shared guilt and grief and exile, they found common ground. Eventually, the little affection she felt towards him grew into something more and, after years of being together, Maeganna found herself with child again. Then I was born.

"The rest I told you earlier," Gerhild paused to take another sip of wine. "Mother died when I was five, and Father grew deathly ill shortly before I turned seventeen. I promised him I would deliver his message. So, here I am."

The ending was so abrupt, Ulfric found himself unable to speak for several moments. Gerhild didn't say anything else, as she had said all there was to say. She had purposefully left out the name of the man who loved Maeganna, in case Ulfric decided to distance himself from the whole ugly affair. Given his actions regarding Ralof, she fully expected him to do so. Yet the fact that she was alive and sitting there only compounded his grief and anger. When he finally spoke, his tone showed the strength of his emotions, cracking with enough force to almost make the words unintelligible. "I cannot thank you for delivering this message… not this… not now… not when I look at you and know…" He had to stop and turn away, staring at the flickering fire as he tried to make his thoughts coherent. "Leave me!"

She didn't speak, but stood and curtsied to him, even though he couldn't see her. She turned to leave, but found her way blocked by Galmar. She had thought Jorleif, her heretofore unlooked-for ally would be there to take her arm, but the General was the one who silently waited to escort her from the room. Laying her hand gently upon his scarred forearm, they walked swiftly through the door, the only sound the rustling of her dress.

Once the door closed behind them, Galmar took her towards a corner of the main hall, motioning Ralof to stay away. "I am surprised, General Galmar," she started before he could, "I had thought you would be the one to stay with Jarl Ulfric, to share his grief." Galmar shook his grizzled gray head, letting out a tired sigh. "Ah, no, Lady Gerhild, Jorleif is better suited for that job this time. I would only drive him to more drink and more anger. Jorleif, with his gentle soul and practical manner, will keep him sane tonight. Besides," he sniffed, "I have my own grief to deal with. Ulgaarth was my friend as well, and Maeganna."

She nodded her acquiescence.

"You should stay in your room, out of his sight, until you're sent for," Galmar continued. "Better yet, if you have business in the city, conduct it. Just stay out of his way for the rest of today and tomorrow."

"I understand," she nodded again.

Galmar now called to Ralof, who came up to them expectant and anxious. "Lady Gerhild has some business to conduct, at the Candlehearth Hall, I believe. Go with her, see to her safety."

"Yes, General Galmar."

"I'll see you tomorrow, in your room," he added, patting her hand before stepping away.

Ralof watched him go, his eyes a little wide and wild, before turning back to Gerhild. "Are you alright?"

"I am fine," she answered emotionlessly. "But you are not."

"What?" he asked, wondering how he could have gotten into trouble again when he wasn't even in the room.

"I kept my promise," she reminded him. "I came to Windhelm before the end of the year. But you have yet to keep your promise, and share an ale with me."

Ralof almost sagged with relief, thinking he was being teased. "Lady Gerhild, I should put you over my knee and spank you for scaring me like that," he paused to laugh, "But then I'd have to beat myself up for harming you. Come on, let's get that ale. And you can tell me all you have been up to since we parted in Riverwood."

"That," she sighed, "Is a long story. I don't think you could afford enough ale to hear it all." Again she was being serious, but Ralof's hearty laughter made her reconsider how her words might be misconstrued. It was no longer easy for her to feel things like humor, ever since she had deadened her heart, but that didn't mean others wouldn't see humor in her words. She would have to be more careful in the future what she said and to whom, but for now Ralof was safe enough should she make any mistakes. She matched her pace to his and together as friends they left for the inn. 

The city of Windhelm was never called hospitable. Gerhild remembered reading somewhere that it was the coldest city in Skyrim. In retrospect, she supposed it would have been better to spend the winter in a different hold, such as Falkreath far to the southwest. Even Riften would have been warmer, and the thieves rumored to infest the place wouldn't have inhibited her decision. Thieving was one kind of living she understood, having made her way in the world employing many of those techniques, sneaking, picking locks and picking pockets, and all sorts of underhanded acts.

She was not in Riften, however, nor Falkreath nor even Markarth. She was in Windhelm, walking down the dark stone street, wondering absently which was colder, the weather or the people.

"You're lost again, Lady Gerhild," Ralof's voice admonished from her elbow. She lifted one delicate eyebrow at his comment. "Your mind is wandering. I've been talking to you about stopping by Sadri's Used Wares to see about those boots you like so much. You remember, the pair dyed a dark green. But we've already passed the last street that would have taken us there."

She sighed, stopping to look back the way they had come. "I suppose…" she hesitated, not sure what she wanted to say, or if she merely felt obligated to respond to his attempt at conversation. "I'm sorry, Ralof," she decided for the honest truth. "I'm not much in the mood for shopping today."

"Or conversation," he acknowledged, falling into step beside her once more. It was pleasant, walking with Gerhild, but also risky. He could feel in his heart just how easy it would be to fall for her, and how futile. Her heart was dead—he had seen it happen, sat across from her and watched her stop her heart before the headsman got a chance to do it. And he had yet to find a way to make her want to live again. "What is weighing on your mind so much? That is, if you don't mind my asking."

"This city," she looked up at the imposing stones as she continued, "It is so dark, so cold." She paused almost as if suppressing a shudder. "I do not like it here."

"I can understand," he allowed, "But Windhelm is better for having you, these past few months. And…" he could only curse himself for trying again, "So am I."

"I would think you would have been better had you never met me," she countered.

"I meant," he stopped and took her hand, "Your arrival kept me from losing my life. And it's been very pleasant to keep your company."

She simply stared at him, not sure what he meant by those words. At first she thought he was being polite, as she was not so much the cause of his salvation, as she had been the cause of his incarceration. Yet the second comment, that he found her companionship pleasant, gave her the longer pause. She wondered what he could mean by it, if he meant anything by it at all. Thinking her own way through it, she supposed she found his companionship pleasant as well, but she had no desire for anything beyond friendship. Not that he was talking about anything other than friendship, but if he had…

"You're doing it again," he chastised softly. "Where do you go, when your thoughts run so deep?"

She shrugged, resuming her steps back to the Palace of the Kings. She meant to drop his hand, but his fingers kept hold of hers. "I like to think, to reason through matters before acting rashly. True, there are times when action is more advantageous to thinking, but when I have the time, I like to consider matters, even matters that have passed and are no longer relevant. Sometimes, something occurs to me that hadn't at the time, and might be relevant at some future date to another matter. Then in the future, when that matter occurs, I can recall what I have already considered and not have to take the time to think."

Ralof blinked at her. "Truly, Lady Gerhild, I do not think anyone could follow your reasoning."

They had just passed inside, and she looked up at him while waiting for her eyes to adjust to the even dimmer interior. "Are you teasing me, or complimenting me?"

"Does it matter?" As she thought about his question, his shoulders began to shake with suppressed mirth.

"Ah, teasing," she concluded. She turned away from him then, meaning to look for a quiet way through the shadows to the stairway that would lead to her room. She noticed Ulfric on his throne, deep in conversation with Galmar about the war. She slid into the darkness along the wall, but when the two men moved away from the throne, carrying their conversation into the war room, she found herself following. She should have taken the opportunity to reach the stairs and disappear, but instead her steps took her closer to the two men.

Ralof plucked her sleeve, but she shrugged him off. "Lady Gerhild," he hissed quietly, "What are you doing?"

She was stopped by his words. Truthfully, she had to admit she was sneaking, creeping silently from shadow to shadow, so she could eavesdrop on Ulfric's conversation. Ralof's question, however, made her consider the deeper motives of her actions. She turned her head just far enough to send her clear voice back to him, "I'm tired, Ralof. I'm tired of hiding. Tired of marking time. Tired of having nothing to do. If Ulfric would speak with me, then let us speak. Otherwise, I have business elsewhere."

She stepped forward from the shadows then, squaring her shoulders and almost marching towards the doorway the two men had entered. Their voices were carrying, however, and soon she realized they were returning to the main hall. She stopped at a respectable distance and waited.

Ulfric seemed to be in the middle of a heated discussion with Galmar, though not at odds with his General. To Gerhild he seemed to be frustrated, or even in need of reassurance, that the Civil War was the right course of action. His words seemed to plead with Galmar to feel the same way about the necessity of war as he felt. Galmar, however, was a soldier through and through, his responses those of obedience to orders, and leave the motives behind those orders to better men.

"…I fight so that all the fighting I've already done hasn't been for nothing! I fight, because I must!" Ulfric retook his seat, pounding his fist on the stone throne in his desperation for someone—anyone—to understand him. He lifted his eyes, looking around the hall to see who there could comprehend. Gerhild held herself stiff and formal, locking her eyes with his when his gaze fell across her form. "Gerhild," he called to her, sounding relieved and resigned at the same time. "Approach."

And just as suddenly his conversation with Galmar ended. She felt no qualms about this, as a look of relief crossed Galmar's features, and she supposed he would rather not discuss such matters with his Jarl. Not that he was a simple man, but his expertise did not extend to politics.

Ralof followed her obediently as she progressed to the throne, standing behind and to the side as she dropped into her graceful curtsy. "Jarl Ulfric," she acknowledged, having caught the fact that he had addressed her without a title, but not sure what that might mean. If he no longer thought of her as deserving of the title, she didn't care; it had never been earned in the first place.

"I have been trying to decide what to do with you," he admitted, his deep voice softening in volume so that it no longer carried the length and breadth of the hall. "We have no kinship," she thought she heard regret in his voice, "So I have no authority over your person. Yet you are an orphan, and alone in the world, without a family or a home or a source of income. When I first met you, I addressed you with the title of Battle-Maiden, in honor of your mother. Maeganna was a skillful warrior, and a trusted friend and advisor. However, this is your mother's title, not your own. You have not sworn fealty to me or to a unified Skyrim independent of the Empire. Nor do you have any standing within the Stormcloak army, proven either in training or in battle. Furthermore, you have not earned a title…"

"She has a title," Ralof's voice sounded from behind her shoulder, perhaps a little louder than he intended. "One she earned on her own merit."

For the first time in months, a strong emotion showed on Gerhild's face. However, Jorleif was the only one who noted the surprise as the other two men were distracted by Ralof's statement. "Stand down, soldier," Galmar barked, but Ulfric signaled him to be silent.

"Explain what you mean, Captain Ralof," he commanded, his voice dangerously low. He stressed the title, no doubt as a reminder to Ralof about the tenuous nature of his position.

He meant to step forward and speak in her defense, and in retrospect it might have been wiser to allow him to do so, but she stopped him with the back of her hand against his chest. She was once more in command of her emotions, and determined to speak for herself. "It is true," she admitted. "I am a Thane of Whiterun. I have even purchased a house there, and have a housecarl to look after my property."

"How…?" Ulfric wanted to say more, to specifically question her regarding exactly how she acquired this title, but his words were stopped by his shock. She seemed to understand his confusion, however, and readily filled in the details of her unusual rise to power. She started with her arrival in Whiterun and delivering the message from Riverwood. She continued with the errand she was asked to do for the court wizard, Farengar, at Bleak Falls Barrow. Finally she ended with the dragon that was killed at Western Watchtower, and how Jarl Balgruuf was so impressed by her that he made her a Thane and allowed her to purchase property in his hold.

She included several details, such as how she did a favor for the blacksmith that not only allowed her entrance into Dragonsreach, but also allowed an opportunity for her to speak with Jarl Balgruuf. Other details were conspicuously absent, such as the Word Wall she found in the barrow, or the strange way she had absorbed the dragon's soul. She hadn't shared these more personal experiences with Ralof either, but somehow Ulfric sensed she was holding back.

Luckily he didn't wish to make an issue of it where others could hear. Already several guards had crept closer, listening intently to her tale, not a few of them giving low whistles of admiration. "Come with me, Gerhild," he stepped down from his throne, "We need to speak in private once more."

When the other three men made to follow, she noticed that Ulfric made no effort to discourage them this time. She swallowed, feeling nervous like she did when she was little and had tried to hide some sort of minor misdemeanor from her father. He had always seen through her efforts at concealment, though eventually she could persuade him to let her off with a stern warning. Focusing her attention, she prepared to do the same with Ulfric.

Once the door closed, Ulfric took her hand and held her gaze steadily. "What else has happened?"

Gerhild fought the urge to sigh; there would be no successful persuasion with this man. "What do you mean, exactly," she still tried to hedge. "Do you wish for a full account of all my time, from Riverwood to Windhelm? That is four months of my life, and would take almost as long to fully recount."

"Just the important matters," he clarified, brushing aside her feeble dodge. "As you said, four months had passed before you reached Windhelm. A short trip into a barrow couldn't have lasted more than a week, if you walked slowly. The dragon was no doubt dispatched in a day. Have you been sitting on your hands in Whiterun, just marking time, until you belatedly remembered your promise to meet Ralof here? I had thought, considering the ferocity of your defense of his character, that you cared more for him than that."

Gerhild was in awe over the trap he set for her, and studied his technique even as she reluctantly gave in to his authority. "Very well. I didn't wish to share this, as it is something I have yet to truly understand. But I will tell you what else has happened to me. You can decide whether to believe or not, but know that I shall continue to affirm I am speaking the truth. And it was you who asked; I never wished to put this forward.

"While in Bleak Falls Barrow, near where I found the Draugr Overlord with the Dragon Stone, there was a strange wall. I learned later it is a Word Wall, with writing on it using a harshly written, almost scratch-like alphabet. As I approached the wall," she paused, searching for the right words, "I could hear voices quietly whispering, but I couldn't make out what they were saying. When I was close enough, the voices became clear and I understood. Though they were speaking in the language of the dragons, I knew what they were saying. After stepping away, I no longer heard the voices nor could I remember the language, except for one word… a Thu'um.

"Later on when the dragon was defeated, another strange event happened. Something… some sort of visible wind left the body of the dragon, and passed into me. One of the Whiterun guards said it was the dragon's soul, and asked me if I was Dragonborn. Other guards scoffed, and I did as well, but the one guard asked me to try Shouting. And I did. I spoke the Thu'um I had learned in Bleak Falls Barrow, and an unrelenting force issued from me, staggering a guard. Though most of the guards remained skeptical, they did show me a little more respect than they had before. After all, Shouting does not prove one to be Dragonborn."

There might have been a twinkle in her eye, as if she was referencing Ulfric's ability to Shout. No one commented, however, as they were all mesmerized by her story. "Upon my return to Whiterun, there was a strange sort of call, like distant thunder from a cloudless sky, that rolled over the city, and some sort of name could be heard within it. At Dragonsreach the Jarl's housecarl, Irileth, reported on the defeat of the dragon and my attempt at Shouting. Jarl Balgruuf then commented on the strange thunder, explaining to me it was from the Greybeards at High Hrothgar, that they were summoning me to them. That's when he gave me the title of Thane, and encouraged me to answer the call. Which I did."

She paused again, wishing for another glass of wine for her parched throat. She didn't like to speak for so long, but it appeared she had not quite finished her tale to their satisfaction. Swallowing, she continued. "That's where I spent most of those four months, studying with the Greybeards, learning to Shout. I had to leave finally, to keep my promise to Ralof, but also I was given one final task by the Greybeards. I have been waiting here in Windhelm for two months, but if you have no need of me, then I shall leave to accomplish my assigned task before returning to High Hrothgar."

Ulfric held her hand, as if to assure himself that she was corporal. She held his gaze calmly and steadily, however, and this alone assured him that she was speaking the truth. Still he had to give voice to his doubts, if only to give her the chance to gainsay them. "It is hard to believe that a mere slip of a girl could do these things. You are only seventeen…"

"The Jarl didn't ask my age. He only asked that I retrieve the Dragon Stone."

"But to have killed a dragon…"

"My father taught me how to fight, ever since I could pick up a war axe. And you know from myself and Ralof how well I fought through Helgen Keep."

"You are too young to have such wisdom, such understanding of politics and strategies…"

"Excuse me," Jorleif coughed as he stepped forward. "Jarl Ulfric, I can personally attest to Lady Gerhild's abilities in this area. You will recall the murders we had here in Windhelm, the Butcher I believed the citizens called him. Lady Gerhild offered to help with the investigation, due to the guards being stretched thin between bandit raids and the Civil War. It was mostly through her efforts that the identity of the murderer was discovered. And," he turned to bow to her, "She was able to kill him as he was about to claim another victim in the Marketplace. Without her reasoning abilities, we would still be looking for this murderer, who might have killed two or three more times by now."

She acknowledged his recognition of her intelligence, as well as his continued use of her title, with a small inclination of her head. Though she didn't turn to look, she was sure Ralof, who had been with her every step of the investigation, was also giving motion to his agreement.

Ulfric, however, was unable to give in. "Though I do not doubt you or your abilities any longer, Gerhild, I still cannot offer you a title here in Windhelm, no matter that you caught one criminal. I could, however, offer you the chance to earn a title." He let go of her hand, pulling back to look down on her, as if he was still sitting on his throne. "I want you to join my army and show your skills in battle. Prove yourself, and I will make you an officer, and give you the title and respect that comes with it."

Gerhild didn't speak right away; in fact, no one did. She wanted him to think she was giving it serious consideration, even though she had already come to her conclusion earlier. "I appreciate the opportunity, Jarl Ulfric, and I will accept it if this is your wish. But I do not wish to become a Stormcloak officer. I can fight, and have shown no qualms over the taking of a life, whether animal or man, but this is not where my highest skills lie. If it pleases you, I would return to High Hrothgar and continue my education in the Way of the Voice."

"So, you have no desire to become a citizen of Skyrim?"

He sounded angry, and she calmly moved to diffuse the situation. "I am already a citizen, by way of my Thaneship in Whiterun. Though I do desire to claim Windhelm as my home, as my parents once did, and will join your army if you insist, I do not believe this would be the best use of my abilities."

He took a deep breath before harshly asking, "And what would you consider to be a good use of your abilities? Secluding yourself away on the Throat of the World?" He scoffed, waving her away as if in dismissal, "You are still a child, despite all you've accomplished. You run to your room and hide under your bed when you should be doing your chores. Go on, Gerhild, and return to the old men. Teach them to play with blocks as they teach you to speak. You are nothing more than an infant."

She waited, feeling the bite behind his words but refusing to acknowledge it. He was trying to make her cry, to make her change her mind and beg to be allowed to become a Stormcloak. It was a clumsy attempt, and it seemed that his skill at manipulation was not at all what she thought it to be.

The sound of her laughter pealed through the room like tiny bells. 

Gerhild's laughter didn't sound derisive or forced, but it was feigned, the humor never reaching her dead violet eyes. She toned the laughter carefully, making sure it sounded amused enough to be just short of contagious. Her unexpected reaction to Ulfric's scolding had the desired effect. All four men stared at her with different expressions: Ralof with fear, Jorleif with shock, Galmar with indignation, and Ulfric with a cool and calculating look. She got control of herself with a little hiccough, but continued to smile as she said, "I think we've done enough posturing, Jarl Ulfric. Let us speak plainly to each other. Truly, do you wish me to join your army?"

He sighed, and the other men looked to him in shock. "No. Though I have confidence in Ulgaarth's training, and no doubt you've inherited more than your looks from Maeganna, I would be a poor friend to them if I let their only daughter die in battle. I had to test you, however."

She hummed noncommittally, sensing that all the pretending was over and that they could finally be open and honest towards each other. "Now that we're speaking freely, there is something that's been puzzling me for these past several months."

"What is it?"

"The number of Stormcloaks in Helgen." She tilted her head as she recalled the day she almost died. "There were only three carts of prisoners, four in each cart, making a total of twelve heading for their execution, or eight besides those in our cart. When the dragon attacked, there were at least that many Stormcloaks battling with you in the town. And Ralof and I came across a few more as we made our way through the Keep. What I want to know is, where did the extra come from? Did you weave them out of the air? Or were they in hiding, waiting for some signal from you, perhaps to ambush General Tullius?"

He nodded. "You are very astute." He motioned her to take a seat by the fire, claiming the chair beside hers and offering her some wine. "I learned about the ambush set up for me along the route to Darkwater Crossing, and that General Tullius would be there in person to see me captured. I thought to turn his own ambush against him."

"Ah, so you allowed yourself to be captured, with most of your forces hiding in the woods, following behind the carts all the way to Helgen. No doubt at some prearranged signal from you, your soldiers would break into Helgen and rescue you, kill General Tullius, and may I presume Elenwen as well?"

"You know of her?" Ulfric paused, his cup halfway to his lips.

"Aye," she took a sip before continuing, her eyes falling to the dark red liquid. "Elenwen was there when a Thalmor, Norilar, was… questioning me." She only hesitated a slight amount, but he noticed.

"I see," he answered, his voice sounding sad and deep. "Excuse me, Gerhild, I had forgotten you have also tasted of Thalmor hospitality."

"I believe torture would be the most apt term." She brushed aside his sympathy, squaring her shoulders and lifting her gaze to him once more. "So, why did you allow that first soldier to be executed? How long were you going to wait before signaling to your men? I only ask because I did nearly lose my own head, remember."

"I remember," he nodded, "And I did signal, but my men were as distracted by the strange happenings as the Imperials. By the time they noticed me, you were already kneeling. Then the dragon landed on the tower, attacking Nord and Imperial alike."

They were silent then, each of them lost in their memories of that day, that moment. The others were also silent, Ralof remembering his own fears from that day, and Galmar and Jorleif respecting their needs.

At last Gerhild made a small noise in the back of her throat, setting aside her dark thoughts and focusing on the future. "Enough stalling. There are other matters I must see to, before I return to High Hrothgar. So, let's get this over with." She placed her cup aside on the table and gained her feet, only to drop to one knee before the still seated Jarl. She bowed her head, the perfect picture of supplication, but her clear voice filled the chamber with her strength. "Jarl Ulfric, I do here and now, before these three witnesses, proclaim fealty to you as my Jarl. Though I may have found favor with others, and may find more favor in the future, I place you above them, and my loyalty to you before all others. I offer up all my abilities, for you to use as you see fit, without rancor or grudge, even should it require my life."

Ulfric's eyes narrowed, but though the oath was unschooled, he could find no loophole within it. "I accept. Rise, Gerhild North-Wind, citizen of Windhelm. Sit beside me again; there is more I would discuss with you."

Gracefully she rose from the floor, her red silk skirts rustling softly with her movements. With a gentle flutter in her breast, she realized he had named her a citizen of Windhelm. It was strange for her to think that she now had a home, and no matter what tomorrow would bring, she could always come back here. Sure, she had a house in Whiterun, and a Thaneship, but it wasn't a place that had that secure feeling, a place where she belonged and could always return to, no matter what life threw at her. Now she did, and it seemed appropriate somehow that it was here, the coldest city in Skyrim, that she would call home.

Only when she had straightened up did she look at Ulfric, to find his eyes filled with strong regret and longing. She knew he hadn't forgotten who her mother was, or about that first child Maeganna had carried—Gerhild's older sibling—who would have been his heir. Perhaps he still entertained hopes of claiming her as his own, of adopting her even though there was no blood relation and she was old enough to be considered an adult. Yet he had named her North-Wind, as her father had been named. It was probably more accurate than naming her Battle-Maiden for her mother; though she could fight, she preferred to find a way around prolonged battles. And she did like to speak her mind, truthfully and honestly, for which Ulgaarth had been known. When the situation called for it, however, she could speak with honeyed-words as well as any bard.

Jorleif's gentle cough behind her broke her out of her ruminations. Blinking she brought her vision back into focus to see Ulfric before her. The pained expression was gone from his features, and he was gesturing to the chair beside him meaningfully. Realizing she had let her mind wander again, as Ralof had been admonishing her earlier, she dropped her gaze demurely and retook her seat. As she picked up her goblet, he got down to business.

"Tell me, Lady Gerhild, what do you think of Jarl Balgruuf?"

For the second time that day, Gerhild was surprised. This time, however, she was able to limit her reaction to one delicately raised eyebrow. "What do I think of Jarl Balgruuf?" She repeated Ulfric's question, so maybe she was showing more surprised than she intended. Thankfully Ulfric didn't see the need to point this out to her, allowing her some leeway. She brushed aside the abrupt change of topic and concentrated on giving a clear answer. She reflected on the Jarl of Whiterun, what she remembered of him and his actions, before she answered. "Balgruuf considers himself a strong man, a true Nord, but also a true son of Skyrim. And since Skyrim has been a part of the Empire in years past, he has considered it his duty to remain loyal to the Empire. Now, however, there is war, a Civil War, and he sits on the fence, unwilling to pick a side lest he choose poorly.

"Yet he proclaims this neutrality with a false voice, as there are Imperial troops within his hold, within his city, even within his palace. There is a Legate residing at Dragonsreach just a few doors down from his own chambers." She shook her head, "No, he is not neutral. And should this be put to the test—should you send a message to him worded with intimidation, for instance, he would quickly call to Solitude for Imperial reinforcements. I am convinced Balgruuf is only waiting for you to make a move or a threat against him, like you did with High King Torygg. Not so that he could be martyred—his desire for self-preservation is quite strong—but so that he would have an excuse to side with the Empire."

"You do not think I could convince him to side with me?" Ulfric leaned forward, curious about her impressions on the man he himself barely knew.

"No," she shook her head sadly, "He won't do that. No matter what promises or assurances you give, no matter what bribe or assistance you offer, no matter what honor or other Nord quality you invoke, Balgruuf will never agree to join you. More so, he would claim that he fears a reprisal from you after this rejection, and use that fear as an excuse to seek Imperial aid."

Ulfric leaned back in his chair, his brow furrowed as he considered her words. "I do not agree with you," he intoned with his deep voice, "But that does not mean that I do not value your opinion. You have a unique insight in this type of matter, and I would wish to use you further."

"You would have me return to Whiterun," she assumed, "And sound him out on another matter?"

"No, I would have you go to other Holds, the ones the Imperials control, and gain the trust and confidence of the Jarls there, as you did in Whiterun. I would have you discover their motives, their weaknesses, the number and strength of Imperials stationed within their Holds, and report all this to me."

"Ah," she sighed, setting aside her half-finished cup, "You would have me spy for you. No doubt I should also find those who are sympathetic to our cause." At his nod, she gave a short bow. "As you command, my Jarl. Oh, in Whiterun, if you wish to know those who would be loyal to you, seek out Clan Gray-Mane. Stay away from the Battle-Born family; they are as Imperial as General Tullius despite being born and bred in Whiterun. Now, which Hold would you like me to infiltrate first?"

Ulfric smiled a little, glad that she showed initiative while living in Whiterun, as he answered, "Markarth."

She didn't smile, but she did think it somewhat appropriate. She would have assumed he would start her off in either Falkreath or Morthal, one of the lesser Holds that were closer to the border between the contended territories. Yet he picked Markarth where, in a manner of speaking, this whole mess started. Aye, it was appropriate, and she nodded her acceptance. "Markarth it is."

Chapter Text

2nd of First Seed: 4E 202

Vorstag was standing—dancing actually with a cup in one hand—to the song that Ogmund was singing, when she walked into the Silver-Blood Inn. All eyes turned to her, much to Ogmund's displeasure, noticing she was a stranger to the city. He went on for a few more bars, distracted as everyone else, until she took a seat at the counter. Then he coughed, caught Vorstag's eye and finished the verse.

Vorstag wasn't overly interested in the stranger at first, finishing his dancing as Ogmund finished singing. It was a different matter afterwards. He clapped the loudest and retook his seat by the fire, but he was watching the stranger out of the corner of his eye.

"What do you think?" Ogmund asked, sitting beside him and picking up his tankard. He finished the last two swallows as Frabbi brought him a fresh one, payment for his song.

"About your singing?" he asked innocently, his voice echoing inside his mug.

Ogmund laughed a little too loud, his words a little too slurred for the time of night. His one good eye shone with innuendo as he corrected, "No, about the stranger at the bar. The woman. Cute little thing with light brown hair."

Vorstag shrugged his broad shoulders, taking another swig of his drink. "Don't much care for her," he admitted, wondering in the back of his mind if Ogmund would ever stop throwing women at him. It was almost embarrassing sometimes, the way he kept insisting Vorstag find someone—some woman, that is—to share his bed. Not wanting to admit to any interest in the woman as a bedchamber playmate, he nevertheless glanced over his shoulder obligingly as he elaborated, "She looks like a Nord, and walks like a trained warrior, but she acts like an Imperial, ya know, like she's superior to those around her. 'Scuse me." He stood up, thinking to put a little distance between himself and Ogmund's plots, and took his mug with him. "I'm going for more. Do you want anything?"

Ogmund gave him a knowing wink and smirk, thinking he was going up there to try his charm on the pretty young woman, but shook his head negatively. Vorstag pretended he wasn't close to the truth, and walked up to the counter around the corner from the stranger to eavesdrop on her conversation. "I'm just traveling through," the young woman was saying. "But I'll need to rent a room for while I'm here. The largest, most expensive room you have available."

"Of course, sweet thing, of course," Frabbi was practically fawning over her, thinking of the money she could charge.

"Kleppr, another drink," Vorstag pounded his tankard on the countertop.

The tavern keeper harrumphed but grabbed a clean tankard.

"I'll be staying here for at least a month," the stranger was saying, talking animatedly with Frabbi, as they walked away from the counter. "And could you have some dinner sent to my room? I've been traveling for a long time and am simply famished."

"Five septims," Kleppr droned, and Vorstag handed over the coin.

"Who's the girl?" he asked, now that he had Kleppr's attention and the women had moved away.

"Don't know, really," he shrugged, "Other than a traveler looking to purchase jewelry. Said her name was Margret, or something like that. Doesn't look like she'll need your services, at least not until she's ready to leave Markarth. Traveling with expensive jewelry, she might be persuaded to hire some protection."

Vorstag acted taken aback, a put-on expression that didn't fool Kleppr. "That's not why I was asking," he leaned forward, his expression changing into a conspiratorial smile, "But thanks anyway. If you have a chance to mention to her, before she leaves Markarth, how dangerous the roads are, and that I have plenty of experience working as a sellsword…"

"Aye, aye," Kleppr acknowledged lazily before turning away. "Hey, Cosnach, you remember what I said. Show me the coin before you get any more ale."

"I've got the coin," the Breton whined, "But it's all the way back in the Warrens. Can't you let me have one ale, to shore up my stamina for the long walk there and back?"

"No coin, no ale."

Vorstag tuned out Cosnach's money problems. He wasn't the only one feeling the economic pinch of a country drowning in a Civil War. Vorstag actually felt somewhat guilty, still with plenty of his own coin and hoarding it jealously, but he knew he would eventually feel the pinch like everyone else. He tried to help where he could, like not grumbling about the raised prices for food and lodging, and sending one or two small jobs Cosnach's way—he really didn't like beating up cheating husbands. But he knew his fortune wouldn't last forever, and soon he would have to find a new employer.

He furrowed his brows as he considered this stranger to Markarth and what opportunities may arise from her visit. A job from a woman always involved those silly emotions they seemed to constantly ooze. Margret, however, would be too tempting to pass up; a rich young girl with expensive jewelry traveling who knows where. Even though she was a woman, and he hated taking jobs from women, he was pretty sure he could manage to act as a bodyguard for one. And it probably wouldn't be too strenuous, as she looked as if she could handle herself in a fight. Aye, protecting her while she traveled would be the kind of job he liked, easy and pricey.

Feeling good about himself and his prospective contract with an employer he hadn't even said hello to, he practically strutted back towards the fire. "Let's have another song," he said, taking his seat once more.

"No more tonight," Ogmund shook his head, "Or I won't be able to walk home."

"You live just across the street," Vorstag countered, pouting a little. He had been hoping for a song to take his mind off of Margret, and the fact that he'd have to wait a month before she'd be ready to hire him.

"Aye, but here in Markarth, there are streets and houses built on top of streets and houses. My house is within spitting distance, but to get there I have to cross a river, climb up a steep street, then a flight of snares, then another stoop sweet back the way I've come. I can't do that aster fix gales."

"That's only your fifth," he pointed out, trying to ignore the slurred speech and messed up words.

"Exactly," Ogmund gestured with his mug. "You understand me perfectly, Vorstag. Such a good boy." He patted his cheek and made kissy faces at him like he was still a child.

"Enough!" he shook the hand off, but he was laughing, not insulted, seeing as Ogmund was too far gone in his cups to realize what he was doing. "Very well, old man, go home and get your sleep. I'll see you tomorrow."

The skald made to stand, but must have thought better of it. Instead he leaned closer to Vorstag and breathed into his ear, "Vorstag, my boy, if anything were to happen to me," he swallowed, his words clearing slightly, "I've named you my heir. You get everything, my home, my gold, my lute… everything."

He looked at the old man's watering eyes. "Nothing's going to happen to you, Ogmund. You're just drunk. Go home and sleep it off."

"Something could," Ogmund looked around the inn, as if searching for enemies. "Something could… I know that the Thalmor Justiciar has it in for me. If he succeeds… well… don't shed tears over an old man. That's all I'm saying. Don't let yourself get sent to Cidhna Mine on my account."

Vorstag looked surprised, stunned into silence for several seconds as he thought about all Ogmund had said. The old man had to be deep in his cups to be acting so paranoid. Finally shaking off the shock, he downed his whole tankard before standing up. "That's it. You're drunk. Even for a Nord. Come on, stand up, easy now, let me get my arm under you. I'll walk you home, Ogmund, come on, this way."

Arms around each other, the two Nords left the warm inn for the cool night. Winter was nearly over, and spring had already made several attempts to soften the harsh mountain city. Vorstag still had to suppress a shudder, however, though he didn't try to contemplate whether it was from the change in temperature, or the change in Ogmund.

A week later Margret made an even more dramatic entry into the Silver-Blood Inn. Vorstag was ensconced in his usual seat, listening to one of Ogmund's many tales, his tankard forgotten at his elbow despite his having heard the story countless times before. When the door to the street opened, he didn't look up. But when the sounds reached his ears, he found his head turning to see who could be crying so loudly. It was Margret, with a small rip in her dress and splatters of blood down her bodice. She was shaking as she lurched to the counter, one hand reaching hopelessly to grasp it.

Frabbi was there in the next moment, hushing her and trying to soothe her while keeping the blood from staining her own dress. "My dear, my dear, what happened? Are you hurt? No? Hush now, come sit down. No, let's go to your room, more private. Kleppr, get the Alto Wine. Poor dear's been through a fright."

"What happened?" their daughter, Hroki, was asking as she followed the two with the dark green bottle Kleppr had passed to her.

"Don't know," Frabbi answered, "Won't know until she quiets down. Let's get her to her room, away from these gossiping old women."

Vorstag smiled to himself at that comment, allowing that he liked a juicy piece of gossip, but would never admit to it publicly. He sighed and settled back into his chair, resigned to the fact that it would be awhile before he'd hear what had happened. He didn't have long to wait that long, however, as Cosnach came into the inn a short time later. He stumbled up to the bar, much as Margret had done, only his aim was better.

"Did you hear?" he practically gasped, his legs a bit shaky as he straddled the stool. "There was almost a murder. Right out front in the marketplace."

"What happened?" Kleppr asked, curious despite himself.

Cosnach's mouth opened and hung there in space for a few moments, his eyes suddenly turning calculating when he saw Kleppr had leaned forward expectantly. Slowly his mouth closed until a smile could form. "I'll tell you, for a tankard of ale." Kleppr scowled, but seeing how many in the inn would be hanging on Cosnach's every word, and it could be some time before Margret could be persuaded to tell them, he reluctantly filled a tankard for the Breton. He took a deep drink, his larynx bobbing as he swallowed, before he finally began the story.

"It should have been frightening, but it was over so quick, no one had time to be scared. Except Margret, of course, poor thing standing right in front of him when his blood sprayed everywhere."

"Whose blood?"

"Ah, wait," his expression grew sly as he realized he was the center of attention. He decided to milk it for all it was worth. "I'm getting ahead of myself. Let me start at the beginning. I was climbing up the street, thinking of coming in here for a tankard or two, when I saw Weylin standing near the meat stall in the marketplace. I was about to call out to him thinking he'd like to join me…"

"Or pay for a round," Ogmund heckled, only slightly miffed that Cosnach had stolen everyone's attention. There were a few stifled laughs, but they were quickly extinguished in favor of listening to the story.

"…when the city doors opened and a stranger walked into Markarth." Cosnach did his best to ignore the jibe, which wasn't too hard when he noticed everyone was looking at him and not the bard. He took a swallow and continued. "Didn't have much time to look at her, though, because just then Weylin took out a knife and lunged at Margret. She screamed, and the stranger stepped up and grabbed hold of his arm. When he tried to stab her next, she spun him around and slit his throat with his own knife, just as cool as you please."

"Wait, who slit whose throat?" Degaine slurred, interested even through the fog of mead in his head.

"The stranger slit Weylin's throat. Stranger's a woman. Average height. Dressed in armor and looks like she's been traveling quite a ways. So, this stranger slits Weylin's throat, and saves Margret, but the guards are all upset. They started yelling at her, the stranger that is, threatening to throw her into Cidhna Mine if she didn't keep her nose out of what wasn't her business. Margret, of course, runs away to hide in here, but I'm sure the guards won't want to question her. Seems the stranger was handling matters by herself well enough." He finished off the last of his mead and eyed it hopefully. "I don't suppose…"

"One tankard for one story," Kleppr shook his head. "The next tankard you have to pay for. Up front."

"What did this stranger look like?" Ogmund asked, "Other than a woman."

"I don't know," Cosnach shrugged, tilting his empty mug suggestively. Ogmund took the required coin out of his pouch, but hefted the coins in the palm of his hand, waiting for Cosnach's description first. He licked his lips, eyeing the coin, and tried his best to describe her, "She was, well, nicely shaped, with curves and that, and wearing a sort of leather armor that showed her nice shape. It seemed full of pouches and pockets and knives…"

"What about her face?" Ogmund interrupted, now fondling the coins between his fingertips, "Her eyes, hair, nose, anything?"

Cosnach opened and closed his mouth, looking like a fish, before he finally found the words to answer. "Well, it happened so fast, and Margret was crying, and I didn't want to get too close in case the guards thought I was involved, too, so I didn't see too much of her face. But her form is heavenly."

Laughter greeted his statement, and his face burned as he realized he wouldn't be getting a drink out of Ogmund. Everyone turned back to his or her own business, Vorstag and Ogmund returning to the fire. He was still chuckling at Cosnach's inadequate observational skills as he mused, "I wonder why Weylin would want to kill Margret?" He sounded more concerned for Margret's well being than upset over Weylin's death.

"I don't know," Ogmund answered, "But I don't think I want to know. If the guards are upset that this stranger saved Margret's life…"

"They're only upset because she was doing their job, preventing a murder. I mean, it's not like the guards wanted Weylin to kill Margret, right?" As soon as the words were out of his mouth, a lead weight descended into his guts. He saw now that Ogmund felt it too, that there was something not right about this affair. Yet again since his return to Markarth, he got too close of a look at the city's murky politics, first with the Thalmor Justiciar and his mysterious job, then with this murder in the marketplace. He looked around, fearful that someone had overheard his comment and would report him to the guards, but felt relief when he saw no one close enough to hear him.

Kleppr must have sensed the mood change, too, as almost all of his customers were quiet and thoughtful, refusing to make eye contact with one another. "Ogmund," he called out, already filling a mug for the skald, "Let's have a song. Something lively."

Ogmund cleared his throat, standing and picking up his lute. "Aye, Kleppr, for another tankard, I'll sing ye a song. This is one of my favorites. A legend we all know and love…" His voice faded away as he strummed a few chords, checking the tune of his lute as well as warming up his audience.

"Our hero, our hero claims a warrior's heart. I tell you, I tell you the Dragonborn comes!"

Vorstag couldn't help himself, his smile wide and his feet tapping in time to the tune. He loved the song, especially with all the recent talk of dragons returning to Skyrim. He had often played at being Dragonborn when he was a child, running around with his friends, killing imaginary dragons and Shouting Thu'ums to the sky. As he listened he looked around the tavern, and if the smiles on the others' faces were anything to go by, he wasn't the only one with pleasant memories. When Ogmund launched into the second round, he got to his feet, tankard still in hand, and danced to the tune.

The door opened, and a strange woman walked in unnoticed by most everyone in there. She was average height, wearing leather armor that had seen some small amount of use, and a pack that had to share her back with a bow and quiver. Her belt was full as well, sheathing a war axe at her hip and a knife at her waist and various pouches secured tight. The hood of her armor was pulled up, but upon entering the inn she pushed it back to pool around her shoulders.

Vorstag looked up at the movement, and in that instant locked gazes with the deepest violet-colored eyes he had ever beheld. He felt his face flush as his feet stumbled through the next few dance steps, and hoped he was either too far away for her to notice, or if she did that she would think it was due to the mead. Ignoring his body's reaction to the stranger, thankful that his armor couldn't tent, he broke the gaze and refocused on his dance.

Gerhild took her eyes away at the same time, though with a lot less discomfort, her main focus taking in as much of the situation as possible. After a moment she walked calmly up to the counter, a large U-shaped wooden structure in the middle of the main room, and stood not too far away from the bard and his audience. Having been in Markarth for one afternoon, she already found herself embroiled within a delicate situation. She needed information, information only a local could give, and not from Eltrys. It wasn't that she had reason to distrust the man, but he did awkwardly pass her that note asking her to meet him in a forbidden Shrine of Talos, and then proceeded to tell her the story of how his once great family fell on hard times. Though she felt compelled to unravel the mystery around the Forsworn and Markarth and mining, she recognized that his information was skewed, and she needed a fresh and impartial point of view. She'd have to settle for the innkeeper.

The man turned to her as she was about to call out to get his attention, and he gave her the long, slow look as so many Nord men before him. He was far too old for her, however, even if she could make herself feel any interest. "Ah, you must be the stranger," the innkeeper stated, his husky voice almost salivating.

"That would be obvious," she answered, "As I am new to Markarth." She heard someone snicker off to her side. Out of the corner of her eye she saw that it was the man who had been dancing to the bard's tune. Since the music had stopped, he was currently listening in on her conversation, though trying hard not to be obvious about it. Refocusing her attention, she saw the innkeeper's eyes narrow, trying to decide if she was making fun of him. Wishing to befriend the man, she decided to feign exhaustion and offered him a timid smile and batted her eyes. "Excuse me. I find myself a little flustered after all I've been through today. I don't suppose I could order a strong ale, something to clear my head?" She placed the anticipated coins on the countertop.

Immediately his attitude changed. "Of course, milady," he nodded, scooping up the coins before turning to draw the ale. He hesitated when he set the tankard down, leaning forward a little as he added, "I understand there was a nasty occurrence in the marketplace earlier this afternoon. I don't suppose you saw what happened?"

She knew she was being pumped for information, but decided to play along, thinking he'd be more willing to share if she shared first. "Aye," she took the mug from his hands and hefted it thoughtfully; he had under poured the ale, but she wasn't going to comment on it. "That was disturbing. I do hope the poor girl is alright. I think I saw her come in here afterwards…" She took the opportunity to look around, seeing most everyone was watching her closely. She began to get the feeling that Markarth was even colder than Windhelm when it came to unfamiliar faces.

"Aye, aye," Kleppr readily agreed, wiping the counter in front of her as if he was more interested in doing his job than listening to her. "My wife is seeing to her. She's unharmed, though shaken up after being nearly killed. Poor Margret. So, you were the one who saved her?" He gave up all pretenses as he leaned his elbows on the counter right in front of her.

Gerhild had been taking a sip, and had to hurry and swallow before she could answer. "I… well… what else was I to do?" she shrugged, flashing her dimples demurely. She unfastened the top buckle of her armor as if trying to get a little more air. "No sooner had I walked into the city, when I see this crazy-looking man, knife in his hand, screaming something about these 'Forsworn'." She saw his eyes dart around at the word, but when she kept talking he relaxed, "Racing up to this innocent looking girl who must be close to my own age. I didn't even think, just reacted on instinct." She sighed, lifting her bosom and watching his eyes flicker downwards at the movement. Nord men were so easily manipulated. "I know it was very stupid of me, stepping into a fight like that. I really don't know what I was thinking." She watched him nod sagely, going back to absently wiping the countertop. It seemed unusual to her that he wouldn't be more upset over the death of someone he probably knew. Bringing the mug to her lips, she tried to ask nonchalantly, "Did you know this Weylin?"

She realized she had moved too fast, seeing the innkeeper's eyes dart around the room as he pulled back from her. "Oh, I know most everyone in Markarth; I'm sure I must have met him at some point. Enjoy your drink, milady, and let me know if you need anything else." He shuffled off to wipe at an imaginary speck on the opposite side of the counter from her.

Gerhild hid her disappointment, other than a slightly deeper breath she exhaled through her nose. She didn't think he sounded sincere about not knowing Weylin, but she decided not to make an issue of it. At least she had learned the woman's name, and confirmed that she could be found here at the inn. Seeing how touchy the subject of the Forsworn could be, she turned away from the bar and looked around the room for a friendly-seeming face.

She found one, the man she had locked eyes with earlier, and the same one who had snickered at her thoughtless comment. This time she allowed herself a closer look at him, telling herself it was merely to judge his character. He was dressed in scaled armor with matching bracers and boots but no helmet, though an embellishment in the form of a goat skull complete with horns adorned the left spaulder. The armor was in good condition, used but well maintained, lending the assumption that he knew how to take care of himself in a fight. His neck was thick and his limbs, what showed from beneath the armor and the armbands on either bicep, were heavily muscled, attesting to his strength and overall good health. His brown hair, however, was lanky and uneven, and in dire need of a wash and a comb, not so much parted down the middle as simply falling where and how it willed. There were other smudges here and there on his skin, making her wonder when the last time was he had bathed, but what held her fascination was his face. He was not a handsome man, but he was intriguing, with eyes so soft a brown that they made him seem gentle and good-natured. There was a distinctive tattoo on one cheek, a swirling vortex, the top edge of which came to a wedge beneath his right eye that pointed to the bridge of his nose, the tail falling down to end in a little curlicue on the side of his neck. Whether she made up her mind quickly, or went completely on instinct, she made the decision that he would be the man to use.

Vorstag saw her looking at him, and her bold perusal of his body from head to foot, and decided it couldn't hurt to return the stare. Cosnach was right, her form was full and pleasing, though a little under height now that he could determine she was Nord and not Breton. Her face was youthful, however, so there was some hope she might grow a little yet. Her skin was pale and unmarked, by either blemish or dirt, a noticeable contrast to her deep blue eyes. Her dark gold hair was held within a series of tight, meticulous braids, having hardly unraveled beneath her hood. One wayward wisp, however, seemed intent to tickle at her left ear. He watched her as she walked towards him, the slim fingers of her hand brushing the errant strand back behind her ear, and thought again that Cosnach's opinion was correct—she was heavenly. Her graceful movements were a pleasure to watch, and he wondered briefly what about him had attracted such a stunning creature. Then he decided it was foolish to waste time wondering why, when the fact was she was standing right there in front of him.

"Is anyone sitting here?" she asked, her clear voice flowing softly around his ears.

"No," he shook his head in emphasis, thinking Ogmund could find another seat. He didn't notice the skald had already moved off after seeing the way she stared at him.

She paused a moment, the corner of her mouth twitching, as she waited for something. When whatever it was didn't happen, she spoke again, "Then I hope you don't mind if I sit here."

Oh, right, she was asking if she could sit down. Cursing his slow-wits, he gave a quick smile. "Please," he motioned with an open hand, privately elated when his lisp remained minimal. She was showing interest in him, and he was very interested in her if the growing pressure on the underside of his armor was anything to go by. He might even have a chance with her, if he could keep her from making any rash judgments early on, like about his lisp. Looking for something to do, he raised his mug to his lips as she took the empty seat.

She turned towards him, placing her mug on the table between them but holding onto it, her lithe fingers sliding up and down the handle. For the first few moments they simply looked at each other, both of them calculating and strategizing, but with different intentions.

"Do you live here in Markarth?" she asked, checking to see that he knew about the city and wasn't a traveler like herself before she committed to hiring him. She gave him a slight smile, the merest hint of dimples staining her cheeks, starting slowly with her charms.

He was sure she was making small talk with him; that was a good sign. Women liked to talk, so he'd have to answer in a way that led to more conversation. "Aye, when I'm not away on a job." That was good, he thought, let her know he had a particular line of work, something mysterious, and make her ask what it was. His eyes traced her bow-shaped lips before returning to her eyes. He reminded himself that most girls liked it when you looked them in the eye, rather than staring at their bodies. It was hard, but he did his best.

Gerhild's posture was forward and open, the top of her armor undone just far enough to show the creamy skin below her throat, and maybe a hint of the shadow between her breasts. Yet this man refused to take notice of her cleavage, which confused her slightly. A little unclear as to why he seemed so immune to her physical charms, she probed further, "Your work makes you travel?" She flickered her eyes to his biceps and twitched her fingers as if imagining running her hands over his arms. Men were often proud of their physiques, especially those who spent inordinate time honing their skills and toning their muscles, as he appeared to be. Therefore, it was a good idea for her to show interest in him, physically.

The movement wasn't lost on him, and he was glad he had taken the time since his return to exercise his body and practice his skills in his room. Thinking to impress her even more, he used one of his carefully worded descriptions of his line of work, "I'm what you'd call a 'soldier of fortune.' Make me an offer, and I just might fight on your side." He paused to fold his arms over his chest, flexing his muscles unnecessarily as he did so. "Can't be too careful these days, with the war and other dangers."

She smiled wider, her dimples casting delicate shadows in the flickering firelight. He was immediately captivated, and found himself wondering just how much of her curves followed her armor, and how much of her armor followed her curves. He didn't think she'd be willing to just show him; women who wore armor like she did usually knew how to fight and weren't too keen on casual sexual encounters. Unless he managed to prove himself to her. Perhaps she would be impressed after a short brawl, or a little one-on-one session with that axe of hers. Then again, perhaps he should ask her something about herself; women liked that, too, talking about themselves. It was always a challenge, finding that one thing that would open a woman up to the possibility of sharing a bed.

"How much?"

Vorstag blinked, not sure he heard right. For a moment, thanks to the route his thoughts had taken, her question sounded like a price negotiation for a crude tumble. "Beg pardon?"

"You said you are a mercenary, right?" At his nod reluctant nod—he really hated that word—she repeated, "How much do you charge?"

"It depends on the job," he hedged. Then, thinking she was considering hiring him, he tried to distract her with technical jargon. "For instance, working as a guard, I have to charge by the week, and I won't accept partial weeks. Now if there's traveling involved, that's a different rate; I have to figure in distances and possible dangers. Then there are always expenses like food or ammunition or healing potions… It all gets very complicated." He made a dismissing sort of wave, giving her his most charming smile. He still had hopes, if he could get her off the subject of work, of getting to know her personally. He couldn't do such a thing if she hired him; he always felt that would be unethical. This was the first time, however, that his code of conduct would be put to the test.

Gerhild felt the frustration at his evasiveness, thinking he was more interested in bedding her than in working for her, but refused to let her irritation show over the slight miscalculation. She got a sense that this man was a true Nord, as stubborn as they come, and she knew he wouldn't work for her once he made up his mind to pursue her romantically. She had to get him to agree to work for her quickly, if she was to have any success with him. "I only ask because I have a job in mind. It's noting too difficult, and won't be for too long, if that concerns you," she took a deep breath. Her custom-made armor, while protecting her skin, did nothing to protect the shape of her torso from being observed, something which was deliberate. "I merely require an escort during my stay here in Markarth. Someone who knows the city, the people, the local laws and customs. Wouldn't want to say the wrong thing to the wrong person, would I?"

Vorstag sighed when she batted her eyes, but he had to try one last time to escape her employ. "Sounds like you want Cosnach, the Breton at the bar. I've only been back for a few months after being gone for nearly three years. Cosnach hasn't; he knows all the sights, and all the latest gossip. Plus, he's been out of a job for quite some time. He usually works as a porter for the general goods merchant here in town, but business has been slow due to the war, and bandits, and the Forsworn." He realized his damnable lisp had stolen its way into his words, and even worse his skin was heating up from his neck to his forehead. He stopped talking and pressed his lips together in a thin line, hoping to stave off any more embarrassing conversation, and focused on the mug in his hands.

She heard his lisp and the way he blushed after mentioning Cosnach, and began to reconsider why her charms seemed to have no effect on him, or why he had barely taken notice of her body. She wondered if he truly was interested in her, or simply acting that way because he was expected to be interested in pretty women. She also noted the way he stopped suddenly, as if he had said something forbidden. Thinking of how the innkeeper reacted when she talked with him about Weylin and the Forsworn, she began to understand also that the rebels were a taboo subject.

Glancing out of the corner of her eye she saw where Cosnach was still slouching next to the bar. She had taken the measure of him earlier, as he hung around the marketplace after the attempted murder, and did not get a good feeling about him at all. He seemed too… eager, too desperate. No, it would be the Nord beside her, or none at all. She shrugged and made as if to leave him. "Ah, well, if you're not interested in me…"

"I… I… wouldn't say that," he found his hand reaching out to hers before he could think. It hovered over the surface of the table between them, as if afraid to touch her. Damn, he had fallen hard for a pretty face and deep blue eyes. He couldn't let her get away, even if it meant taking a job from her. At least he'd be spending time with her, getting to know her and her getting to know him. Besides, she said the job wouldn't take too long; and afterwards, when she was no longer his employer, anything could happen. Boldly he let his hand finish its journey and touch the back of her wrist.

She knew she had him now, and with the way he leaped to confirm his interest in her, perhaps he did prefer women. Either way it didn't matter to her, as she wasn't hiring him for his body, but his brains. She smiled coyly to show her dimples again and soften the blow as she concluded their transaction, "Then how does five hundred septims sound?"

Vorstag felt his hopes crash and shatter on the floor. That was too much gold to pass up. And no matter how much he would have liked to bed her, after taking that much money from her, he'd never be able to pursue anything of a romantic nature. Still, coin was more valuable than sex, and would last him a lot longer. He kept his tone good-natured as he answered, "That's a fair price. My blade is yours."

She didn't even blink. Unable to fathom much less suppress the feeling of dread in his heart, he watched hopelessly as she hefted a coin purse and passed it over to him. "Deal."

Chapter Text

"What can you tell me about Weylin?"

The question sounded innocent enough, but Vorstag knew better. He dropped his gaze to his bowl of porridge and furrowed his brow, thinking the first day of his employment couldn't have started out any worse. "Not much," he managed to answer before shoveling a spoonful into his mouth, hoping Gerhild would take the hint.

She didn't. She tilted her head and looked at him, until the silence became too much and he finally lifted his eyes to hers. She raised one delicate eyebrow, the fine gold hairs shining in the firelight, and he knew he had to give her a better answer. Trying to look as innocent and sincere as possible, he quickly swallowed and added, "Hardly knew him. Came here from somewhere else in the Reach, during the three years I was away. Not even sure I ever spoke with him."

He could tell she still wasn't satisfied with his answer by the way she sat silent and unmoving. It made him feel like he was a ten-year-old caught in a lie. Yet he refused to squirm under her scrutiny, and instead tried a different track. "Look, he's dead, right? So he doesn't matter anymore, right?"

He watched as she dropped her eyes to her bowl, stirring her porridge. "I understand," he heard her say, but he was now studiously avoiding her gaze and following the motion of her spoon. No more words were spoken, mostly because he didn't know what to say. Then he felt her hand on the back of his, cool and delicate, and he found his eyes rising up to hers of their own accord. "I do. I was warned by the first guard I met, just outside the city walls, that strangers aren't welcomed in Markarth. I was told to mind my own business, and conclude it quickly, then get out." A bit of a rueful smile tugged at one corner of her mouth. "And what's the first thing I do? I stop a man from murdering a young woman. I had no idea what was happening, or why, only that someone was about to die. So I acted. I killed the murderer before he could kill Margret. I felt—and still feel—that this was the right action to take. But the guards are upset with me, and I think they will be looking for any excuse to cause trouble for me. Therefore I need to know," she leaned forward, her posture earnest and sincere as her voice remained soft and close to his ears, "What is happening here in Markarth? What can you tell me about Weylin, or the Forsworn, or a man named Eltrys?"

"Eltrys?" Vorstag said, apparently a little too loudly as it caused her eyes to quickly dart around the room. No one was close enough to hear, however, so she relaxed once more.

"Aye, Eltrys," she breathed, taking a small bite before continuing. "Yesterday, after the guards finally finished questioning me, a man approached and handed me a note, saying very loudly that he saw me drop it." He watched her eyes flatten soberly as she continued, "I never drop anything, so it was obvious he was trying to pass me the note. I read it, and it asked me to meet him in the Shrine of Talos."

"It's forbidden to go there," Vorstag commented, his voice dropping to almost a whisper, thinking of the ban. He nervously licked his lips; if she had gone there, and if anyone had seen her, she could be in danger already. He had been wrong; his first day of employment could get worse. A lot worse.

"I figured as much, as Markarth and the Reach have sided with the Empire in the Civil War, and Talos worship is of course banned." He watched her eyes grow dark again, her dimples fade as she explained to him she wasn't as dumb as he thought. He felt the rebuke and swallowed, but she was already moving on. "I went anyway, out of curiosity, and met Eltrys there. He told me many things about his father and the mines, the Silver-Blood Family, and the Forsworn. He's trying to find out the truth, and," she leaned back, giving a small shrug, "I agreed to help him. But I need information first, from someone other than a Breton who feels he's been wronged and persecuted. Please, Vorstag," he had told her his name before they parted last night, and she had given her own in exchange, "Will you help me?"

He couldn't answer right away, his lips pressed into a thin line. He knew it would be dangerous for anyone to investigate the Forsworn here in Markarth. Remembering his time spent in Cidhna Mine, and not wishing to repeat it, he was tempted to pass her coin purse back to her and walk away. But that would only save his neck; he got the feeling that she was too stubborn to give up the investigation. Someone would have to protect her, keep her from catching the guards' attention, and he felt he could do it. For five hundred septims, he would fend off the guards barehanded. "Alright," he nodded at last, ignoring the lead weight returning to his guts. He leaned his elbows on either side of his bowl as he began. "Weylin was a Breton, a Reachman, who worked in the mines."

"Cidhna Mine? I thought only criminals worked there." Immediately she leaned in even closer, acting curious and excited now that he was finally cooperating. The smell of some light and flowery scent tickled his nostrils, nothing too overwhelming but just strong enough to itch at his senses and leave him unable to name it.

"They are," he acknowledged, having only a little trouble swallowing, or keeping his eyes on her face and not the slightly opened top of her armor. He could see the hollow at the base of her throat, the skin creamy and smooth in the dim light, and the promise of a deeper shadow within. "It's the most secure prison in Skyrim. But there are regular miners who work there. Live in the Warrens, across the river from the mine."

Her expression faded into something deep and thoughtful. "So, Weylin's home would be in the Warrens." He watched her hand pat a pocket, as if checking to see that something was in it. He wondered what she kept in her pockets, or why she had so many on her armor. Then he reconsidered, deciding that perhaps there were some things he wouldn't want to know about his new employer, if that gleam in her eye was anything to go by.

"Aye," he nodded, watching warily, considering—not for the last time—passing back her coin purse.

"Then that's where we'll start!"

By the Nine, he thought to himself, this was not starting out well. Not two hours into the morning, and he was helping her break into someone else's room. He kept his opinions to himself as they made their way to the Warrens. He even stood stoically in front of her as she knelt behind him and picked the lock on Weylin's door. Once inside—amazingly no one had noticed their intrusion—she quickly rifled the few possessions the late miner owned.

"What do you make of this?" she asked.

"We shouldn't be in here," he answered, not even bothering to look, as if he could plead innocence of her crime if he didn't see it. Her slightly amused laugh did little to calm his nerves.

"Relax, Vorstag, no one saw us enter his room. We're not going to get caught. Besides," she kicked discontentedly at a hay pile used for a bed, "There's nothing here worth stealing, other than this note."

"Note?" he glanced over his shoulder before he could stop himself. She was holding the small piece of parchment between two fingers, waving it as if daring him to look and join in her crimes. When he turned around, she smirked and held it still so he could read it.

"Weylin was ordered to kill Margret. By someone whose name begins with an 'N'. Any ideas?"

Vorstag had a very good idea, but it didn't make sense, not to him at least. Playing dumb, he shook his head, refusing to handle the note. She didn't seem to mind, giving an indifferent shrug and folding the note carefully.

"I guess we're done here," she sighed, looking around at the small room. "I suppose I could ask Kleppr for anyone whose name begins with 'N'. Or Ogmund; he would know a lot of people here in Markarth. Of course, if this person doesn't live in the city, that could pose a problem." She talked quietly as she opened the door and poked her head out. Satisfied that no one was watching, she slipped outside, Vorstag's bulky frame following as close as he dared.

He remained silent, letting her talk as much as she wanted, not really paying attention to what she was saying. His attention was on the other residents of the Warren, glad that no one seemed to care about the two strangers in their midst. Still he thought he wouldn't be able to take an easy breath until they were outside once more. But after walking only half a block down the street, they were confronted by a leather-clad warrior.

"Just what do you think you're doing?" he asked, eyeing the two of them closely, taking note of everything from armor to weapons to muscle. Vorstag returned the appraisal, thinking he would easily be a match for him. He set his jaw and made to move forward, but Gerhild stepped between the two men, almost as if she didn't want them to fight.

"Touring Markarth," she answered his question glibly, "Enjoying the sights, meeting the locals, picking up trinkets, the usual for a visitor to a new city."

"Not likely," he countered, nodding to the note still in her hand. She pocketed the note, but he had already seen enough of it. "You've been digging around where you don't belong, bitch," he growled, coming right up into her face. "It's time you learned a lesson."

"She doesn't mean to make trouble," Vorstag tried to step in, but he was rebuffed by both of them.

"Stay out of this, thell-thword!" the hireling hissed, mimicking his lisp and over-doing it.

"I can handle this, Vorstag," she said calmly at almost the same time, her words clear and final in the mountainous air.

He looked hopelessly between them, but they were focused on each other, not him. He knew he should head this off before it got out of hand; Gerhild had hired him, so it was his duty to protect her. And he would have liked nothing better right then than to punch the son-of-a-bitch in the face, but Gerhild had given him an order. And if she was determined to get in over her head with the hireling, then perhaps he should let her. Maybe it would discourage her from continuing the investigation, if she got her brains bashed around just a little bit. He could always butt in and finish the fight before she got too hurt. Shrugging, he stepped away from the two and leaned against a wall, crossing his arms and forcing his lisp to a minimum, "Suit yourself."

The two circled, eyeing each other and gauging their strengths and weaknesses. Vorstag figured the hireling had her beat in size and strength, but she could be more flexible or faster. He threw the first swing, and she barely ducked in time. Moving beneath his outstretched arm, she connected with his ribcage. It would have been a blow strong enough to crack ribs, if he hadn't been wearing armor.

"Not bad," he acknowledged, and even Vorstag had to agree that he had underestimated her; she was stronger than she looked. "But not good enough." He countered with another punch to her face, which she ducked again only to meet his other hand coming up from underneath. He connected with her jaw, sending her spinning away from him and blinking the stars from her vision.

"You're not too bad yourself," she allowed, sounding almost admiringly. She didn't waste any more words, but brought her knee up hard into his groin. He grunted, not bothering to block her kick, and smiled coldly as she gasped and limped back.

"I'm wearing armor, stupid bitch. Do you think I wouldn't have protected that?"

She smiled coldly, and the look sent a shiver down Vorstag's spine. Something devious was coursing through her thoughts, and he knew the hireling would soon be paying for it.

The punches flew fast and furious after that point, the blocks coming barely in time to save most of the blows from landing. A few did find their marks, for both fighters, and Vorstag found himself wanting to cheer her on rather than step in and stop it. It seemed, no matter how many hits the hireling managed to land, she kept her feet and her wits about her. He knew she wouldn't need him to rescue her, a thought that left him feeling a little superfluous though still somewhat proud of her.

Then a sobering thought occurred to him; the guards were conspicuously absent. Obviously they had been told not to be in this area at this time, so the hireling could beat up Gerhild without interference. Vorstag swallowed, the uneasy feeling growing in his stomach once more, and wished he hadn't eaten so much for breakfast.

The fight was finally drawing to a close, both of them winded, their swings flying a little wider than necessary. The hireling was the first to overextend, his arm swinging so far and so fast as to spin him slightly out of position. This was what Gerhild had been waiting for. Summoning the last of her strength, she sidestepped to be directly behind him and brought the toe of her boot up underneath the leather skirt of his armor.

Vorstag winced, wanting to look away but feeling compelled to watch. A strangled sort of whine left the hireling's throat as he stood stock still for a moment, before collapsing to his knees in the dirt, his hands cupped around his cock and balls. Gerhild watched coldly, her chest heaving as she caught her breath, as she waited for his vision to clear enough to see her. She walked around to his front, grabbing the braid running down the side of his half-shaved head, and pulling his face up to meet hers.

"Your name?"

"Damn you, bitch!" he panted, his voice straining to pass his throat that was bent a little too far backwards. "You've castrated me!"

"No," she answered calmly, making a show of looking around on the ground for his genitals. "It just feels that way. Now, what is your name?"

He screwed his bright-red face up, refusing to answer, but when Vorstag took a threatening step closer he wheezed, "Dryston."

"Who sent you?"

"N… N… Nepos. Nepos the Nose," he stuttered. "Gods, bitch! The pain! Let me go, please!"

Her grip on his braid remained as strong as steel, her voice as cool as snow. "The same man who hired Weylin to kill Margret?"

"I don't know!" Dryston gasped, weakly struggling to pull his head out of her grasp, his arms locked and his hands refusing to leave his lap. Spittle was forming at the corners of his mouth, threatening to drool down to his chin. "I only know he hired me to intimidate you into minding your own damn business. That's all I know, bitch! I swear it!"

"I think he's told you all he can," Vorstag said reasonably from her side. Gerhild nodded and let go of his braid, allowing him to double over with a half-relieved groan. Vorstag, however, gave him a rough kick in the ribs, knocking him sideways into the dirt. Dryston merely whimpered for an answer, curling tighter into a fetal position.

"Why did you kick him?" she asked as they walked away. She was limping and wiping blood from her lip.

Vorstag shrugged, handing her a handkerchief. "I didn't like the way he kept calling you a bitch."

That one delicate eyebrow rose up, looking at him curiously. "You are a strange man, Vorstag. You don't like name-calling, yet you'll hit a man when he's down?"

He looked at her quickly, but couldn't quite tell if he was being teased. He thought she probably wasn't making fun of him, but there was something about her that he couldn't quite put his finger on, something just a little off. Giving up trying to figure her out, at least for the time being, he answered honestly. "You hired me. Your honor's at stake, not mine. Now, you answer a question. How did you know you could hit him in the sweetmeats from behind? You nearly busted your knee trying that from the front."

"Ah, that reminds me," she stopped to rub at her aching knee, looking up and down the street. "I need an alchemists."

"Hag's Cure is that way," he nodded uphill.

"Wonderful," she muttered, but started limping in the direction he indicated anyway. "And to answer your question, most men expect to be kicked in the… 'sweetmeats'… while they're facing their opponent, let's say while raping a woman. So if they protect themselves, it'll be from the front." She put her hand in front of her own groin, the fingers pointing straight down, mimicking the protection she was describing. Then her hand made a cup that curled back and around the area as she continued to explain, "Rarely do they think to protect from behind and underneath as well, as that would limit access to their 'dagger' during said activity."

Vorstag nodded, almost missing a step as he imagined what she was saying. He stopped asking her questions at that point, but made a note to himself to adjust his armor.

Their stop at the Hag's Cure was short, Gerhild knowing exactly what she needed. Afterwards they returned to the inn, where she went straight up to the counter and ordered two drinks.

"I can pay for my own food," Vorstag mumbled, but not too loudly and without any heat. The protest was mainly for appearance's sake. He wasn't going to argue with her if she wanted to pay for his room and board while in her employ.

"But this is work related," she countered, having taken his protest seriously. She turned around and handed him both mugs. "Do you remember the woman Weylin tried to kill?"

"Margret? Aye, she's by the fire," he answered slowly, looking at the two mugs and wondering what she was getting at.

"Good. I want you to go over there and talk with her."

"Talk with her?" his nervousness made his voice rise in pitch.

She tilted her head as she looked at him, and he thought she might be reconsidering something. Then she gave a little shake of her head, and answered, "You know how to talk to a girl, don't you? You sit down, say hello, offer her the drink, and make small talk." When he continued to hesitate, she grabbed his arm and turned him towards the fireplace. She had to stand on her tiptoes to reach his ear as she spoke softly so only he could hear. "Talk about the weather, or places you've been, or ask her about her family. Don't mention yesterday, or try to ask her anything about it. Stay on safe topics. Just be your charming self." She flashed her dimples at him when he looked at her over his shoulder.

"Why?" he asked, thinking he wouldn't mind talking with Margret anyway, but already in the short time he'd known Gerhild, he realized there was always another motive behind every innocent-seeming act.

"I'm keeping your sensibilities in mind," she muttered under her breath, giving his back a small shove. "Just distract her. I'll be along in a few minutes."

He looked at her for a moment, even as he took a few steps away, but she only raised her eyebrows at him. Shaking his head, he turned and approached Margret sitting by the fire. She was still shaky, jumping as he took the seat near her, and refusing to make eye contact. He was calm, however, and didn't press her, only talking about simple matters, like the weather. Eventually she relaxed, smiling a little, and turned to speak with him warmly, even taking up the extra mug he offered her.

They were discussing her sister when Gerhild came up. Her steps were quiet, her form seeming to blend out of the shadows, and her appearance made Margret jump. She giggled nervously afterwards, her cheeks flushed with embarrassment and the strong drink. "Excuse me. I didn't see you standing there."

"You are in danger, Margret." The gentle voice was nonetheless clear and cold, even sending a shiver down Vorstag's spine.

"I… no… you mean yesterday? I don't know why that happened…"

Her voice stopped suddenly as Gerhild dropped a journal on her lap. Vorstag swallowed, she could only have gotten that from Margret's room. In a flash he realized what she had done. She had picked the lock and searched her room, like she had done to Weylin's room. That's why she had him distract Margret here by the fire, because she sensed his discomfort with that type of crime. She distracted him by making him distract her victim. He had to pull his thoughts back to the present, however, as she began talking.

"I know what you are. So does Thonar. Now," she dropped down to squat beside Margret's chair, below her eye level but still managing to look intimidating, "I'm not partial to those who work with the Imperials, but you are a Nord, and I already saved your life once—I guess it wouldn't hurt to do it again. Leave Markarth. The Silver-Blood family knows you are a spy; that's why Weylin was sent to kill you yesterday. If you value your life, leave today."

Margret stared at her for a moment before she finally looked away. "Shit. I figured something had happened. I guess I pushed too fast, too hard, with Thonar." She grimaced, "My superiors won't like it that I've failed."

"At least you'll be alive to tell them," Gerhild countered.

"I wonder… Could you finish my mission?" She reached out to grab Gerhild's hand. "If you've read my journal, then you know why I'm here. It's imperative that Cidhna Mine falls under Imperial control. Please, get the deed any way you can, and bring it to General Tullius in Solitude. If Stormcloak sympathizers remain in control of a prison full of the most notorious criminals in all of Skyrim…" she let the words fall away, implying the danger.

Gerhild didn't pause as she smiled warmly, putting her other hand over Margret's. "I'll do all I can."

Again Vorstag had the feeling that there was something off about what Gerhild said, or how she said it. Apparently Margret was satisfied, and had already forgotten Gerhild's admission of her dislike for those who sided with the Imperials, or her crime of breaking into her room. "Thank you. I'll leave now, quickly and quietly, before anything else can happen to me. Here," she pulled out from the pouch at her waist a silver necklace, one flawless emerald set within the intricately carved pendant. "I bought this for my sister back home, but you earned it. I know it doesn't come close to paying you back for saving my life twice, but it's all I have. Take it."

Gerhild stared at the necklace for a moment, a strange sort of look on her face. Vorstag could see it, but he was sure Margret couldn't see it. Then she nodded and looked back up, smiling once more as she let go of Margret's hand. The two women stood together, embracing quickly before Margret moved off. Gerhild remained standing with her back to the fire, staring quietly at the necklace in her hand without really seeing it. She was still standing there when Margret reappeared, her pack in hand, to slip out the front door.

Gerhild caught the movement, coming out of her deep thoughts in time to see Margret slip away. Vorstag had reached his feet when the two women stood, and now looked from one to the other, his impulses torn, but he knew he would stay. He watched with regret as Margret left, seeing his hopes leave with her. He had thought Gerhild's little job would only last a week at most, ending with plenty of time before Margret would have to leave Markarth. But now she was gone and he was still in Gerhild's employ. Finding out Margret was an Imperial spy only increased the regret. He would have loved to leave with her, to travel legally into Cyrodiil, to see a new country, a new part of the world that wasn't the frozen tundra of Skyrim, with new cities and people and cultures. He sighed, wishing he could leave Gerhild for Margret, but knowing his ethics wouldn't allow him to switch employers so randomly and wantonly.

"I suppose I should follow to make sure she leaves, but she's not worth it."

He heard her words, and turned to give her a harsh look. Her expression was so cool, her voice so emotionless, he couldn't help but jump to the conclusion, "You've no intention of getting the deed to Cidhna Mine for Margret, do you?"

It wasn't really a question, but Gerhild treated it as such. "Of course not. Now, come with me."

"Oh? Where?" he asked, curious despite his wariness. He had intentions to thwart her investigation before she could get herself into trouble. Maybe if he knew where she wanted to go next, he could head her off.

"My room."

He sputtered, not sure what she could mean by such an obvious invitation, but knowing it wouldn't be what he thought it would be; it simply could not be that. Apparently she understood his uncertainty, as she raised one eyebrow at him, but made no effort to ease his unease. Instead she strolled into her room, confident that he would follow, still holding the necklace in her hand. Once the door closed behind them, she indicated the chair by the table, and he obediently sat.

She remained standing, taking some small time to heft the necklace and study the jewel in the dim light, apparently appraising its value with a practiced eye. Before he could ask her how she knew so much about jewelry, she tucked the necklace away in one of her many pouches and turned on him. Even though she was shorter than him, his sitting down made her loom over his head. Coolly her deep violet eyes pinned him, making him again feel like a small boy about to be scolded by his mother. For the first time, he felt the full force of her intimidating stare. "You have not been earning your pay."

"What?" he asked, stunned that she would question his honor. "I haven't been able to. The one time I had a chance to fight for you, you ordered me to stay out of it."

"That's not what I meant," she shook her head. "Do you remember why I hired you?"

He crossed his arms defensively, refusing to feel guilt for something she hadn't let him do. "I'm a soldier of fortune. I assumed you hired me to protect you."

"You assumed wrong," she shook her finger at him. "I told you up front, I needed your help in Markarth, your knowledge of the people and places both here in the city and in the rest of the Hold. But you've been holding back on me." She paused to pace away before coming back to him. "I've practically had to drag every scrap of information out of you, and I know there's more you've kept from me. If you had told me all you knew of Weylin, I might have been able to avoid that confrontation with Dryston."

"Well, perhaps…"

"And did you know about Margret, that she was a spy for the Imperials?"

"Not exactly…"

"What else aren't you telling me?" She put a hand on his shoulder, immediately softening her tone as she looked down into his gentle brown eyes. "Vorstag, I need you to help me, not hinder me. Please?"

He swallowed, hearing the desperate emotion in her voice. There was still that nagging suspicion, like an itch in the middle of his back where he couldn't reach, that told him she wasn't being entirely honest. Yet she had paid him for his services, up front, so he had to give in. "What do you want to know?"

She took a deep breath, stepping back to give him some air. She sat down on the edge of the bed, her ankles crossed demurely as she asked, "What can you tell me about the Silver-Blood family?"

"The Silver-Blood family," his voice was soft with defeat, but still trying to find a way to keep her from trouble, "Is run by two brothers, Thongvor and Thonar. They're true Nords, strong supporters of Ulfric Stormcloak, and their power lets them openly defy Jarl Igmund and the Imperials here in Markarth, even the Thalmor."

"Wait, there are Thalmor here in Markarth?" Gerhild interrupted, a strange glint in her eye. It was a cold type of reaction, and the suddenness with which it burned in her eyes scared him.

"Aye, a Justiciar by the name of Ondolemar, and his two guards. They stay at the Keep, mostly keep to themselves, looking down their noses at the rest of us, Nord or Breton."

She nodded and waved for him to continue, but he knew she filed that information away to pursue later.

"Thongvor is the older brother and the one who dabbles in politics, keeping his eye on the Jarl and everything that happens within Understone Keep. Thonar runs the family business, which includes most of the businesses here in the city, and most of the mines out there in the Reach."

"The silver mines," Gerhild clarified thoughtfully, "Like Cidhna Mine. The same mine Margret was to steal the deed to?"

"Aye," he nodded cautiously. "Like she said, it's the strongest prison in the Reach, in all of Skyrim, and holds some of the deadliest men ever born. It is not a safe place to serve out a sentence."

He stopped so suddenly, she looked at him with surprise. Immediately she knew, stating, "You served time there."

Vorstag groaned, getting to his feet and stepping away. He didn't want to look at her, he didn't want to talk with her, and he didn't want to remember it. He didn't want to, but maybe, just maybe, if he related his own experience—in part—she would finally understand that this investigation of hers was dangerous, that it wasn't worth the risk of being sent there. "I was a lot younger, hardly old enough to be considered a man," he started, still not looking at her. "My friend, Hamming, and I got involved in a drunken brawl. We were both sentenced to one year in Cidhna Mine."

He turned to lean his backside against the wall, but still didn't lift his eyes to her. "There are miners, like Weylin, who work the mine and can leave for the Warrens at night. Prisoners have to stay there full time. Almost all of them are Forsworn. Doesn't matter if you're Breton or Nord, or even Orc. You only have two options when you are sent to Cidhna Mine: keep your head down and serve your time, or join the Forsworn. Hamming…" his voice broke, surprising himself with the strength of his emotions. It had been a long time since he told anyone what had happened to him and his friend. Taking a deep breath, he forced himself to continue, to try to make her understand. "Hamming took a wrong turn one day, walked down the wrong tunnel at the wrong time, and overheard something he shouldn't have. Didn't tell me what it was, but we could tell he was followed the rest of the day. Next morning, I found him dead. Shiv through the heart. I was cornered next, that night when it was pitch black and I couldn't see who it was. I knew, though, it was a Forsworn. Told him Hamming didn't tell me anything. I was honest, and I guess he believed me. They didn't bother me for the rest of my sentence." Finally he lifted his eyes to hers, and let her see the strength of his emotions. "Hamming was dead, though, because of a stupid wrong turn. No, because I got him drunk one night and we brawled in public. Can't even remember what over. Don't do this, Gerhild. Let it go. Let Eltrys conduct his own investigation, risk his own neck. It's not worth it, getting thrown into that place over something that doesn't concern you."

She tilted her head, her expression softening with her voice. "You're a good man, Vorstag, and I'm sorry for your friend. I'm sorry, also, if it upsets you that I must see this through. I have my own motives, not the least of which is clearing up this mystery regarding the Forsworn—perhaps even getting the guards to back down, making life a little better here in Markarth. You can't tell me that you like it the way it is now, living in a state of half-fear, constantly checking over your shoulder, wondering if someone will overhear you mention something about the Forsworn, or Talos, or any other number of things." She came up to him, and her eyes were sincere as she said, "I want to help. I can help. But I need you to help me."

It was the sincerity that did him in. He sighed, his shoulders slumping, and heard himself ask, "What else do you want to know?"

"Where can I find this Nepos the Nose, and Thonar Silver-Blood?"

He told her, but it was already late afternoon. He was thankful when she said they wouldn't continue the investigation until the next day. He refused her offer to share a meal, instead making for his room with a bottle of Colovian Brandy.

He passed the rest of the evening in solitude.

They set out early the next morning, the sun over the horizon but not over the mountains, a fact for which Vorstag was thankful. Though his eyes watered at the dim light and his head pounded with each step, he refused to let any of his discomfort show. And amazingly Gerhild didn't mention anything, though he was sure she somehow knew how he felt. Admittedly it wouldn't be too hard to infer, as she saw him buy the bottle and go straight to his room. Yet she kept her opinions to herself, something unusual for a woman, at least in his experience.

They hadn't gone a block from the inn before they were accosted by a guard. "You, there! You're the one who's been sticking her nose in where it doesn't belong." He marched up to the two of them, thrusting his helmeted face right in front of her. "Well, I'm here to tell you to back off. This is your first, and last warning, bitch."

Gods, but he hated that term. Vorstag loomed over her shoulder with his arms crossed and a deep scowl on his face. Gerhild, however, remained much more calm. She placed the back of her hand against his chest and addressed the guard directly. "Of course, sir, I understand perfectly. I promise, no more investigations. I'll simply conduct my own business and leave Markarth peacefully."

The guard didn't look like he believed her, but taking in Vorstag's hulking and sullen form behind her, he must have given it a second thought. "Yes, well, see that you do!"

The two of them watched the guard walk away, and she muttered, "We must be getting close to the heart of the matter, or they wouldn't bother trying to warn us off. Come on, we'll speak with Thonar Silver-Blood first."

He wasn't at all surprised by the fact that she lied to the guard. He had expected it, just as she had lied to Margret yesterday. He gave it a little more thought as they walked up the street, and had to conclude she could very well be lying to him. Though what about, he couldn't say, other than he probably wouldn't want to know.

However, he was a little discomfited that she had included him in her investigation; he considered himself her hireling, not her partner, especially now that guards were starting to take notice. He tried not to let any of his anxiety show, but he did glance furtively around at every intersection.

"Um, Vorstag," she began, once they stood outside the Treasury House. She spun to face him, her smile bright and easy. "Why don't you wait here and watch the street?"

"Watch the street?" he repeated, a little confused.

"Aye, just keep an eye out for anyone who might want to come in here, ya know? Stall them until I'm done?"

She gestured expectantly with her hand, like there was an underlying meaning to her words that he was supposed to catch. Truthfully his head hurt too much for him to mull it over fast enough to her liking, but he nodded agreeably. "I'll wait here. Just don't start any trouble without me." His answer seemed to satisfy her, and without any further words she slipped inside the Treasury House.

Vorstag settled himself beside the door, leaning against the building with his arms crossed over his chest. He was too tired, and his head hurt too much to think, but there wasn't much else to do until Gerhild returned. Assuring himself there was no one on the street, and no guards within sight, he bowed his head and chewed a knuckle.

Gerhild was making him earn every septim of his fee, if only through the worry she caused him. He did have to give her credit; she had a talent for ferreting out information. In the two days she'd spent here, she'd learned far more about the city and its shady politics than he had in his lifetime. But he knew better than to get involved. She didn't, and that was what was causing him the most worry. As her hireling, he should be watching out for dangers to her person and protecting her, but there wasn't much he could do if she was determined to delve deeper into this mess. He feared he was either going to earn every penny and fight off every guard in the Hold, or forfeit his fee and be completely unable to protect her.

"I'm finished here," she spoke from his elbow.

The suddenness of her appearance made him jump, but he hid it by stepping away from the wall and dropping his knuckle from his teeth. "Alright then, let's go."

She turned to lead the way, and as she did so he caught a glimpse of her war axe, blood clinging to a bit of gore dangling from the blade. "Is that… blood?"

She stopped, glancing under her arm to see where he was looking. "Oh, that. That's nothing." Her hand reached down to cover the blade, wiping the blood off on her sleeve. "Just a little left-over from my journey here. Come on, we've got one more stop to make."

Aye, she was lying to him, too; that blood was fresh. He took one last look over his shoulder, expecting to see guards pouring out of the Treasury House, demanding Gerhild's head, but no one showed. He sighed, falling into step behind her. It was a small comfort to know he was included in the list of people she lied to, but at least if he was ever questioned he could answer honestly that he didn't know what she had done.

"Alright, same as before," she said softly as they approached Nepos’ home. "You stay out here…"

"Gerhild," he interrupted her, taking hold of her arm. "Not again."

She smiled reassuringly, her dimples deep, as she set her hand over his. "Vorstag, I know what I'm doing. And I know how you feel about all of this. It'll work out; trust me." In a flash, she was gone again.

Vorstag planted himself outside the door, looking up and down the street, far more nervous than the last time. If she had injured or—gods forbid—killed anyone inside the Treasury House, then there should be an alarm out by now. Yet there were no guards running around, searching for a nosy young woman tearing through the city stirring up trouble. Still, that lone guard had accosted her this morning. They could be waiting for her to return to the inn. They could be setting a trap for her, even now, knowing that was where she was staying. He glanced over the railing and down the hill, but it was hard to make out the Silver-Blood Inn from this angle.

He blew a disgruntled huff of air out of his nose. He hated standing outside like this exposed, with no way of knowing what was happening to her. Ten minutes, he told himself. Ten minutes and then he would go inside and see that she was alright. Even Gerhild couldn't get into too much trouble that quickly.

The door opened and he spun, but only Gerhild came through the doorway. His sharp eyes checked her over from head to toe, but he couldn't detect anything out of place. Her armor was secure; her weapon sheathed and clean. He tried to see her face, but her hood was pulled low over her eyes, her head bent as she studied a journal in her hands. After she stood there for several moments, he had to ask, "Everything alright?"

She hummed a little, finally pulling her full attention from the book. "I need to speak with Eltrys. I think I've collected enough information to help his case, certainly enough to bring to the Jarl's attention." She lifted her eyes to where she could just make out a corner of the forbidden Shrine.

"You…" he paused to swallow, following her gaze, "You're going to the Shrine of Talos, then?"

"Aye. Let's go."

He fell into step behind her again, though this time she took no notice of his quietness. She seemed driven, her gait purposeful, as she made her way through the twisting stairs and streets of Markarth. There was no easy way to reach the shrine, and at every turn or intersection Vorstag expected a group of guards to confront and arrest them. By the time they were climbing the last set of stairs, his nerves were frayed. So when she stopped suddenly to speak to him, he nearly jumped out of his boots.

"Vorstag, you don't have to come with me to speak with Eltrys. In fact, I think you should head back to the inn."

"What do you mean? Wait for you there?" He didn't want to sound too eager, but he really didn't want to get caught anywhere near the Shrine.

She smiled and pushed back her hood, the afternoon light set her dark gold hair ablaze. "No, Vorstag. I mean," she paused to stick out her hand, "You've earned your pay. It's time for us to part ways."

He stared at her for a moment, wondering how standing outside buildings all day constituted earning his pay. Still, if she dismissed him, that meant he wouldn't have to go into the Shrine. Taking hold of her forearm in the Nordic fashion, he answered, "Very well, but," he offered her a timid smile of his own, "If you still need my blade again, I'll join you. I want to make sure you get your money's worth."

"I will, Vorstag. Thank you."

He turned away then, walking back down the way they had come. He looked back once to see her push open the door to the Shrine, but she didn't turn to see him leave.

Vorstag sat in his usual chair in front of the fire, a mug ignored at his elbow, and an uncharacteristic scowl on his face. He felt there was something wrong, something he couldn't quite put his finger on. It irked him, and worst of all was the knowledge that Gerhild was at the center of the irritation. He was pouting—he knew it—but damn that woman! She caused him far more troubling thoughts than five hundred septims worth.

"Alright, boy, what's got your loin cloth in a knot?" Ogmund's rough manner was in stark contrast to his smooth voice.

"I don't know…"

"Don't play that game with me, Vorstag. I'm too old for it." He tipped back his mug, draining the last few drops.

"No, I don't mean to say there's nothing wrong," Vorstag shrugged, pulling his knuckle from his teeth. "Or that I don't want to talk with you. It's only that I can't figure out what it is. I only know she's at the bottom of it."

"Ah," Ogmund made a great show of looking around the inn. "Your employer. I suppose I should have expected it."

"What?" he looked up, surprised and hopeful at the same time. "Do you mean you know something about her?"

"I know you never should have taken her job," he fired back. "She's far too pretty to be anything but trouble. If there's one thing I've tried to teach you, it's never take a job from a woman, especially a pretty woman. Either you'll have your hands full fighting off unwanted suitors for her, or…"

"Or what?" When Ogmund didn't respond right away, Vorstag turned to face him fully. "What is it?"

"Or," he sighed, "You'd want to get in her bed yourself. I've seen it before. Pretty women are nothing but trouble! Don't deny it, Vorstag. I know you were contemplating bedding her from the first moment she walked into this inn. You probably had at least three plans ready, depending on the situation…"

"No!" he almost shouted when the skald refused to stop talking even though he vehemently shook his head. A few of the other patrons looked at them to see what the commotion was, but as both men were quiet, they were quickly left alone once more. "No, it wasn't like that," he continued somewhat quieter, but wondering why he was so strongly denying his urges. Confused over his own actions and feelings, he tried to clarify, "I mean, aye, I did look at her and wonder, what man with a pulse wouldn't, but I never did anything, I couldn't, I wouldn't, not with a woman who hired me, that's unethical…"

"But you did think about it," Ogmund interrupted his babbling, his voice almost too hopeful.

Vorstag blew a huff of air out of his nose, willing to admit it if it made him feel better. "Aye, fine, I thought about it. But she never gave any indication that she would be interested. She's unusual," he paused to pick up his mug and stare at the contents. He didn't feel comfortable revealing to Ogmund the unease he felt about her character, the falseness, the lies, and the manipulations. Somehow, he felt that was too private for him to reveal to anyone. "Bah, I don't know how to explain it."

Ogmund shrugged his shoulders. "Then don't try. And don't worry about it. She's not your employer anymore, right? Then it doesn't matter." He leaned back to stretch his feet towards the fire. "Life's too short here in Skyrim to spend it chewing your knuckles in front of a fire. If it's not bandits who'll slit your throat for your purse, then it's a troll who'll slice your gut for your entrails. And now there's dragons."

"That was a rumor from Helgen."

"Not anymore," Ogmund shook his head. Despite himself, Vorstag set aside his mug as he leaned in closer, almost anxious to hear this latest juicy bit of gossip. "A dragon was sighted, not ten leagues from here, to the northeast. Heard it from a guard who was talking with the Khajiit caravan yesterday. They had to hole up, find cover in a cave or something until the damn thing moved off. Cost them nearly three days of travel."

"Hmm," his brow furrowed as he considered the news. "I don't suppose they're looking for extra hands—protection, I mean?"

Ogmund smiled kindly. "Looking to get out of Markarth for a while? Clear your head?" He leaned in close, his face turning serious, "Or do you have a death wish?" At Vorstag's shocked expression, he shook his head. "No, don't give me that innocent look; I know you too well. She's gotten under your skin, and you think that maybe it would be a good idea if you had a change of pace. New scenery. And a little danger to get your mind off of her. Don't. She's not worth losing to a dragon; no matter how pretty she is."

He wanted to deny it, but damn it Ogmund was right. She wasn't worth it. He nodded, only a little sullenly, and took a large swallow of his mead.

"That's a good boy. Now," the skald leaned back, looking around the inn and judging the time, "It's late. I should be getting home. And you should be getting to bed. Good night, my boy," he stood, setting his hand on the younger man's shoulder, "And put her out of your mind."

"Good night, old man," he placed his strong and lean hand over the one on his shoulder and squeezed.

After Ogmund left, Vorstag finally gave himself a little shake and looked around the inn. It was late; the only patrons still in the bar were the diehard drunks. Degaine was so deep in his cups, he was nearly slumped beneath the bar. Cosnach, after giving one last forlorn look into his mug, decided to follow Ogmund's example and leave for the night, practically on the old man's heels. Vorstag stood and stretched, sighing after several joints popped. He swallowed the last of his mead, and brought the tankard to the bar.

"Another round, Vorstag?" Kleppr asked tiredly.

"No, it's late. I'm going to bed. Good night, Kleppr," he set the empty vessel on the countertop.

"'Night," the innkeeper acknowledged in a bored tone. "Alright, Degaine, time to go. Come on, now. It's late."

"I'd like jush mon wore hound. On da housh."

Vorstag had no trouble suppressing the smile at Degaine's slurred speech as he was yawning hugely. Already looking forward to his bed and a good night's sleep, he was sure he'd feel differently about Gerhild by morning.

Though he did wonder briefly why she hadn't come back to the inn yet.

Chapter Text

“Hold her still,” a voice commanded, the face lost to the pitch black ‘night’ of the mine.

Hands bruised her wrists and ankles, the intent rolling off of the unseen presence looming over her was almost palpable. But it was her own self that she truly struggled against. It was too hard, her instincts too strong, her earlier experience too painful. Despite reason, despite knowing her situation and that it would be better if she acted weak and helpless, despite all the work and effort weighing on her shoulders, she acted.

Her abdominals and hips twisted, her ankle pulled free, her knee connected with soft flesh.

He didn’t swear, he barely let out any sound, but he curled off of her and away.

“Shit, are you alright?” another faceless voice called. When he didn’t get an answer, her other ankle was released. It hardly mattered, as the man holding her first ankle returned and gripped her thighs, shoving in between them, while the man holding her wrists urged him on.

She fought herself more than she fought the four men. She had spent three nights in Cidhna Mine already, three nights where faceless men came in the darkness, hands bruising her limbs, cocks pounding senselessly into her. The irony was she could have fought them off, she could have defended herself and kept them at bay, perhaps killed one or two until they got the message.

But defending herself would have hindered her mission.

Gerhild tried to distract herself from the man’s animalistic rutting. She wondered—not for the first or last time—why she hadn't gone back to the inn with Vorstag. She had seen the door to the Temple was forced. She had known that danger was inside. She had inferred how this whole mess revolved around Madanach, that she would have to find a way to get herself arrested and thrown into prison in order to finish this. Some deep part of her knew what she would face in the mine, yet she didn’t stop to think—she had walked into that trap. She should have left the Temple alone.

She should have left Eltrys alone.

The first man finished and the man holding her wrists let go, eager for his turn. The first’s come leaking out of her helped to lubricate the friction from the second’s passage, but there were still two more to go, if she hadn’t hurt the one of them too much.

Somehow, she didn't think this particular path she was on would lead to what Jarl Ulfric wanted her to do, become a Thane of Markarth. She couldn't change it now, however, and someone did have to deal with the Forsworn, and their leader was ruling from within this mine. That meant she had to get arrested, the prison warden, Urzoga, letting out the story that she was a prostitute who had refused Thonar Silver-Blood a free tumble. In spite, he had her framed for murder and sentenced to the mine. It had seemed as good a story as any…

Yet she had been wrong; she had been so fucking wrong! Though she had suffered torture and abuse before, and knew she could handle the pain, the rape had been another matter. Pain was something to be endured, an indication of injury, an affirmation that you were still whole—still alive—if somewhat worse for wear. Abuse left her feeling used, humiliated and dehumanized. She wasn't a person anymore, but a receptacle for a man's loneliness and frustration, often accompanied by bruises and insults. She had become a tool, a pickaxe for chipping away at the unending monotony and impotence of the others' imprisonments. She forced herself to endure three nights of it, but only because it was the only way for her to reach her goal.

She should have shoved Eltrys’ note right back in his fucking face!

It was in this frame of mind that early morning found her, beaten and abused and finally left alone. She picked herself up off the uneven ground, wiped the gore from her bloodied nose on the back of her hand, and tried to ignore the stink of those four men clinging to her skin and clothing.

She heard it again. Each night at about this time, the time when her tormentors left her, she heard soft moans and whimpers and whispered threats echoing from another chamber. Sound carried down the tunnels of the mine, often in funny ways, and at first her distracted and disjointed mind tried to tell her it was the sound of her own torment, echoing back to her after hours of traveling through the tunnels.

This morning, however, she was a little more sensible. Someone else was suffering abuse and, curious, she staggered to her feet and started tracking down the source.

She went slowly, leaning against the walls for support, the ache between her legs making her limp. She had been right, again, about the sound. It took a while, backtracking after several sure trails turned out to be dead ends, but eventually she found the correct chamber.

The sounds were familiar and alien, both things at the same time. She heard the wet slap of sweat-soaked skin as it pounded into flesh, but the whimpers of the victim held more pain.

Not only that, but she was sure she was the only female prisoner in the mine, the other female miners belonging to the group that weren’t prisoners, but lived in the Warrens.

Yet the sounds were those of a person, a body, being abused…

She stood at the entrance of the chamber, unwilling to go any further lest she be discovered. Tilting her head to listen closer, a disturbing fact came to her, one she couldn’t let herself admit.

Then somewhere high above in another tunnel a light flared, and she could no longer deny the distasteful truth. Urzoga was lighting the lanterns; ‘dawn’ for the prisoners. She didn't look up at the pale glow spilling from the other tunnel, and neither did the young man, bent over at the waist. The man behind him did, and muttered a curse. He finished quickly, pulled himself out of the younger man’s ass, and held his leggings up with his fists as he scooted down another passage.

Gerhild pressed herself even further into the shrinking shadows, watching the young man kneeling there, his ass high in the air, his leggings pushed down to hold his knees together. His face was pressed into the ground, his cheek cut and bruising on the hard stones. But it was the sight of his unseeing eyes that held her attention. Drool and tears and not a little blood made a puddle around the bruised cheek, but he didn’t even notice this.

Urzoga came into the chamber then, walking aloof from the prisoners on the scaffolding as she made her rounds and brought ‘day’ to the sunless mine. She paused a moment, looking down at him, her expression almost softening. Gerhild, still safely tucked away in the deepest remaining shadow, took her eyes off of him to watch Urzoga’s lack of movement. The Orc hesitated a moment longer before she took something small out of the pouch at her waist. She hefted it in her hand once or twice, and then tossed it down to the boy. It landed near his hand, on a softer part of the ground, and amazingly only cracked. Then the warden moved on, continuing her duty.

Gerhild looked back down at him, wondering what he was thinking, why he only stared at the bottle. That it was a healing potion was obvious to her, a potion she would gladly take if he wasn't interested. But taking it from him would require she leave her protective shadow; and the way things looked, he needed it more than she did, as he was actually bleeding from his abuse.

His hand twitched. His eyes blinked. She watched his fingers crawl towards the bottle, grab the neck, and then smash it against a stone.

The potion made a new puddle, turning the dirt into mud, his fingers helping to churn it as he twitched and stared at the broken shards.

Gerhild couldn’t wait any longer, or she’d miss the morning meal. With a parting glance over her shoulder at the boy’s stupidity or clumsiness or whatever it had been that caused the bottle to break, she left him.

The morning passed quickly for her, already settling into the routine of a prisoner’s life. By midday, however, something happened that sent a twinge through even her frozen heart. Several miners passed where she was working, carrying a body poorly wrapped in rags. She recognized the color of the tuft of hair sticking up from the top of the head, and in looking closer caught enough of the face to recognize the boy from earlier that morning. One arm dangled outside the wrappings, a deep, jagged dark red slash on the wrist.

Gerhild was going to be sick. She felt her stomach cramp, an excessive amount of saliva filling her mouth like a prewash. She clenched the pickaxe in her hands, forced away the revulsion, forced herself to face Fate.

And set her feet for Madanach.

The day before she had spoken with one of the older prisoners, Uraccen, about her predicament, trying to sound desperate and pitiful in the hopes of garnering his sympathies. Even though she was a Nord, the Breton had taken pity on her situation and told her where to find Madanach. He also shared with her his story as well as the stories of the other prisoners. Over and over she heard how nearly everyone in there, though not originally a Forsworn sympathizer, had been driven to join their ranks out of necessity or Nord prejudice. She couldn't say she had been surprised to learn nearly everyone in the mine was a Forsworn—Vorstag had warned her of that.

She shook her head, sending her wondering thoughts scattering down the dark tunnels. She had to stay focused, and thinking about Vorstag was not part of her current situation. Yet she couldn't help one final lingering wish to be warm and safe in the Silver-Blood Inn, sitting near the fire, listening to Ogmund sing his Nordic songs while Vorstag danced…

She turned a corner and all thoughts of her former Nord sellsword fled her mind. Before her stood one of the meanest looking Orcs she had ever seen, undoubtedly Borkul the Beast that Uraccen had told her about. She had seen quite a few Orcs since coming to Skyrim, even while living in Cyrodiil, and they all looked mean by default, but this one looked like he enjoyed being mean. Though equipped with only a pickaxe and iron gauntlets, the white skull face paint and blackened shadows made him appear evil and bloodthirsty. "What do you want, little girl?" his harsh voice grated as it slipped past her ears.

She swallowed, remembering to play her part of a timid girl framed for murder, batting her eyes as she dropped her gaze to her feet. In a quiet voice quavering in fear and pain she started, "I need a guardian…"

The laughter wasn't unexpected, but the volume was quieter than she had anticipated. Either he didn't want their conversation overheard, or Madanach was closer than she thought and Borkul didn't want to disturb him. The Orc leaned in close to her, sniffing his grotesquely painted nose into her hair, and grumbled deeply, "Seems to me as if you've had several 'guardians' already; I can still smell their stink on you." He paused to chuckle, soft and harsh at the same time, "Don't look to me for help. I'm not so desperate as the rest, to stoop to bedding a Nord bitch because I've been in prison for too long. You want a champion to protect your virtue; go find one of your own kind in here—if you can."

"Would…" she paused, biting her lip, making the tears fall from her eyes. "Would Madanach…"

Again the Orc laughed, his chest shaking with the effort to keep it quiet. "Oh, so you've already heard about the King in Rags? And you've only been in here three days. Yes," he almost purred, watching as she lifted wide eyes to his, "He's heard all about you. Nothing goes on in Cidhna Mine that Madanach doesn't know about, or the Reach for that matter. He knows that you killed Eltrys—or at least the guards say you did. I wonder what you did to piss off the Silver-Blood family so badly that they would throw one of their own in here." He shrugged, his green skin taut over his muscular frame, "No matter, I suppose, as Madanach doesn't care, but I'm still curious."

She didn't answer his unspoken question, not sure what sort of lie he might believe. The Orc was proving a tougher obstacle than having to suffer the attentions of her fellow prisoners. "Please," she whispered, knowing he wouldn't give in to pity, but playing the part of the overwhelmed young woman. "Please, just let me see him. Or tell him I'll do anything—anything!—if he could…"

The Orc silenced her with a shove. She staggered backwards, falling gracelessly onto her ass, her limbs splaying like a rag doll. She heaved her chest, as if on the verge of tears, as if waiting for him to fall on top of her and use her body as the others had, despite his earlier words of dismissal. When he hadn't moved for several seconds, she timidly opened her eyes and sought his face.

He stood over her, his stance telling her he was seriously considering taking her there and then, but he held himself in check. Instead he made a slightly disgusted sound in the back of his throat. "Tell you what," he began, leaning back against the wall with his arms crossed over his chest. "I'll make a deal with you. Life in this mine is tough, and any sort of weapon other than these unwieldy pickaxes is at a premium. Bring me a shiv, and I'll let you in to speak with Madanach. I don't make any promise that he'll help you, but you'll at least have a chance to speak with him."

She sniffed, moving away from him crab-like on her elbows and feet, unwilling to turn her back to him. "Th…th…thank you." Again her chest heaved with barely suppressed sobs, her wide eyes spilling water onto her cheeks. When he glanced away, she rolled over onto her front and skittered down the tunnel back the way she had come. Around a corner and out of his sight, she took a moment to collect herself. Coldly she wiped away the false tears and straightened her clothing, making herself appear a bit more confident. She needed to think quickly and clearly before going in search of a shiv. She could go to Uraccen again, but he had said the other day that a man named Grisvar—the only other Nord in prison—was someone who might be able to help her protect herself. Thinking this might mean he would have a shiv, she started down the tunnels in search of the man everyone called 'The Unlucky.'

She found him, alone and almost as bedraggled as she was, at the end of a side tunnel. He heard her approach, as she had no reason to sneak up on him, so he was already standing and facing her, ready to fight. Seeing that she wasn't anyone he had been expecting, he relaxed and looked her up and down almost dejectedly. It wasn't the slow perusal most Nord men gave her, but it was a penetrating stare. "Ah, so you've found me, the only other Nord. No, little girl, I can't help you. Find someone else to protect you from…"

"I need a shiv," she almost whispered, her voice so soft it couldn't have been overheard even within the echoing confines of the stone tunnels.

He stopped, his eyes wide and fearful as they darted around looking for unseen spies. "Who told you?"

"Uraccen," she answered simply.

He licked his lips nervously, eyes restless and bloodshot, before he shook his head. "Sorry, lass, but I can't just give one to you. I don't have many, and they are hard to make…"

"Please," she stepped towards him, grabbing his wrist with desperation. "Please, I'll give you anything. I'll do anything, even…" one of her hands reached to begin pulling up the hem of her rough spun tunic.

He brushed her hand away. "No, I don't want that."

She looked up at him, her eyes wet with shed and unshed tears, and begged, "Please, I need a shiv. I must have a shiv. If I can't get one from you, then at least tell me who I can get one from."

He sighed, stepping away a moment and running his hand over his balding head. "Look, miss… what is your name?"

"Gerhild," she answered, quickly and with a small catch in her throat.

"Gerhild," he repeated, looking back up at her. "They call me 'The Unlucky' for a reason, ya know? I've been in and out of Cidhna Mine too many times—been caught too many times—I know my usefulness to Madanach is over, and my days are numbered. I'd like to spend the rest of my life as comfortably as possible. If you can bring me a bottle of skooma, something to take the edge off the fear of dying, I'll give you a shiv. Deal?"

He held his hand out, and she took it gladly. "Deal. Thank you, Grisvar. Thank you."

"Don't thank me," he pulled away from her, "Just keep your end of the deal. And quickly. Madanach will have me killed any day now, and the sooner I'm drunk, the better."

She nodded, offering him a timid smile, and scampered back down the tunnel. As soon as she turned a corner and was out of sight, she found the darkest shadow and faded completely from view. Leaning her head back against the wall and finding a sharp protuberance at her ear, she adjusted her stance slightly before sinking into deep thought. Borkul wanted a shiv. Grisvar had a shiv, but wanted skooma. She knew Duach had a bottle of skooma that he kept with him at all times, but was positive he would never part with it, no matter what she offered him. And she'd never be able to successfully pickpocket it off his person, when he was always so paranoid someone would steal it from him.

The only other person she knew of who had skooma was Braig, who was undoubtedly the supplier for the prisoners. She had seen him come in with an armload of bottles while she had been talking with Uraccen. It would be easier to steal from Braig's stash than it would be to steal from Duach, but there was another problem with that plan. Uraccen was too old to work the mine, so he spent his days sitting by the fire in a gallery used as a sleeping area by some of the more privileged Forsworn. He had the job of standing watch over the other prisoners' meager belongings while they worked. Braig was in this select group of prisoners, and she would have to get past Uraccen if she wanted to steal the skooma.

Personally she had nothing against the man, but she was sure the only way past him would be to incapacitate him—perhaps permanently—which was an unnecessary complication she couldn't afford. Dead bodies were even more conspicuous than well-placed kicks, and she was sure she would be suspected from the start. She had to find another way to get the skooma from Braig.

Time was slipping away from her, and she felt herself growing impatient. She wanted to be quit of this whole mess, of Markarth and the Reach and the Forsworn, but her oath to Jarl Ulfric bound her to find a way to succeed. And the only way she could succeed, the only bargain she could make with Braig, made the bile rise up in the back of her throat. Her heart pounded against her ribcage, her fingernails broke the skin of her palms, and the jagged edges of the wall dug into her skull. "Fuck!"

Having exhausted all other options, and wishing to get it over with before she lost her nerve, she started down another side tunnel in search of Braig.

"Did you hear?" Ogmund spoke softly at Vorstag's elbow.

"Hear what, you gossipy old woman?" he muttered in a bored manner. He was sitting beside the fire, his feet stretched out towards the warmth, and was so comfortable he had almost dozed off. Suppressing a yawn, he crossed his arms over his chest.

"I'll take that for a 'no'." Ogmund was undaunted, taking the chair next to him and leaning his elbows on his knees.

"How can you, if I don't know what you are talking about?" Vorstag sighed. He had been waiting several days now for Gerhild to return to her room. He was concerned, even though he no longer worked for her, but he had promised himself he wasn't going to go chasing after her. He wasn't a desperate boy, looking for his first time…

"Because it would be obvious you had heard if you had heard."

He shook his head, his thoughts sent into bewilderment by the cryptic answer. "Just tell me, already.

"Gerhild was arrested the other day.

"What?" He spoke a little too loudly, attracting the attention of the other patrons. He coughed, standing and dragging Ogmund with him to a shadowy corner beside the hearth. "Say that again?"

"Just heard about it this afternoon," the skald answered, watching his friend closely to gauge his response. "The guards say she was the one who killed Eltrys."

"She didn't…" he stopped as suddenly as he started.

"Aye, I know what you're thinking," Ogmund nodded sagely. "You want to think she's innocent, but you can't say for sure. It's very likely that she could have. You said it yourself. She dismissed you before she went into the Shrine."

"She was just going to talk with him," he shook his head. "Tell him what she had learned."

"Was she?" he countered. "Think about it. She undoubtedly had her own business here in Markarth. The Silver-Blood family and the Forsworn and all our other problems mean nothing to her. And Eltrys got her embroiled in a conspiracy that had her in trouble from the beginning. She probably thought enough was enough, that she was tired of risking her neck for him, all for nothing, and decided to give him a little pay back. That's why she dismissed you before going into the Shrine. She didn't want any witnesses."

Vorstag wasn't convinced, but he was shocked. "No," he shook his head again. "She wouldn't do that. It's not in her nature."

"Vorstag," he put his hand on his shoulder, his voice softening, "You've only known her for a couple of days. How much do you really know about her? How much can you know? Did she talk about her past? Her family? Did she tell you anything about herself?"

"She…" he paused, thinking back over that time. It was true; she hadn't offered anything about herself, anything personal. What little he knew about her was from watching her actions, which he suspected were an act. "I…" he paused again, not knowing what to say.

Ogmund gave him a small smile. "I know, son, I know. I just thought you should know about her. And don't worry; I've already had a good long talk with my friend in the Markarth guard. They're not interested in you or your involvement with her. You don't have to worry that you'll join her in Cidhna Mine."

He watched numbly as Ogmund moved off, leaving him to his thoughts. His mind was reeling, trying to understand how she could have turned against Eltrys so quickly. He knew Gerhild was a Nord, like himself, but he didn't think she was prejudiced against Bretons, even if she came from… He stopped, suddenly realizing he didn't know where she came from. He didn't know anything about her family, or her home, or even why she had originally come to Markarth. She had hired him after accepting Eltrys' offer to find out what was happening with the Forsworn here in the Reach, and had hired him to help her with that. Whatever her original intentions for visiting Markarth were, he had no idea.

He blinked, trying to remember all he could about their two days together. She didn't tell him anything about herself, anything of real value. He knew she had no love for the Empire—she had said as much to Margret. Yet those were just words; he had to admit the possibility that she had lied, or exaggerated, to intimidate Margret into giving up her plans to steal the deed to Cidhna Mine and make her leave town.

He tried again to list what he knew about her. He knew she could fight: she took down Dryston barehanded. He knew she could pick locks: she broke into Weylin's room in the Warrens, and Margret's room here in the inn. He knew she understood a fair amount regarding jewelry: the way she weighed and measured the necklace Margret had given her appeared to be with an expert eye. He also knew she could persuade or intimidate or manipulate others easily: she had gotten her way with him countless times during his brief employment, despite his knowledge of her abilities and his otherwise steel resolve. She had even averted his own attempts to dissuade her, though he had told her about his experience in Cidhna Mine…

Cidhna Mine. Everything seemed to come back to that terrible place. Margret was trying to get the deed to the mine. All criminals in the Reach were imprisoned in the mine. Madanach ruled the Forsworn from within the mine.

And now Gerhild was there. He would be too, if she hadn't dismissed him…

Vorstag's hand shot out for the wall as his breath seized in his throat. She dismissed him, right before she entered the Shrine. She dismissed him, then pushed open the door, not unlatching it. She knew the door was already forced, she must have seen it while they were walking up towards it, and had reasoned that there would be trouble inside. And she had dismissed him before he could get involved with her, before he could suffer the same fate that awaited her.

His fingernails tried to dig into the stone wall. He felt sure now of her innocence. Someone must have had Eltrys killed so he could frame Gerhild with the crime and have her sent to Cidhna Mine. She must have seen this coming, or something like it, when she saw that the door to the Shrine had been forced open and left ajar; and she had been willing to step into such a trap, so she must also have been willing to be sent to prison. Furthermore, thanks to his story the night before, she knew he never wanted to go back to the mine. She had kept him out of her dealings with Thonar and Nepos, and dismissed him early, saving him from becoming implicated in her crimes—real or framed—and incarcerated with her.

"Damn," he grumbled to himself. She had protected him from imprisonment. Thinking about it, he realized she had been protecting him quite a bit, making him stand watch outside wherever there had been trouble, even to order him to stay out of her fight with Dryston. She hadn't employed him because she needed protection; she had employed him for information only. It didn't matter that she had told him that upfront; he thought it was just a ploy—who would hire a sellsword and not expect him to fight?—but now he saw the truth. She only wanted him for his knowledge. He felt used, insulted, undervalued. If he ever saw her again, if she ever got out of Cidhna Mine…

He stopped his thoughts, pushing himself away from the wall and towards the bar, muttering darkly, "The bitch!"

'Bastard,' Gerhild thought to herself, but gave no outward sign of her feelings. She laid down on the straw pallet, pulling the hem of her shift up as she did so. One fuck for one bottle of skooma, that had been their deal. All she had to do, was lie there for a few minutes, let him do what he wanted, and then she’d have the skooma for the shiv for her chance to get to Madanach…

Braig was leering over her, almost drooling, probably not believing his luck. He all but fell on top of her, barely getting his leggings out of the way before he was thrusting inside.

“Ah, fuck!” he cried, coming immediately. She could feel his body tremble and convulse, his cock grow soft and start to slip out. “Fuck fuck fuck fuck…”

He leaned back from her a little, and she began to sense a renegotiation in the works. “Just so you know, that one didn’t count.”

“But… we agreed, one fuck for one bottle…”

The backhand across her face wasn't unexpected. “You call that a fuck? It was over too quickly; I never got a chance to enjoy it. I didn’t want a come, I wanted a fuck. That was not a fuck; my hand’s done a better job. Now, are you going to give me the fuck, or don’t you want the skooma after all?”

She made bitter tears fill her eyes and her lower lip tremble. “That’s not fair. You said…”

“Who you going to complain to, Nordic bitch?” he asked.

Looking around, she realized he was right. No one was there to have witnessed their deal, Braig having dismissed Uraccen from his post so they could screw in private. And even if there had been a witness, she doubted the man would have been on her side. Fighting down the impulse to just kill him and take the skooma, she made her body relax beneath him again.
“What are you doing?” he asked.

“I… I’m letting you…”

“I need help, you stupid bitch. It’s not going to get up on its own, is it. Gods, you make a terrible whore.”

He didn’t know the half of it, she thought to herself. She looked down between them, at his flaccid cock dangling obscenely from the front of his hips, and resisted the urge to be sick. Surely he didn’t mean…

She looked off to the side as her hand wrapped around it and…

“Yes,” he moaned, leaning back down to kiss and suck on her neck. “Stroke it. Harder! Yesssss… ah, that’s good, that’s good. Tighten just a little bit more. Now my balls. No, with your other hand. Good good.” Interspersed with his directions, he pulled open the top of her shift and sucked at her nipples, kissing and biting and licking.

“Fuck, it’s just not working,” he sighed, pulling off of her to kneel on the mat. “You’re going to have to suck it.”

Her lips trembled a little harder this time. “…suck…” That implied using her mouth. Her blood ran cold at the thought, as she looked down to his lap, his cock dangling now between his spread thighs. There was nothing appetizing about the thought, nothing encouraging, but there was also nothing she could do about it. She shifted around on her hands and knees until she was crouched before him, numbing herself, numbing her thoughts, only letting herself think that she only had to do this once. If Braig backed out a second time, she’d leave and work on stealing Duach’s bottle.

Her hand shook a little as she reached out for his cock, lifted it up to her lips, and slid it inside her mouth…

He grabbed the back of her head, thrusting his hips, forcing himself deeper inside. She felt her mouth fill with the soft and fleshy member, felt it twitch and pulse like a dying fish, tasted the sweat and stink of Braig thick on her tongue. She nearly suffocated, her mouth effectively sealed and her nose buried in his stuffy pubic hair.

Thankfully it wasn't long before he pulled out of her mouth, pushed her back onto the ground, and stabbed her. That’s what it reminded her of, stabbing, poking with a blunt knife into the same wound over and over and over. She wanted to wretch. If she didn't need the skooma… if she didn't need the shiv… if she didn't need to get to Madanach… she would thoroughly enjoy killing Braig, slowly and carefully peeling his skin from his body, cutting off his genitals and plucking out his eyes, slicing between each rib until she opened his lungs to the air…

He came a second time with a soft grunt, panting almost in time with each lessening thrust. His eyes were closed, his lips parted, but she couldn’t look at him. With patience born of desperation she waited for his movements to come to a halt. At long last he pulled out and stood up, readjusting his clothing as he did so. "Well, I suppose you want your payment now?" his voice was condescending, laughing at her mockingly.

She reached her knees and nodded, unable to trust herself just then to speak. With cat-like eyes she watched him walk over to the rough-hewn wall. "Here," he reached behind a boulder and pulled out a bottle of skooma, tossing it to her negligently. If she hadn't lunged for it quickly, it would have fallen to the ground and shattered on the stones. "Enjoy your drink. And if you ever need more, I'm not so old as to be unwilling to deal with you again, little girl." The smirk on his face told her he knew full well the addictive qualities of skooma, and hoped she would be coming to him for more bottles soon.

She cradled the bottle to her bosom, as if it were a child, her posture full of supplication and humility. When he turned towards the entrance to call Uraccen back inside, she got to her feet and reached behind the boulder for a second bottle, slipping it inside her tunic and between her breasts. With her hands clasping the first bottle to her chest, the lump from the second was easily concealed. By the time he turned back around, she looked like she had just gained her feet, and was walking awkwardly towards the exit, her body sore after all the use.

"Remember, little girl," he caught her arm just before she passed him, Uraccen pausing a few feet from them to watch. "You could get skooma from just about anyone in here, but they all get it from me. Why not come directly to the source, eh? I don't charge too much, do I?"

She shook her head, holding herself tensely, but allowing him to reach down and brush his lips against the skin of her neck. "Now go on and enjoy yourself. You know where to find me." He sent her off down the tunnel with a familiar pat to her backside.

Gerhild was beginning to figure out the tunnel system. She found a little cubbyhole full of dark shadows and slipped inside to regroup. She had taken the second bottle on impulse—a bottle a tumble had been their deal—but now she began to second-guess the action. Braig would undoubtedly figure out a bottle was missing, and would probably blame Uraccen for it. He might figure out she had taken it, however, so the sooner she got rid of it the better. And she knew just who wouldn't mind an extra bottle of skooma.

It was a little hard finding Grisvar again, the only prisoner who was actively avoiding being found, but she managed it. She coughed gently, knowing he had heard her approach but not wishing to startle him. "Excuse me, Grisvar," she said in a quivering voice.

"Ah, little Gerhild," he sighed upon recognizing her voice even before she stepped from the shadows, "I told you, lass, I can't give them away for nothing."

He stopped suddenly when he saw the bottle clutched to her breasts. "I have it," she said softly, watching him from beneath her long lashes. "I… I have two…"

He couldn't keep himself from licking his lips as he watched her pull a second bottle from within her tunic. "Gerhild, you are truly a blessing to this old man. Too good to be true, to be believed, with the way my luck's been running lately. I don't know how you did it, and I don't want to know how, but I thank you. Here," he passed over three shivs as she passed him the bottles.

"I only needed one," she protested weakly, having every intention of keeping all three shivs, but having to keep up appearances.

"Aye, but I no longer have any need of them," he said sadly. "I told you, my days are numbered, and these two bottles will make what time I have left pleasant enough. I won't need these any more, and they're the last ones I have. So you take them, and maybe you can use the spares for something useful, like defending yourself from unwanted attention."

She offered him a small smile, as false as her tears had been earlier that day. "If only I knew how to use them."

Grisvar sighed, wrapping one of her hands around the small handle. "Point the sharp part at your enemy. It's not so complicated a weapon; I'm sure you'll figure the rest out." A sound of rocks shifting caught his attention, and though she could tell by the sound that it was merely the ground settling, he thought he heard danger approaching. "You should go now, and don't come back here. You don't want to see what they'll do to me. Go, before you're found here, and they decide to kill you, too. Go!"

He shoved her urgently, sending her spinning away from him. Gerhild readily left him to his skooma and his paranoia, knowing there was nothing she could do for him and that there was already too much for her to do. Again she found a dark corner, out of sight of everyone, and contemplated her next steps.

Carefully she tore a small strip of cloth off the bottom of her tunic, and used it to secure the two extra shivs against the top of her thigh. It would be easy for her, if she found herself in a fight, to lift up the hem and grab the small weapons. She didn't worry about any of her unwanted visitors discovering the makeshift knives while bedding her, as she would never again allow any man to touch her sexually. From this point onward she would find a way to be under Madanach's protection, and she was positive the King in Rags would rather bed a man than a Nord woman. The third shiv she clutched to her waist, appearing to pitifully hide it within her hands, as she set her steps back towards Borkul. No one would be fooled regarding what she was concealing, but she only had to go a little ways before she would be rid of it.

Chapter Text

To say Borkul was impressed by her day's work would be an exaggeration, but he did grudgingly keep his word. Holding his hand out for the shiv, he stepped aside and allowed her entrance to Madanach's private chambers.

Gerhild blinked as she entered the spacious room, brightly lit with lanterns and furnished with a sprawling bed and thick rugs. Barrels of food and bottles of wine gave evidence of how well he was treated. There was even a desk, tucked away in a private alcove, and a locked chest for safekeeping whatever the Forsworn leader might deem important. She took all this in quickly while she kept her posture timid and small. Madanach was a man who thought of himself as a king, and managed to rule his subjects even while in prison, but he wasn't so delusional as to be harmless. Too many within the mine followed him, and she knew he was the most important one she had to get to underestimate her.

He didn't turn around when she entered, but sat at his desk writing quietly in a journal. He did pause a moment to laugh, dark and humorless, and speak to her. "Just a moment, my dear. I didn't think you could gain entrance so quickly, but I suppose you were too desperate. Give me a moment more, then we can talk."

He continued to write, the scratching of his quill on parchment soft within the large room. She kept herself still, not willing to look up from her study of the ground, even after the quill ceased to make noise. When he did speak, she forced herself to act startled. "So, the prostitute has come to me to seek protection. Yes, I know all about you," he almost purred, savoring the look of shock and amazement she had placed on her face. "I know your name is Gerhild, and you've only been in Markarth a short while. I know Thonar Silver-Blood had you framed for Eltrys' death. I even know you pissed off Thonar when you refused to allow him free use of your services, which is why he had you framed. No doubt you're wishing you had given him that free access, as these past three nights have more than made up for it, eh?" He laughed again, standing up to walk towards her.

She held herself still, only her chest moving, heaving with her breath as he reached out a hand to cup her neck. "So, you've figured out the only way to survive the nights here in Cidhna Mine is to find someone to protect you from excess attention. And the best protector would be the strongest resident of the mine. And who holds more power than the King in Rags?" His hand tightened around her neck, bruising her flesh. She winced and let out a startled cry, cowering before him though she strongly wished she could bring her hidden shivs to bear right then and there.

"Get this straight, Nordic bitch," he ground out between his teeth, his breath hot against her ear. "You have nothing to offer me in return for my protection!"

He tossed her from him, sending her smacking against the wall. She slapped the surface with her hands, making a satisfying sound but protecting her head from striking. Still she stumbled back from the rocks, clutching her temple as if hurt and dizzy.

"I would sooner lay with Borkul than with filth like you," he continued, oblivious to any damage he might have inflicted on her. "Just having you in here is soiling the very air I breathe. But, you could be of use to me."

He turned his cold eyes to hers and waited until he thought her head had cleared enough to allow her to understand him. "You've proven yourself resourceful, obtaining a shiv for Borkul." He laughed again when she blinked at him in mock surprise, feigning astonishment that he could so effortlessly read her mind. "I told him to set that task for you, to see if you could manage it. And you did. Now, I have another task for you, to see if you are intelligent." He stepped back up to her, his voice harsh and dark as he continued, "You Nords and your prejudices, thinking Skyrim is your land. You forget we Bretons were here first! We settled the Reach long before Nords came here. But will you acknowledge us? Will you treat us with respect? As people? Pah," he spat at her face, his saliva warm as it slid down her cheek. "Go out there and talk with Braig; ask him his story. Then come back here and we'll talk."

He turned away from her, dismissing her from his presence, but she didn't move to leave. In a quiet voice, she answered, "I already know what happened to him."

"What?" Madanach turned back to her, his eyes narrowing dangerously.

She knew she was taking a risk in moving so fast, but she didn't want to waste any more time. And she especially didn't want to go back out there now, when it was so close to ‘night’ and the time when the men would come looking for her again. "I know what they did to him," she repeated softly, thinking of the stories Uraccen had told her of everyone in the prison. "How he had been arrested, merely for speaking with you once, when he wasn't truly a Forsworn, and how his daughter begged to be allowed to take his place, but the Jarl beheaded her, right in front of him," she continued in a rush. "And he's been in prison for so long, and she would have been twenty-three, if she had lived, and…"

"Enough!" Madanach commanded, and she fell instantly silent. His eyes narrowed as he studied her closer. "How do you know this?"

"I…" she paused to lick her lips nervously, not that she felt nervous, but because it would be what he expected her to do. "To get the shiv for Borkul, I had to get skooma for… for someone else. And Braig deals in skooma. He…" she paused again, thinking in the back of her mind that it was beginning to get tiring, the constant lies and half-truths, "He was willing to let me have some, but first I had to… He talked to me, while we were alone, about his hatred of Nords, and the Jarl, and what they did to him and his daughter…" she let her voice break, dropping her face as if ashamed of her race. Truthfully, Uraccen had told her the story, but Madanach wouldn’t know that, she hoped.

"Ahh," Madanach sighed, a satisfied sound. "And I think you do understand, a little at least, about what has been happening here in the Reach, the injustices, the oppression."

She didn't answer, allowing him to put his own motives over her actions and reactions. He was turning out far too easy to manipulate, and therefore she grew even more cautious.

"Very well," he cooed, thinking it might be best if he were to at least appear in possession of the only woman in the mine. "I'll grant you my protection, but it won't be for free. For now, you can serve as my maid, cleaning my chamber and preparing my meals; I'll think of more duties as time goes on, nothing too distasteful. I was serious when I said I wouldn't bed you. But keep me fed and happy, do exactly what I tell you when I tell you, and perhaps your sentence will be shorter than you anticipated."

She didn't know what to make of that last statement, whether he intended to arrange for her pardon or kill her, but outwardly she accepted his offer, even dropping to her knees and kissing the back of his hand in gratitude. He pulled back from her in disgust, wiping his hand on the front of his trousers and making an offended noise in his throat. When he ordered her to fix him supper, she eagerly jumped to her feet to do his bidding. She was confident she could manipulate him merely by allowing him to use her as a slave, and for the first time since her incarceration she would be able to sleep peacefully at night. Still the quiet voice inside her head cautioned wariness, and she again was thankful for the two extra shivs strapped to her thigh beneath her tunic.

It had taken nearly a week, several days filled with sweeping a dirt floor, cleaning his laundry—though after her first disastrous attempt at cooking he excused her from that chore—and sitting quietly in a corner while Madanach conducted business with the Forsworn both within and without the mine. She learned of his method of passing messages along to his compatriots still roaming freely in the Reach, and grew alarmed when she heard him boasting that soon he would be joining them. She knew if she was to have any chance of clearing her name and gaining favor in Markarth, she had to appease the Silver-Blood family by killing Madanach—which would also please Jarl Ulfric to no end. And killing Madanach within Cidhna Mine would be much easier than without.

She had several opportunities, while living there within his chambers, to use her shivs and slit his throat or stab him through his heart while he slept. However she still entertained hopes of escaping the mine herself, and killing Madanach while being the only suspect would only serve to ensure her own death. She needed to kill the King in Rags and escape cleanly afterwards, and until she could do so, she had to bide her time.

When he finally began making plans to escape the mine himself, she found herself privy to them. As his slave, he didn't care if she saw what papers were on his desk, or heard his mumbles to himself, or discussions with Borkul and other Forsworn. She was beneath him, a piece of furniture, something useful but less than human. And since she never left his chambers, he was confident she couldn't be a spy, as she couldn't run off and report anything she learned. So he grew more and more careless around her, and she grew more and more cautious.

One morning she woke to find him staring at her, his features thoughtful and calculating. "I think," he began, without waiting for her to fully wake up, "That it is time you show me just how loyal you are."

She didn't answer—she hardly ever spoke—but waited for him to elaborate. As he was a man who liked the sound of his own voice, she didn't have to wait long. "I'm leaving here soon. My arrangement with the Silver-Bloods has grown as confining as this mine. I'll be free in a few days, and if you wish to come with me, you'll have to do more than swear fealty to me. You'll have to prove yourself worthy of becoming a Forsworn, especially since you are of Nord blood." He loomed over her, his face darkened by shadows. "Do you wish to come with me? Or would you rather remain behind, even after all your kinsmen did to you?"

Absurdly she no longer held any rancor against the Silver-Blood family for framing her and throwing her in prison, as killing Madanach was as beneficial to them as it was to her Jarl. She merely wished she had been given the courtesy of being asked first. Indeed, if she held any rancor, it was to the Forsworn for the demeaning way they treated her, forcing her into her current position out of necessity. She again admitted that it suited her purposes, the need to find a way to stay close to Madanach. Though she didn't mind killing, she did mind being forced into prostitution. She licked her lips, her eyes wide as she answered, "I want to go with you."

He leaned back and laughed, allowing her to sit up on the threadbare blanket she used for a bed. "Of course. I need more than your words, however, my dear little Gerhild. I need action! I won't take anyone into the Forsworn just because they ask. A man or woman must prove themselves worthy of being my subject. As you must prove yourself worthy. You know of Grisvar the Unlucky?" At her nod, he continued, "Kill him."

She swallowed, her eyes growing even wider. "Kill him?"

"Kill him." He stood up and moved towards his desk. "Grisvar had been useful, for a Nord, just like you have been. He would steal some small item and get himself incarcerated for a week or so, just so he could smuggle messages out of here to deliver to my subjects. But he pushed his luck once too far. Now he'll never be released from Cidhna Mine, and I have no use for a messenger who cannot deliver. Still, he has proven himself worthy in the past. So here's the deal: there's room for only one Nord in my plans. He gets to come with me when I escape tomorrow, unless he is killed. Understand?"

She swallowed again, taking her time before nodding hesitantly.

"Good girl," he smiled. "You know, I might be warming to you after all. You're not ugly, for a Nord. And your body is a pleasing shape. I suppose if you were prepared properly, bathed and painted and dressed, I might consider you for a concubine. Now get moving!" He turned away from her, confident that she would leave and pulled a key out of his pocket.

"Yes, of course, right away, I'll… I'll… How do I kill him?" She hadn't seen the key before, and stammered the question to stall for more time to study it.

Madanach narrowed his eyes and turned back to her, fondling the key with his fingers. "Why do you think I had Borkul send you to get a shiv? Ask him for the shiv, and use it to kill Grisvar."

Her mouth formed a giant hole, as if she never could have thought of such an idea herself. She was pushing her luck, however, as he hadn't expected her to remain after he had so summarily dismissed her. His eyes grew suspicious, even of her unmindful innocence, and she quickly dropped her head submissively. "I… of course, King Madanach. At once. Excuse me."

Gerhild's feet moved quickly as she raced from his chamber. Borkul watched her tear past him, his laughter following her down the tunnel as he knew she had left without the shiv. She wasn't worried, however, as she had no intention of killing Grisvar. Instead she would wander the tunnels, looking scared and apprehensive, and in a few hours would return to stammer her error to the Orc's derisive pleasure. He would eventually stop laughing long enough to give her the shiv, and she would use it on him. Then Madanach. Then she would escape. She had seen enough of the key to know where it must fit, had passed the side tunnel in Madanach's chambers enough times to know the key could only fit the gate barring the tunnel. This afternoon, she would kill the Orc and the King in Rags, steal the key, and leave this hellhole behind.

And tonight, she would sleep in her bed at the Silver-Blood Inn.

It went nearly as planned.

Killing Borkul was easier than anticipated; he even turned his back to her as he went to retrieve the shiv, never suspecting she already had one aimed to jab into his jugular. He was dead within minutes, though she had to stuff her fist into his mouth to keep him from calling for help. Madanach went easier, his back to the room as he sat at his desk, overly confident that no one could get past his Orc protector. He never heard her approach, and she was able to do more damage with two shivs on the old Breton than she had with one on the Orc. Rifling his clothing, she quickly found the key and the note he had written for posting to his Forsworn followers. Apparently he intended to take them all down the side tunnel to freedom, but without the note or the key, they would have to remain prisoners in Cidhna Mine.

Gerhild, however, left behind the one shiv buried deep in Madanach's neck, and took the two spare shivs, the key and the note to cover the escape route. As suspected, the key opened the gate, and before anyone discovered what had happened, the gate was closed and locked behind her, the key in her pocket, and the tunnel to freedom open before her. In the tunnel she encountered frostbite spiders, but dispatched them easily enough, using a shiv in each hand. When the tunnel opened up into Dwemer ruins, she had a little more trouble dealing with a couple of automatons that came to life at her passage. The shivs were practically useless, so she switched to a sparks spell—distasteful as it was to use magic—and Thu'ums.

It was early evening by the time she reached the main door, amazed to find it unlocked. It seemed odd to her that such an obvious passage out of the most secure prison in Skyrim would remain so open. As she pushed against the great doors and stepped out into the fading sunshine, she belatedly understood why.

She was still within Markarth. In fact, after all the twisting tunnels and convoluted ruins, the doors opened to a street just a few blocks from the Hag's Cure, though several stories higher. She felt herself deflate, as more than a score of guards were on station just outside the doors, waiting for an army of Forsworn to come pouring out behind her. Instead, their weapons drawn, they looked over-zealous and awkward facing one young woman armed with only a pair of shivs.

Thonar was with them, also alert for more danger. She merely stood, her shoulders slumped with exhaustion, and waited for him to make the next move. When it was apparent that no one was with her, that the Forsworn were still safely imprisoned within the mine, he began to relax.

"Gerhild!" he proclaimed, stepping forward to grasp her hand. "I am glad to see you again, safe and sound." He dropped his voice lower for her ears only as he continued, "I take this to mean that you were the one who killed Madanach?"

"Aye," she sighed, equally quiet.

"Excellent! All you men, listen to me," he raised his voice once more, addressing the guards around them. For added emphasis, he wrapped his arm around her shoulders, holding her carefully yet firmly by his side. "Lady Gerhild has done this city a great service, and all her past crimes have been pardoned." Briefly she wondered if he had the authority to issue such a decree. "In addition, you are to spread the word that she is from this point onward a friend of the Silver-Blood family, and is to be granted the same privileges and rights as any member of my family." He slipped a silver ring onto her finger, in plain view of all the guards there. Apparently he did have such authority. She studied his face as he added for her benefit, "This ring here signifies your new status. You have but to show any guard this ring, and they will allow you extra… leeway… in your actions. You there," he pointed to a random guard, "Bring Lady Gerhild her belongings from the prison. Hurry up!"

As the guards dispersed, Thonar continued to smile pleasantly and hold onto her shoulders. While waiting for the return of her equipment and belongings, he spoke with her quietly, "I took the liberty of confiscating your belongings from the inn, for safekeeping, you understand. I'm sure you have valuables you wouldn't want to have been left unguarded while you were… detained." When she didn't seem to appreciate his thoughtfulness, he gave a small cough and continued. "Yes, well, Madanach's body was found not more than an hour ago. After a quick roll call of the prisoners, only two were unaccounted for, yourself and the other Nord, Grisvar. I don't suppose he tried to escape with you."

It was more a question than a statement, so she answered, "No, Grisvar is still within the mine, undoubtedly hiding somewhere, afraid some Forsworn will kill him. Madanach wanted him dead; in fact, I had been ordered to do it. Instead I used the shiv first on his Orc protector, then on Madanach himself. It was a clean kill, quick and silent, with hardly any suffering."

"Hmm, well, one can't have everything."

"I think you've had enough, Thonar," she sighed, pulling out of his embrace as the guard returned with two packs. She knelt beside them, her whole body sore and one hand still bloody from Borkul's teeth, making undoing the ties a little awkward. However, the need to check over her possessions was too important to let her hurts stop her. The larger pack, the one she was unfamiliar with, held her weapons and armor, all she had had on her when she had been arrested. Everything was there, even her enchanted dagger, and in good condition despite being stuffed inside a satchel for over a week. Next she turned to her own, smaller pack.

"I assure you, everything is there," he protested mildly.

She made a small sound in the back of her throat, her fingers quickly checking the contents, hefting the bags of coin as if able to count the amount by weight. "And then some." With her good hand she pulled out the two extra coin purses, heavy and lumpy, that she had not possessed before her incarceration. "Trying to frame me again?" Though her words were challenging, her tone was amused.

Thonar's face turned a splotchy red, obviously unused to being spoken to so bluntly and trying to determine if she was accusing him. "I was merely trying to say thank you for your services. I believe that the amount is more than enough compensation for having been unjustly convicted of a crime you did not commit."

One delicate eyebrow raised itself as she stood, as if it lifted her up to her feet. "I am young," she admitted, "But do not mistake that for inexperience, or ignorance. I knew perfectly well ahead of time you had me framed for Eltrys' murder, hoping I'd do your dirty work for you."

His lips pressed into a thin line, but as the guard had stepped back right after setting down her packs, only the two of them could hear their conversation.

"Eltrys' death was threefold," she continued to explain, her relaxed tone in contrast to the topic of conversation. "First, it stopped his embarrassing investigation, which would have revealed you are acquiring all the mines here in the Reach, some of them through fairly hostile means. These methods might reflect poorly on your family, and that you simply cannot have. Or rather, your brother Thongvor cannot have, as it would interfere with his political aspirations.

"Second, it placed me in Cidhna Mine," she swept on, "Where I could assassinate Madanach for you, getting rid of another embarrassment. He had been useful for a time, stirring up just enough trouble with his Forsworn to keep the Jarl occupied. But when you learned he had grown tired of his imprisonment and was planning to escape, you halted his communication with his followers—Grisvar's frequent incarcerations for minor law breaking—and found someone to silence him once and for all.

"Third," she held up the final finger, having been ticking them off as she explained, "Eltrys' death left his wife, Rhiada, a widow. Your own wife is recently dead; though her death was not planned by you, I do not believe you grieve the passing of a woman more interested in your name and wealth than in you as a man. And Rhiada, such a beautiful young woman, with a child on the way, and no husband to provide for her and her babe." At the shocked look on his face, she almost smiled. Almost. "Aye, Thonar, you are that easily read, even by a child such as me. And next time, ask for my help first." She turned from him to secure her packs, replacing the extra pouches. She would have no difficulty accepting the money if he wished to pay her.

"You… you might have said no. You might not have agreed…" he sputtered, still underestimating her. He was off balance mentally, and she took full advantage.

She lifted her face to him and finally smiled, though her eyes remained emotionless. "I knew enough of it, or I never would have entered that Shrine. I knew the door had been forced, and that undoubtedly there were guards waiting to arrest me. That's why I dismissed my hireling beforehand, so he wouldn't be unnecessarily involved." She gave the strings of the second pack a hard jerk as she finished tying them without looking, her eyes holding his. She could see in the fading light that he believed her, finally. "I don't appreciate being used, Lord Thonar. As it happened, our purposes ran together for a time, so I followed your lead. Do not mistake that as my being on your side. I have my own business here in Markarth. And if you get in my way, or delay me again, I will have no qualms about removing you from my path."

"Who do you think you are?" he hissed, his anger boiling past his wariness.

"I am Gerhild of Skyrim." On impulse she stressed her oddly claimed birthright. She couldn't be sure the stories had spread this far, but Jarl Ulfric had been telling stories of her in Windhelm for four months before her arrival, and no doubt those stories were picked up by travelers, who would in turn spread them to other areas of Skyrim. She suspected that some sort of word had reached Markarth of the young woman who escaped the dragon in Helgen, or perhaps about the girl who helped defeat a dragon near Whiterun and was rewarded with a Thaneship. Apparently he had heard rumors of some sort, as his eyes widened and his jaw dropped.

She decided to end their conversation, as it was late and she wished to reach the Hag's Cure before it closed. Shouldering her lighter pack, she hefted the strap of the other in her hands, unable to carry both on her back.

"You are wrong about one thing," he called after her, taking a few quick steps to reach her side. "I won't marry Rhiada. She is a Breton, after all, and I won't contaminate the Silver-Blood family, but she'll make a fine mistress."

Gerhild allowed him to have that small victory. "As you say, Lord Thonar. Now, excuse me, please. It is late, and I have other business to conduct before the day is finished."

He nodded, dropping his hand away. "You," he pointed to the guard standing at the foot of the stairs, far enough away not to have heard their conversation, but close enough to hear commands. He turned and ran up the steps quickly, eager to do his master's bidding. "Carry Lady Gerhild's packs for her this evening," Thonar commanded him, "And when she has finished her business for today, see her safely to the Silver-Blood Inn."

The guard saluted, taking the larger pack from her and holding out a hand for the pack on her back. She shrugged out of it, giving a nod of thanks to both Thonar and the nameless guard. "I hope we will see each other again soon, Lady Gerhild, under more pleasant circumstances," he bowed over her hand, very stiff and formal, and obviously not wishing to antagonize her if the rumors were true.

She dropped a small curtsy, only briefly considering how such a scene would look to anyone passing by: Thonar Silver-Blood kissing the hand of a young woman wearing a prisoner's tunic. It was worth it, if only because the Silver-Bloods were the type of Nord sympathizer for which Jarl Ulfric was looking. As she stood she brushed aside the fantasy and turned her back on Thonar, glad that if they hadn't parted as friends, they at least shared a mutual respect.

There was a flurry of activity inside the Silver-Blood Inn. Since early evening, when Ogmund burst into the main room with the latest news, everything had turned inside out. Kleppr buzzed around the bar, setting out the best tankards and polishing the countertop to a glossy shine. Hroki and Hreinn prepared the largest room—the one Margret had rented—and saw that a fire was lit and a bath set up. Frabbi fussed over her family, while seeing that a feast was prepared, and the floors scrubbed, and the mantle dusted. It came to a head when she tried to get Ogmund to run home and change into his best clothes, the old skald insisting that he was presentable enough. He did, however, take extra time to tune his lute.

Frabbi turned to her customers next, trying to get Degaine and Cosnach to at least sit up, if not sober up. She shooed Vorstag from his usual chair by the fire, as it was the closest and most comfortable, and wiped imaginary dust off the goat horns adorning his shoulder. He rolled his eyes but suffered her attentions, not really feeling as excited as everyone else, but knowing he'd have to put up with it regardless.

It was absurd, really, if anyone else besides him ever stopped to think about it. They were making this fuss, an impromptu celebration, for a woman whom everyone had thought was a murderer just one week ago. He settled himself against the wall and listened to snatches of conversation as they scurried around.

"As I understand it, she killed Madanach's bodyguard in a duel. Their only weapons were shivs."

"She crept into Madanach's quarters last night and slit his throat. He never knew what hit him. She had to bribe the warden to get her out before everyone else woke up and discovered what she had done."

"She had to escape through the ruins. Fought off fifty Dwemer automatons with nothing but her wits and a pickaxe."

"Such a brave young woman, willing to go undercover like that, risk her reputation, to rid us of that madman."

Vorstag didn't think very much of what they inferred actually happened. Though he knew she could handle herself in a fight, like she had against Dryston, he suspected she had to use more than a shiv or a pickaxe to survive. And having spent time in that mine himself, unlike the others, he could well imagine what she must have gone through; there weren't a lot of women in there.

He pursed his lips and stared into his mug. It would have been difficult for anyone to do what she did, if the guards could be believed regarding all her exploits. But then again, only Gerhild could have fallen into a cesspool like Cidhna Mine and come out smelling like roses.

The door opened and there she was, still dressed in a prisoner's garb that showed plentiful evidence of her trials. With a critical eye he examined her closely, noted where blood and other fluids had stained her clothing, where a seam had been ripped in haste or a struggle, a smear of blood that hadn't been wiped off her skin though the wound had been healed. Aye, she had suffered, but she had survived. Even more, she had triumphed and now was enjoying a hero's welcome.

He watched from the shadows, not willing to join in the celebration. Kleppr handed her a mug as Frabbi fussed over her, admonishing her to clean her plate like an overprotective mother. Ogmund caught her up on all the latest gossip, in between snippets trying to get her to promise to tell him all that had happened. No doubt he was already writing her story, setting it to tune. Even Cosnach and Degaine left off their cups long enough to listen to whatever small part she was willing to share.

And she sat amidst her admirers, like a queen holding court, an absurd analogy as she was still filthy and dressed in rags. A Queen in Rags, now that the King in Rags was dead. Long live the Queen.

Vorstag drained his mug and set it on the bar. He knew it was petty of him to resent her, but he couldn't help himself. She had hired him; it was his place to defend her honor. He should have been there with her, protecting her from those hungry men, helping her kill Madanach, watching her back while they escaped. But she had dismissed him just as he would have been the most useful to her.

He took one last look at the surreal tableau before heading to his room.

Gerhild simply sat and took it all in. She was too tired, and too overwhelmed by the warm welcome, to question this unusual treatment. Frabbi provided the answer without prompting, explaining that they had heard of what she did in the mine, and how grateful they were that such a madman was dead, and to not worry about anything that night, just eat and drink and rest. Gerhild did notice one minor detail, however, as she set aside the empty plate and cup and stood to reach her room; Vorstag was missing. She thought she had seen him when she first entered, but there had been such a flurry of activity around her, he had managed to slip away from her sight before she could determine where he went. Thinking she would see him in the morning, and exchange greetings with him then, perhaps even rehire him to help her to… well, she'd think of something he could help her with. That would wait for morning, her mind too tired and her body too weak to handle much more than negotiating her steps to her room.

Chapter Text

5th of Rain's Hand: 4E 202

Men made no sense.

Gerhild narrowed her eyes, not quite understanding what was going on. She had spent several weeks in Markarth, getting to know the citizens and nurturing contacts and connections. Jarl Ulfric had been specific: become a Thane of Markarth and separate the Nord sympathizers from the Imperial sympathizers. She had nearly finished the second task, after befriending and investing—literally—in several businesses within the city, she knew whom Jarl Ulfric could trust to run Markarth, if he should ever attain control. The first task, that of becoming Thane, she hadn't been able to address until she finally achieved entrance to Understone Keep. There had been the official request to become a citizen, eased by her somewhat leery though mutually respectful relationship with the Silver-Blood family, but that only got her in the door. She couldn't gain favor with Jarl Igmund, as he was obviously under Imperial—and Thalmor—influence. She had to wait until Bothela, the alchemist and her friend, asked her to deliver a potion for the Jarl's uncle and closest advisor, Raerek.

After gaining Raerek's favor for the errand, and keeping it discreet, the Jarl was far more open to talking with her. She spoke with him a few times, always on polite matters that had nothing to do with the Civil War, and he finally opened up enough with her to ask a service. There was a shield that belonged to his father, Hrolfdir, who had it with him when he went to negotiate a peace treaty with the Forsworn. Unsurprisingly they killed him, and kept his shield as a trophy. He had learned that it was being kept at Dead Crone Rock, and if she could return it to him, he would be most appreciative.

Gerhild took that to mean he would make her a Thane.

Whether or not he meant it as such, it was what she meant to do, set off for Hag Rock Redoubt, which would lead to Dead Crone Rock, which would lead to the shield, which would lead to a closer relationship with the Jarl.

And Vorstag was being an idiot.

"I don't understand," she admitted, speaking quietly so only he could hear her. Whatever was happening, though she didn't know why he was so upset with her, she did know she didn't want others privy to this conversation. "I thought we parted as friends. If you had been upset with me then, why did you remain silent?"

"Didn't figure out what you were doing until later," he mumbled around his pouting lip.

"And what was it you think I was doing?" she asked, still bewildered. She reached a hand out towards him, knowing that few men could resist so intimate a gesture from a pretty young woman. "I knew I was walking into a trap…"

"Aye," he grumbled, crossing his arms and leaning back from her, avoiding her touch, "A trap. Perfect opportunity for me to fight for you. That's my job, ya know, defend my employer. Yet you kept me out of the fight with Dryston, and out of the trouble in the Treasury House and Nepos' home. Really, all I ever did was stand around and watch an empty street."

"I thought…" she left her hand hanging in the empty space between them, "Well… after breaking into Weylin's room, I got the impression there were certain acts—unlawful acts—you didn't approve of. I was only thinking of your dislike of crime, in case I had to break in or steal something to get the information I needed."

He was shaking his head before she finished. "There's still the Shrine. You knew something was wrong; don't deny it. Knew there were guards waiting to arrest you, and you dismissed me before the fighting started."

She blinked, letting her confusion show. "There was no fighting," she admitted quietly. "I surrendered."

"What?" he was so shocked, he spoke a little too loudly. Other patrons in the inn looked at them, but as the two were so still and quiet, they quickly lost interest. "Why?"

She sighed, not understanding why her influence over him had completely crumbled. True, Vorstag had always been tricky to handle, never reacting as other Nord men, and as often as not falling for her feminine charms—this time was a 'not.' Again she wondered about his lisp, but really there was no reason why a peculiarity of speech should dictate his preferences. Giving up trying to discern which side of the bed he slept on, and thinking that perhaps, with Vorstag at least, honesty might be the best policy, she decided to explain. "It is complicated. During the course of my investigation, I came to the realization that Madanach needed to die, and the easiest way to kill him was from within Cidhna Mine as a prisoner. When I saw the door had been forced, I figured there would be trouble inside. It was very likely that Thonar had the same idea about Madanach, and had decided to use me to do it, so he put guards in the Shrine to arrest me for some invented crime. I knew how you felt about Cidhna Mine, so I dismissed you before entering the Shrine. That way, you weren't imprisoned, too."

Vorstag's nostrils flared, his anger confusing her even more. "You… dismissed… protected… me…" he sputtered, obviously so angry with her that he couldn't form his thoughts into coherent sentences.

"Why are you so angry?" she asked calmly, despite facing a man at least twice her size who seemed ready to strangle her barehanded.

He was panting at this point, as if he had been running for miles. "You hired me!" he hissed, his straight white teeth shining in the darker room. "I should have been protecting you, not the other way around."

"What does that matter?" she asked. "I didn't hire you to fight my battles for me…"

"Why else would you have hired a soldier of fortune?" he asked, his voice heavy with sarcasm.

"I hired you for information; I told you that from the start. I said I only needed you to tell me about the city, the people, and the politics."

"Aye," he grumbled, his anger tempered but still volatile. "A glorified tour guide. If that gets out, my reputation is ruined."

Her eyebrow raised, the force and source of his anger beginning to clear. "I think I finally understand. You are upset because I hired you for your brains, not your brawn." Her statement held more meaning than the words, that she knew he was acting childish. However, she didn't care to waste any more time admonishing him. Shaking her head, she stepped away from him and walked towards the bar.

Kleppr was there, ever ready with a tankard, though no longer on the house. Gerhild shook her head and waved it aside, instead taking stock of what other options were available. She knew, however petty his reasons were, Vorstag would never take her money again. So she brushed him aside and looked at who else wanted work.

Cosnach stood at the corner, shifting from foot to foot, his eyes thirsting for the drink that she had refused. Sighing, she knew he was her best option. Though a Breton, at least he knew how to fight, and his hide armor, though weaker than Vorstag's scaled armor, was in reasonable repair. Most importantly, he didn't look too drunk yet.

"Cosnach." She came up to him from his side before speaking his name, and it made him jump. His eyes a little wide, he turned to see who she was before he smiled.

"Lady Gerhild," he bobbed his head, his smile somewhat false. Quickly his eyes flicked to Vorstag, as if suspecting some sort of trap, but as the sellsword had stalked off to his room, Cosnach relaxed.

"I would like to hire your services," she continued, ignoring his darting eyes, "As a mercenary." That got his attention, his eyes widening even more. "It'll be hard work, going up against Forsworn and undoubtedly a Briarheart or more…"

"I'll take it," he said, jumping off the stool and ready to leave at that moment.

Gerhild was almost taken aback. "We haven't negotiated a price yet."

"I'll work for the standard rate," he countered, "The same as Vorstag."

Though she was quite sure Vorstag never shared with him just how much she had paid him, she nodded and held out a small pouch. "Half now," she said, passing over the coin purse, "And half after. If you don't survive, I'll give your fee to your cousin, Imedhnain."

"Oh, don't worry about me, Lady Gerhild. I'm a survivor," his voice trailed away as he peeked into the purse. "But what if you don't survive? How will I get the rest of my fee?"

Again her lithe eyebrow rose. "I'm hiring you to protect me. If I don't survive, do you really think you deserve the rest of your fee?"

"Oh, of course, good point, I knew that," he stammered. He tucked the purse inside his armor and looked around nervously. "So," he drew the syllable out, "When do you want to leave?"

"As soon as possible," she answered. "There's enough daylight we could make a good start for Hag Rock Redoubt, but I suppose you have to get a few things ready. We could leave in the morning…"

"No, no, sir, milady, ma'am," he stammered again, but his eyes were on the door where Ogmund had just entered. "I'll be ready to leave in five minutes. Maybe ten. Just let me go back to my room and pick up my mace, and I'll meet you at the city gate."

Without waiting for an answer, he shot off for the hallway leading towards the rooms. Gerhild was sure he lived in the Warrens, not the inn, but perhaps there was someone here with whom he wanted to entrust his money. Someone like Vorstag. She supposed they were friends, as they essentially did the same type of work, and Vorstag kept sending work his way—never mind the time he had blushed so deeply after mentioning Cosnach. It didn't really concern her, however, as long as Cosnach was at the gates in a timely manner and didn't try to disappear with her money. He would regret that.

She slipped off the stool and gave a nod and a smile to Ogmund as they passed. She didn't see the look on his face as his gaze followed her out the door, her mind already on the work ahead of her and not the people around her. It would prove a costly mistake.

The night was pitch black, the moons hidden being thick clouds that refused to rain. She lay at the bottom of a shallow ravine, half in a small stream, more like a large trickle that came out of a crevice in the mountainside. Her body was still, the only movement her shallow breaths as she strained to keep body and soul together. The wound wasn't her main concern. The bleeding had stopped, but the arrowhead was still in her—her back—and as long as it remained, the poison would continue to have its debilitating effect on her.

The sounds of something moving uphill reached her ears, but she was already too afraid to move her head. Instead she lifted her eyes, her mouth falling open and her fingers holding her dagger in a death grip. Whatever was up there sounded large to her ears, and the imagined form of a troll or even a dragon made her wince in fear. Somewhere in the back of her mind she knew it was the fear poison acting on her, creating these monsters, changing rabbits into cave bears. The poison had enough time by now to suffuse every drop of her blood, making her whole being tremble with fear, the line between reality and imagination erased. She only knew one thing, that she could still trust her enchanted dagger. It would never betray her. And whatever came down the side of the ravine, or up the trickling stream, she would stab with her dagger. Her foes would die, but her friends…

She stopped to wonder a moment if she had any friends. She supposed Ralof was her friend, or at the very least he considered himself her friend, but he was all the way in Windhelm and would never know she needed help, much less reach her before her death. As for anyone from Markarth, she knew pretty much everyone who lived there, had made investments in several businesses, done favors for merchants and beggars alike, but there was no one there who would care enough to look for her. There was no one who would comment on her absence, wonder where she had gone, find out from Vorstag or Kleppr that she had hired Cosnach—that treacherous bastard!

Dirt fell on her from above, and she had to blink several times before her eyes could focus. Her dagger at the ready, she fought to keep the screams inside as she watched a dark head poke over the rim. The fact that it was a fox that had been making all the noise did nothing to calm her, as she imagined she could see a possessed glow within its eyes, and rabid foam around its fangs. It stared at her for a long time, watching her with less fear than she watched it, before it turned away from the unusual smelling shadow and went back the way it had come.

Being alone again did nothing to settle her fears. The poison continued to possess her body and mind, making her shake with fear and fever, as her life slowly dripped away. Hours later, or perhaps days, she couldn't tell, she once again heard movement, this time coming up the stream. Gripping her dagger, she made ready to lunge. This time she would strike at the monster, whatever it turned out to be!

Ogmund grunted as he took a seat beside Vorstag, noting the way he was slouching in his chair. "Keep chewing your knuckles and you'll ruin your teeth."

"You always said that while I was growing up, and my teeth turned out fine," he countered, but he did pull his hand away from his face.

"Aye, because I made you stop chewing your knuckles. Now, what's got you so worried?" he asked, sipping on his drink as he took a break between songs.

Briefly he thought about denying it, but Ogmund knew him too well. Not wanting to waste the energy, he answered, "She did it to protect me."

The skald nodded sagely, as if he knew exactly what Vorstag was talking about. "Being protected by a woman, aye, that would make any man grumpy.

"No, it's not that," he shook his head, so distracted by his problem that he didn't notice his lisp had grown more pronounced. "I was supposed to protect her, but she dismissed me before entering the Shrine, even though she knew it was a trap."

"Did you ever ask her why?" Ogmund probed, catching on that they were talking about Gerhild.

"Aye, just before she left." He leaned in closer, not wishing their conversation to be overheard. "Said she only hired me for information on Markarth and the Reach, not as a mercenary. Never intended to use my fighting skills. Worse, she not only knew the Shrine was a trap, but she surrendered without a fight." He leaned back, "How's that for female logic? Hire a sellsword as a tour guide, dismiss him before there's any fighting, walk right into a trap you know is there, and get yourself arrested!"

"Lady Gerhild never gave any reasons for this?" he asked over the rim of his mug. Everyone in Markarth had given her the title, whether she was a noblewoman or not, simply because she had earned it. Even Ogmund, at his advanced years, hadn't found himself immune to her charms—and had conveniently forgotten how gleefully he had spread the news that she had murdered Eltrys.

Vorstag looked away, a slight flush to his cheeks belying his emotions. "Aye, she did. Dismissed me because she needed to get into the prison to kill Madanach, and she knew, well…" he paused to sigh, closing his eyes tightly against having to relive the memory, "Told her about Hamming."

"Ah," Ogmund sighed, nodding sagely. He knew all about Vorstag's past, having done a good share of raising the young man, and that Vorstag would never want to return to that prison. "I think, my boy, that the only thing wrong here is your misplaced pride. You put too much value on your outward muscles," he gave a hefty pinch to Vorstag's biceps, "And not enough value on the inward muscle," he finished with a knock against his skull.

Vorstag made a face and pulled away, knowing he was right but not ready to admit it. Ogmund was wise enough to let the matter drop.

"By the way, keep your eye on Cosnach," he said, changing the subject.

Vorstag hummed as he looked up at him, "Why?"

"Caught him the other day," Ogmund answered, sipping at his mead before continuing, "Inside my home. Said he was waiting to speak with me about becoming a bard or some such nonsense. He found my door unlocked, and decided to wait inside. Only I know I locked my door. And when I came home, he was standing near the chest beside my bed. Looked like he had been rummaging through it, part of a spare tunic was caught in the lid."

"What did you do?" Vorstag asked, curious and glad for a change of topic.

"Kicked him out, of course. Told him off, said if he was serious, to go to Solitude and the Bard's College there. Otherwise stay out of my home and my things."

"Why would he be looking through…" As soon as he said the words aloud, he knew the answer.

"Aye, that was my first thought, too," Ogmund nodded. "I know that the Thalmor Justiciar knows about my Talos worship, and is itching to get his hands on anything that would prove it. I wouldn't be surprised to learn that he hired Cosnach to break into my home and find evidence against me. Bastard!"

"But he didn't find it."

"No, my Amulet of Talos is safely hidden. I just wanted you to be aware of Cosnach's actions. It seems poverty is making him desperate, to work for those damned Thalmor and betray a man he's called a friend all his life. Who knows what depths he will sink to, before someone puts a knife in his back?"

Vorstag shrugged. "Well, that shouldn't be for a while. On a job right now; should keep even him in coin for several months."

Ogmund made a noncommittal noise in the back of his throat. "Probably for the best that he's out of sight. My hands still itch to strangle that Breton's throat."

Vorstag tuned out his ranting, his mind occupied with discerning why there was a chill creeping down his spine. He thought about Cosnach's poverty, his desperation, and his being a Breton. He thought about Gerhild's latest job offer, her mission to Dead Crone Rock, and her taking Cosnach with her. Dead Crone Rock. Forsworn. Breton.

"By the Nine!" Vorstag hissed, his eyes widening.

Ogmund broke out of his own rambling mutters to grip Vorstag's arm, trying to keep him quiet. "Careful what you say, boy." When he lifted wide and shocked eyes up to him, he pressed. "What is it? What's wrong?"

"Lady Gerhild," he began, not even noticing that he was also using her title, "On a mission for the Jarl, to the Forsworn camp at Dead Crone Rock. Took Cosnach with her."

Ogmund was quiet for a moment, processing all he said, and all he implied. "You don't think…" his voice faded into thought. "He wouldn't dare! He couldn't!"

"He might," Vorstag countered, "If he thought he could get away with it. If she didn't see it coming." He stood up, not wanting to waste any more time. He was halfway to his room before Ogmund caught up with him.

"What are you going to do?"

"Going after them," he shrugged out of his grip, reaching his room and going inside. "I know where they were headed. If he hasn't done anything, fine. But if he has…" he belted on his iron axe and slung his shield over his shoulder, deciding against taking his bow and arrows. He wanted to move quickly, and he wasn't going to be sneaking up on anyone. He would make his presence known and discover pretty damn quick if he needed to kill Cosnach.

"Take a horse," Ogmund advised, stepping back as he turned to leave his room. "And may the Wind guide you."

Her fear escalated as the shadow crept closer. She was sure now that it had spotted her, that it intended to reach her. She feigned weakness, letting her body lie passive, all except the one arm holding her dagger. The approaching creature may kill her, but she would take it with her.

Vorstag had reached a small ledge giving a view of Hag Rock Redoubt just before sunset. Evidence of a scuffle was all around the ground, blood still glistening on the blades of grass in the fading sunlight. There were also two sets of footprints, one leading to the Redoubt and the other to the southeast. Vorstag carefully scanned the Forsworn camp, spying Cosnach's armor and mace lying on a chest just inside the barricades. He reasoned that Cosnach had decided to join them rather than return to Markarth, and the Forsworn had made assurances that his defection would take. That gave him hope that Gerhild was still alive; alive, she could accuse him of attempted murder—dead, he would be the only one who could say what had happened to her. Since he didn't return to Markarth, she had to be alive.

It was tenuous reasoning, and he knew it, but he didn't want to consider the other option. Leaving Cosnach to his fate, at least for the time being, he turned to follow the blood trail in the opposite direction.

He hadn't gone too far before he found signs of distress on a small juniper bush. There was a large smear of blood on the trunk where some of the bark had been rubbed away. Beneath this mark lay the broken off shaft of an arrow. In his mind he could imagine Gerhild, an arrow in her body, throwing herself against the trunk, using the large bush to break off the shaft. He set his teeth against the painful vision and continued to follow the trail.

Her footprints vanished after a couple of miles, not only because the moons were blocked by thick clouds, but due to the terrain. It took him some time to discern her blood against the rocks, the small ruby drops appearing black against the gray stones. There was less blood now, probably due to the wound swelling, but the sight still disturbed him. He didn't like to think of her, alone and bleeding, betrayed by her hireling.

It was almost dawn by the time he reached the trail's end. He was walking uphill, following a trickling stream set within a small crevice in the mountainside. He was alert for wild animals as well as Gerhild, and when he finally found her form resting near the entrance of a small cave, he almost rushed forward with relief. Her stillness worried him, however, especially when he was sure her eyes were open, the small orbs reflecting the soft light of predawn. He had tethered his horse at the foot of the stream, and was approaching her dark shadow cautiously on foot.

He didn't speak, afraid that the shadow wasn't her after all and that speaking would shatter the vision into ether. Instead he moved steadily but slowly, his steps as silent as the wind, his own dark shadow looming ever larger, swallowing her shadow within itself. When he reached her side, nearly all his fears were put to rest.

A hand shot out from her side, a small cry escaping her lips as she lunged a dagger towards his heart. She was alive! In his elation he didn't have time to flinch away from the blow, but it turned out to be unnecessary. The dagger fell from her fingers, an empty fist punching ineffectually against his armored chest. He didn't grunt, though she had struck with enough force to bruise, but reached forward to brush her hood from her face.

"Vorstag," she sighed, and a warm, genuine smile graced her lips. "I knew my knife wouldn't betray me."

"Lie still," he commanded, "Tell me where you're hurt."

"Cosnach… fucking bastard… shot me… my back… my own arrow… I have to kill him…" she ignored his advice and attempted to sit up.

"Later," he tried to calm her, not liking the way her skin glistened with sweat. "I promise, you can kill him later. Is there just the one wound? You seem in pretty bad shape…"

She nodded, swallowing against the terror. "Poisoned… fear poison… my own arrow… was a good shot… so I handed him… he shot me…"

"Save your strength," he advised, picking her up in his arms. His hand found her wound, the half-dried blood making the fabric of her armor sticky. Carefully he shifted his grip until he was fairly sure he wasn't causing her undue pain. He didn't know what kind of comfort one could give someone who had been poisoned with fear, but did his best to ease her fright. "Close your eyes, and try not to grow alarmed. You're safe now. I'll take you back to Markarth."

"My dagger…"

"I've got it," he assured her, "It's in my belt. I'll keep it safe for you. Just rest. You're safe now. You can trust me, despite the poison. You know that."

"Aye," she sighed, curling into him as he began carrying her back to his horse. "My dagger never fails me. I can trust you."

He pondered this, even as her breathing changed to alert him that she had passed out. He thought it odd that a dagger that would fall from her grip would be a weapon she would put so much faith in. Then again, she was suffering from a fear poison. He would not want to know what sort of nightmarish anxieties were running rampant through her mind.

He was glad Ogmund suggested the horse, as he had to get her back to Markarth quickly. Abandoned in the wilderness and paralyzed by fear poison, it wouldn't have been long before she succumbed to the elements. But back home in the Silver-Blood Inn, with Bothela to mix a counter agent against the poison, and friends to care for her, she would recover.

She had to recover.

Braig was standing over her, taunting her, "Suck it, Nordic bitch. Take it into your mouth, and suck. You are a fucking prostitute, aren't you? You know how it's done. Suck!"

He pressed himself against her lips. She tried to turn her head away, but he followed doggedly.

"It was your own fault I came too quickly last time. So you gotta make it hard again. That means you suck it."

She tried to raise her hands and push him away, but he was too strong and she was too weak. She could feel one of his arms wrapped around her shoulders while the other pressed his cock to her mouth.

"Can't stand the taste of Breton, is that it? Bigoted bitch! Try it, you might find you like it. Come on, now, just a little taste. Open up, and take one small swallow."

She wanted to cry, but that would require opening her mouth, and with his member there and ready to slip inside, she knew she had to remain silent. Yet she had to let him fuck her. That was the deal, one fuck for one bottle of skooma.

"Please, Gerhild," Vorstag's voice penetrated the shadows surrounding her, his gentle voice a refreshing contrast to his bulky form. "Take a little bit, for me?"

He couldn't be here. She had dismissed him before being arrested, to spare him a return trip to Cidhna Mine. She had already sacrificed so much for him, protected him from the pain and humiliation that she had faced, and now he dared to ask her for more. "No…" she moaned, turning away from the monstrous vision of Braig, his semi-flaccid cock still trying to reach her mouth.

As she turned away, Vorstag vanished to be replaced by Ogmund. Then he vanished to be replaced by Bothela. On and on, one by one, the citizens of Markarth that she had helped or befriended all passed before her, as if they were also asking her to take just one swallow. As if their continued good health and fortune depended on her prostituting herself one more time. It wasn't fair; she had already suffered so much for them, so much they would never know, never understand, so much she denied ever happened even to herself. It was too cruel of them to ask her to do more. But she couldn’t deny them, could she?

Defeated, she turned back to Braig, her lips parting to let him slide into her mouth. Immediately the shape pressed against her lips changed, and instead of the dank saltiness and sweat she remembered from the last time, she tasted something warm and hearty and nourishing. She swallowed, and reveled in the comforting feeling of the savory liquid as it traveled to her stomach. She found herself wanting more, and tried to follow as Braig pulled himself back from her. It was too confusing, and with tears in her eyes, she softly admitted, "I never thought I could ever like it…"

"It's only broth," Vorstag answered, before he realized she couldn't hear him. He brought the cup back to her mouth, thinking he would have another fight on his hands to get her to swallow, but this time her lips parted without protest. Briefly he wondered what she had been dreaming, but decided he probably wouldn't want to know. It was enough that she took the broth.

There was a knock on the door, and he lifted his face to call for the person to enter. Bothela opened the door, much to his surprise, and shuffled in confidently with a bag full of clinking bottles and pungent herbs.

"Bothela," he acknowledged. "Didn't expect you. Thought you'd send Muiri."

The ancient apothecarist shook her head. "Not for this, for her. When I got your message, I decided these old bones could do with an outing. Besides, if she's in as dire need as you say, something may be going on beyond Muiri's skill, and there might not be time for her to send messages back and forth. So I came myself. Now," she hadn't been idle while explaining herself to Vorstag, not that she needed to, but she could tell that he needed his own concerns eased. While talking, she had set her bag on a table by the fire, pulling out various bottles and ingredients, and setting a small pot of water on the hook over the flames. Straightening up, she approached the bed, "Tell me exactly what is wrong."

"Only one wound," he answered, gently easing Gerhild back down to the bed. "From a poisoned arrow."

Bothela made a soothing sound in the back of her throat. "What type of poison?"

"Fear," he answered, stepping away as she leaned over the bed. "One of her own arrows."

Her head snapped up so quickly at that, Vorstag was sure he should have heard the bones snap. "Her own arrow, you say?"

"Aye."

"This is worse than expected. I am even more glad that I came myself."

"Why?" he asked, alarmed by her strong reaction.

"Because I helped Lady Gerhild concoct the fear poison she uses on her arrows. Quickly, where is the wound?"

"In her back," he gestured, "Left shoulder."

Bothela was shocked enough to stare at him for several moments before being able to speak. "Then it wasn't an accident. She didn't shoot herself."

His face grew dark, which was answer enough.

"Never mind. Help me get her armor off. How long ago did this happen?"

She continued to ask him questions, only some of them he could—or would—answer. The old woman didn't press him, allowing him to keep Gerhild's business private, but she easily deduced who was probably at fault. Leaving that matter in their capable hands, she focused on her area of expertise, healing.

Vorstag didn't register that Gerhild was half-naked as she lay face down on the bed, since she hadn't worn even a tunic beneath her armor. Nor did he take note of the myriad of scars across the skin of her back. His only thoughts were on helping Bothela heal her. He gently but firmly placed his arms down her spine and right shoulder, bracing himself should Gerhild start to struggle. Though unconscious and delirious with fever, she might lash out once Bothela started to remove the arrowhead lodged next to her shoulder blade. He had been ordered to keep her still, and with an anxious heart, he watched as Bothela began to cut deeper into the wound.

The pain intensified. It was excruciating, as if a white-hot poker was being slowly and deliberately pushed into her shoulder. The Thalmor were standing around her once more, not even bothering to ask her questions this time as they tortured her, their only intention to cause her pain. Norilar was standing in front of her, the stump of his ear dripping fresh blood, his eyes blazing with hate and vengeance. He was the one who was willing the poker into her body.

She tried to cry out, but couldn't find her voice. She tried to crawl away, but something was holding her still. The pain grew worse, and fearing it would drive deep into her body and pierce her heart, she did the only thing left for her. She opened her mouth and Shouted.

Vorstag hadn't been expecting it. She had started to struggle the moment Bothela's knife began to slice. He easily held her down, her body too weakened by the poison and the fever to be any sort of match for him. When the strange event occurred, he was too focused on what Bothela was doing to truly appreciate what happened.

Gerhild opened her mouth, half pressed into the bed. All sound seemed to grow dim, drawing inside her slight form as she drew her breath. When she exhaled, a force without mass expelled from her mouth, the sound like a muffled hurricane, or a shouted whisper, echoing inside a nonexistent cavern. It hit the bed, rebounded, and knocked into all three of them.

Vorstag was the first to recover, gasping as he drew the breath back into his lungs. He blinked his eyes to find himself lying on the floor, having fallen off the edge of the bed. He could see one of Gerhild's arms dangling above his head, from where the—force—whatever it was had flipped her over onto her back. Pushing himself first to his elbows, then rolling over to reach his knees, he levered his feet beneath him and stood up.

Bothela was still on the bed, but flat on her back, her limbs sprawled like a rag doll. When he reached her side to help her sit up, she was still struggling to catch her breath. "I'm… only… only winded…" she panted, waving him off. "Gerhild…?"

"Unconscious, but breathing steady," he answered. He ignored her protests, holding on to her shoulders and refusing to leave her side until her breath had calmed.

"What…" Bothela had to pause to swallow, "What was that?"

"Er… magic, of some sort," he answered, "I think. I guess." He shrugged, tenderly repositioning Gerhild's body onto her front. "Don't really know what it could've been."

"Those stories we've heard," Bothela's old voice was crackling with awe, "About a young woman who defeated a dragon outside Whiterun, who can Shout, whom the Greybeards called to High Hrothgar… Do you suppose…"

He interrupted her train of thought quickly, mostly because he didn't want to consider the possibility himself, "I don't know. I only know she needs your help, or she will die."

Bothela shook herself, coming to her senses. "Of course; you're right. But this poses a problem. What if she does that again? I don't think my old bones could take another… whatever that was."

Vorstag chewed a knuckle as he quickly worked through the problem. "We'll sit her up," he decided at last, lifting her by one arm wrapped around her upper chest. "You can work on her from behind. I'll hold her steady from the front. Her head will be over my shoulder, so if she does whatever-that-was again, it shouldn't hit me."

"If it does?" she asked, kneeling on the bed and picking up her knife.

"I can take a few more hits like that before I get hurt," he answered, quietly confident. "But if you could work quickly?"

Bothela bent her head to her task, the knife slicing expertly through the reddened flesh. Gerhild responded as before, the Shouts coming quickly, almost as soon as the knife touched the wound. After the third time, Vorstag took a little longer to pick himself up off the floor. Shaking his head, he hesitated before returning to his post.

"Can you give her a potion or something?"

"I can't," Bothela shook her head, her face grim though sympathetic to his plight. "The poison has long ago suffused her entire bloodstream. A potion could counteract it, but only after the arrowhead is removed. Otherwise, the poison will simply renew itself and continue to act upon her mind."

He took a deep breath, considering other options. "What about something for the pain?"

Bothela smiled, unable to help it, as she asked, "Whose, yours or hers?"

Chapter Text

She opened her eyes to a pale golden light, warm and pulsing around her. A vague, half-formed memory of fear tickled the edges of her consciousness. She inhaled sharply, the small sound easily swallowed by the flickering air, "…no…"

Fire. Fire was near her. Flames were being fueled and soon they would engulf her. She had to run. She had to hide from the light. She had to because she was afraid.

A voice called to her, calm and soothing, gentle and soft. "It's alright, Gerhild, I'm here. You're safe now."

A layer of fog lifted from her mind, swept away by that voice. The fear was gone; it had come from the poison, but that was no more. She could feel it, or the lack of it rather, as she brushed off the final tendrils of sleep. Her shoulder was healed, her body whole and her emotions under control. Whatever danger or peril she had been expecting to wake to, it was long since past, vanquished by some unknown champion.

She blinked and her eyes began to focus on more than just the color of the atmosphere, forcing shadows into shapes. She saw that she was in her room at the Silver-Blood Inn, tucked beneath the covers of her bed, the light coming from a small fire in the hearth. Carefully she tried to move, but found herself only able to shift a little. Her injuries had been healed, but for some reason she was being restrained. Searching for answers, she looked around the room.

There was a familiar outline of scaled armor standing in front of the fireplace, goat horns decorating one shoulder. His back was to her, one of his arms braced against the mantle as the other rubbed the back of his neck. His shoulders were slumped, his head hanging in defeat or exhaustion, and she wondered what he had been through to put him so low. "Vorstag…" Her voice was dry and soft, barely a whisper, and as tiny as she felt.

She watched him, wishing he would turn and talk with her, explain what happened, but he merely continued to stare into the fire as he answered, "Aye, Gerhild, I'm here." His voice sounded tired and melancholy, as if he had been responding over and over to her call. He didn't even make an effort to turn to see if she was awake this time, and not calling out to him in delirium. Several questions ran through her mind, not the least of which was why he was so depressed, but another question pressed itself to her lips first.

"Why am I naked?"

His head jerked up, his eyes hopeful as he at last turned to face her. Seeing her eyes opened, and that tiny wrinkle in the middle of her brow, he felt relief wash through him. Giving in to a long awaited smile, he approached her side. "Ah, your armor was in the way. Had to take it off to remove the arrow. I promise, I've been a perfect gentleman the whole time, never touched you, I mean, not where I shouldn't, ya know,…"

She brushed aside his embarrassment; she could tell that her body hadn't been violated. There were no unexplained bruises or deep aches, and even if she had been given a healing potion to remove those, there was none of the residue such an act would leave behind. Besides, if she was right in her assumptions of his tastes, there wasn't much about her body that he would find interesting. Tuning out his assurances, she asked another of her many questions, one that still confused her. "Why am I tied down?"

"Oh!" He sounded surprised, but she couldn't tell if it was because she accepted his explanation so readily, or from the nature of the question. "Ah, you're not tied down," he corrected, taking a seat in the chair next to her bed. "You were earlier, but that was just so you couldn't hurt yourself. The fever… we'll get to that later. You've been sick for nearly a week. Haven't been able to get any food into you other than broth; that's why you're weak. And with the fever, Bothela said to keep you warm, so I tucked the blankets in close around you. That's why it's hard for you to move, and you feel like you're tied down. Here, let me." He pulled at the coverings and turned them down a little, freeing her shoulders and lifting her arms out from beneath them. He also loosened the blanket around the rest of her body so she could move, though close enough to keep her warm. "Better?"

"Aye," she answered, her voice as weak as a sigh. She felt better knowing why she was so weak, but she wanted to know a little more of her current situation. "What happened? Where is Cosnach? How did I…"

Vorstag stopped her questions with a finger to her lips. His skin was cool and calloused, the manner of his touch familiar, and she knew his hands had held her often during her infirmity. The realization should have been unsettling, yet oddly she didn't feel any concern that he would ever take advantage of her. In fact, she was comforted knowing there had been someone nearby who missed her, who grew concerned about her, who somehow found her in the wilderness…

"Promise to lie still and have some broth, and I'll tell you. Then you have to rest. Bothela's orders," he added the last bit, as if afraid she might argue with him. She merely nodded her acquiescence, and he helped her to sit up and drink from a cup. Quickly he told her all he knew of what had happened, from his conversation with Ogmund to how he had found her nearly dead from fever and fear.

When he finished answering her questions, he had a few of his own. "It was Cosnach," she said, lying once more against the pillows and feeling sated and sleepy after drinking the warm broth. "I hired him when you…" she stopped, thinking it would be tactless to bring up his childish pouting. "I hired him to accompany me to Hag Rock Redoubt. We found a small ledge nearby the trail. It offered a good vantage point over a large portion of the camp. I told him my plan, that one of us would remain there to provide cover for the other, who would be rushing the camp. He said he was a good shot with a bow, but he had forgotten to bring his. So I handed over my bow and arrows. As I turned to leave, he shot me."

She gave in to a yawn, her eyes blinking slowly as she tried to finish her story before sleep overtook her. "I pulled my axe out and swung at him, but missed. He tried to draw his mace to defend himself, but I was already on him. We wrestled a bit before he shoved me away. Then he was running. I knew I couldn't track him and kill him, not until the arrow was out of me. I tried to pull it out, but couldn't reach it. I found a bush, and tried to use it to pull the arrow out, but instead the shaft broke. The poison was beginning to act on me at that point, and it was all I could do to find someplace to hide. That's the last thing I remember clearly, finding the ravine with a small stream."

"Which is where I found you," he finished for her. She nodded, another yawn occupying her mouth. Tilting his head, he considered her for a moment before saying, "Get some sleep, Gerhild. We can talk later."

"I must kill Cosnach," she stated simply, her voice emotionless and cold.

"You will," he assured her, tucking the blankets warmly around her shoulders once more. "Know exactly where he is; he won't be going anywhere. And I promise, we will find him and you will kill him. But only after you are well again. Now sleep."

She sighed, which quickly turned into a yawn, and gave up arguing. Vorstag had found her, had taken care of her, and had even ascertained Cosnach's hiding place. He surpassed all her expectations, as if knowing ahead of time what her concerns would be and had the answers ready. She could trust him, but one question still nagged at the back of her mind. "Why?"

"You need sleep to regain your strength," he answered, misunderstanding her question. "You've been sick a week. It'll take time to recover…" When she began shaking her head, he broke off.

"Why did you come looking for me? Why did you rescue me?"

He dropped his gaze, giving a lopsided shrug. "You kept me from being arrested and sent to Cidhna Mine. Might not have killed me, but it would have been uncomfortable." The word was woefully inadequate to express what he would have gone through, but unable to think of anything better he merely continued. "When Ogmund and I realized that you had taken Cosnach with you, and we had reason to question his character, I knew I had to track the two of you down. If only to assure myself that he wasn't going to betray you. I guess I did it because I felt I owed you. Now we're even."

She closed her eyes, unable to keep them open any longer, but still managed to get in one more point, "I think you're slightly ahead."

Vorstag smiled, but she was already unconscious. "I suppose," he allowed, though she couldn't hear him. "You saved me from imprisonment; I saved you from certain death. I wonder," his fingers gently brushed an errant strand of dark gold hair from her forehead, "How you will try to repay me."

"I'm going with you and that's final."

Vorstag stood before her, his massive arms crossed over his trunk-like chest, his feet braced shoulder-width apart, and a determined set to his jaw. He could be as stubborn and unmoving as a mountain when he had his mind made up. Gerhild had already suspected as much, but this was the first time it was being proven.

"It isn't necessary," she responded patiently, outwardly calm and confident, but inwardly feeling a little chaffed and confused at his insistence. "Bothela said I should be recovered by now. And it's only one man I seek to kill, not an army."

"Doesn't matter," he shook his head. "And if you try to leave without me, I'll follow. Besides, tracking him down will take time, and I know exactly where he is. Taking me with you will save you days, maybe weeks of searching."

"How do you know he hasn't moved on from where you last saw him?" she asked shrewdly, hoping he might let slip some clue as to Cosnach's whereabouts.

Vorstag didn't answer her question, but remained firmly planted in front of the door. "Swear you'll take me with you to go after Cosnach, or you won't leave this room."

Gerhild felt the anger swell up inside her, strong and ice-cold and full of unbridled impulse. "Do not test me, Vorstag," she began, her voice dangerous and low, her violet eyes deep and dead. "Do not give me ultimatums, nor push the limits of my good will. You saved my life, and I am indebted to you for that, but it does not give you control over my will or my actions. Now stand aside before I use force against you."

Again that other side of her showed, that inner deadness. He had caught glimpses of it during her recovery, but never to this magnitude. It was like all the charm and gentleness had been stripped away, and he was allowed to see the real Gerhild deep inside. "You've Shouted at me before," he shrugged, trying to ignore the frosty look in her eyes, "I think I can take it."

She stopped her threatening advance, her brow furrowing as she considered his words. The way he spoke, it didn't sound like he meant the normal type of shouting. It sounded like he knew she could Shout, could speak the Thu'ums of the ancient dragons. She wanted to press the issue, but now was not the time. Instead she changed tactics. "Why?" When he didn't answer right away, she decided to clarify her question. "Why do you wish to accompany me? Cosnach betrayed me, not you. You have no personal stake in this."

Vorstag dropped his gaze, and she thought she saw the beginnings of a blush on his cheeks. Again she remembered an earlier assumption she had made of him, that he might have feelings for Cosnach. Not that it was any of her business whom he had feelings for; it would just be useful to know to help her figure out how to handle him. But his explanation began to spill from his lips, and she had to focus on his words. "I do… have a stake in this. I feel responsible in part. If I had agreed to accompany you, you wouldn't have had to hire Cosnach. And you're not the only one he's betrayed. He's, well, let's just say Ogmund wouldn't mind learning that the Breton snake has lost his head. Ask him why if you want. He might tell you. But only after you swear you'll take me with you, or you won't even leave this room." He lifted his face up again at the end, his chin set stubbornly once more.

She found herself moved by his words, and thinking it might not be a bad idea to have an extra sword—or war axe—at her side, she gave in. "Very well. I swear by the Nine that you will accompany me when I leave Markarth to hunt down and kill Cosnach. Does that satisfy you?"

He blinked, not quite trusting her sudden capitulation. Finding nothing wrong with her oath, however, he shuffled away from the door and rubbed at the back of his neck. "Aye, well, that sounds fine. I'll be ready to leave in a few minutes."

"Take all the time you need," she said. "I have to get a replacement bow from Ghorza, and a few supplies from Bothela. We can meet in the common room when we're ready."

"I'm ready now," he said, turning back from the pack he had been rummaging in. He strapped on the extra belt, and then swung his bow and quiver across his back.

"You don't have to get anything from your room…?" she asked, puzzled.

He shook his head, and again there was the tiniest bit of a blush on his cheeks. "Been staying in here. Seemed silly to rent my own room, when I wasn't using it."

"But, your things?" she asked, slightly bewildered, "Your possessions? Surely that pack doesn't hold everything you own."

"It does," he said simply. "Don't have many possessions. Never saw a reason to keep anything unless I could use it. And I only use things for my work. My weapons and armor, they're all I need to own."

She blinked, unsure what to make of him. "You are a difficult man to understand, Vorstag."

"Never thought of myself as such. Always tried to be honest and straightforward."

She shook her head. "You are, but… Never mind. I don't think I could explain it any easier than I could explain you. If you're ready to leave, why don't you save me one errand and go to Ghorza for a bow." She passed over a hefty coin purse. "Hopefully she has an ebony bow; if not, buy the strongest one she has. And as many arrows as she has, ebony or nearly so."

"Sure. And I could go to Bothela's for you, too. It's only a little farther than the Blacksmith's."

Hesitantly she nodded, changing her mind on the spur of the moment. "Alright. Ask her for more fear poison, and some antidote if she has any made. We'll also need four healing potions."

"Fear poison, antidote, four healing potions. Ebony bow and entire stock of ebony arrows. Got it. You still wanna meet in the common room?"

"The marketplace just outside would be better," she answered, moving through the doorway as he held it open for her. "Say, an hour from now?"

"I'll be there," he nodded from behind her as they walked down the hallway. He didn't speak again, focused on his tasks and heading straight for the main door once they reached the common room. Gerhild watched him go, her eyes narrowed and calculating, before she turned back to face the room.

The target of her thoughts was there, standing before the hearth and tuning his instrument. It was a little early in the day for music, however, so she was fairly sure he wouldn't mind answering a few questions.

"Lady Gerhild," he nodded as she approached, smiling at her as if she were his favorite niece. "Vorstag kept me informed of your progress, but it is good to see you are well again."

"Ogmund, I know we do not know each other that well," she began, batting her eyes and smiling, her dimples playing on her cheeks. She was moving way too fast, but she only had an hour to get the information she needed, and decided to take a risk and be blunt. "I have some questions, however, that you could answer, if you don't mind a bit of straightforward talk."

"I'm a Nord," he returned her smile, adding a wink. "Straightforward suits me better than beating around the bush."

The emotion didn't reach past her dimples, but she continued to speak warmly and confidentially. "Good. I'll understand if you don't wish to speak about it, but I would like to know, considering how intimately it affected me, why you were suspicious of Cosnach's character?"

Ogmund didn't answer right away, taking his time studying her and getting the measure of her character. Whether he was taken in by her false sincerity, or had seen through her guise and trusted the woman within, he didn't let on. "Sit down, milady. It isn't a long tale, but it is one I do not wish to share with an audience."

"Hag Rock Redoubt," she grumbled, feeling cheated. "I should have guessed."

Vorstag refused to meet her gaze, knowing she was staring coldly at the back of his neck. Instead he shrugged, "As you said, you thought you were going after one man, not an army. Well, the one man is hiding within an army of Forsworn. I just saved you the trouble of heading back to Markarth again to hire me."

She didn't argue that point, knowing she would need help battling through the camp to find one treacherous Breton. Still she had to ask, "And you know he is in this camp how?"

"When I came looking for you two," he turned to face her, having heard the change in her tone of voice, though subtle, that let him know her anger had cooled, "And found the ledge where he shot you, I saw his prints led into the camp. Found his hide armor lying on a chest. I'm pretty sure he joined up with them, but they took assurances that he couldn't change his mind."

She made a small sound, almost like a scoff. "They are wiser than I am."

He was fairly sure he heard the words, but he wasn't sure if she was joking or serious. He also didn't feel comfortable commenting on it, so he pretended not to have heard. They knelt behind a bush, peering around the thick foliage at the redoubt. It had taken most of the day to arrive there, and they had only an hour or so of daylight to make their plans.

"Cosnach must be talking."

"What do you mean?" he asked.

"They are aware of the ledge. I can see an archer up there." She was fingering an arrow from her new quiver. She had a mix of arrows, as Ghorza only had ten ebony arrows, and Vorstag decided that more would be needed. He bought a couple score of Nordic arrows, much to her approval, and she now practiced feeling the difference between the types of arrow fletching.

"What do you want to do?" he asked quietly, as if he could see the plans formulating inside her mind. Truthfully, he considered himself the more seasoned warrior, but she exuded more confidence. And she had hired him, not the other way around. And if her plans sounded shaky, he could always make suggestions.

"First, we take out the archer," she mumbled. "Then we trade bows."

"Trade?" he asked, thinking of the hunting bow resting over his shoulder. He'd owned the bow for years, ever since he started hiring himself out. Sure, it was a simple bow, and tracked to the left at long distances, but it worked well enough.

"Aye," she sighed darkly, "The bastard up there has my bow. I want it back. Then you can have this one. It's stronger than that hunting bow you have now."

He couldn't argue with her logic, and if she wanted to give him an expensive bow, he especially wasn't going to argue with her generosity. He might even keep the ebony bow and sell the hunting bow. "Sure. What do we do after that?"

She sighed, considering the lay of the camp. "I still want to split up as before, but if Cosnach told them of that ledge, then he might have told them the rest of my plan. They know I must come eventually, if I live, because I want Hrolfdir's shield. Therefore, we shouldn't use my previous plan and split up; I'd hate to be predictable." She paused to sigh. "But it was such a good plan."

"Ya know," Vorstag said carefully, thinking as he spoke, "With the archer off that ledge, there really is no reason for us to keep together, not right away. You could cover me from up there while I fight my way up the trail."

"Except there are two trails leading into camp," she pointed out quietly, "And this time I dare not leave even one Forsworn alive behind us." Gerhild scanned the area slowly, searching out key landmarks in the evening light. "It's a good camp; they have the advantage of high ground the deeper we penetrate. This will not be easy."

"Nothing worthwhile ever is," he answered sagely.

She looked at him sharply, wondering at his statement. She knew quite a bit about him from her conversation with Ogmund, as he explained about their suspicions behind Cosnach, and the reasons why Vorstag held himself responsible for her life. Some of what he said seemed too strange to be true, and other parts she had already guessed at. She knew it wasn't the time or the place, but the question slipped out before she could catch herself. "Did you really take the five hundred septims I gave you and donate it all to the Temple of Dibella?"

As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she knew she had made a mistake. Vorstag's face turned a blotchy red, his thin lips pressed into an even thinner line. He didn't answer, and as the silence grew between them, she found herself wondering what it was about this man that made her lose control and make such stupid, thoughtless mistakes.

She left the mystery for another time, thinking only of putting this matter aside. "It's late. We should make camp for the night, and attack them in the morning. I think an hour before dawn would be a good time, catch them just waking up and unprepared. We'll take out the archer, then split up; you can take one trail up while I take the other. We'll meet on the first landing and tackle the tower together."

He nodded, seemingly glad for the change of topic. "There's a small cave back there that will provide good cover for the night. I'll take first watch."

She had left him alone after that, not speaking as she could no longer trust herself. She had no idea why the question had slipped out, or why Ogmund had even told her all the foolish things Vorstag had done after they parted ways at the Shrine of Talos. And she knew she had been insensitive and tactless to bring it up. She wondered, as she fell asleep, why she found herself continually distracted and confused by this man.

She awoke to his presence long before his hand touched her shoulder. As soon as she could feel the warmth of his skin she rolled over, her dagger in hand, and swung at his neck.

"Shit!" he hissed, falling back away from her.

"Ah, Vorstag," she sighed, yawning and pushing herself up onto her elbows. "What time is it?"

He swallowed, barely able to make out her form in the shadowy crevice where they had made camp. Without a fire—they couldn't take the risk of the flames or the smoke being spotted by the Forsworn—he had to rely on moonlight to see. Peering cautiously in her direction, he cleared his throat. "About four hours before dawn."

"You should have woken me sooner," she chided him, picking up her dagger from where it had fallen out of her grasp and replacing it in her belt. "You'll only have a couple of hours to rest before we attack the camp."

"Lost track of time," he admitted. "Had a lot on my mind."

She didn't answer other than to nod. Standing up, she looked around them carefully. "Anyone about?"

"There was a party earlier," he answered, still having trouble finding his voice. "Went around us. Looked more like they were making just enough noise to scare off animals, not search for intruders."

She made a small scoff at their lack of diligence, even though it had ensured their safety. "Get some sleep. How much time will you need before we leave in the morning?"

Vorstag rubbed at the back of his neck. "Not much. A few minutes to grab something to eat. Gerhild," he stopped as soon as he said her name.

She turned to face him, but even to her sharp eyes he was little more than a shadow against a canvas of black. After a few moments, she prompted, "Aye?"

"Do you always sleep with a dagger, ready to attack whoever approaches you?"

She assumed he asked because it was the second time she had nearly sliced him. "Only in unsecured places."

He nodded, "Suppose I should find a different way to wake you, if we have to spend another night like this."

"Do not worry about it," she brushed his concern aside. Carefully she took out the dagger and held it out for his inspection, hilt first. "The dagger is enchanted. It will only hurt the foes of whoever wields it. It will not injure a friend."

"Really," the word was more a question than a statement.

"Try to use it on me," she offered confidently.

He knew it was wrong. That calm and logical voice in the back of his mind was screaming at him to pass, to leave the dagger in her hand. But the reckless voice inside him, the one that made him take risks, that got him in trouble as often as it got him out of sticky situations, that voice was daring him to try it. His hand hesitated over the hilt, wavering between the two voices. Then she unexpectedly lifted it to touch his palm.

Immediately his fingers grasped the hilt. Faster than thought he lunged forward, moving before he could reconsider his intentions, and within a heartbeat he had her pinned beneath him, his closed fist at her throat.

His empty fist.

Vorstag blinked, "Where did it go?"

Gerhild made a small sound that might have been a laugh. "I told you, it's enchanted. It won't harm the friends of whoever wields it, only one's foes. It slipped from your fingers even as you shoved me to the ground. Look," she nodded to their side. The dagger lay on the grass, the steel blade shining in the moonlight.

He blinked again, staring almost mesmerizingly at the soft reflection. No wonder she felt no remorse whenever she had scared him with that blade; it was smarter than both of them. The blade wouldn't harm him when it was in her hands, nor would it harm her when it was in his hands. It knew they could trust each other, even if they were somewhat unsure. He reached out for the small weapon, his fingers hesitant as he picked it up, and brought it carefully back between them. Holding it by the blade, he offered it to her.

As soon as her hand closed around the hilt, he pulled away. He realized he had been holding her to the ground, pinning her beneath him this whole time. Somewhat flustered by his own actions, and her inactions—most women would have assumed he wanted something sexual by this time—he was thankful for the dark shadows surrounding them. She didn't speak as she returned her dagger to her belt, another thing he was thankful for, and stood to begin her watch for the rest of the night.

"I didn't feel I had earned it," he admitted, just before she would have turned away. "That's why I gave the coin to the Temple. You over-paid in the first place, and secondly I didn't make enough of an effort to earn it. I didn't even fight Dryston for you." He paused, making a small cough in the back of his throat. "Don't know if that makes any sense, but that's why I gave the coin to the Temple. I didn't deserve it."

She didn't speak right away. She stood completely still, staring at him, making him feel like she could see him plainly in the shadows. When she finally did speak, her voice held a warm undercurrent, something akin to fondness. "You're right, Vorstag, it doesn't make any sense to me. It seems as if you have more than earned the five hundred septims: rescuing me, nursing me back to health, and accompanying me to find Cosnach and Hrolfdir's shield. Yet you did all this after you gave up the money."

"I'm not asking for more pay," he denied before she could get the idea that he was trying to take advantage of her. "You brought it up, not me…"

"Very well, I won't pay you for this job."

Her words cut his off. He sat there, staring up at her, wondering if she was serious. A smile tried to tug the corner of his mouth, but he was unsure enough to keep it under control.

Gerhild also was unsure of her own actions. She couldn't explain why she again had said something that was so out of character for her. First she had asked an insensitive question on a private matter, and then she had made a jest. She, Gerhild, had tried to make a joke. It had been so long since she had laughed—truly laughed and not the laughter she faked while in character—that it felt like it had been a different lifetime. Yet every time she was around Vorstag, he made her feel…

"Get some sleep," she said, her words serving to cut off her own thoughts as well as his. "I'll wake you in time to break your fast before we engage in battle." Quickly she turned away, almost racing into the shadowy night. That damned Nord did things to her, made her think and act in ways she did not wish. She would do well to rid herself of him as soon as they returned to Markarth. She would do well to rid herself of Markarth as soon as she reached the status of Thane. If only she had merely told her parents' story to Jarl Ulfric and not sworn allegiance to him. But she had sworn, and he had decided to use her talents and abilities to spy on the Imperial held Holds. And so she was here, in the Reach, searching for a moldy old shield with a Nord mercenary who made her feel…

No, damn it, she wouldn't feel. Feelings left her vulnerable, and there were too many people who needed her to do too many things for her to give in to the fear.

"I should have asked for Ralof to accompany me," she muttered to herself, unaware that her words carried on the still night air to Vorstag's wide-awake ears.

Chapter Text

All in all, Gerhild changed her mind and grew thankful that Vorstag was with her. He proved a valuable hireling, his prowess in battle understated yet efficient. Though he did tend to rush forward and engage a little earlier than she would have advised, he was diligent in his duties, especially when it came to protecting her back. His fighting style wasn't flashy or elaborate, but simple, powerful, and most importantly effective. He didn't use wide and graceful arcs when a quick and forceful chop would suffice. And he could block with a shield far better than any other she had yet seen. His archery needed a little work, but that might have just been getting used to the new bow.

After clearing the trail up to the tower, they had taken a moment to exchange some loot before entering the dark interior. She had found quite a few useful items from the corpses of the Forsworn, and quickly passed over two small healing potions and nearly a score of salvaged arrows.
Inside the tower she led the way, but she knew he was only a pace behind her if she came across any enemies. They moved stealthily, crouched and shifting from shadow to shadow. Gerhild used her bow, killing the few Forsworn they came across from afar before they could be spotted. When they found a Briarheart, Vorstag made a strangled noise in the back of his throat. She didn't hesitate, her aim true, and within a heartbeat the creature was dead.

"What is it?" she asked, turning to look at him now that they had a moment.

He gave his head a small shake. "Those… Briarhearts unnerve me. You can see inside their chests, where their hearts used to be." He paused to shudder. "It's unnatural."

Her lithe eyebrow rose up as she asked, "Does this mean you'd have a problem fighting Draugr?"

He shook his head. "Fighting Draugr is as much about controlling your fear as anything else. Besides, they make sense; they were alive once, then died, then became undead. But Briarhearts are different. Their chests were cut open and their hearts were replaced, so they were never dead, but they're no longer alive." He paused to shrug. "See? Doesn't make sense."

Those last four words rang like the final say on the subject, as if he had argued his point for hours and had finally reached an indisputable conclusion. She lowered her eyebrow, deciding to let the matter drop. This wasn't the first Briarheart they had come up against, and he had shown no difficulty killing the others, it was just this time he had an opportunity to give voice to his discomfort.

She opened the door carefully, and was amazed to find they had reached the outside once more. There was another open area crawling with Forsworn, and they had been warned that she and Vorstag were coming.

"This time we stick together," she commanded, even as they engaged in battle. "The area is too complicated, too many ambush spots. I need you at my back!" She spotted one woman who was running at her full speed, a sword raised above her head, making a fearsome impression. Too bad Gerhild was hard to impress. She stepped up to the Forsworn, shortening the distance until they met. The Forsworn realized too late that she wouldn't be able to get her sword down in time, and Gerhild's war axe cleanly cut through her midsection.  Slippery entrails fell out of her stomach, spilling over the stones, catching around her ankles and tripping her to finish bleeding out over the ground.

"Replace that," she muttered.

Something that sounded suspiciously like choked laughter erupted from Vorstag's direction, but by the time she turned around, he wore a grim expression once more. He finished his own opponent, slicing partway through his neck, and quickly looked around. "Stick together," he repeated, sounding like he agreed. "Aren't you concerned some of them might slip past us and get away?" He stooped to wipe off the edge of his axe on the fur armor of one of the dead.

She used the short respite to scan the area. "Not any more, they're too fanatical. No one is going to run from us. It's more likely we'll have the opposite problem." She nodded in the direction of a group near the base of a large stairway, who were beginning to charge.

"Right. Let's go!"

He rushed forward, eager to do battle, before she could advise them to pick off a few targets first with their bows. She didn't waste time to call him back, but pulled out her bow and fired several arrows into the fray. As long as she didn't hit the person wearing scaled armor, she knew he would be alright.

At least, he was until the troll. It came up behind Vorstag, and even though Gerhild put an arrow into its chest, it didn't stop. She called out his name, and watched helplessly as he spun around to face his latest opponent.

"Son of a…" was as far as he got before the troll's club-like hand, full of razor sharp claws, swung in a powerful arc and sliced into him. He had tried to get his shield raised in time, but couldn't quite manage it, and red streaks slashed across his chest like war paint. "Weergh!"

Gerhild heard his scream and saw his body fall to the ground at the troll's feet. Her blood boiled, her vision darkening until all that showed was the monstrous troll. She dropped her bow, pulling axe and dagger as she ran, instinctively Shouting "Wuld!" to try to reach him in time. Just as the troll bent over Vorstag's unmoving form, intent on sinking its teeth into his unresisting flesh, she leaped into the air and landed solidly on its back. She slammed her fist into the hair-covered hide, her dagger biting deep into muscle and sinew to hold fast. Enraged it pulled back from Vorstag and stood, roaring and twisting, flailing its arms in an attempt to dislodge the discomfort. Her face grim, she used the stuck dagger as leverage, swinging her axe through the air to bite deeply into its neck. It wasn't a clean strike, but it did the job, blood bursting from the sliced vein like a geyser, drenching its fur in red. The monster tottered for a moment before falling to the ground, Gerhild riding its shoulders the whole way.

She was panting, her vision slowly returning now that the danger had passed, when she heard a battle cry behind her. Glancing over her shoulder she saw that a Briarheart was charging, his axe poised for a deathblow. She tried to tug her weapons free, but both dagger and axe had bitten deeply into the troll and were lodged fast. Briefly she found herself wishing for a shield, and wondered if that would be her last thought.

A twang sounded from nearby, as well as the hiss and flutter of something moving through the air, something deadly and carefully aimed. She stared in amazement as the Briarheart fell to the ground dead, his artificial heart impaled by a well-placed ebony arrow.

"You're right," the calm, laconic voice droned from the ground beside her, "Fletching's more jagged than Nordic arrows."

She turned towards him, her jaw dropping in amazement. "Vorstag…" She had given him the advice about discerning the ebony arrows when she passed over the bow and quiver, and to hear it affirmed in such a mild manner, when they had both nearly been killed by troll and Briarheart, made her wish she could give a genuine laugh of relief.

"Aye," he answered, lying back down with a grunt. "For now." He closed his eyes to the pain, his chest heaving as he struggled simply to breathe. There were three large, blood-oozing scratches that had made it through his armor, a fourth that had only nicked his arm right above the brace. The scratches were jagged and raw, deep enough to expose the muscle beneath, though not deep enough to kill immediately.  If they were left unattended for too long, however, he would bleed out.

"I thought you…" she bit off the words, feeling a little too superstitious to speak about death in the middle of a battle.

"So did I," he agreed. His hand was fumbling at the pouch at his hip. She watched him as he pulled out one of the smaller healing potions and unstoppered the phial with his teeth. The liquid poured past his lips, and he took a few moments to continue to lay there, all his energies focused on the act of feeding air into his body.

At last she recovered her wits, and looked around them to make sure they were alone. It seemed like all the Forsworn on this level were dead, though she could hear someone moving around on the level above them. She got up from the troll's back and retraced her steps to where she had dropped her bow, giving Vorstag some time to heal without her hovering over him. When she returned he was sitting up, the scratches on his chest scabbed over and closing, staring at the troll with an enigmatic expression on his face. As she bent to tug her dagger and axe free, he chided her, "You have the berserker's rage. Tunnel vision. That can be deadly."

She saw his gaze turn to the Briarheart, and she knew he had a point, but she didn't want to admit he was right. She braced her foot against the troll's body as she attempted to pull her axe out of its neck. "You scream like a girl."

He narrowed his eyes and opened his mouth, but whatever protest he would have made was forgotten. Gerhild had given a final tug, her axe coming out of the troll's body with a wet sort of sound. The suddenness unbalanced her, and she ungraciously plopped to the ground, landing on her buttocks. The comical movement changed his retort into a chuckle. He quickly tried to stifle it, not wanting her to think he was laughing at her, but he was so relieved to be alive, that she was alive, that it was hard to suppress, even through the pain.

She heard the sound, full of life and joy, and for a moment she again found herself wishing she could join in. But they were in the middle of a Forsworn camp, enemies just above their head, and laughing would only give away their position. "We're not finished yet; there are several more on the level above us. Are you healed enough to continue?"

He finally managed to choke off his laughter, his expression returning to its usual, easy-going attitude. "Sure." He stood, feeling only slightly light-headed, as the wounds on his chest continued to heal quickly, leaving angry pink scars behind. He reached out a hand to help her to her feet, and then they started up the last flight of stairs.

After battling the Forsworn on that landing, they found yet another tower. "This just never ends," she sighed, opening the door and leading the way inside. In the first room they came across a Forsworn, but with his back to the door he was easily and quietly dispatched by an arrow from Vorstag's new bow. They crept up a spiral staircase next, finding more Forsworn, one of whom had managed to conjure a frost atronach. After battling the troll earlier, the little scuffle seemed almost routine.

With everyone dead, Vorstag took the time to look around them. There were two doors and one gate. "Which way now?"

"The gate undoubtedly leads outside," she reasoned aloud, "So one of these doors will lead to the switch that opens the gate." She walked up to one and tried the handle.

"This one is opened," Vorstag called softly from the other door.

"This one is locked, probably because the switch is this way," she deduced. She knelt to eye level and fumbled only briefly at one of the many pouches on her belt. He stood back and watched as she nimbly and expertly picked the lock.

"Wow. You're… pretty quick doing that."

She glanced sharply at him, recognizing the tone in his voice and the hesitation as he substituted an awkward comment for what he really wanted to say. "But you don't approve."

He shrugged, looking down and disappointed. "Suppose not, at least, not if you use it for a living. Never had much liking for stealing, or those who steal."

"Lock picking has its uses," she weakly defended herself, opening the once locked door. He didn't argue with her, but shrugged again and started down the hallway beyond the opening. "No! Wait!" she hissed, but it was too late. Vorstag was sauntering down the hall, unaware of the trap he had just triggered, when he turned around to see what she was upset about.

Gerhild lunged forward, knocking into his chest and sending them both sprawling to the ground. Half a heartbeat later a loud swooshing sound echoed in the tight space. His eyes were wide as he watched the battering ram swinging above their heads, the front end of the massive log sharpened into a deadly point. It took a few moments, the ram swinging out its momentum, before he could find his voice. "That was close."

"Too close," she grimaced. Confusion clouded his features for a moment until he tried to lift her off of his body. Immediately his fingers found the warm blood on her shoulder, her slight body tensing with pain as she lay across him. "Damn it, Vorstag," she gasped, pushing his hands away.

"Just trying to help," he excused himself.

"Don't," she panted, pressing her forehead into his shoulder as she tried to get control over the pain. She felt him tense beneath her, holding himself perfectly still as if afraid to move. She should be feeling remorse for making him feel guilty for her injury, but it was his fault. As the battering ram lolled to stop, she found the strength to move.

She saw why he was being so still; one of her knees was perfectly positioned to cause him immense pain if she so much as twitched. Gingerly she eased back from him, knees first, until she could struggle to a sitting position. Panting she tried to find one of her healing potions, but Vorstag was quicker, pressing an unstoppered phial into her hands. She downed the contents without even taking the time to swallow.

Though her injury was healing quickly, her temper wasn't cooling. "By the Nine, Vorstag, watch where you put your fucking feet!"

"I…" he started, but she didn't let him apologize.

"There was a pressure plate on the floor," she nodded to the spot, and he saw one of the flagstones was raised slightly than those around it, "And your big fucking clumsy feet triggered it." She leaned in dangerously close to him, intimidating him though he must have been twice her size. "From now on, do what I do. If I stop, you stop. If I run, you run. If I crouch, you crouch, and step where I step, how I step, even if you don't see why. Understand?"

He didn't speak, but the heavy swallow and nod were answer enough.

She turned from him, her temper still flaring, and used the wall for support as she struggled to her feet. Carefully she negotiated around the battering ram to the end of the hallway. Opening the other door caused another curse to fall from her lips. "Stuhn's shield!"

"Wh… what is it?" he asked quietly, almost as if afraid to speak to her. As soon as he peeked over her shoulder, he understood. There was nothing before them but a small, railless balcony overlooking the valley they had just battled through. "A dead end? Why would they put a trap in a hallway that led to a dead end?"

She could hear the curiosity in his voice, undefeated despite her earlier outburst, though a little timid. "Who knows," she answered, beginning to feel slightly ashamed of yelling at him. "Maybe there was someone here as a lookout, and the battering ram kept intruders from creeping up behind him. Maybe it's a diversion, because obviously they would want to guard the switch that would open the gate. So to be devious, they put the trap behind the locked door, and the unlocked door leads to the switch." She paused to spit out over the edge. "And I fell for it."

He didn't answer, not knowing what to say, even after she admitted her fault. Sighing, she said softy, "We should go try that other door."

"Think it will hold another battering ram?" he asked, following behind her, watching carefully for more pressure plates.

"No," she shook her head, "Probably something much worse."

Gerhild wasn't wrong. The other door opened to a room with several Forsworn inside. The fight was fierce though brief, each of them taking on their own enemies. Near the end she turned to Vorstag in time to see one woman come up behind him and deliver a kick similar to the one she had given Dryston. Instead of curling into a tight ball, however, he merely grunted and spun, swinging his war axe through the front of her neck.

And that quickly the fight was over. She stood amazed, one eyebrow lifted as she watched him double check that the fallen were dead. Her silence must have gotten to him, because he finally faced her and asked, "What is it?"

"You adjusted your armor," she gestured to his groin.

A sheepish smile crossed his lips, making him look like a mischievous little boy. "Thought it prudent, after seeing what you did to Dryston."

She opened her mouth to respond, but before she could comment another door opened and a Forsworn walked in on them. He seemed as surprised to see them as they were to see him. Gerhild recovered first, leaping towards him with her dagger drawn. Despite the barbaric and outdated armor, the disfiguring face paint, and elaborate headpiece, she had recognized Cosnach. Before either man could react, she had him pinned beneath her, her legs straddling his chest, her dagger at his throat.

"No… no…" he groaned, paralyzed by fear. "I killed you. I shot you. With your own arrow."

"I lived, you son of a bitch!" She pressed the side of her dagger into the soft flesh of his neck. "But you won't."

"Wait!" he gasped, "Wait! You don't understand. I didn't have a choice! I didn't mean to betray you. I just wanted to get out of Markarth. And I needed a weapon, so I took your bow." He was babbling incoherently, saying random things, anything, to try to garner favor.

"You not only tried to kill Lady Gerhild," Vorstag said, looming above her shoulder as he stared at Cosnach, "But you tried to betray Ogmund, a man who's treated you fairly and honestly your whole life. You tried to find evidence of his Talos worship, to present it to Ondolemar, so Ogmund could be arrested. You're a coward, Cosnach, and you deserve death."

"What do you know?" he hissed, spittle forming at the corners of his mouth. "Once I took Ondolemar's job, I was trapped. He threatened me if I didn't succeed. What else could I have done?"

"You could have refused to take his job," he countered. "I did. Nothing the Thalmor could offer is worth more than the price of loyalty."

He tried to spit in Vorstag's face, but the spittle never made it past Gerhild's shoulder. Looking at the insulting drip, she sighed before pitting her cold, dead eyes against his. "I'll tell you what, Cosnach. We'll let the dagger decide. It's enchanted; it won't harm the friend of the one who wields it. Therefore, if you're telling the truth, if you are my friend, I won't be able to slit your throat."

He believed her. He wanted to argue, to question her statement, but she looked at him so calmly and deadly, that he found the words merely sputtered in the back of his throat. She pressed the blade a little deeper into his flesh and at last he found his voice. "Mercy!"

"One has to have a heart to feel mercy," she replied coldly. "The Thalmor killed mine. And you sided with them."

One final flick of her wrist, and the dagger cut cleanly through an artery. She pulled back nonchalantly, unconcerned that his warm blood was splattering over her. He tried to stop it with his hands, but the cut was too deep, though it took several minutes for him to finish dying. The whole time she refused to look at him, focusing instead on cleaning her weapons and returning her dagger to its sheath.

When at last his body stilled and his final breath hissed and bubbled through the puddle of blood in the back of his mouth, Gerhild turned to the door he had come through. "Looks like we go this way next," she said quietly, giving the war axe in her hand a practiced twirl. If she noticed that Vorstag was unusually quiet, she didn't let it show.

The room beyond held a soul gem firetrap. She had barely enough time to duck before a jet of flame shot at where her head had been.

"What do we do?" Vorstag asked, crouched similarly behind her.

She thought a moment, going over options in her mind quickly as she waited for the flames to cease. "Shoot them," she answered simply, pointing to the soul gems stationed around the room. She reached for her bow, but he was faster, so she let him knock the gems off of the enchanted pillars, disarming the trap. "Your aim's improved."

"Getting used to the new bow," he shrugged.

Beyond the trap was the switch, and retracing their steps to the main room to go through the gate, they reached the summit of the camp. A flight of wooden stairs led to another flight of stones stairs, and from the top Gerhild could hear the raspy breathing of their final enemy. "Wait," she said softly, her hand reaching to stop Vorstag. She didn't need to bother, as he was mimicking her actions just as she had commanded, and had stopped when she stopped. The backs of her fingers found the gashes in his armor, still sticky with his half-dried blood, and the warm, healed flesh of his chest behind.

He listened to the heaving noise for a moment before saying, "Don't like the looks of this. What's that noise?"

His breath was also warm, tickling the sensitive skin around her ear. "Hagraven," she answered, "And she knows we're here."

He nodded, "Then why delay?"

He started up the steps even before she could curse, her fingers grasping too late at his armor. She snarled and raced after him, her quicker feet easily outdistancing him. She was therefore the first one at the top of the stairs, the first one the Hagraven saw, and the one it challenged. "I am Drascua," the ugly mix of woman and bird screeched at her. "You have defiled my sanctuary. You will pay with your life!"

Gerhild didn't bother with a response, other than a swing of her war axe that resettled her grip. The Hagraven shrieked and started with a sparks spell, trying to weaken Gerhild before she could close the distance between them. The spell wasn't too powerful, but she shouted to Vorstag, "Stay back! Don't let the spell catch you, or we'll both fry!" Alone she knew she could survive the spell, but if it linked to him, it would have passed back and forth and intensified. Luckily he did as she commanded, and the energy quickly died away.

She continued to close the gap between them while the spell had run its course, taking her near enough to bring her axe to bear. Even in close combat, however, the fight was not easy, as the beast's claws were as deadly as its spells. She fought with dagger and axe, the Hagraven with razor-like claws, talons sparking against metal. It got in one lucky swipe, but only one talon raked her, her dagger slicing in between the fingers and keeping the rest of the talons from ripping through her flesh. The next moment she swung her axe and severed the hand.

The Hagraven stumbled back with a shriek, Gerhild pursuing, so intent on her prey she never noticed the soul gem firetrap around the altar they had just reached. Jets of flame erupted from the gems, encircling them, singing feathers and leather armor.  She ignored any injury, focusing only on killing the Hagraven as quickly as possible, trusting Vorstag to take care of everything else. He was ready, anticipating her needs and shooting the gems out of position, disabling the trap and removing the distraction.

A quick jab to the stomach, followed by a swipe at the hip, and the abominable creature lay at her feet, screeching and gasping its last breaths. Gerhild knelt at its side and swung her axe, severing the head cleanly from the scrawny shoulders, not so much out of mercy as simply to silence the ear-splitting noise. She remained kneeling there, her chest heaving as she struggled to regain her breath. Though brief, the fight was vicious and required a lot of her strength. Having battled uphill for most of the day, and topping it off with a Hagraven, she was exhausted.

Vorstag came up to her side carefully, not sure if he should approach her or allow her to faint. She felt his hand on her shoulder, and inclined her head briefly. "I'm… alright…"

"No," he countered, pointing to a gash running across the top of her chest and down her side, tearing through skin and armor alike. She knew the wound wasn't deep or life-threatening, but she didn't voice the comment. Instead she took the healing potion he offered, and remained sitting as it began to take effect.

"Was there anyone else?" she asked finally, forcing herself to her feet to look around. The stairs led to a landing that held the firetrap she already knew about. Beyond that was the altar the Hagraven used to perform her terrible rituals that changed man into Briarheart.

"No, why?" His hands were steady as he held on to her, waiting to see if she'd keep her balance or not.

"I thought I heard someone…" her voice trailed away as her eyes swept the back of the landing behind the altar. Set within the side of the mountain itself, exposed to the elements for millennia but still clearly visible, was a Word Wall.

"There's no one here but us," he answered, "Well, now that Drascua is dead, there's just us. Before that it was just her." He didn't know why he was babbling, other than he didn't like the look on Gerhild's face and was trying to distract her. "What are you looking at?"

"Do you hear them?" she asked, her voice in a whisper as if she didn't want to drown out a nearby conversation. "Or is it just me?"

He looked around them, but other than the disarmed trap and altar, he didn't notice anything, especially any being. Following her gaze, he saw the strangely marked wall, but still didn't see anyone around them. "It's just us here."

Gerhild sighed, patting his arm as she moved away. She supposed she shouldn't have been surprised that Vorstag couldn't hear the voices, chanting in an ancient language, filling her mind with the knowledge of the Dragon tongue. The Greybeards had said she was special, different, Dragonborn…

She reached the wall, surrounded by the rushing sounds of the antiquated voices, one word seeming to glow as everything else around her darkened. She couldn't hear Vorstag calling her name, her mind filled with the Thu'um as it imprinted itself on her soul. She felt herself lose touch with the physical world, pulled into that place where Thu'um and being were one without form, the only existence Intent. Hungrily her being consumed the Thu'um, melding it to her, holding fast the knowledge even as the voices faded into eternity.

"Gerhild!" he shouted again, tugging at her upper arm.

She blinked, but the darkness was gone. All around her was the world just as she had left it, with trap and altar and wall. And Vorstag, who stood looming over her where she knelt, a concerned crease in his brow. She glanced at the wall, but the words were as faded as the voices, except for one that still seemed to pulse with each of her heartbeats. Her fingertips lightly touched the scratches as she whispered, "Dismay…"

Vorstag didn't hear what she thought she said; instead he heard her say, 'Faas…' He swallowed; though not directed at him, he was still leery about any Shouts she might perform, and this one had been different from the 'Fus Ro' she had spoken in her delirium. "What did you say?" he asked cautiously.

She looked back at him, shaking her head. "Nothing, I… never mind. Help me to my feet."

He seemed more than glad to do so. Even after she was once more upright, he held on to her arm, afraid she might faint after all. "Are you…" he began, but stopped himself before he said 'Dragonborn.' He couldn't ask her that, no matter what strange things she did, or Shouted, or heard that no one else could hear. Of course she couldn't be the Dragonborn; that was a myth. Instead he finished lamely with, "…alright?"

She took a moment to look around them before answering. "A little light-headed," she admitted, "But that's to be expected. You?"

He shrugged. "I'll live."

"Good," she finally tugged herself free of his grip and brushed the dirt and dust from her hands. "Then let's find Hrolfdir's shield and get the fuck out of here. It's getting late. And I don't know about you, but I'd rather walk back to Markarth in the dark than spend the night here."

She limped over to a chest she had spied earlier, pried it open and rummaged inside.

After a few moments, his voice sounded from behind her. "What do you think this is?"

She turned at his question, to find him standing at the altar, a strange sort of stone in his hand. "A pommel stone," she answered, "Probably to an ancient sword. Come on, I've got the shield." She gestured with the heavy steel shield in her hands.

"What should I do with this?" he asked, bouncing the pommel stone in the palm of his hand.

"Keep it as a reminder of our adventure." Again she had spoken impishly, impulsively, and even teasingly; so completely out of character for her that it almost scared her. Besides, it wasn't as if he would wish to be reminded of this adventure. Or that he wished to be reminded of any adventure. He had told her his possessions were few, only those things he could use like armor and weapons. A piece of junk off of a broken sword to remind him of the time she berated him for his clumsy feet setting off a trap…

"Maybe I will," he said softly, bouncing the stone thoughtfully in his palm a few more times before dropping it into his pouch. When he turned to find her staring at him, he almost flushed. Not wanting her to guess why he would want to keep the stone, nor wanting to look too closely himself at his motives, he gestured towards the stairs. "You lead. I'll follow."

Caught up in his own discomfort, he didn't notice how willingly she took the opportunity to drop the subject.

As they climbed down from the camp, in the fading light of the day, Vorstag noticed all the places where her armor had been penetrated. He decided that he would suggest they stop for the night, once they were well clear of the Forsworn camp, if only to make a few quick repairs to their armor before entering Markarth.

Chapter Text

They reached Markarth shortly after dawn, two weary mercenaries, their steps slowed by the fatigue of battle. The guards at the city gates recognized their demeanor and let them enter unchallenged. The guards on the streets recognized her and stepped aside to let them pass. The guards at the entrance to Understone Keep recognized the shield and held the doors open for them out of respect. Gerhild took all this in stride, though Vorstag found the change in their attitudes a little unsettling.

"Relax," she muttered out of the side of her mouth as they climbed the steps to Jarl Igmund's throne room. "You're so tense, you look like you're guilty of something." Her thoughts weren't on him so much as they were on looking out for the Thalmor Justiciar that Vorstag mentioned resided within the Keep.

"Can't help it," he glanced around, but kept his own voice quiet. "Don't understand how we've earned so much respect so quickly. Just the other day, that guard there sneered at me because I'm a sellsword."

"We've proven ourselves. Something to do with Hrolfdir's shield," she flashed her dimples, "And the bloodied and broken armor."

He nodded, glancing at the spectacle they made, "The blood, aye, I can see that."

She hadn't quite meant it to be taken literally, but she didn't argue if it made sense to him. At least he was walking a little more confidently. She hefted the shield on her arm as they reached the entrance to the throne room, glad that Vorstag had insisted they stop for the night. She hadn't wanted to, but when he pointed out the scratch on her armor that exposed a fair amount of her anatomy, she gave in and agreed to make some minor repairs. Walking into the Jarl's presence, she was thankful she could keep her face impassive and not be embarrassed by a breast bobbing with each step. Maybe she should find clothing that would fit beneath her armor. Of course, the Hagraven’s claw would have ripped through that as well.

"Who would approach the Jarl with weapons drawn?" Faleen, the Jarl's Housecarl, demanded as she moved to bar their way.

"Your pardon, Jarl Igmund," Gerhild ignored the warrior. She had no weapon drawn, other than that shield, but decided not to make a point of it. "I had no intention of giving alarm. I only wished to return this to you." She took the shield off her arm and passed it to Faleen.

"My… my father's shield?" he asked, holding his hands out eagerly to his Housecarl, who was still examining the item.

"It could be, my Jarl," she hedged, unwilling to concede Gerhild's success. "Give me a moment to examine it."

"Give it over, Faleen. Let me see it. I'll know whether or not it is truly Hrolfdir's Shield," Igmund insisted. She had no choice but to obey, as her eyes could not find anything wrong with it.

"A moment, Jarl Igmund," a sneering voice called from behind Gerhild and Vorstag. Instantly she recognized the cloyingly superior tone of a Thalmor, dripping with false flattery and concealed condescendence. Though unwanted, at least she was able to keep any sign of disgust off her features, thanks to Vorstag's warning. "Do you know these two people? They look like mercenaries to me. I thought you did not like to consort with their type?"

Gerhild sensed Vorstag's unease without looking, and spoke before he decided to say anything. "Excuse me, sir," she turned to watch the tall elf as he glided past them to stand closer to the throne, her movement masking the heel of her boot shifting to cover Vorstag's toe. She didn't apply too much pressure, just enough to let him know her heel was there. "Allow me to introduce myself. I am Gerhild North-wind, new to Markarth these past few months. This is my friend, Vorstag, a citizen." She paused to allow him introduce himself, but wasn't surprised when he remained silent and uncommitted. Unperturbed she continued, "The Jarl made a comment the other day about what happened to his father, and how he wished to have his father's shield returned to him." She coughed slightly, almost as if embarrassed. "I took it upon myself to seek out the treacherous Forsworn and reclaim his family's heirloom. I did not realize I stepped out of line."

"No, no, my dear," Igmund waved her apology aside, "You've done something no one else has managed to do in years. Don't apologize for your success."

"Yet we have only her word that this shield was found in a Forsworn camp," the Thalmor argued. "Or that it was your father's. Or that it has not been tampered with."

"Why would anyone tamper with it?" he asked, sounding to Gerhild like a pouting child denied his favorite toy. She ignored him, instead focusing her attention on the Thalmor, her most dangerous opponent.

The elf shrugged as he took the shield from Faleen's hands. "Why? To kill you, of course. Your death would cause instability in the Reach."

"But why the shield?" he continued to protest. Gerhild got the impression that, though Igmund was Jarl, he followed the Thalmor's advice in matters of importance.

"Because you want it," he answered smoothly. "It is well known that you desire to have your father's shield, and that you have been searching for it for several years now. You know it has been in the hands of the Forsworn ever since they killed your father, and since they would know you wanted the shield, what better way to deliver a destructive rune or a concealed poisoned dart?" He turned to stare down his long nose at her. "Can you prove this shield has been unaltered?"

She shrugged. "I never claimed that it wasn't tampered with," she countered carefully, wondering what ploy the elf was using and trying to keep from falling into it. Gingerly she placed a little pressure on Vorstag's foot, hoping he understood her signal to stay quiet and let her to do the talking. "I only claim that Jarl Igmund said his father's shield could be found at Dead Crone Rock. I found this shield at Dead Crone Rock, after Vorstag and I killed the Forsworn camped there."

"You killed all the Forsworn there?" Raerek asked, his voice a little awed.

"It was the only way to reclaim the shield."

"A shield that has been in Forsworn hands for years," the Thalmor continued to hold his ground. "Who knows what kind of traps or devices they could have hidden inside, laying dormant until your touch triggers them?"

"What do you propose, Ondolemar," the Jarl said, "Destroy the shield because it may be trapped? That shield was my father's! It's the only thing I have left of him! I'll not see it destroyed simply on suspicion."

"Then let me examine the shield," the elf offered. "I can easily discern if there are any traps hidden within." Without waiting for permission, the Altmer was already running his delicate fingers and piercing eyes over the surface. "Ha!" he said, too quickly by Gerhild's reckoning, "I knew it. The shield has been tampered with. There's a trigger here that will cause the shield to burst into flames once it is touched just so, killing the holder instantly."

Jarl Igmund looked defeated for a moment, and Gerhild began to have a concern about her and Vorstag's future. Then his jaw set stubbornly, and he almost pouted as he demanded, "Show me! I won't believe you until you show me this trap."

"You doubt my word?" Ondolemar's voice was threatening.

"I doubt that the shield is dangerous," he countered. "I don't care what you see or think you see. It's just a shield. Show me this trap. Trigger it. You want to destroy the shield anyway, why not through the trap already in place?"

Ondolemar looked angry that the Jarl didn't just take his word for it. Gerhild knew he couldn't trigger the trap, because there was no trap, and his claim was soon to be proved false. Deciding to head off an explosive situation, and despite the taste of bile it left in her mouth, she offered a balm to the Thalmor.

"If you'll excuse the interruption," she broke in, wanting to step forward but needing to keep her foot on Vorstag's to let him know she had everything under control, "I think I can clear this matter up. I examined the shield when I first found it, to determine if I could find anything that would say it had once belonged to Jarl Hrolfdir. I also found markings on it, as if someone had tried to tamper with it, say, to booby-trap it. However, this unknown assailant was unsuccessful. If you look closer, my lord," she bowed to Ondolemar, "I think you'll see what I mean." There. Nice and neat, she gave him an out. Now all he had to do was take it.

Ondolemar was no fool. He played along, reexamining the shield and the supposed trigger. "Ah, yes, I see what you mean," he cooed. "Forgive me, Jarl Igmund, but in my zealousness to ensure your safety, I saw only the attempted tampering. The shield is sound." He passed the old armor to the Jarl as if passing a toy to a child, and effortlessly claimed part of the honor for returning the shield.

"Oh, thank you, Ondolemar, thank you, Lady Gerhild," he breathed, his hands eagerly examining the old shield for himself. "Aye, this was my father's. I can see where he marked it with his seal." He lifted eyes up to her that were overflowing with emotion. "Thank you. As Jarl of Markarth, I hereby grant you the title of Thane, and allow you to purchase property within the city. I shall also have the guard informed of your new title. Wouldn't want you to get mixed up with the common rabble, now, would we, Lady Gerhild?"

She smiled and dropped a graceful curtsy, at last removing her heel from Vorstag's toes. He hadn't flinched, but he did seem to relax a little once she had moved away. "If you please, Vorstag here was also instrumental in the recovery of your father's shield."

"I don't give boons to mercenaries," Igmund sniffed, judging him by his armor and weaponry.

"I didn't hire him," she corrected gently, "He received no monetary compensation for risking his life to accompany me to Dead Crone Rock. He came with me because he is an honorable man," she paused only slightly, "And my friend."

Igmund took the time to reconsider the man standing silently beside her. "Aye, well, very well. There's no room in my court for yet another Thane, but I will see that the guards know to be lenient around any… indiscretions… he may commit. Raerek, give him something comparable for his trouble." He stood, the shield in his arms, and made ready to descend his throne. "Thank you, both of you. If you'll excuse me, I'm going to put this in a place of honor."

Everyone was silent and bowed as the Jarl exited the room, holding the shield like a treasured toy. Gerhild couldn't help but make the analogy, and fought against it lest she ever underestimate the man. He had managed to back Ondolemar into a corner with his childish pouting; she didn't want to fall into the same trap.

Raerek took care of Vorstag first, handing over a fairly large bounty for his part in recovering the shield. Next he handled Gerhild, selling her a home within Markarth and arranging for her new housecarl to meet her there. She got a catalogue on what type of furnishings were available for her home, and said she would return another day to place her orders.

As they were walking out, that condescending voice called out her name from behind them. They both stopped and turned to see the Thalmor gesturing to them. "Lady Gerhild, wasn't it? Might I have a word with you? Oh, you are dismissed," he waved to Vorstag.

He didn't look like he wanted to leave her side, straightening his shoulders and moving close to her elbow, but she headed him off with a smile. She passed him her book on furnishings and the key to her new home, saying, "Open up Vlindrel Hall for me, would you? I'll be along in a bit." She rested her hand on his bicep for a moment before giving it a deliberate squeeze.

Her voice was pleasant and quiet, and definitely loud enough to reach the Thalmor's ears. Though reluctant, Vorstag was beginning to understand that she could take care of herself, and took her keys from her hands. He gave Ondolemar a nod before turning to leave, his lips pressed into a thin line, his jaw set as if he was afraid he would say something if he didn't keep tension on it. Even his posture was stiff and formal as he walked away, leaving Gerhild to her fate, hoping he was doing the right thing. He had told her about Ondolemar, but sometimes she didn't heed his warnings.

"Are you sure he's not working for you?" Ondolemar asked softly from beside her. She hadn't heard him approach, but nonetheless she did manage to keep from starting. She turned a questioning, innocent expression towards him, which he promptly brushed aside. "Never mind. I have a private matter to discuss with you, if you are so inclined."

"My lord?" she asked, giving a clumsy curtsy to him, making her soreness and exhaustion evident. As she straightened she nearly fell into him, her hands grabbing the sleeve of his jacket as if to keep herself from falling down. "Oh, excuse me. I didn't mean to mess up your coat. I must be more tired than I thought."

Ondolemar glanced down at the dirt and gore smearing his sleeve and tried not to look sick to his stomach. "Yes, well, you have had a tiring experience. I won't keep you long. I only wondered if you might do me a favor."

"That depends on the favor." Immediately her thoughts turned to her conversation with Ogmund about why he had been suspicious of Cosnach. She knew she would have to be careful if she wanted to slip out of Ondolemar's grasp.

"Are you being smart with me?" he asked, his voice dropping to dangerous tones.

"Not at all, my lord…" she countered, making a subtle point that he had yet to introduce himself to her. "It's simply that I won't know if I'll be able to do the favor until you tell me what the favor is. For instance, if there is a Forsworn camp you want wiped out, that I can do. But if you, say, would wish for someone to deliver a message to Solitude, that I cannot do—at least, not until after I've gotten my affairs in order. I've just bought a home here in Markarth that I need to furnish, and I have a new housecarl to meet and assess his abilities, and there are all the repairs to my weapons and armor…"

"Yes, yes, I understand."

"…not to mention that new dress at Arnleif and Sons. It was so pretty, with the green silk and the brass buttons."

"Yes, of course." Ondolemar finally got her to stop babbling. When she looked at him with a pleasantly patient smile, he continued. "Lady Gerhild, you are a citizen of Markarth now, and therefore a loyal subject to Jarl Igmund."

"Aye," she nodded earnestly, thinking to herself how surprised he would be to learn of her deeper devotion to Jarl Ulfric.

"The Jarl is devoted to the Empire, and the Empire wishes to remain on good terms with the Thalmor. So by extension, you and I are on the same side."

She took a moment, blinking and holding a deep breath, while she let him wonder what she was thinking. "Aye," she nodded in amazement this time, "Logic would prove your point. We are on the same side. I'm so glad to hear that." She buffed his shoulder in a friendly manner.

"So am I," he responded dryly. "That being said, I'm sure you know that Talos worship has been banned in the Empire since the White-Gold Concordant."

"Oh, aye, nasty business, that war. So glad it's over."

"Well, as one of my duties here as the Thalmor representative in the Reach, I am to ensure that that ban remains in effect."

"Ah, I see now," she nodded sagely, still appearing cooperative and supportive. "Well, you having nothing to fear, my lord. I do not worship Talos, but as a favor to you, I will continue not to do so." She made to move away, acting as if she thought their business was concluded.

"It wasn't you I question," he said, taking hold of her arm before she could escape.

"Oh." Her lips still formed the word while she creased her brow, pretending to puzzle through his intentions. "Oh, you're concerned about Vorstag? He's lived in Markarth all his life; he's loyal to the Jarl and the Empire and…"

"No, no," Ondolemar cut her off. "Not him, either. Listen," he leaned in close, dropping his voice and trying to impart to her the seriousness of the situation. "There is a bard who works at the Silver-Blood Inn."

"Ogmund," she supplied, as if he didn't already know the name.

"Yes, Ogmund. I believe he still worships Talos. I would have you find evidence of this. Get close to him, gain his confidence, search his home, do whatever you have to but find me some token or amulet that would prove his guilt."

He knew he had gone too fast as soon as the words were out of his mouth, though he didn't realize she had pushed him into it. She drew herself up to her full height, her exhaustion forgotten as she pretended outrage. Her finger shook beneath his nose as she started, "Now wait just a moment. I've had quite a bit of trouble since arriving here in Markarth, through no fault of my own, and it's taken me a long time to work my way back into the Jarl's good graces. And now, right after I am finally granted citizenship, now you want me to break into another man's home and steal from him?" Her voice had risen as she spoke, and though he tried to wave her into silence, several passing guards took notice of their conversation. "No, my lord, I'm afraid I cannot do this favor for you, now or ever. If you'll excuse me."

She spun on her heel and marched away. She knew it was risky to embarrass Ondolemar as she had, but damn it she was tired! And he had no business accosting her like that. It took all her willpower to keep her expression impassive as she left Understone Keep, but as her steps took her through the city, her face grew darker and darker.

By the time she reached Vlindrel Hall, she was livid.

"Vorstag!" she called out angrily, though somewhat relieved after seeing his weapons propped up just inside the door, letting her know he was still there. Glancing up she saw a figure step forward from a doorway on the far side of the room, a familiar tattoo swirling on his cheek. She shrugged out of her own pack and belt and pouches before stomping into the main part of the house. "Stuhn's Shield! You were right! That jack-ass…"

Her words stopped as she realized that the man who had stepped forward was a stranger. At first glance, and thanks to the dim lighting in the room, she thought Vorstag had changed into different armor. Half a heartbeat later she realized it was a different man. He had the same build and facial tattoo, but that was all they had in common. The stranger was quite a few years older and wearing heavy steel armor. His hair was lighter in color, with small braids at either side of his face and a carefully groomed goatee on his chin. His left eye was scarred and milky with blindness, giving his features a harsh and well-used look. It was definitely not the gentle strength she had become used to seeing.

"Lady Gerhild," Vorstag greeted, coming from around another corner and standing next to the other man. "This is Argis the Bulwark, your new housecarl."

"Honor to you, my Thane," he slammed his fist against his chest and bowed.

"Argis," she inclined her head in acknowledgement, slipping back into her genteel persona. "Excuse my confusion, but the lighting in here is so dim, all I saw was the tattoo and thought you were Vorstag. I wasn't expecting you yet." If she felt any chagrin at her actions, she was even more stunned by Vorstag's reaction. He looked at Argis when she mentioned the tattoos, and his cheeks tinted just dark enough for her to make out, now that her eyes were adjusting to the dim interior.

"I saw you had been delayed by Lord Ondolemar, the Thalmor Justiciar," Argis supplied. "I thought it might be better to meet you here."

"Speaking of which," Vorstag seized on the chance to change the subject. He used a rag he had found to dust off a chair before the sunken hearth. Gesturing her to sit down, he settled himself on a low ledge beside it, "You were saying something about a jack-ass when you walked in?" He seemed far too eager to enjoy having caught her off guard in front of someone new. His grin was unrepentant as his feet dangled just a hair above the floor, his heels kicking boyishly against the ancient Dwemer stonework as he waited for her to answer.

Her eyes flickered to Argis, but she took the proffered seat, her poise perfect and practiced. "It is nothing. I was overly upset just now, but I've cooled down. You know how flighty I can be sometimes. What condition is the house in?" she smoothly changed the subject as well, letting him know she wasn't comfortable talking openly around Argis, whether or not he had sworn to be loyal to her.

"I've looked around a little," he answered, his posture becoming more business-like and mature. However, his smirk told her that though he was letting her off the hook—this time—he wasn't going to forget her slip any time soon. "So far, the structure seems sound, even if built by Dwemer eons ago. Nice area back there for a master suite, couple of rooms off in that direction that could be useful for storage, trophies, alchemy lab, whatever's your thing," he finished with a shrug.

She took the offered catalogue from his hands and started to shuffle through it. "Hm, sounds good. I'll have to give some thought to what I want to do with this place. You said there was a bedroom suite back there? Is it furnished?"

"Well…" he hedged, "There's a structure in one of the rooms that could be mistaken for a bed. Large enough, ya know, but it hasn't been used in years."

"After all the nights I've spent sleeping on the ground outdoors, I'm sure it'll do fine, for now at least. Argis," she turned her head as she spoke to her housecarl, who had remained standing this whole time. He straightened his shoulders now that he was under her scrutiny, eager to make a good impression. "I know it's not an expected duty of a housecarl, but could you see that my things are brought here from the Silver-Blood Inn and that any outstanding monies are paid?"

"I'll see to it myself, Lady Gerhild," he bowed.

"No, no, I didn't mean that," she fluttered her eyes at him, giving a soft smile, "Just find a porter or someone to take care of it."

Argis shot a look between her and Vorstag, a knowing sort of smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "You are my Thane, and I am sworn to carry your burdens. It will be my honor to serve you in whatever manner I am able." He gave a small cough. "In fact, I could also take the time to see that other immediate matters are attended to, like provisions for the larder, a clean change of clothing, repairing your weapons and armor…?"

"That's a generous offer, Argis, but unnecessary."

"I insist, my Thane," he waved aside her weak objections. "From what Vorstag told me, the two of you have been through quite a lot these past few days. And you look like you're about to faint. Change out of your armor, bathe, rest, do what you wish. I'll take care of everything else."

She took a deep breath, her chest straining at her hastily mended armor, an habitual action when dealing with a man. She passed over a coin purse as she acceded, "Thank you, Argis. Here, for any expenses you incur. If you need more coin…"

"You're a Thane, now, Lady Gerhild. You may run a tab with any merchant in the Reach, and pay at your leisure." He took a step away before turning back, a crafty smile on his face, as he asked, "Anything else that should be brought here from the inn?"

She looked at him, completely at a loss to understand what he meant by his cryptic question. She didn't notice how her lips were parted or her brow wrinkled while she thought, trying to deduce whatever else would be coming from the inn. Other than her possessions, and perhaps an outstanding bill for room and board, there wasn't anything else there that belonged to her. Or that she wished to have in her home.

Vorstag, however, was already answering, taking the matter well in hand. He leaned back a little, stretching his sore muscles and fighting a yawn as he answered, "No. Just ask Frabbi or Kleppr for my usual room; they'll take care of my things."

Damn, she must be tired; she had completely missed the innuendo within Argis' question. Thinking it through, she realized where he had gotten the impression that she and Vorstag were close, if not lovers. After all, she had sent him ahead of her, with her keys, to her new home, and took his advice on matters concerning Vlindrel Hall.

Again her mind was wondering, so she almost missed Argis' stuttered reply. "Excuse me, I didn't mean to imply anything." He looked a little confused, but bowed hastily, to both her and Vorstag.

"Oh, that's alright," he waved it aside. "These things happen. Besides, Lady Gerhild has a reputation she wishes to maintain."

"Oh," the housecarl looked even more confused, before finally giving up, "Ah, very well, then. I'll be back by evening, my Thane."

Vorstag watched him beat a hasty retreat, but kept his humor silent until after the door closed. Then his shoulders shook, a shit-eating grin on his face as he turned back to Gerhild.

She slugged him. Not too hard, but hard enough to vent a little of her displeasure and… anger? Embarrassment? Whatever it was that was making her cheeks want to redden.

"Ouch, what was that for?" He rubbed the spot on his bicep, not that he was going to bruise, but it did hurt. He pouted a little as she stood up and walked a few paces away from him, her arms crossed just beneath her breasts.

"For making him think we're lovers," she said in a matter-of-fact tone over her shoulder. Turning back to him with an exasperated sigh, she continued in a slightly mocking voice, "Honestly, Vorstag, I 'have a reputation to maintain'?"

"Well, don't you?" he asked innocently. When her mouth flapped closed, unable to think of a suitable response quickly enough, he pressed his advantage. "Besides, you gave him the impression we're lovers when you sent me to open up your house," he stood to face her squarely. "Argis was a little confused to find me here instead of you. I had to do some quick talking to assure him I wasn't trying to rob the place before you even had a chance to move in. Luckily, he remembered me from when we were younger, though we haven't seen each other for years." He paused to grouse, "It's no wonder that he's confused, though. First you give me the keys to your house, then I had to say I wasn't staying here with you, but we all know he will be. And you flirted with him right in front of me. How does that make me look?"

Gerhild's delicate eyebrow rose up in feigned amusement. "Are you jealous?" Her tone was teasing, merely following a pattern of flirtation she had seen so many other women perform. She didn't understand the devastating effect it was having on him.

She was flirting with him! Vorstag felt his heart skip a beat, wondering when and how the change occurred that finally allowed her to warm up to him. Thinking he would be a fool to waste time figuring it out now, he played along, planning his next moves carefully. He hunched his shoulders and crossed his arms over his chest, turning away in a pretend pout. "What do I have to be jealous of? You've never given any indication that you're the least bit interested in me."

"But it looks odd to others," she deduced, dropping the flirtatious manner and growing serious. She completely missed the underlying implication of his statement that he might be interested in her. "And I know how important your reputation is to you. I am sorry, Vorstag. I'm tired; I wasn't thinking things through far enough."

"No," he sighed, still thinking they were flirting and following her lead, "I'm sorry; I'm overreacting." He rubbed a hand against the back of his neck, giving her half a charming smile. "I'm tired, too. Looking after you is exhausting."

"Not as exhausting as looking after you," she countered. "You turned your back on a troll, and set off a battering ram trap." She rubbed at the spot on her shoulder, still sore though healed.

"You stumbled into a fire trap while fighting that Hagraven," he retorted. "Besides, that was after I spent almost two weeks nursing you back to health."

"Hm," she paused to consider, tapping her chin. She was taking the tally too seriously, a lot more seriously than he was. "Adding in Cidhna Mine, that would make it… three to two."

"Three to three," he corrected, stepping towards her, his voice softening. He looked into her eyes, wishing to lose himself in the violet hues. "You forgot the Briarheart right after the troll."

"Three to three," she agreed, not understanding why he was standing so close, or why it made her heart skip. "That makes us even now, doesn't it?"

"Aye," he breathed, taking another step closer, boldly setting his hand on the outside of her shoulder. "Though I think I should get extra credit for the whole poisoned arrow episode. I had to find you in the wilderness, and take care of you while you were sick."

She swallowed, not at all understanding how they had gotten so close. Heat was radiating off his body, washing over her unmovable form like ocean waves against a cliff-face. She could feel the gentle touch of his fingers through the thickness of her leather armor, and it unsettled her. She licked her lips, trying to ease the sudden dryness in her mouth so her voice wouldn't crack when she spoke. "That would mean that I am still in your debt. I'm not sure I could repay you."

To him that sounded like an open invitation. Slowly, as if he was trying not to startle a fawn, he brought his hand up to cup her chin. "Oh, I can think of a way," he dipped his face towards hers.

Shit, she thought, realizing he was going to kiss her. She didn't bother trying to figure out how they had reached this spot; she would meditate on that later. At that moment she had to figure out the right way to respond. She'd been kissed before, properly kissed, not like she had been in the mine. There the other prisoners used her, forcing themselves into her mouth as they forced their way into her body. The Thalmor hadn't kissed her when they raped her, but after biting off the end of an ear she supposed they didn't want to put anything too close to her mouth.

No, Ralof had been the only one to properly kiss her, quick and chaste and in the heat of the moment, as they escaped through Helgen Keep. She thought about that kiss, the brevity, the purity, and wondered if Vorstag would do the same, and why in Stuhn's name she was allowing him. She had sworn no man would ever touch her, but at that moment all she could do was stand there, frozen with shock and indecision. In slow motion she watched, her eyes open and blank, as he closed his eyes and bent ever closer to her mouth.

Their lips touched, his strong and sure, hers thick and unmoving. She felt him pause there a moment, just touching her, exchanging their body heat through the contact, before his jaw moved to work against her mouth. She wasn't sure what he was doing at first, but remembering how the Forsworn had thrust their tongues inside her mouth, she wondered if Vorstag was trying to do the same. She should be pushing him away, fighting him off, but he wasn't doing anything that could be considered an attack. He was simply there, open and easy-going as always. Before she could decide how to react, however, he was pulling back, lifting his face from hers and opening his eyes.

Fuck, he thought. He had kissed her, as gentle and honest as he could, trying to convey all his feelings into that one act. And she had stood there, as cool and emotionless as a statue. He had fucked up; she didn't feel anything for him. He wasn't sure where he had gone wrong, how he had gotten the wrong impression, but it was obvious she felt nothing for him, at least nothing near what he felt for her. "I… well… didn't mean…"

She saw the confusion in his eyes, the heat rising from his neck to his hairline, and wondered why he was feeling embarrassed. He must have wanted to kiss her, as there was no one forcing him to, especially not her. And if he did want to kiss her, then there was no reason for him to feel awkward about it, unless he thought she wasn't willing. She supposed she should have responded to him more quickly, but then again she wasn't sure she had wanted to be kissed. "Vorstag…"

"No, no," he waved her apologetic hand away, stepping back and giving them both some well-needed breathing room. He rubbed the back of his neck as he thought of something to say. "I… that wasn't something I would normally do. Kiss a woman, I mean. I just thought you'd…"

She listened to his words trail away in the dark space between them, wondering why he wouldn't normally kiss a woman. His body was physically appealing, and his manner respectful and considerate, women should be throwing themselves at him. Then she remembered her first assumption about him, his lisp, the way he blushed when glancing at other men—like Argis this evening. She considered the possibility that he kissed her just now because he thought she wanted him to kiss her. After all, she had given him the key to her home, allowed her housecarl to suspect they were lovers, and even jested with him about saving each other's lives and pretending to owe him. He could have very easily come to the conclusion that she would be interested in the act. And ever the considerate and laid-back type, he had obliged, even though he was uncomfortable with it. Trying to find a way to ease past the awkward moment, she smiled softly and laid her hand on his arm. "I didn't mind it, Vorstag. It caught me off guard, that's all."

He lifted his eyes to her, hopeful and curious, and saw the smile deepen between her bow-shaped lips. When he gazed into her eyes, however, whatever hopes or illusions he held were completely shattered. Though her lips formed the gesture, and her voice mimicked the emotion, there was nothing in her eyes. He remembered her heated words spoken to Cosnach, how the Thalmor had done something to her that killed her heart. He had felt it when he tried to kiss her, the unresponsiveness and hesitation, and he could see it now, the coldness and deadness, like a tomb. Then and there he realized that all her little gestures and coy responses were an act. She would use him, manipulate him, and ultimately leave him without ever having felt anything for him.

Feeling sadness at seeing such beauty wasted on such a frozen heart, he sighed and patted her hand before firmly removing it. "I should go."

She saw his face fall and wondered where she had made a mistake this time. "Vorstag…"

"I need to head back home," he thumbed over his shoulder, "Check over my weapons and armor, stuff like that."

"Oh," the word was small, as inadequate as an expression of her thoughts as it was in length. She watched him walk away from her towards the main door. Suddenly she didn't want him to leave, not if he was still feeling bad or awkward. "Will I see you again?" She mentally kicked herself for such a stupid question, knowing the answer already and knowing he would know she knew… It was more than a little disconcerting how he could fluster her so easily.

Yet he smiled, though still a little flushed, and nodded. "You know where to find me. If you need my help again, it's the same fee as always." He slipped his shield over his shoulder and picked up his war axe. "'Night, Gerhild."

"Good night," she responded automatically. She stood there, staring at the empty entryway long after he left, the past few hours playing in her mind over and over. At last she sighed and shook her head, mumbling to herself, "If only you'd act like other men, Vorstag, then you wouldn't be so damn confusing."

Chapter Text

The polished brass surface wasn't a true representation of what stood before it; tainted gold with softened edges, it was far too flattering for her liking, but it served the purpose well enough. Gerhild stared at her body, naked in front of the full-length mirror, and assessed the damage of the last year of her life.

Her most recent scar stood foremost on her body. Starting just beneath her left collarbone, it ran across her chest and the top of her right breast, to fall down her side underneath her arm, the line wavering as it traversed over several ribs. It was an ugly scar, as jagged as the Hagraven claw that caused it, and inconveniently placed. She'd have to adjust her clothing, or the scar would attract more attention than her figure. Explaining a scar of that nature would require a very good story—since the truth would rarely be convenient—and she didn't want to waste time or effort on something so irrelevant as an imperfection only skin deep.

Her fingers were light as she traced the marring of her skin. She had heard rumors, whispers really by those who didn't know they shouldn't speak of such things, of a woman who could change your appearance. She charged an exorbitant price, but if she was as good as her reputation claimed, Gerhild would get the money. That would require a trip to Riften, however, and she was on the opposite side of Skyrim to do that. Perhaps after she checked in with Jarl Ulfric.

She leaned in closer to study the tiny blot just beneath her lower lip, from one or several of the times her lip had been split open. In most lighting it would be covered by shadows, but if she tilted her head just so, the tiny scar was clearly visible. Perhaps the face sculptor would fix that, as well.

Until then, she had other avenues to utilize. Healing potions were all well and good, but they only amplified the body's natural ability to heal. Magic, Restoration Magic to be specific, worked differently. Wounds healed by magic spells left no marks or scars, no signs that a person had ever received that injury. Though she felt the usual distrust—revulsion even—that all Nords felt towards magic, her path in life seemed rife with opportunities for injury, and injury left scars, and scars had to be explained, and most of those explanations she couldn't share without giving away too many secrets.

She would need someone to instruct her in magic, or at least someone who could sell her a spell tome on Healing. That meant going to Understone Keep and seeking out the court wizard, Calcemo, something she had been hoping to avoid. He was not only a mage, but also an Altmer, though thankfully not part of the Thalmor. She still wished to avoid Ondolemar, though it was fairly likely he wouldn't be prowling where Calcemo worked, since he was so reluctant to stray too far from Jarl Igmund. Her stomach growled with unease as she thought about the Thalmor so close to her blade, and so impossible to assassinate.

"Stuhn's shield, I hate this!"

"Did you call me, my Thane?" Argis' voice carried through the wooden screen she had spread just inside her bedchamber. One inconvenient fact about her new home: it had stood empty for so long that the wood had rotted away. All the furniture had needed to be replaced, which was inconvenient but surmountable. The loss of the doors was the most tragic. Every room stood open to scrutiny and every sound carried throughout the hall, completely banishing privacy. She had found the screen at Arnleif and Sons, a simple wooden panel cut into sections and held together with hinges, but it allowed for her bedroom to remain unseen. Sound, however, still carried.

"No, Argis," she called back, glad that he respected the screen and didn't try to move around it. Keeping her voice light and merry, she continued, "I'm merely talking to myself, ya know, going over the list of all the things I have to do today. There's still so much that needs to be done here."

"Aye, my Thane," he answered, but his voice sounded from further away. "Let me know what I can do for you. So far I only have to check on the progress of the doors, then see if your armor and weapons are repaired yet. I could easily add more errands to my own list."

She nodded, though he couldn't see it, and answered, "I'll keep that in mind. Thank you."

She listened for a moment, her sharp ears picking up the sound of his movements in the main part of the hall. Glad that she was 'alone' once more, she shifted her thoughts away from her slightly over-zealous housecarl and back to the mirror. Looking over her shoulder, she studied her reflection from behind.

By far the most numerous scars were the ones on her back, faint and thin to be almost brushed out by the imperfect surface, but she knew they were there. Some were longer, some shorter, some crisscrossing and others running nearly parallel, they attested to the skill and persistence of Thalmor interrogators. She carried this pattern of scars on her back, to remind her of her hatred for the Thalmor. These scars she would never remove.

Thalmor, the fanatical sect of the self-styled Aldmeri Dominion, she scoffed to herself. The Aldmeri were extinct, but the Altmer claimed to be pure descendants of the ancient race. And perhaps they were the purest; she had no idea or any inclination to find out, if such a thing were even possible. No, the Aldmeri Dominion—the Thalmor in particular—were her enemy. They had set upon her nearly from the very moment she had stepped into Skyrim. They had imprisoned her, stripped her, tied her to a rack, beat her, cut her flesh and raped her. And all because she had wanted to return to a home she had never known. All because they thought she might be a Stormcloak spy. All because she was a Nord.

"Stuhn's shield," she repeated softly, her father's favorite curse, looking at but not seeing her scars. He had instructed her in the Ancient Nordic belief, that held Stuhn as the shield-bearer of Shor. He was the god who had fought against the Aldmeri, who had taught men the value of taking prisoners of war and ransoming them. Stuhn was ruthless, willing to do what was necessary to achieve his goals. In her eyes, he was the one god she could worship.

The Imperials named him Stendarr, and softened his aspect into the god of justice and mercy. Justice she could accept; mercy she had none. But she would be the only one who would know that, if she chose to worship Stendarr on the outside, and Stuhn on the inside. She decided to add a trip to Arnleif and Sons to purchase an Amulet of Stendarr, and to see about a new dress that would flatter her form while covering her scar.

She rested her chin on her shoulder, turning to offer her profile to the mirror. Her form had filled out a little more since coming to Skyrim. She had been a late bloomer while growing up, shorter than average and underdeveloped for her age. Now, however, she had more than made up for it, as if returning to her homeland stimulated her growth. Her breasts were firm, slightly larger than what her hand could comfortably cup. Her hips were wide enough to sway while she walked, though not so wide as to make her appear overly suited for birthing babies. Her legs and arms were long and slender, with ropy muscles that belied her strength. Her stomach was flat and toned, and thankfully empty even after her ordeal within Cidhna Mine.

There was another problem. She had come to the realization that part of her current line of work—the spying she did for Jarl Ulfric—involved quite a bit of pretense. She had known from an early age that she was attractive, and that she had a gift for charming people through her actions and words. She had developed it over the past few months, honing her skill at manipulation, but she could recognize now that it wasn't enough. There were some cases that called for a deeper level of intimacy than what she had heretofore utilized, especially now that she was considered old enough for the act. She was going to have to expand her repertoire, and thanks to the Thalmor and the Forsworn, she had doubts whether or not she could manage it. Her experience with intimacy consisted of abuse and humiliation, other than for two chaste kisses.

She thought back to that night a few weeks ago. She hadn't seen Vorstag since the lackluster kiss, mostly because she had been too busy getting Vlindrel Hall in order, not because she was avoiding him. She simply hadn't had a reason to go to the Silver-Blood Inn, and he rarely left it unless he was on a job. So she had yet to find out how, or if, their relationship had changed due to the graceless osculation. Not that they had any sort of relationship other than employer and hireling, but she admitted to mild curiosity of the change in dynamic from a purely experimental perspective.

Her fingers touched her mouth, remembering the firm pressure of his lips, the warmth of his fingers stroking her neck, the heat radiating from him, the smell of his sweat, the flicker of his closed eyelids, all the little ways his body reacted to hers. Damn it but Vorstag confounded her, one moment blushing and stammering while looking at another man, the next moment making a pass at her like an unblooded youth. She supposed, after some careful consideration, that his pickaxe might swing both ways. It was a disturbing thought at first, but then again, it really didn't concern her. She had no doubt made that apparent to him, thanks to her lack of response. No, whatever his intentions were, they had no effect on her, nor would they ever, not in that manner.

It still left her with her little problem. The only person she felt close enough to confide in was Ralof, and she doubted, even if he were nearby and not in Windhelm, that he would be able to help her. She needed to speak with a woman, a circumspect woman, a trustworthy woman, a knowledgeable woman. If word ever got out that Lady Gerhild needed advice on matters regarding intercourse…

She would go to Bothela. The old alchemist would at least be discreet, and at her age, she should know more than enough to instruct Gerhild. Feeling confident now that she had a plan in place, and a full day ahead of her, she turned away from the mirror and began to dress.

"Your loin cloth's in a knot again."

Ogmund's observation was blunt though spoken softly. Vorstag didn't deny it, removing the knuckle from his teeth as he answered, "You told her what I did with my fee."

The old skald sighed, dropping his gaze to the floor. Of course Vorstag would be thinking about her; nothing else ever upset the easy-going Nord like Lady Gerhild. "Aye. She came to speak with me, just before the two of you left. She had questions about Cosnach, and why you had felt compelled to go after them. She was honest and straightforward, so I decided to trust her with our secrets."

"You mean my secrets," he groused.

"No, our secrets," Ogmund corrected. "She wanted to know why we were suspicious of Cosnach, so I told her about his breaking into my home, looking for evidence of my Talos worship."

"She knows you…" his voice trailed away. "By the Nine. The Thalmor Justiciar cornered her after we got back from Dead Crone Rock. What if she told him…?"

"There's nothing to worry about," Ogmund waved his concern aside. "If it's one thing I've learned to do over the years, it's to get the measure of a man—or a woman. She's a true Nord; she'd never betray me to any Thalmor bastard."

Vorstag rubbed his hand over his face. "I suppose you're right; I know if there's one emotion she feels, it's hatred toward the Thalmor."

"What was that? I didn't quite hear you."

Vorstag realized he had spoken too much of his private thoughts out loud. Though Ogmund had shared private matters with Gerhild, he didn't think it would be right for him to share his suppositions with Ogmund. Not about her. Not when he wasn't sure.

Then again, even if he was sure, it still wasn't for him to share her secrets with anyone.

"Vorstag, are you listening to me?" Ogmund shook his shoulder. "Do you have wool in your ears or something?"

"I…" he blinked, coming out of his thoughts and back to the world.

"Ah," he sighed, nodding his head sagely. "I told you she would be trouble. Either you never should have taken her contract, or you never should have tried to bed her."

"What!? No, I never… I didn't… I mean, she'd never… aw, shit!"

"Aye, boy, you can't fool me. I've seen too many years, too many young men who think they are Dragonborn—invincible, irresistible, and virile. So, I take it she wasn't enthusiastic about the offer."

He couldn't answer his friend. He could feel the heat staining his cheeks, spreading upwards from his neck to his hairline. Even his ears burned.

"No, you don't have to answer. I can see she isn't out of your blood yet. If you had been successful, you'd be acting differently, cocky and satisfied. Instead you're acting guilty. A woman can always make a man feel guilty about his most natural urges."

"But I…" he choked on the words, wanting to defend her honor even after he nearly besmirched it. Damn that woman and the effect she had on him.

Ogmund waited, but when no more words came, he sighed, "Vorstag, take my advice and apologize. Women love that sort of thing, especially when they think you did something wrong. Even if you don't think you did anything wrong, an apology always works to regain favor. You want to get back into her good graces?" Ogmund nodded to himself this time, "Apologize."

Vorstag turned back to the hearth. He thought about that day the other week, standing in her newly acquired home, tallying the score between them in a joking manner. He had thought she was finally warming up to him. After all, there was no one else there, no one she had to put on an act for. He thought she had finally perceived his advances and was entertaining them, but now he saw she was only acting their friendship, as she acted everything else. Any hope of ever finding the true Gerhild, of freeing her from her self-made prison of a heart of frost, was in jeopardy. "Would an apology really work?"

Ogmund shrugged, "It wouldn't hurt. Not too much, anyway, and just your pride."

"If I were to be brutally honest," he admitted softly, almost too softly for Ogmund to hear, "I damaged my pride myself."

"Excuse me," a new voice sounded at their elbows. "Are you Ogmund the Skald?"

"I am," he answered, leaning his head back to size up the man standing behind them.

"I've been looking for you," he continued, rummaging in his pack as he spoke. "I've got something here, an offer of employment from Lady Gerhild North-Wind."

Ogmund held out his hand for the missive, a strange look on his face. "Employment? I'm no sellsword."

"I don't know, sir," the courier replied. "I only deliver letters; I'm not privy to their contents or the sender's intent. Oh, I'm supposed to deliver one to a 'Vorstag' here as well. Do you know him?"

"Aye," Vorstag swallowed, lifting a finger of his hand, "That's me."

"Well, then, here you go. That's it. Have a nice day."

He watched bemusedly as the courier sped off, a satchelful of missives to deliver for various and sundry senders. He was still staring, his mind wanting to go blank, when Ogmund's heavy fist jarred his shoulder.

"Ha! Lady Gerhild is having a party later this month, to celebrate her new Thaneship and show off her new home. She's asked me to provide the music for the evening."

"What?" Vorstag asked, his mind slowly catching up to the conversation. "Oh. Right. That sounds like fun." He looked down at his own letter like it was a snake about to bite him, or a rune about to trap him, or a pressure plate…

"What does yours say?"

"My what? Oh, my letter. Let's see here…" he broke the seal and quickly scanned the page. The letter wasn't long, the handwriting was neat and tidy, but he couldn't decipher the words. Ogmund obligingly leaned forward to read it himself, noting that Vorstag tilted the letter so he could do so.

"She's invited you to the same party, as a guest," he supplied. "Good thing you're not doing anything on the 28th."

"Aye, the 28th," he repeated, committing the date to memory. Rescanning the parchment he could see where the numbers had been written out, the two and the eight clearly visible now that he knew to look for them. The rest of the letter was still gibberish.

Ogmund narrowed his eyes but held his tongue. He knew Vorstag had never learned to read, something scandalous in his opinion being a skald. Still, he kept his own counsel and allowed him to conduct his own life as he chose fit. After all, a lot of people never learned to read or write and lived their lives just fine. And a sellsword didn't have to know how to read too much, their skills lying in the use of their weapons and not between the covers of a book.

Yet sometimes, he wondered if the young man's life might not be a little bit richer if he would learn to read. Like now, as he gazed at the cryptic scrawl almost desperate to be able to read it himself. After another long moment of study, he watched Vorstag carefully refold the parchment and slip it inside his armor, no doubt to be tucked safely away in his pack later.

"Well, are you going?"

"What?" Vorstag asked, bewildered.

"To Lady Gerhild's party," he supplied. "The invitation asked for those invited to answer with an 'aye' or a 'nay' if they were going to attend."

"I…" he swallowed, his hand subconsciously spreading over where the parchment lay against his chest. Sudden inspiration seized him, and impulsively he decided, "I was thinking I'd do that in person. I could apologize at the same time, ya know, kill two birds with one stone."

Ogmund nodded as if it was the most logical course of action. "Good idea. Make it three birds, and let Lady Gerhild know I would be honored to provide the evening's entertainment."

"Aye," he nodded, pushing himself to his feet. "I will do that for you. You old men need to rest, anyway."

"Insolent pup!" he grumbled.

Vorstag laughed as he turned away, his humor restored and his embarrassment forgotten. Ogmund smiled too, watching him leave the inn with a slight spring to his step, mumbling softly into his mug, "That's my boy. Win her heart. She has feelings for you, I'm sure of it."

Vorstag looked around once he was outside, allowing his eyes a few moments to get used to the midday sun. He looked up at Vlindrel Hall, the highest home in Markarth, and wondered if she would be there. He'd hate to walk all the way up there, only to find out she was running errands. Deciding it was the best thing to do, even if not the easiest, he started up the street for the stairs.

As he reached the street the next level up, something out of the corner of his eye captured his attention. Turning he caught a glimpse of dark blonde hair pulled into an intricate braid just before it disappeared around a corner near Understone Keep. Hoping it was Gerhild, he decided to forgo the climb in favor of following the woman at street level. He took off at a trot, his powerful legs making easy work of the gently sloping pathway. He reached the corner just before she turned another corner.

It was Gerhild. He saw a little more of her this time, her blonde locks appearing lighter in the sunlight, the dimples in her cheekbones casting delicate shadows on the sides of her face. She was wearing a silk gown, bright emerald green, the cut of which accented her curves to perfection, with a gauzy stole draped loosely around her shoulders. Even from a distance, he could see what he had been too busy to notice recently; Gerhild had grown since coming to Markarth. When he first saw her a couple of months ago, she had been a little small for his taste, her armor cut to fit her body exactly. Yet when they went after the Forsworn a couple of weeks ago, her armor was a little small, her wrists showing at the ends of her sleeves. He wondered what her age was, if she was still growing, and how such a young woman could have accomplished so much in her short life.

He shook his head to snap himself out of his musings. Regardless of her age, she had proven she was old enough to take care of herself. And he still owed her that apology. Walking hastily to the corner without trying to look like he was rushing after her, he caught sight of her again.

Gerhild was strolling down the path heading towards the alchemist. Vorstag took a shortcut through the Blacksmith's and entered the shop a few seconds after her.

"Well, look at you. If only everyone ran around like you did."

"Hello, Bothela," Gerhild's voice sounded as warm as the old woman's, and just as sincere. Again he found himself marveling at her abilities to act normal, when inside she was dead. "How are you today?"

"Can't complain. And yourself? Ah, Vorstag," she finally turned to greet him, having just heard the door close behind him. "Just a moment and I'll be right with you. Now, then, my dear, what brings you to my shop today? Did you need to stock some supplies for your new alchemy lab?"

"Er," Gerhild hadn't heard Vorstag follow her inside, and when Bothela looked over her shoulder to call out to him, she nearly panicked. She hadn't planned on seeing him today, and she definitely didn't want him privy to this conversation. Seeing no easy way to get rid of him, however, she decided to change the reason for her visit and just ignore him. "Actually, I was wondering if you had received the invitation to my party."

"Just this morning," she nodded. "And Muiri and I both will come." She leaned forward on the countertop and said in a slightly more conspiratorial voice, "Is that what you're doing here today? You didn't have to come here yourself; I was going to send Muiri over to Vlindrel Hall tonight with our acceptance."

"Oh, well, ya know," she hedged, desperately thinking of a reasonable sounding excuse, "I had other errands to run today, and thought I would swing by here since it was on my way." She placed her hand on Bothela's arm. "I'm glad you both can make it. It means so much, after all you've done for me."

She patted the back of her hand sympathetically. "Of course, my dear, of course. Think nothing of it. Now, was there… anything else?"

Gerhild couldn't stop herself, her eyes shifting to where Vorstag was standing even though she couldn't see him. "Ah, no, nothing else, right now, I mean, I might come back later, if…"

Bothela smiled knowingly and winked where Vorstag couldn't see. "I close up at eight, same as any other merchant, but feel free to stop by later if anything comes to mind. I'm usually up late. A woman hardly needs to sleep when she reaches my age."

Gerhild's shoulders sagged slightly, some of the tension bleeding out of her once she understood the hidden message. "Thank you, Bothela. I'll be sure to stop by, should anything else arise. Good day," she nodded to her as she turned to leave. "Vorstag," she added gently as she passed him.

He saw she was beating a hasty retreat, and knew Ogmund was right—he needed to apologize. There was no other reason for her to run out of the store as she was doing. Quickly he turned to Bothela and uttered an excuse, "I'll, um, come back later. I just have to… well… later."

Bothela watched him chase after the young woman, a knowing smile hidden beneath the wrinkles on her face. "Ah, young love," she sighed to herself. "So glad Vorstag found someone; I always wondered about that boy."

Vorstag didn't hear Bothela's comment. He was already outside, squinting again into the bright afternoon sun as he searched for Gerhild. He was surprised to find himself only a few paces behind her. "Gerhild, wait," he called, reaching out a hand as if to stop her.

Calmly she turned to face him, one foot already on the first step, a clear indication that she wished to continue on her errands. Yet her expression was warm and friendly as she said, "Vorstag, of course you are invited to my party as well; you should get your invitation sometime today. I wouldn't exclude you, not after all you've done for me. I was just giving you time to finish your business with Bothela before extending the invitation."

"Gerhild," he repeated, dropping his hand from where it had been hovering near her upper arm.

After he was silent for another moment, she knew the conversation was about to turn unpleasant. There was no help for it, but at least they were in public, where it would be easier for her to keep some distance between them and harder for him to press against her. "Aye," she prompted him.

"Could I walk you home?"

That was something she definitely didn't want. "I have one last errand to run. At Arnleif and Sons," she countered.

"Could…" he swallowed, his deep brown eyes earnest and open, revealing everything of his soul to her, "Could I walk with you? To the shop?"

Gerhild kept her poise perfect and genteel as she considered his offer. She had hopes of leaving him behind, feeling too awkward with him so near to her. "I appreciate the offer, but I'm able to find my own way. I don't think there are too many dangers here within Markarth that I would need protection from."

"Not since you vanquished the Forsworn," he agreed. Then he leaned in a little too close for her comfort and continued, "But I wasn't offering my services as a hireling. There's a matter I wish to discuss with you, a personal matter."

And there it was; he was going to try to kiss her again. His timing could have been better, say, after she'd had an opportunity to speak with Bothela. Still, her options were dwindling fast, and the longer she stalled the more hopeful he grew.

"Please," he pressed his advantage and held out his arm for her to take, his voice only loud enough to carry to her ears. "I know I don't deserve it, but please give me this one chance. Let me walk with you, and just talk."

She knew she shouldn't do it, but she wasn't sure how to get out of it without confusing him or hurting his feelings. Not that his feelings mattered, but she had been sent to Markarth to make connections, not alienate people, especially those who could be sympathetic to her Jarl's cause. Smiling sweetly at him, she inclined her head and rested her hand on the crook of his arm.

They started down the steps, side by side, walking slowly and quietly. Vorstag risked a glance at her, wishing he could get a better read on her personality. She seemed at ease next to him, but he now knew how good of an act she could perform. Looking closely at her face, he could see nothing to give him any indication of her true thoughts. Briefly his eyes swept downwards, curious about the stole, and he realized she was wearing it to cover up her scar. At least that was one honestly womanly aspect of Gerhild; she was concerned about her appearance.

"Gerhild." He got as far as her name before words failed him. He made an exasperated sound in the back of his throat as they continued on for a few paces. It was too hard to get his well-rehearsed apology started, so he started with something else. "Ogmund asked me to tell you he'd be honored to provide the entertainment for your party."

He watched as the dimples deepened on her cheeks, the corner of her bow-shaped lips twitching up into an almost-smile. "And you tracked me down just to tell me this? You could have left a message at Vlindrel Hall."

"Well, I wanted to tell you that I was coming, too. To your party. And…" He watched, fascinated, as the tiny pink tip of her tongue darted out to lick her lips, and he desperately wanted to kiss her again. He remembered those lips, full and smooth beneath his, and unyielding. He wanted to breach that barrier, to slip past them and delve into the cavern beyond. And he wanted more, so much more, of her body than just her lips. He wanted her to open up to him. Looking down into the cold violet eyes, he finally found his voice. "I'm sorry I tried to kiss you.

"No, wait," he quickly corrected himself, wondering what had happened to his practiced apology. "I'm not sorry I tried to kiss you. I'd kiss you again and again if it would bring you happiness, but it doesn't, does it? Gerhild," he stopped walking to face her fully, taking her hand in his. He forced himself to look into her cold, dead eyes and prayed for the barest flicker of emotion, anything to give him hope.

"Gerhild, believe me when I say I don't want to see you hurt. And you've been hurt; I can see it. Though I could guess who hurt you, and what they did, it wouldn't be fair. I've no business with your past, not unless you want me to. So I'm sorry for any hurt feelings. And I want you to know, if you ever want to share with me your past, any part of it, I'll be willing to listen. As a friend."

She opened her mouth, and afraid of what she would say, he pressed a finger against her lips. "No, don't say anything now, to either tell me your secrets, or swear you'll never share them. Take some time to think about it. I'm not going anywhere. Thanks to your including me on your venture to find Hrolfdir's shield, I won't have to hire myself out for years."

He dropped his hand then, and turned to leave.

"Vorstag," she began, but found her own words failed her.

"I'll see you on the 28th," he answered over his shoulder, his steps unfaltering. Another moment, and he vanished around a corner.

Gerhild blinked, startled by the suddenness of his apology as well as his departure. There was an impulse to scream and stamp her foot, which she quickly dismissed as childish. Damn Vorstag. Damn him and his confusing actions and words and… He never acted like other men, like those in Cidhna Mine who abused her body to sate their frustrated appetites, or the Thalmor who used rape as part of her torture. He was strange, different, and every time she thought he might be predictable and normal, like when he kissed her, he'd change and become insightful, somehow knowing what had happened to her and the damage it left behind. She couldn't understand why or how he could switch from a normal man to… to…

She sighed, "Oh, Ralof, my friend," she whispered to no one in particular, "You are right; I think too much." She determinedly pushed Vorstag out of her mind and continued on to her next errand.

Her business at Arnleif and Sons took a little longer than she planned, but that was alright. She got the impression from Bothela that she had been invited to come back that evening after the shop closed, so she had some time to kill. She felt better about that, thinking it less likely that they'd be interrupted by a customer if they met after hours. She decided to give Muiri plenty of time to leave for the day as well, just to be on the safe side. On her way back to the Hag's Cure, she paused to speak with the blacksmith, Ghorza. They chatted away the last few moments of the workday, Gerhild's eyes ever glancing towards the alchemist's, until she saw Muiri leave. She then made her excuses and headed up the small flight of stairs to visit Bothela.

The door was unlocked still, and as Gerhild slipped inside she heard the ancient apothecarist call out, "Just lock the door behind you, my dear."

"Bothela," her voice was chiding as she did as she was bid, "How did you know it was me and not a thief? Or an assassin?"

The laughter that answered her question bordered on a cackle. "There's not much here worth stealing, and at my age, death would be welcomed as a long lost friend. Come, my dear, join me in a glass of spiced wine. And tell me what it is that troubles you so much you had to speak with me privately."

Gerhild felt like a small child again; she hadn't been so transparent in her intentions for years. Then again, Bothela was old enough she had probably seen every subterfuge and ploy a hundred times. She pushed aside her embarrassment in favor of getting the help she needed. Gracefully she accepted the cup of wine along with a chair, and faced her across a small table.

"I need to learn about sex."

Bothela hid her knowing smile behind the rim of her cup. If she was startled at the abruptness or forwardness of the topic, she didn't show that, either. Inside she was jumping into the air and clicking her heels; Gerhild and Vorstag were in love. She had seen the way he hastened after her today, his stuttering and awkwardness and lisp, and knew he had feelings for the girl. Now it would appear she had feelings for him as well, if she was asking about sex. Yet Bothela wondered why she didn't already know what she needed to know, and voiced her confusion. "Excuse me for prying, but I would have thought, a young woman of your age, your mother should already have told you all you needed to know."

Still marveling at the lack of emotion over a memory that had always caused her painful grief, Gerhild kept her gaze as steady as her voice as she answered, "My mother died when I was young. And my father never managed to have that talk with me before his death." She squared her shoulders and forged ahead, deciding on the fly to trust the other woman completely. "I'm afraid the only experience I have with the act is rather distasteful, first from Thalmor interrogators, then the prisoners in Cidhna Mine. I'd like to know and understand a few things, but I have no one to speak to about this. I was hoping you would be willing to fill in the role of female relative and answer a few questions."

Bothela swallowed thickly; never would it have occurred to her that Gerhild had suffered so greatly in her young life. True, she knew the girl had been imprisoned and what had happened those first three nights; they had talked candidly about pregnancy concerns already. Yet she never would have dreamed the rest, not for such a beautiful and strong young woman. Then again, it was always the hottest forges that produced the strongest steel.

"Of course, dear," she heard herself answer, setting her cup aside to give Gerhild her full attention. "What is it you want to know?"

She followed suit, dropping all pretenses and setting aside all distractions, fully intent on learning all she could in a short amount of time. "Does it always hurt?"

"Hurt?" she asked, surprised at the question.

"I know some women take money in exchange for the use of their bodies. I've been wondering how they could do such a thing, if it hurts so much. I need to know how they manage to tolerate it, how they put aside the pain and humiliation and pretend to enjoy it. Can you tell me?"

It was going to be long night. Sighing deeply, Bothela mentally rolled up her sleeves and got to work explaining the joys of intimacy.

Chapter Text

28th of Second Seed

The party was a success, at least as far as Vorstag could tell. The representatives of Markarth citizenship ranged from peasants to noblemen, from common workers like himself to the Jarl's steward Raerek. And no one was uncomfortable rubbing elbows with someone usually so far removed from their own status. He figured it could only be due to Gerhild's hard work, building a reputation with the commoners as well as the nobles, that everyone was willing to put aside differences and converse at ease for one evening.

Amazingly, he was at ease as well, though standing in a somewhat overlooked corner beside a bookshelf. There was a mug in his hand and a half-smile on his lips as he hummed and tapped his foot to the tune Ogmund was playing. He didn't actively engage in any conversations, but watched the play unfold in front of him as the strange group of people mixed and mingled.

Gerhild gazed around languidly as she glided around the corner, her eyes taking in everything around her as well as everyone. So far her party was running smoothly, no doubt due to a large amount of luck considering the diversity of her guests. She inclined her head to several of them, paused to speak with several more, offered thanks for their presence, accepted praise for her taste in decoration, and so many more little nuances of social politeness she actually lost track.

She needed to take a break, find a quiet corner where she could pause and regroup her thoughts, before plunging back into the fray. She knew of an often over-looked corner behind the bookshelves; Argis had surprised her one afternoon by stepping out suddenly from behind them. She intended to take cover there and slip out of the main flow for a few moments, but was surprised to see it already occupied.

She smiled to herself, not exactly sure why but not taking the time to consider it, either. Vorstag was standing there, a mug in hand, his foot tapping to the music as if he wanted to dance. She wondered why he wasn't dancing already, but perhaps he thought the main hall too crowded. Whatever his reasons for hiding in her corner, she brushed them aside as irrelevant. The fact remained he was standing where she wanted to stand.

She didn't change her pace or trajectory as she came up from his blindside, but took a moment to study his form. His horned scaled armor was brushed and polished to perfection, the leather freshly oiled, the fur clean and soft, and the metal smooth and shiny. As she got closer, she saw his hair was cleaner too, freshly combed though still falling willy-nilly around his shoulders. His skin was clear of smudge or shadow and his jaw was free of stubble, and she had to wonder if someone like Ogmund had coerced him into taking a bath.

With another private smile, she thought over her conversation with Bothela. She had learned quite a lot about interpersonal relations from the ancient apothecarist, and had to admit to some curiosity regarding a few of the… preliminary aspects. Gerhild wasn't so eager that she'd jump into a hay pile with just anyone, but she did want the opportunity to practice a bit before she found herself in a situation where she would have to rely on unpolished skills. And Vorstag seemed a likely candidate; he was kind, amenable, and even pleasant to look at. And he had professed a willingness to kiss her, if it would bring her happiness. And practicing seduction, though not exactly bringing her happiness, would satisfy a need of hers. After all, it was like sparring, only sex instead of fighting, and without weapons.

Thoroughly convincing herself that her motives were purely scientific in nature, she finished approaching the self-named freelance adventurer for hire.

"I'm glad you came."

The voice was gentle, floating over his shoulder to caress his ears, and he knew Gerhild was beside him. He turned slightly to face her and immediately froze. He hadn't seen her yet that evening, and this first sight left him breathless. She wore a dark blue gown of rich velvet, the color a near perfect match for her eyes. The dress hugged her body's upper curves, but draped below her waist in soft folds leaving plenty for his imagination to fill in. The neckline was higher than her other dresses and barely showed a hint of her collarbone. Though he missed the view of the tops of pale, creamy breasts and the shadowy cleavage between, he knew she had done it to hide her scar. Looking at the where the scar would be, his eyes found an Amulet of Stendarr nested upon the smooth velvet. He hadn't seen her wear an amulet before, not when she was sick with fever, and thought that perhaps her near brush with death had brought about the change. He did wonder why she would worship Stendarr, of all the gods. Considering her predisposition for thought, he would have figured her for Julianos, the god of wisdom and logic, not the god of justice and mercy.

Knowing she wouldn't appreciate his ogling her, he kicked his brain back into gear and focused on her face. "Wouldn't have missed it. Didn't realize you had invited Ondolemar, though, knowing how you feel about the Thalmor."

His words had been as soft as hers, their conversation going no further than each other's ears. It startled him when she laughed lightly as if he had said something charming or flattering, no doubt for the benefit of anyone who might be watching them, but she continued in the same soft manner. "I had to. There are certain appearances I have to maintain. Inviting Thalmor into my home was unfortunate, but unavoidable."

"I've been wondering about that," he started, hoping for a little conversation with her, though careful not to trigger anything too personal. "When we got back from Dead Crone Rock, and Ondolemar thought the shield was rigged, and the Jarl challenged him to prove it, you gave him an excuse to save face. Why? I'd've thought you'd jump at the opportunity to embarrass a Thalmor."

She sighed, the movement should have served to bring his attention back to her breasts, but he kept his gaze locked with hers. Perhaps the party was a little too public for the type of preliminary activity she was trying to instigate. Looking around them and gauging that no one was near enough to overhear, she replied, "I had to. Ondolemar, though pompous, is still dangerous to have as an enemy, and I need to avoid his suspicions. By helping him evade the Jarl's displeasure, I became somewhat benign, if not useful, in his eyes. Besides, getting on his good side means he might consider that he owes me a favor. And who knows when I might need a Thalmor in my pocket."

Vorstag snorted into his mug. "You have a devious mind, Gerhild. I'd almost think you were a spy…" He stopped suddenly, several little hints and clues about her fitting nicely into such a scenario.

She watched his face, knowing her next move would have to be made very carefully. Vorstag was loyal, as much if not more so than Ralof. She could trust him, despite the occasional awkward moments, but she wouldn't do anything to put him in jeopardy. Though denying it to him would be useless, admitting she was a spy for Jarl Ulfric would only give him dangerous knowledge. And such knowledge, which could be used against her, could also be used by her enemies to harm him. Instead she laughed again, her smile warm and flirtatious, placing her hand on his arm and trying to ease his mind. "Look whose imagination is running wild."

He laughed with her, though a little forced, but she felt him relax once more.

"Would you care for anything, sir?" a voice broke into their conversation. Rhiada stood before them, a tray of bite-sized sweets in her hands.

"Rhiada, others were hired to serve tonight," Gerhild's voice was only mildly scolding. "I hired you as my steward here, not my servant."

"There are other servants, Lady Gerhild," the young widow gestured with her free hand, "But not enough for a party this size. I didn't realize you would have so many guests."

"Neither did I," she admitted, sighing. "In fact, I think one or two might have slipped in uninvited. At least, I don't remember asking Degaine to come."

Vorstag's shoulders shook with suppressed mirth. "You should have him removed before he drinks all the mead."

She nodded her head. "You're right. Where is Argis when I need him?" She craned her neck to look around the rooms, searching for her housecarl.

"Oh, I'll find him, milady," Rhiada gave a small curtsy, setting her tray down on a nearby table. "Excuse me."

Vorstag had an amused smile on his lips as he watched her bustle through the crowd in search of the Nord. "Did you do that on purpose?"

"Did I do what?" she asked, her expression open and innocent.

"Don't play at acting around me, Gerhild. I've seen you naked."

"You can hardly hold that against me," she sniffed. "I was sick with a fever and out of my mind with fear poison."

"I didn't mean your body," he corrected her. When she gave him a startled look, somewhat confused, he decided to leave her stewing and return to the previous topic. "Now, did you play matchmaker and hire Rhiada thinking she'd take an interest in Argis?"

Her first impulse was to pursue his unusual comment, but good sense quickly set in and she knew it would be her undoing to follow that line of thought. "I did," she admitted, returning with him to the subject of Rhiada and Argis. "He is a very good housecarl, but he performs his job of protecting my person with a lot of enthusiasm and far too much invasion into my privacy. I feel a little too… compromised… with just the two of us living here. I thought another person might help keep any gossips occupied. Besides, Rhiada is a widow with a child on the way; she could use a cushy job with a strong protector handy. If they find a mutual attraction, all the better. If not," she shrugged, "At least I have in some small way ensured Eltrys' line continues. If she had stayed at the Treasury House, I doubt Thonar would have given her any peace."

Vorstag decided not to correct her misreading of Argis, and instead asked, "She knows you didn't kill her husband?"

"Aye, she knows I was framed, though she doesn't know Thonar was behind it. And she's even told me she's grateful I took care of Madanach and the Forsworn who've caused so much upset and unrest in the Reach. She hopes things will settle down now, and perhaps someday she might be able to reclaim Eltrys' family mine, for their son."

"Do you think that's possible?"

Gerhild shrugged. "That matter does not fall under my area of concern."

"And what are you concerned with?" he asked, immediately regretting prying into her personal affairs, thinking again about his half-formed thought of her being a spy. "Don't answer that…"

"My Thane," Argis came up to them, bowing before her in his stiff and formal manner. "Rhiada told me about your uninvited guest. I have removed Degaine from the premises, and I will continue to search out anyone else who might have slipped in."

"Thank you, Argis." Vorstag could hear the wary tone in her voice, and thought that maybe he should set her straight about Argis. Before he could think of what to say, however, another voice piped in.

"What's with the tattoos?"

Both Argis and Vorstag turned to look at Rhiada, their guilty jumps identical. She had come back to reclaim the tray of food, and the men knew exactly what was going through her mind as her eyes flicked from one face to the other. Neither one knew how to respond at first. Argis' jaw flapped soundlessly a few times as he stared straight forward, and Vorstag studiously avoided everyone's gaze as he shuffled from foot to foot.

"Ya know, I've wondered the same thing," Gerhild commented, pulling their attention back to her. "When I first saw Argis, it was here in Vlindrel Hall. The lighting was so dim, and I was expecting to find Vorstag here, not Argis, that I only saw the tattoo and thought at first he was Vorstag. When I realized my mistake, I could easily see that these two were very different in appearance. But it does beg the question, how did you two end up with the same facial tattoo?" She also remembered Vorstag's blushing glance at Argis that first day in her new home, but decided not to relate it.

Vorstag's face, from his collar to his hairline, turned a bright red, his eyes now firmly glued to his mug. Argis, however, managed a laugh, perhaps a little too harsh, and obviously at his discomfort. "Do you want to tell them, or should I?" He didn't sound at all like he was willing to share the story, but was stalling for time.

Vorstag sighed, rubbing at the back of his neck with his free hand, fearing there was no hope for it. He needed more time to think, so he handed matters back to Argis, "I forget why you got the tattoo…"

"Simple," he shrugged, exaggerating his confidence, his full hair following with the movement. Rhiada found herself captivated by the play of light on his blond highlights, but tried to keep herself from showing it. "I've wanted a tattoo since I was a kid. My father said I couldn't get one unless I earned the money for it myself. So, after my first job escorting a hunting party, I got this tattoo. But Vorstag…"

"I got mine for different reasons," he interrupted quickly. He could tell, by the way the two women were looking at him, that they wanted a little more information than that. He went with the first explanation that came to mind. "Ah, I think I mentioned once that Argis here is a little older than me, though we sort of knew each other while we were growing up. Anyway, when he got his tattoo, I, well, I thought it looked, well, I thought it made him look fierce, ya know? Strong. Sort of: don't-mess-with-me-or-I'll-kick-your-ass. I wanted to look the same, thinking it would help to get me hired as a soldier of fortune if I looked like I was bad ass, too. And maybe," he rubbed at his neck again, "Maybe there was a little hero-worship going on. But I outgrew that."

Argis laughed a little more genuine this time, Rhiada smiled but quickly tried to hide it, and Gerhild gave a soft sort of laugh, a sound he knew only too well. She was pretending to laugh. Looking up at her face, he could see the humor didn't reach her eyes. He wasn't sure this time if that was a good thing or a bad thing.

"Don't feel so bad about it, Vorstag," she said. "I'm sure we all have that stage, where we look at someone older and think they are so wonderful, and we want to be just like them. When I was ten, I remember seeing this Redguard noblewoman. She was so beautiful and poised, her dress was of the finest fabric and her hair was swept up in these intricate braids. I only saw her for a few moments as she rode by, but I remember thinking I wanted to be just like her when I grew up." She paused, giving a little laugh as she touched her tightly braided hair and swirled the skirts of her dark blue velvet dress. "I guess I'm just as guilty as you."

"Aye, but you can let down your braids and change your clothing. I'm stuck with this tattoo."

He was joking with them now, feeling a little better after her attempts to put him at ease. He was still relieved, however, when Argis spotted another uninvited guest and left to take care of him. Rhiada excused herself also, gesturing with her tray that she had to keep circling the guests. With the two of them alone again, he quietly voiced the question that was too private to ask in front of the others. "Is that true? What you said about the noblewoman?"

She looked at him a moment, the faint crease in her brow that told him she was in deep thought, before she answered his question with one of her own. "Does it matter?"

He nodded, "Of course it does. It's the first time I've heard you share a story about your past, and you did it to make me feel less embarrassed. I appreciate it, even if you made it up. But if the story is true…"

She knew that he was referring to his offer the other day to listen if she wanted to talk about her past, any part of her past. She saw how much it meant to him, to think that she had taken him up on his offer, even if only for a silly little story. "Aye," she admitted softly, unable to explain why she was being so honest, "It's true."

Their conversation might have continued, but the sound of raised voices drew their attention.

"Oh, damn it," she sighed. "I was afraid something like this would happen…"

"Ogmund and Ondolemar," Vorstag agreed, following her as she headed for the two. "I told you it had been a mistake to invite a Thalmor…"

"And I told you it couldn't be helped," she hissed over her shoulder.

"What do we do?" he asked, so close behind her she could feel the heat of his body coming through her gown.

"Follow my lead."

"Don't I always?"

She wanted to elbow him, thinking there might have been one or two times he hadn't followed her lead—charging straight at a small army of Forsworn came to mind—but they were too close to the Thalmor and the skald. A small ring of spectators had formed around the two, looking like they weren't listening while truthfully they were hanging on every word. Whatever the argument, she knew she not only had to defuse it before any arrests were made, but put on a show of unconcern for the spectators as well. An expression of calm pasted on her face, she burst into their little argument as if she hadn't heard any of their heated exchange.

"Ogmund, you simply must settle this argument for us. Oh!" she pressed a startled hand over her mouth, as if just realizing he was talking with someone else. Dropping a curtsy to the Thalmor, she continued, "Excuse me, I didn't realize you were making a request, Lord Ondolemar. Please, Ogmund, sing his request. He is a guest, after all. Then you can settle our trifling dispute."

"I'd hardly call it trifling," Vorstag pretended to pout, jutting forth the lower part of his chin. He was over doing it, and she made a note to herself not to trust his acting abilities.

"I only meant when compared to a guest's request. Please, Lord Ondolemar, which song did you wish to hear?"

"It wasn't a song I wanted to hear," he snarled, "But one I didn't wish to hear. He was singing…"

"Oh, that's an unusual request to make. I don't know if the Altmer have skalds…"

"Bards," he corrected, his eyes narrowed.

"…But in Skyrim, we ask a skald to sing a song, not to not sing a song." She furrowed her brow. "Oh, dear, that sounded confusing. But you know what I mean. If you want a song sung, you ask a skald to sing it. He can't very well unsing a song, can he?" She laughed, a fluttering sound, and several of the guests listening to the exchange also giggled with her, though a bit nervously.

Ondolemar drew himself up to his full height, and she had to wonder why the Thalmor always seemed taller than men or other elves, or even other Altmer. She imagined it had something to do with their uniform, perhaps their boots. Thinking the randomness might help lighten the mood, she threw it out there briefly. "Why are Thalmor always so tall? Oh, but that's not what I wanted to ask. I wanted to ask what was the song you wanted to hear?"

"I do not have a request," he sneered, his nostrils flared.

"Oh, good, then Ogmund," she called to the other, her voice gentle and childlike, "Please settle this little matter for Vorstag and I."

"Stop making it sound so silly," Vorstag forced himself to lisp as he grumbled, swinging his mug a little too widely, appearing drunk. "It's a very important matter."

"Aye, it is," she calmly patted his arm, as if indulging him. "Ogmund, Vorstag and I were having a conversation, and we came to a slight disagreement about something. We couldn't settle it between us, but we both agree you would be the final authority on this matter. So if you could give us an answer, we would appreciate being able to finally set this matter aside and move on."

"Ah," he hedged, looking from one to the other, still a little wary of the Thalmor looming over her shoulder. "I'd love to, Lady Gerhild, but you haven't told me what the dispute is about."

"Oh, silly me. I was so distracted by Ondolemar's strange request, I completely forgot I hadn't asked you." She fluttered her fingers at him, making him lean away a little further from them. "How many verses are in 'Ragnar the Red'?"

Ogmund was still a bit rattled by Ondolemar, but he answered after a few seconds, "Six."

"Hah!" Vorstag said triumphantly, "Told you."

"No, Vorstag," she sighed, "You claimed seven verses, remember? You added one where Ragnar beds Matilda." She leaned into Ogmund while Vorstag stood back and blinked, pretending to have difficulty counting on his fingers and holding onto his mug. "I think he's had a little too much already. Could you do me a favor, and sing the song for him? It might help distract him from his cups for a while."

Ogmund nodded, "Aye, Lady Gerhild. I'll sing it." He leaned in closer to her, "And I'll keep him near me for a time, so you can catch your breath."

She smiled knowingly at him, "You are very intuitive, my friend. Thank you."

He inclined his head, and then began strumming his lute. "Vorstag, lend me your voice. Let's teach you this song again, before you add any other extra verses."

"And you," she turned to Ondolemar, who looked like he was still trying to get back to Ogmund. "I want a confession out of you." Her tone was a little scolding and commanding, like a mother with an errant child.

"Lady Gerhild," he protested, though mildly, as she took his arm and steered him away from the two. "I... I don't know what you mean?"

She sighed, rolling her eyes and taking him even further away as the song began. "Oh, come now, don't play innocent with me. You know exactly what I'm talking about." She found her attention split, half on Ondolemar at her side, and half on the beautiful baritone behind her. "I asked you a question, one you have yet to answer." She never knew Vorstag could sing. "It's only polite for you to tell me, unless it's a state secret or something." He could dance—she had seen him dancing several times before—but she never realized he had such a pleasant voice.

"What are you talking about?" he stopped walking, forcing her to turn to look back at him, and see Vorstag in the background.

"Honestly, Lord Ondolemar, I was only curious." He was dancing again, while singing, the tone smooth and rich. "If you can't tell me, I understand. It was just a silly question."

"I'll tell you," he spoke slowly, as if to a backwards child, "If I can, but I don't recall the question. What did you want to know?"

She sighed again. Everyone nearby was watching Vorstag as he moved and laughing as he improvised the fictional verse of Ragnar bedding Matilda. "Why are you—or any Thalmor, for that matter—so much taller than anyone else?" Ogmund had stopped the song, scolding Vorstag, much to the continued amusement and entertainment of her guests. Thankfully she and Ondolemar were fully ignored. "Don't tell me it's something mundane, like the uniform is so stiff and formal it makes you stand up straighter."

Ogmund was reciting the correct verse slowly, Vorstag listening intently and nodding, looking like he was trying hard to remember the right words.

Ondolemar looked down at her, raising one eyebrow as he gave her silly question serious thought. She wondered if she had overplayed her hand and acted too silly, but finally he answered, just as Vorstag started singing again. "It's the boots. The heels are larger, giving us extra height. It serves to remind us to remain apart from lesser mortals."

"Oh," she sighed, pouting a little. "How disappointing. And I was hoping for something more dramatic or mysterious, like all Altmer who wish to become Thalmor must spend time on the rack until they are stretched taller." Now Vorstag was trying to imply there had been a drinking contest instead of a battle.

"The rack doesn't work that way, milady," he said softly. "It doesn't make one grow taller. Rather it pulls on the joints and bones, until they pop and break, causing extreme pain and extreme damage from which it is difficult to heal."

"Oh," she fluttered at her face, pretending shock at his brutal description of torture, even though she knew about such pain from personal experience. Actually she was glad, looking for a way to dissipate the extra heat flushing her cheeks. It confused her, as the cause was undoubtedly Vorstag and his heretofore-undiscovered musical talent, though she didn't have the time to figure out why her body was reacting in such a manner. It seemed similar to what Bothela had described as arousal, but it couldn't be that as she and Vorstag weren't currently engaged in any act that could be considered sexual. He was singing on the other side of the room while she talked with Ondolemar. "I'm so glad you didn't have to endure that, just so you could look down on us. Please, Lord Ondolemar, forgive my forward question."

"Not at all, Lady Gerhild," he graciously pardoned her, missing the backhanded insult. "Though sometimes helpful, curiosity can lead one into trouble. I wouldn't ask any other Thalmor such personal questions if I were you; they might take offense. However, I don't mind answering any questions you may have. In fact, I have one of my own."

"Oh," this time the sound was a prompt for him to continue, though she was unsure if she wished to continue. She found herself wanting to watch Vorstag's muscular body bending agilely as he danced. Though more than adequate protection in a fight, his armor seemed nearly indecent tonight, showing far too much of his muscled limbs and shoulders as he swayed and stepped.

"You cleared out a Forsworn camp, almost single-handedly. Surely that was full of gore and death. Yet you nearly swooned just now, talking about the rack."

"Lord Ondolemar," she gripped his arm for emphasis, and for no other reason, damn it! The song had started over, the pair of baritone voices clear and full, the lute playing music that Vorstag's body moved in time to. "That was business, and once it was finished, I was finished thinking about it. Tonight is pleasure, with wine and music and laughter. Never mix the two; it makes for bad indigestion. Excuse me, I believe my steward is trying to get my attention."

She patted his arm and slipped away, having successfully distracted the Justiciar from trying to find a way to arrest Ogmund, and distracting Ogmund from trying to find a way to insult Ondolemar. If only she could distract herself so easily. The fact that Vorstag's musical abilities were having an effect on her from across a room was uncomfortably unsettling. She needed to slip away, to find somewhere to hide until she could once more wrestle control over her self. Yet it was her party, inside her home, and every private place was open to her guests.

She groaned and turned towards the main door to step outside. She needed something bracing like the cool evening air to help her think straight. She wanted to seduce Vorstag, not the other way around. And her party was far too public and lively a place to practice seduction. She needed to find an excuse to get him alone, like the night they camped on the way back from Dead Crone Rock. Aye, a nice jaunt through the countryside would be just the thing, and she still had that mission from the Greybeards to do, the one that would prove herself Dragonborn. They never said she couldn't bring someone with her, and she knew Vorstag could handle himself in a fight, and he already said he had no problems with Draugr, and…

She squared her shoulders, her mind made up. She'd wait a few days, then she'd hire Vorstag to accompany her to retrieve the Horn of Jurgen Windcaller. Her simple little plan in place, she spun on her heel and returned to her party, her spirits refreshed and her temper cooled.

Chapter Text

"He's… not here?" Damn, her voice sounded strange even to her own ears. There was no hope for it, though, but to keep blustering through the awkward conversation. She placed a delicate furrow in her brow and feigned a mild curiosity. "Oh, was he hired for a job?" Vorstag had told her he had so much coin, he wouldn't need to work for years, but of course that had been an exaggeration. He was so thrifty, he would surely take the next enticing job that came along, even if he already had amassed a small fortune. Cautiously she fished for information, trying to decide if she would have to wait for his return, or try to hire him away from another employer.

Ogmund had told the boy not to leave Markarth, but he never listened, not when it truly mattered. And here she stood, with an obviously dreamt up excuse of a job just to spend time with him, and he was nowhere to be found. He failed to hide his self-satisfied smirk as he answered her, "No, no, no. Nothing like that. He was feeling stifled, ya know, just sitting around here all day with nothing to do. So last week he decided to go hunting, to keep his instincts sharp and his sword arm practiced. He won't be gone for too long, Lady Gerhild, no longer than another week at most."

"Oh," she said in that annoyingly small voice. She wondered what was the matter with her, as she couldn't stop sounding like a lost little girl. Absently she answered him, "Thank you, Ogmund. Good day." Hastily she beat a retreat from the inn, barely waving off an offer of a mug of mead from Kleppr. She needed air again, an effect that was beginning to become slightly disturbing in its frequency and intensity. And always Vorstag at the heart of it.

Once outside in the late afternoon sun, she glanced around for a quiet place to stand unobserved. She needed to think, to decide, to plan… to do something—anything!—but remain in Markarth. She was tired of the City of Stone, of its steep streets and Dwemer construction, of the rumors and politics and cliques. She had done here all that Jarl Ulfric had asked her to do, and more! And she had other obligations to fulfill. It was past time for her to move on.

She slipped past the marketplace to the stairs beyond and sat down on the bottom step. It was quieter here, cool and dark in the shadows between the stairs and the mountainside. She closed her eyes and listened for a moment to the sounds of the city: Degaine begging for alms, Kerah showing a necklace to a customer, Hogni proclaiming his meat as the bloodiest in the Reach. Two guards paused during their patrols to exchange gossip, and an off-work miner called out to his friend to join him for a mug of mead. And far overhead a bird cried out its joy of flight, the sound resonating within her breast. Aye, it was past time for her to move on. And she didn't need to wait for Vorstag before leaving.

After all, it wasn't as if she needed his permission before leaving the city. Nor did she need his help in her mission. In fact, she didn't need anyone's help in penetration a tomb and retrieving a relic from a grave. She'd done so already in Bleak Falls Barrow; Ustengrav couldn't be any worse.

No, the only reason she had ever considered taking Vorstag with her, was because she wanted to practice seduction, and he was a convenient target. But, truthfully, he wasn't the only male in Skyrim, nor in Markarth. He was just… there, within easy reach, and she was impatient to start practicing. She didn't need him with her; she didn't need him period.

Opening her eyes, she slapped her palms on her thighs before standing up. Ghorza had just finished her new armor, and she had spent the morning at the Blacksmith's for a final fitting. Everything was in readiness for her to move on from here and fulfill her promise to the Greybeards. And that was what she was going to do. No more stalling, no more distractions; she'd leave the following morning. If an opportunity arose where she needed to seduce someone, she'd have to practice then. She was confident she could handle it, since she had been charming her way out of trouble for most of her life.

She had her armor, her pack, and her cleverness. Nope, she definitely didn't need Vorstag. Her shoulders square and her chin set, she entered her home to begin preparations for her departure.

The sun was just rising, the rays poking over the horizon to cast the underside of the heavy clouds a deep red. Vorstag paused long enough to make a face at the coming storm. He was going to get wet.

If he was smart, he would stop now while he had the time, build a shelter, and sit it out warm and dry. He didn't want to take the time, however. Markarth wasn't too far away, the peaks of the tallest buildings visible in the dim morning light even though it was still a league or more distant. And he wanted to get home. He wanted to dance while his friend Ogmund sang for his supper. He wanted to sleep tonight in his bed at the Silver-Blood Inn. And he wanted to find out if Gerhild was still in residence at Vlindrel Hall. He had tried for a week to clear his head and get her out of his blood, and he had failed magnificently.

He snorted softly to himself, giving a half-hearted kick to an unoffending stone. He hadn't seen Gerhild since her party. He had stayed away from her, though not out of choice. If he had things his way, he'd have courted her properly by now, showered her with little gifts, recited stanzas of prose describing his feelings, all those silly things women loved to have men do for them, perhaps even catch her coyly wearing an Amulet of Mara…

He shook his head. Gerhild wasn't a silly girl, waiting for someone to come and sweep her off her feet. She was a young woman, wise beyond her years, though woefully underdeveloped emotionally. He wanted to do things the right way with her, and she would scoff if he attempted to play the fool. And she would fight if he tried to press his suit for her hand. She needed careful handling, if he wanted to get anywhere with her. He wouldn't do anything to hurt her, not if he could help it. He loved her. So he had stayed away, and waited for her to come to him.

Yet for all his intentions of wanting to do things the right way, he had to ask himself why he had allow others, like Ogmund and Rhiada, to believe there was something between them. The false impression would only serve to sour her favor towards him, setting him even further back than the little progress he had made. Then again, perhaps that was why he was doing it; if he pissed her off too much, she might finalize their relationship in a negative fashion. He would lose her forever, but at least he wouldn't feel stagnant. He might even be able to move on, find another girl with deep violet eyes and dark gold hair.

So he had invented the excuse that he was feeling his muscles getting flabby from lack of exercise, and left Markarth without a word to her. If he was lucky, she was already gone. Though he kept himself from speculating what her actual intentions had been, he knew she hadn't come to Markarth to make a new home for herself. And he figured she had finished her business by now, whether she had come here to deal with the Forsworn, or for some other matter. She would leave soon, leave and continue whatever line her business was in. He didn't want to think about it; he only tried to be away from Markarth so he wouldn't see her leave. He was afraid of himself, of what his actions might be, if he had to watch her go.

And now, despite all his resolve to distance himself from the frozen-hearted young woman, he found his steps quickening to try to reach the city before the storm. He knew he wouldn't make it when he glanced to his side and saw the clouds had finally burst over the low-lying hills. He prayed to the Nine that she had left during the week he had been gone, and lowered his head as the first sheet of rain marched across the road.

The sound was deafening, the wind howling through the scrub brush and stunted trees, the drops pounding on his head and the dirt beneath his feet. Visibility was low as well, the rain falling almost sideways as the wind blew it into an opaque curtain that obscured anything beyond a few feet. Even the daylight was darkened, making it feel like it was twilight rather than morning. He thought again about building a shelter, but he was too stubborn for his own good. He continued to battle the weather, setting each foot carefully in the treacherous mud that had once been a road.

It was in this manner, with his head bowed to the weather, that the first sounds of something being wrong penetrated his ears. The sounds were strange, faint, and out of place; vaguely he thought he could hear the ring of steel on steel, the moan of a wounded man, the fearful whinny of a horse. A crack of lightning sounded, the accompanying flash running horizontal to the ground, and he knew someone ahead was using a sparks spell. He quickened his pace, almost slipped, and decided it was more prudent he remained on his feet if there was trouble not far from him. Unsheathing his iron war axe and pulling his shield off his back, he crept closer to the sounds of fighting.

The forms that solidified from the shadowy rain made his heart drop into his boots. There were people fighting, a good sized group of at least a half dozen, all but two of them dressed in odd-looking, ankle length leather robes with strange masks over their faces. He didn't have more time to look them over, as it appeared that one of the two victims was already wounded and favoring his left side. Vorstag cursed, but he had yet to be noticed by the strangely garbed bandits. Knowing he couldn't leave the two outnumbered, he shrugged off his pack and prepared to join the fight.

The closest was a man, a Nord by the size of him, the other a youth, perhaps his son, judging by the lithe and flexible build. He didn't think the two of them could handle so many bandits by themselves, especially as the man was the one who was bleeding. The bandit attacking him raised his hand and a bolt of lightning shot out, catching him in the shoulder and sending him spinning through the air, his sword falling from his hands. The bandit picked it up and, in a large overhead swing, brought it hammering down against the man's hip, shattering bone and ripping flesh.

"Ha!" he heard the voice echo from within the bone-like mask as the wounded man tried to crawl crab-like on the ground, "I think you're bleeding."

Vorstag didn't wait to hear what the man would retort, but ran the bandit through from behind. As he fell to the ground and slid off his sword, Vorstag got a clear look at the wounded traveler. "Argis!"

He knew, damn it, he just knew the youth was Gerhild.

The two men didn't waste time in greeting, but Vorstag tossed his bow and quiver to him. Argis accepted the bow, his face bitter but reluctantly grateful, and tried to pull himself out of the fight to a safe distance. There was a boulder along the side of the road; if he could get to it, he could brace himself against it and steady his aim with the bow, picking off bandits from a distance.

Vorstag didn't care what Argis was planning, only that he had to reach Gerhild's side and help her finish off the bandits. One was facing her, swinging desperately with a dagger in one hand and firing flame spells from the other. The two women were exchanging blows, swinging and blocking, their weapons striking and shooting sparks, and every once in a while a jet of flame firing out even in the heavy air. They moved too fast for the others to get too close, as Gerhild defended herself with her war axe and dagger. She was calm, her focus on her attacker as well as the others circling around looking for an opening. It frustrated the bandit, who finally paused and yelled, "None shall stand to oppose Lord Miraak!"

Vorstag didn't wait to hear what else she might spout. He battered her shoulder with his shield, her leather armor no match for the force of his blow. With a quick and well-practiced flick Gerhild swept the tip of her dagger across the bandit's throat, the wet sound of slicing through arteries and windpipe drowned out by the pounding rain. She acknowledged him with a look, and then spun to face another of the bandits.

Unfortunately, Vorstag drew the attention of the chief bandit. "When Lord Miraak appears, all shall bear witness," the beefy woman growled at him, stepping up and swinging backhanded at his chest. He sidestepped and was nearly hit by her sparks spell. He ducked and rolled across the ground, coming up in a crouch and facing the chief. One of the other bandits took that opportunity to swing at him from behind, slicing across his back and shoulders with his dagger. He grunted and arched his back, feeling his armor take most of the damage, and tried not to wonder if any of his skin had been sliced.

The chief tried to cut him with her dagger again, but he easily caught her by the wrist. He yanked, pulling the bandit off balance, and brought his axe up with him as he stood, adding the force from his legs to his blow, and connected with the underside of her strange mask. At the same time an arrow buzzed past them, glancing off her mask to graze the side of his face. He snarled, ignored the sting, and shoved her with his horned pauldron, stunning her and sending her spinning into the mud.

The bandit behind him hadn't been idle, and Vorstag paid for his lack of attention when a blow fell against his arm just above his armband. Immediately his whole arm went numb, even to the point where he had to drop his axe. He cursed, the words lost to the rain and the growl of frustration accompanying his anger. He spun and struck at the bandit with his shield, the metal edge punching into the front of his face. The bandit dropped back into the mud, his nose crushed to a pulpy mess and the bits of cartilage spraying deep into his brainpan.

By this time the chief had regained her feet, her mask split to reveal the lower half of one side of her face. Both hands were trying to readjust the dented bone-like material on her head to where she could see. Vorstag didn't give her the time, dropping his shield and picking up his axe in his left hand. After spinning it once to settle it in his grip, he stepped into his swing, slicing through the air and approaching her from the side and underneath the mask. Fingers flew away to be buried in the mud, and her jaw split lengthwise from the blow, falling open and bleeding copious amounts of blood. He kicked her solidly in the chest, dropping her onto her back and watching her flail like a turtle as she choked on the blood pooling in her mouth.

He turned around on the spot, looking at the carnage around them, trying to determine if anyone still needed to be killed. Two bandits were still alive, though far enough gone in their death throes to be of no importance. The only other person standing besides himself was Gerhild, also looking around as if lost. Their eyes locked, and for a moment they simply stood there and drank in the sight of each other, the rain battering down on them and washing away the blood.

"Argis," her voice was the first to recover, and for a moment he thought she had gotten them confused again. Then he realized she meant to ask what had happened to her housecarl. He turned towards where he had last seen the man, saw the deep groove where he had dragged himself through the mud, and followed it to the side of the road.

A moment later and their steps were following the trail, coming up to find a very pale, though still conscious Argis fumbling with his bow. His head lolled on his shoulders as he looked up at Vorstag and grimaced. "Sorry about the arrow. I was aiming for the chief."

"Next time, wait until the helmet's out of the way," Vorstag bantered good-naturedly. "Let's take a look at your hip."

Argis hissed, pain exploding through his body as they eased him onto his side. "By the Nine… er, Eight!"

Gerhild politely ignored the slip of his tongue and smiled gently, trying to put him at ease. She brushed his hair back from his face, leaning over him to provide a little shelter from the rain. "Lie still, Argis. Let Vorstag take a look. Try not to move."

Argis grunted but allowed them to view his injury without comment. Vorstag peered beneath the rent in the armor without moving anything, his eyes squinting through the rain and his brows scrunched. He tried to keep his voice calm as he asked, "Um, Gerhild, I know this sounds obvious, but did you think to bring any healing potions?"

"Several," she nodded. "They're in the packs on the horses."

He looked up and blinked through the rain. "What horses?"

"Exactly."

Vorstag turned his face to her, then dropped his gaze back down to Argis. His eyes were closed and his breathing was shallow, a look of pain on his gray face. "Shit," he breathed, the wind and rain whipping away his words. She had read his lips, and though she didn't comment she did share his sentiment.

"Stay here," he commanded, as if she might even consider leaving Argis' side, "And try to keep the rain off of him. I'll be right back."

She didn't ask where he was going, though she was curious, because she trusted him when he said he would return. Instead she focused on her housecarl, doing what she could to ease his discomfort and protect him from the elements. She found Vorstag's shield nearby that she propped up with Argis' sword, providing a makeshift lean-to that kept the worst of the storm off his hip. Next she undid her belts and shrugged out of her coat, spreading the oiled leather across his head and shoulders, propping it up with arrows from the quiver.

Finished she shifted back to admire her handiwork, and admitted it was slipshod at best. The rain still fell across his legs, but from his hip to his head he was dryer. It would do for the time being, though the sooner they got him out of the rain the better. She ignored the cold rain pelting her own skin, now protected only by a thin tunic, and set about looking for other wounds on his person.

Vorstag returned shortly after, distracted at first when he saw Gerhild leaning over Argis, her thin tunic soaked through making the fabric practically transparent. Her breasts, full and firm, were looming over Argis' face as her hands reached behind him to undo the buckles of his armor. Vorstag nearly dropped his sack before belatedly noticing that Argis was in too much pain to even open his eyes much less become aware of his Thane leaning over him, her torso barely concealed. Besides, he knew Argis better than that. He kicked himself for his hesitation, swallowed the lump of jealousy in his throat, and finished approaching.

"Here," he said, passing over his satchel after she had looked up and acknowledged his approach. "You're gonna have to put up the tent. I'll do what I can for his leg."

She took the bag from him, her eyes narrowing as she took notice of his numb arm. She didn't argue, but dug into the bag to find the canvas and other parts of his tent. She handed over a bottle that was in her way, not sure if it was a healing potion or ale, but deciding he could figure it out for himself. After she had what she needed, she moved a few paces away towards the nearest patch of even ground and began pitching a tent as quickly as the wind and rain allowed.

Vorstag tried not to watch her, but when she bent over he had a near perfect view of her ass. He groaned, wrenched his eyes away and down towards Argis. The housecarl was still conscious, though trying desperately not to move in the slightest. Vorstag braced his head against his leg as he brought the bottle of mead to his lips. "Take a few sips. It'll help keep you warm, keep your strength up."

Argis swallowed, then smiled and opened his eyes. "Nord mead. My favorite." He groaned when Vorstag lowered his head. "How bad it is?"

Vorstag knew he should lie, but he didn't want to mislead the honest man. He paused while rummaging one-handed in his pack to answer, "You won't be dancing anytime soon."

Argis grinned, but he couldn't manage a laugh. "You're the one who can dance, Vorstag. I've got two left feet."

"Well, there's your problem," he said as if that solved everything, pulling out another smaller bottle. "A little time, a few of Bothela's potions, and you'll have one left and one right foot. Here, drink this next."

Argis tried to shake his head. "No more mead."

"It's a healing potion," Vorstag countered. "Come on, every drop. That's a good boy."

"Bastard," Argis muttered after swallowing, but it was without heat. "Did you mix that yourself? It tastes like sabre cat piss."

Vorstag smiled tightly down at him. "You would know what that tastes like. Didn't you drink that as a babe? Wasn't your mother a sabre cat?"

"A snowy one," he countered, closing his eyes again as he leaned his head against Vorstag's leg, "Which is a lot higher class than your mother—a lowlands cat."

"At least my father wasn't a mudcrab." He put a hand at Argis' throat, feeling for his heartbeat.

"Nope. Neither was mine. I had a mammoth for a pa. Your's was a slaughterfish." His voice was already fading, which worried Vorstag. He glanced up as Gerhild came back, the tent ready for them.

"If you two are finished discussing your family trees, we should get inside."

Vorstag nodded, but when he made to lift Argis shoulders, she shook her head and pointed towards his feet. "Take his legs. I'll take his head; I've got two good arms."

He didn't argue, but he did make a face out of principle.

It took more effort than either of them wanted to admit, and Argis grit his teeth so hard he nearly cracked a tooth, but they eventually got themselves situated inside the small tent and safe from the weather. It was cozy, the three of them huddled inside a tent made for one, but no one complained. Gerhild slipped back outside long enough to gather up Vorstag's pack and their other items, such as her coat, and set them off to the side to drip dry.

Next she started working on Argis, making Vorstag keep him still while she removed his armor and clothing and examined the wound on his hip. The healing potion was starting to work, but it wasn't near strong enough to finish the job.

"How bad is it?" Vorstag asked softly. She lifted her head, not wanting to answer, but he continued. "He passed out a few minutes ago; we can talk freely."

She looked down at her housecarl, her expression unreadable, before she answered. "Bad," she sighed, the one word fading away into the shadows. "The bone's broken, vessels cut, muscle ripped apart. He's gonna need more healing potions if he's gonna make it."

"I only had the one," Vorstag admitted, his voice still soft.

She nodded, her mind working quickly as she considered their options. "Alright," she said, her voice taking on a tone of authority as she reached for her armor. "Stay here with him. I'll try to hurry."

"Where are you going?" he asked, as concerned for her as he was for Argis. "To Markarth? In this weather? You'll never make it in time."

"I'm going to look for the horses," she belted her last buckle and flipped her hood into place. "They probably didn't go far, not in this storm. With a little luck, they even stayed together. Soon as I find them, I'll return with more healing potions. Try to keep him as still as possible. Wouldn't want him to cause more damage than what's already been done."

"Gerhild!" he grabbed her sleeve, desperate to keep her from going but knowing they had no choice.

She didn't know what to say. She didn't know what he wanted to say, what thought or intent that eluded his words and stuck in his throat. She did know there wasn't time. She pulled her arm out of his grasp, but offered as a balm, "I'll be as quick as I can." Then she turned away and spoke a Thu'um.

In the blink of an eye she was gone, the tent flap still open but her form lost to sight. Vorstag wondered what had happened, how she could have disappeared so quickly, but realizing that she had Shouted, he decided he wouldn't ask her when she returned. It would be enough for him—and Argis—if she found the horses in time.

He looked down at the other man, someone he once idolized, but who now was proven to be as human as any other man. He was frail and weak and just as easy to kill as a mudcrab or a torchbug. Sighing, he brushed some of Argis' hair from his face, pulling out a lock that had worked into the corner of his mouth. When his hand moved away he was shocked to find one brown eye staring back up at him. Slowly he blinked, struggling to bring Vorstag's face into focus. "…think I passed out. Did I miss anything?"

"Nothing much, just your Thane stripping your leggings off. She wanted to have sex, but decided against a threesome."

"Ah, so it's you and me, eh? Just like old times."

Vorstag's grin was tight, forced, but he was pretty sure Argis couldn't tell. "Aye, just like old times." He cleared his throat, knowing it wasn't the time, but afraid there might not be another chance. "Look, Argis, I wanted to thank you, for covering for me."

His brows scrunched up in confusion. "Covering for you…"

Vorstag closed his eyes, hating to have to say it. "During Gerhild's party. About our tattoos."

The sound coming from his chest was pained and convulsive. "Shit, Vorstag, don't make me laugh." His hand reached out and groped for his armor, finding an armband and holding on tight. "Don't mention it. Ever." Vorstag swallowed and nodded, not sure how to respond, but Argis continued talking. "Like you, I was curious, ya know? Willing to try something new. But not serious about it. And no offense, but I'd rather not do it again." He leaned back against Vorstag, his head resting on his lap, as a mischievous smile graced his lips. "Not that it wasn't a memorable experience…"

"Ah, I understand," he grunted, "You're fishing for a compliment. You want me to admit it was the best month of my life, just you and me in Riften."

"Wasn't it?" he asked, his face contorted into a playful pout. The next moment it contorted in pain. "Gods!"

Vorstag leaned over him, checking his wound. "You're bleeding again. Try to lie still." He rummaged quickly in his pack to find the small towel he used to clean his armor and weapons, and pressed it against his hip to stem the bleeding.

"I need a stronger healing potion. That's all. Then I'll be fine…"

"Gerhild's getting some," Vorstag answered, but Argis had already passed out again.

Time seemed to flow slowly past him, a marked contrast to the fierce pounding of the rain against the canvas shelter. Yet he knew it was the inactivity that gave the false impression he was spending hours waiting. He tried to occupy himself, but between supporting Argis' head and trying to slow the bleeding with only one good arm, there wasn't much he could do but count the staccato beat of the storm against the tent. He sat, still and silent, trying to pick out anything—any little unordinary sound or tremble through the ground that would signal Gerhild's return.

It was in this tense state that she found him, his eyes fixed on the tent flap as if he had spent the past several minutes daring it to open and reveal her frame. The relief on his face was strong, making her even more concerned for her housecarl. She couldn't do anything for him yet, however, and simply passed the saddlebags inside while saying, "Here. I'll be right back."

Vorstag didn't bother trying to speak with her, thinking she would Shout and disappear quickly like she had the last time. Instead he focused on doing what he could for Argis. Gingerly he shifted Argis' head off his lap and crawled over to the bags. He fumbled with the closures for a few minutes, working awkwardly with only one hand as his right was still numb and tingling. As he shifted the bag he began to get a sinking feeling in his gut. By the time the mouth was opened, his suspicions were confirmed.

Gerhild poked her head inside the tent at that point, to find him staring dejectedly into a soaked bag. His face was hopeless as he lifted it up to her. "They're all broken."

She stared at him for a moment, not wanting to understand what he had said but knowing what he meant. She looked at the bag, wet and soggy and sitting in a puddle that was not all rain water. She could hear the contents slosh as he let go of the top, allowing the bag to waver and settle like a bloated bladder of wine.

"Shit," she breathed, still staring at the worthless bag of liquid and broken bottles. "When our horses bolted, the one carrying the potions lost its footing and fell off the side of the road down towards the river. It broke its leg. I had to kill it. I guess the bottles were crushed on the way down…"

"Where's the other horse?"

She looked up at him, blinking as she tried to fathom what he might be intending. "It was still on the road, not much further along. I have it tied up just a few yards that way." She gestured with her hand, but kept herself firmly planted in front of the entrance. "What are you thinking?"

"I'll ride back to Markarth for more healing potions."

She was shaking her head before he finished. "There isn't time. Argis has lost too much blood."

Vorstag nodded, trying to remain emotionless so he could think clearly. "I know, but what else can we do?"

She swallowed, making a face that looked like she had possibly eaten a rotten egg. "I hate to do this, but there isn't another choice."

"Do what?"

"I'm not very good at it," she continued, pushing her hood off her head and focusing her attention on Argis. "And it's gonna take a lot to heal him. I might not be able to…"

"What are you going to do?" he repeated, taking her arm as she shifted closer to Argis. Her other hand was already reaching out as if to hover over his hip.

She didn't answer, already focusing her mind and her will on the man beneath her splayed fingers. Vorstag let go of her, watching carefully and strangely fascinated as her lips moved in a silent recital. He didn't know what she was saying, if it was some sort of silent Shout or a strange prayer, but he knew she needed to concentrate if she was to succeed. He tried not to make any noise or sudden movements, trusting her and adding his own prayers that she would be able to do whatever it was she was doing.

A golden glow appeared in the air around her hand, forming itself into a wispy smoke or vapor that wrapped and twisted between her fingers. Still focused, she moved her hand over Argis' hip. The golden vapor, sparkling in light that wasn't there, left her hand to drift down like dust motes in a shaft of sunlight. The gold penetrated his hip, and slowly before Vorstag's eyes, bone and flesh and skin all mended, not even leaving a scar behind.

"Was that…" he hesitated, repulsed and fascinated at the same time, realizing he had just witnessed magic. He scolded himself for his prejudice, as Argis would have died a slow and painful death if she hadn't done it. Making his voice sound more open and grateful, he finished, "…some sort of healing spell?"

She looked at him, her eyes bleary and unfocused, and nodded numbly. Then the deep violet orbs rolled up into the back of her head and she crumbled to the ground.

Chapter Text

The first thing she became aware of was warmth, not the enveloping warmth of blankets, or even the searing warmth of fire, but the heavy warmth of another body in contact with her own. The body was spooned against her back, and steady breath was fanning her tightly braided hair. An arm was draped over her middle, the hand dangling in front of her stomach. For the first few moments, she couldn't remember where she was or whom she was with, and kept herself very still as she tried to recall what had happened.

"You must be awake," Argis' voice sounded from behind her head, "You've gone all tense."

"Argis," her eyes opened in surprise as his words brought back an onslaught of memories—rain and blood and strange masks. "You're alive." She sounded pleased, relieved even, to hear it was him lying with her. Still she pushed herself up to a sitting position, effectively distancing herself and removing his arm from her waist. A brief wave of dizziness washed through her, an aftereffect of trying to do too much magic, but it was easily brushed aside.

"Aye," he breathed, watching her carefully. "Thanks to you, my Thane. Vorstag said you had to use a healing spell on me."

She heard the hesitation in his voice as he mentioned magic. She glanced at him from beneath her lashes, not knowing him well enough to gauge his emotions by his tone of voice alone, but had to look away almost immediately. Argis still had on the padded fur tunic he wore beneath his armor, but a blanket covered him from the waist down. Thankfully she had been lying on top of the blanket and not beneath it with him, but she still felt uncomfortable. Though she had been in need of assistance, it was disturbing to know that someone, probably Vorstag, had touched her body while she had been insensate. She tried to hide her shaking as she stammered a response. "I didn't have a choice, Argis. The healing potions… the bottles had broken, and…"

"You did what you had to," he said calmly, taking hold of her wrist and, thinking she was shaking out of shame, attempting to reassure her through his touch, "To save my life."

She nodded, but still felt awkward about the situation. She began to pull away as the tent flap opened, and Vorstag stuck his head inside. He pretended not to notice what he thought was a guilty jerk and smiled in his customary easy-going manner, "Thought I heard someone talking." He finished entering the tent, careful to keep off to the side so he wouldn't drip on anyone. "How are you feeling?"

She wasn't sure whom he was asking, but as both men were looking at her like she had grown a second nose, she decided to answer. "Fine."

"You passed out right after you cast that spell…"

"I'm fine, Vorstag," she spoke over his words, but seeing his face fall and Argis' eyes narrow, she took a deep breath and decided to try to give them an explanation. "I fainted because I wasn't used to working that spell. I… well… it seems I have some measure of talent for magic, but I haven't had much opportunity to practice, other than a few destruction spells. This was the first time I tried a healing spell, so it was kind of difficult for me to do. I was told the more I use a particular spell, the better I'll get at it, but…" her voice trailed away and she shrugged. "I don't want to use magic. There's… there are other options available, and magic… I only use it as a last resort. Otherwise, it seems like cheating, somehow, ya know?" She risked a glance, and seeing both men nod silently in understanding, she finally relaxed a little.

"Well," Argis sighed, "I for one am thankful you knew that spell, and could use it. But I am a little disappointed."

"Oh? Why?"

"Because of my reputation, ya know?" When she shook her head in bafflement, he elaborated, "It's very simple. Scars are my references; they tell the story of my vocation, of how bravely I fought to protect my employer, the risks I took, and so on. Now, I finally achieve the position of housecarl, and nearly get myself killed protecting my Thane, and I don't even have a bruise left behind to show I was ever injured. "

She stared at him a moment, wondering if he was serious, and gave a weak shrug in answer. "That's the difference between magic and healing potions; potions speed up the body's natural healing abilities, but magic heals through its own power, so nothing remains of the injury."

He nodded sagely, "That would be a downside to magic."

She blinked, not quite believing his words. Then she caught Vorstag out of the corner of her eye trying to hide his smile behind his hand. She knew then that she was being teased. She shook her head and rolled her eyes. Vorstag thought he heard her breathe something about men or Nords, but he figured she had probably been teased enough—for one day, at least.

"How are you feeling, Argis?"

Her question was softly spoken, with no idea of the pain it was causing. Argis looked away from her to stare at the ceiling of the tent. "I'm fine. I'll be ready to follow you by morning."

"No, you won't," Vorstag countered.

"Aye, I will," he ground out between his teeth.

"You lost too much blood," he argued, shaking his head and looking at Gerhild. "He's fine just lying there and resting, but while you were, ah, recovering, he woke up and tried to stand. Couldn't even make it to his knees. He needs to rest and regain his strength. I don't know how long that will take, but I'm sure he won't be able to follow you by morning."

Argis clenched his jaw and refused to make eye contact.

Gerhild nodded, a small frown marring her bow-shaped lips and giving Vorstag an impulse to kiss it away. He resisted, but he did allow himself the luxury of fantasizing about it. It was cut short when she started to speak, "Argis, I want you to return to Markarth and Vlindrel Hall…"

"It is my duty to protect you, my Thane."

"Do not interrupt me!" she spoke low and forceful, showing a strong and commanding side neither man had seen before. Vorstag immediately let go of his fantasy, and Argis turned his one good eye to stare at her in shock.

He recovered almost immediately, turning to stare straight ahead and crossing his arms over his chest. Setting his mouth in a grim line, he answered, "Fine. What." His words weren't so much a question as an acknowledgement that she was going to command him whether or not he wished it.

"It is your duty to do as I say," she continued, resuming the gentle tone she had begun with, "And I want you to return to Markarth and guard my home and property. I want you to keep my steward Rhiada safe, and see that her child—when it comes—has a secure home to grow up in. I don't know when I will be able to return to Markarth, but when I do, I want to find everything and everyone in my home safe and sound."

Argis was quiet for a moment, but when she didn't speak any further, he risked a surly, "That it?"

She sighed, her bosom filling with the effort, and though he didn't stare at the movement of her breasts, he did loosen his arms a little. Confident that he would do as she commanded now, she softened her tone even more. "Aye, Argis. I've only ever asked you to fulfill your duty as my housecarl. If you remember, you volunteered to go on this trip with me. This is something I can do myself, though I wasn't—and I'm still not—disagreeable to your company. But I'll be fine on my own. Truly."

He shifted again, this time dropping his arms to his sides, and tried one last time, "I'm not comfortable with you traveling alone. What if you run into more of these strange bandits? Who'll watch your back?"

"I…" Vorstag stopped to clear his throat softly. He had remained silent while they argued, knowing he wasn't a part of it, but he finally felt he could offer a solution to their problem. Hating himself and this newly discovered self-destructive impulse, he took a deep breath and tried again, "I could go with Gerhild."

She held her breath. She couldn't look at him; she couldn't acknowledge him or his offer, or she'd… she'd… She didn't know what she wanted or what she should do about him. She had been fine with the idea of taking him with her yesterday, if he had been available, thinking of practicing her wiles on him. Then she convinced herself she didn't need to practice on him, realizing there were other men available for experimentation, like Argis. Now here he was, offering to join her, but she didn't know if he  truly wanted to or was just trying to stop the argument. She turned away from Argis, who was still refusing to make eye contact, and looked towards Vorstag. Her eyes got as far as the bandage wrapped around his upper arm before she gestured, "You hurt your arm?"

He shrugged, but lifted his right hand and wiggled the fingers to show he was whole. "Only a scratch. It was numb at first, some sort of poison, but that's worn off now that I've made a poultice with thistle branches and a little garlic."

She nodded, knowing both those things were used to make antidotes for poisons. He must have picked that up from Bothela while caring for her after her poisoning. Not sure whether or not she was trying to dissuade him, she said, "It'll be dangerous."

"How dangerous?" he asked, showing only mild curiosity and none of the fear a sensible man, in her opinion, would feel.

"I need to gain entrance to an ancient Nordic tomb."

He nodded, scratching at the stubble on his chin. "You expect Draugr?"

"Aye," she answered, thinking he might be showing a little hesitation. She decided to be completely honest up front. If he was going to back out, the sooner he did so the better. "And traps of all sorts, poison arrows, soul gems, battering rams, so you'd have to watch your step. There may be others there, bandits and the like, also trying to penetrate the tomb."

He nodded to himself again, his thin lips pressing into an even thinner line. "All the more reason you shouldn't go alone."

Shit, she thought to herself, realizing what she had done. She hadn't intended to manipulate him into going with her out of an over-developed sense of protection; she wanted him with her as a friend. If he came with her, and got himself killed, all because she talked him into it… She lowered her gaze to where her hand rested on her knee, not sure what to say, if she should say anything. She imagined Argis was looking at her with an 'I told you so' look on his face—he had been adamant that she shouldn't go alone—but she couldn't bear to find out.

"Any Briarhearts?"

Vorstag's question started her from her thoughts, and she had to blink for a moment before answering. "No, no Briarhearts."

"I like the sound of that," he answered amiably, as if they were discussing an afternoon picnic. "Where is it?"

"A short ways northeast of Morthal."

He turned to look in the indicated direction like he could see through the wall of the tent to the destination. "Long ways," he muttered, as if the distance was a deciding factor. He thought for a moment, and she began to wonder if he would decide it was too far to go on a job. Then he shrugged to himself and turned back to face her. "Well, I've been further. You want to start in the morning?"

And that sealed their fate. She nodded slowly, trying to hide the smile that pulled at the corner of her mouth. There was absolutely no reason she should feel relieved that Vorstag was coming with her. She had to do this, and could do this herself; she didn't need the company. Then again, perhaps she was just glad to have him handy to practice seducing a man. "Aye, that would be best."

"Good," Argis officially closed the negotiations. "Now, Vorstag, I thought you said something earlier about cooking supper. Is it done yet? I'm starving!"

Gerhild watched as her housecarl tried to sit up, his limbs flopping weakly and a slight sweat breaking across his forehead. Immediately she was at his side, holding his shoulders and supporting him until he found his equilibrium. Her focus on Argis, she didn't see the flash of jealousy that crossed Vorstag's features. Argis did, but he chose not to comment on it.

"Aye, just about. I'll go check on it."

She heard the tense tone in his voice and the sharp sound the tent flap made as he left, but before she could give his actions any consideration, Argis spoke softly to her. "I've known Vorstag for years. You'll be in good hands, my Thane."

She looked at him sharply. "Aye, I know that. We've traveled together before. I've seen him in a fight."

"That's not what I meant," he responded cryptically.

Before she could ask him what—exactly—he meant, Vorstag returned with two bowls of rabbit stew. Feeling confused with both men and in dire need of some quiet time to think, she waved aside the bowl he offered her. "Excuse me," she said, "But I need some privacy." She shifted around the other two until she could reach the tent flap. Then she slipped outside into the dark evening, the rain pelting her hood in large, soaking drops.

Vorstag watched her go with a furrowed brow. "What did you say to her?"

"Nothing," Argis tried to make himself sound innocent. "She probably just, ya know, needs to use the bushes."

Vorstag gave it a moment of thought, and then decided that Argis was probably right. Gerhild had been unconscious for most of the day, and having just woken up… well, nature can be quite insistent when she calls. He thought about telling her where he had been going, but decided she was experienced enough to find her own place. Besides, she wouldn't appreciate his nosiness when she had specifically said she needed privacy. He turned away from the tent flap and handed Argis his supper, eating the other bowl himself, and did his best to put his concerns for her out of his mind.

After more than an hour had passed, Vorstag decided he had better go look for her, just to make sure she hadn't slipped and fallen down the side of the road or anything. Besides, Argis was still weak, and after eating he had begun to doze off again. He left the housecarl to sleep, and went outside to clean the bowls and unobtrusively check that Gerhild was alright.

She wasn't far, and he felt relief when he saw her familiar leather-armored figured hunched next to the fire. He had propped up one of their blankets over the fire like a lean-to, to try to keep the rain off of it while he cooked. She was there, sitting on the soaked ground, studying some small items by the firelight.

"I thought the fire might be out by now," he commented as he came up from her blindside, speaking to alert her to his presence. He remembered how quick she was with her dagger, and didn't wish to find it at his throat, enchanted or not.

Her hooded head turned towards him, but the day was already too dark and the fire silhouetted her from behind so he couldn't make out her face. Still, he thought he could hear the smile in her voice—never in her eyes—as she answered, "I… cheated… ya know?" Her hand lifted and her fingers did a sort of gesture, something akin to flames.

He nodded, squelching the uneasy feeling regarding magic, "Oh, aye, well…"

"You are uncomfortable that I can use magic."

It wasn't so much a question as a statement. He shrugged, "At least you know how use it responsibly. And I've never seen you use it in a fight, which is good. More honorable, ya know, using your weapons."

The hood turned away from him, but her voice still carried, "I did, once." She brushed the hood off her head before continuing, her cheekbones casting delicate shadows in the firelight. "When I was 'releasing myself' from Cidhna Mine, I came across some obstacles. The spiders in the cave I could handle with a couple of shivs, but the Dwemer automatons in the ruins," she paused to take in a deep breath before continuing in a slightly quivering voice, "I had to use a sparks spell on those. I didn't want to, but how can you take down a chunk of metal twice your size with only a handmade weapon?"

He was lost. Gerhild was always so strong, so determined, even ruthless at times, he couldn't believe she would be so disgusted with herself over the use of magic when she didn't have any other choice. But she was a Nord, that much was certain, and Nords as a rule distrusted magic and mages. He cleared his throat, sitting down next to her, and patted her back in a ham-fisted manner. "You did what you had to," he tried to sound reassuring, but to his own ears his words were lamentably inadequate. Fishing for something to get her mind off her unsavory talent, his eyes fell on the items she had been studying and he seized the chance to change the topic of conversation.

"About those bandits this morning," he began, his hand moving from her back to pick up the strange mask off the ground.

"What about them?" she pretended to sniff into her sleeve. She had at first felt elated when she heard Vorstag join her by the fire, thinking it a good opportunity to start her experimentations. She knew most men couldn't stand to see a woman cry, and had been working her way towards using that ploy, when he suddenly changed the subject. She told herself to remain patient; Ustengrav was a long ways yet and there would be plenty of time for her plans. Besides, as her father had once told her, small steps were sometimes best. Change your position little by little, shifting around gradually, until your opponent suddenly finds himself backed into a corner. Giving Vorstag a little taste of her fictional weak side now would only whet his appetite for greater intimacy later.

"Most bandits are cowards," he spoke confidently from long experience. "Those seemed to be braver than most."

"They weren't bandits," she answered, her eyes falling down to the letter she had been studying.

"What do you mean?" he asked, curious. "I know they dressed differently, but that was only to hide their identities. Who else would attack two random travelers on the road?"

"It wasn't random. Here," she passed over the note, completely at ease sharing with him. She watched him take the note reluctantly, looking at it like it was a snake or something. The odd way he handled it made her wonder, and she remembered the way he had looked at the note she found in Weylin's room, but she thought that had only been because she had stolen the note. Setting aside her impressions for the time being, she summed up a little of what she discovered within this missive. "They were cultists. Followed someone named 'Miraak,' whoever he is. They were sent after me specifically."

"Oh," he commented, nodding absently. He couldn't find anything recognizable within the hasty scrawl, and handed it back to her quickly. "How do you know that?"

"It says so right here," she pointed, watching how his eyes stayed glued to where her fingers touched her name on the parchment, his lips twitching with unformed sounds, confirming her suspicions. "They knew to look for me by name. My name," she repeated, allowing some of her vexation to show. "I don't know how he knew, but considering the boat that brought these cultists here docked at Windhelm, and I'm known in Windhelm, I suppose something of my reputation might have traveled by merchants sailing to and from Solstheim, or something like that."

"Aye," he agreed softly, not wishing to upset her further. He was also amazed at the wealth of information she had already learned, and wondered how much of it was inferred and how much was locked within the spidery script. Maybe, just maybe, Ogmund was right and he should learn to read.

"I'd track him down and kick his ass for this," she huffed, stuffing the letter back into a pocket, "But I don't have the time. I've gotta get the Horn first, then report back to… my friend." She had almost said 'Jarl Ulfric', but wasn't sure if she should overtly give Vorstag such information. He was trustworthy, but if he knew too much about her, it could be used to hurt him. "Maybe later I'll look up this Miraak and get him off my back."

"Aye, we can worry about him later," he agreed, setting the mask back onto the ground. "Right now, I've got dishes to do. Did you get enough to eat?"

She placed a sly little smile on her lips, allowing the change in topic yet again. "Aye, though I have to admit I was too hungry to waste time looking for a bowl. That, and you're a very good cook. I've never enjoyed rabbit stew before. How did you make it edible?"

She wasn't sure, but she thought she could see a slight blush staining his cheeks. Or it might have been the heat of the fire. "Oh, well, just put in plenty of garlic. No matter how gamey the meat, it'll always taste better with enough garlic."

She nodded, watching him while he worked. "Sounds plausible," she allowed absently, her focus on other matters. Though her eyes followed his movements, her thoughts were turned inward. She again went over her conversation with Bothela regarding sex, the strange and encouraging assurances that it wouldn't hurt if done properly, even that it might be enjoyable. Watching Vorstag clean the dishes with a tuft of grass, she also remembered the odd topic about gender roles and how these were less strict in Skyrim. She had actually felt shock as Bothela described how two men could find pleasure with each other. She had heard men say such things before, but she had always thought that it was an empty sort of threat, or an inside joke, or an old saying that had lost its meaning. And after what she had seen inside Cidhna Mine, she couldn't understand how both men would find the act pleasurable. The very idea seemed repulsive and disgusting to her, but she supposed it was the best substitute on a man's body, anatomically speaking. Still, the thought of putting anything in her ass…

Well, she wasn't going to judge. She'd never experienced that, and allowed for the possibility that it wouldn't be as… uncomfortable… as she imagined. Just as she allowed for the possibility that sex between a man and a woman might not be as uncomfortable as she had experienced yet to date.

She shifted her position slightly as her mind shifting topics slightly. She wanted to try sex with Vorstag, and felt sure the gentle and easy-going Nord would be ideal for her first time—her first real, intentional, 'I-want-this-with-this-man' time. Yet something nagged at the back of her mind that it wouldn't work. She had several times already entertained the suspicion that he might prefer men—again thoughts returned of that youth in Cidhna Mine, his pain, his hopelessness, his escape. Pushing it aside, she tried to figure Vorstag out once and for all. It wasn't easy, however; though an open and honest man, he was very tight-lipped when it came to sex. And the only time he had ever made an advance, it had been ill timed and awkward. No, she needed something definitive to settle this matter before she tried to seduce him and found out too late that he didn't really like women. She needed something indisputable, like her trick with the letter to prove her suspicions that he couldn't read.

"You're not here, are you?" His question startled her, but he continued before she could ask. "I've noticed you like to think, and when you do, you don't see the things around you. It's kinda like a trance."

She smiled softly, "That's what Ralof always says."

"Ralof?" he asked, remembering her having mentioned him once or twice before and carefully angling for more information.

"A friend of mine. He says I think too much." She waved him aside, focused on more immediate matters. "Vorstag," she began softly, as if fearful of being overheard. She waited until he set aside the last dish and looked up at her. "I'm glad it's you coming with me, and not Argis."

"I… ah… don't understand," he answered just as quietly, though he knew Argis was already asleep and wouldn't hear them. "He's your housecarl. He's sworn his sword arm is yours."

"Oh, I know all that," she waved it aside, but kept her expression slightly pained. "But… that's just an oath. An oath is just words, only worth as much as a man's honor. And I don't know him, ya know? I haven't spent time with him, like I have with you, to get to know his character. Everyone says he's honest and responsible, but this trip is going to take so long, and we'll be away from people we know." She worked her bottom lip between her teeth, staring at the fire and waiting for him to make his own supposition.

"I still don't understand what worries you about Argis," he admitted. When she didn't look up at him, he placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. "If you don't trust him yet, trust me. I've known him for years. When he gives his word, he keeps it."

She sniffed again, keeping her face averted. "Again, those are just words. Not that I doubt you, but could anyone know what's really in a man's heart? When…" she made a calculated pause, "When I was imprisoned, I… I saw what men could do… to another… what they did… out of desperation or…" She turned her face just far enough to allow him to see the tears glistening on her cheeks. "I was the only woman in that prison…" She curled in on herself, hugging herself for comfort, willing him to catch on and wrap his arms around her.

He closed his eyes briefly, remembering his own incarceration, how young he and Hamming had been, and how long the cold nights could last. He muttered a few choice curses under his breath, remembering how she looked when she had returned to the inn, her clothing torn and stained with evidence of her abuse. Aye, she had suffered much the same as he had in Cidhna Mine, perhaps more, and it still affected her. Now she looked at every man, every man she didn't know well enough that is, as a potential threat to her virtue. He supposed he should feel honored she didn't think of him that way, but he knew his intentions were just the same as any other man, and it left him feeling somewhat uncomfortable.

But she was worried about Argis. That, at least, was something he could put her mind to ease regarding. "You don't…" he stopped, reconsidering whether or not it was his place to let loose with information on Argis. If he'd wanted her to know, he would have told her by now. But it was obvious that she didn't know and was concerned about propriety. And she needed reassurance, even if Argis was no longer traveling with her. He supposed it was time to set her straight, once and for all. "You don't have to worry about Argis making any sort of dishonorable actions towards your person," he said formerly.

Chapter Text

"What?" Gerhild asked, slightly bewildered. She had been acting hurt and confused, fearful and timid. She was showing weakness, something very personal and private and shared only with him. He was supposed to envelop her within his arms and offer her comfort. Then he was supposed to profess his own attraction for her, vowing to protect her from any future dangers. He was not supposed to talk about Argis.

"Probably shouldn't tell you this," he hedged, refusing to meet her gaze, "But you seem like you need to know." He squared his shoulders and turned to meet her deep violet eyes. "Argis doesn't like women, ya know? He… he doesn't like to talk about it, or for many people to know, but he prefers men. I know for a fact he'd never hurt you—never touch you—that way. Trust me."

Again she felt shock. She never would have figured Argis was gay, not with the way he hovered over her, smothered her with attention, found excuses to be with her. Some of her expression must have shown on her face, because Vorstag offered her a small smile.

"It's true. I know he doesn't seem the type, and he tries hard not to show it. Maybe one day you can ask him why, but he just doesn't want to be found out. Not that there's anything wrong with it, but…" his voice trailed away uncomfortably in her silence.

She realized she was staring at him, and it was making him squirm. "Oh." The sound was tiny and small in the space between them, and so woefully deficient to describe her thoughts. Argis preferred men, something that Vorstag knew for a fact. She blinked, having gotten her answer, though not in a way she intended. After all, how else could Vorstag know so adamantly about Argis' preferences, unless he shared them? Unless he had shared with Argis…

"You won't tell him I told you, will you?" his question interrupted her thoughts, sending them swirling away on the wind.

"No," she answered quickly, perhaps too quickly the way his eyes narrowed. She dropped her gaze to the fire, sputtering in the weather now that it was no longer fed by her magic, "No, of course not." A lot of little clues fit nicely in place: his blushes, their matching tattoos and the obviously made-up stories behind them, the closeness she had seen the two men feel towards one another like when they insulted each other's parents. Damn, she thought to herself, that meant she couldn't experiment with either Argis or Vorstag.

"It wasn't my place to tell you, and if he found out…"

"I won't say anything," she reassured him now, finding their reversal of situations odd. "I… I wasn't raised in Skyrim, so I haven't had much exposure to… this sort of thing, but I don't think any less of him for it. I wouldn't think that way of anyone. Honest."

He looked at her strangely, and she got the vague impression that he could see far more clearly into her soul than anyone else. She felt somewhat naked under his scrutiny, but whatever he was seeing must have satisfied him. "It's late. We should get some sleep so we're ready to start out early in the morning. Why don't you go to bed?"

She shook her head, still wanting time alone to think on matters. "Go sleep with Argis. I'll take the first watch." As soon as she saw his blush she realized how her words could have been taken. Of course he'd be sensitive to the subject, after sharing a confidence with her that wasn't his to give. She cursed her thoughtless comment and vowed to watch herself even more carefully around Vorstag. He was still a good friend, and that was something to be valued more than a sexual test subject. "I mean, I've already slept away a good part of the day; I don't think I could easily get to sleep for a while. I'll wake you for the second half of the night."

He must have been satisfied by her clumsy recovery, as he merely nodded before turning to enter the tent. Once she was alone, she gave in to a grimace and buried her face in her hands. Damn it, but that was not the way she had wanted things to go. Oh, well, traveling with Vorstag would still be a good thing. She was used to his methods, and he to hers. And their fighting styles complimented each other. And even without the possibility of a sexual episode, she was sure they would still have a memorable experience.

Having talked herself into it, she stood to pull the blanket off the fire, allowing the rain to put it out. Then she melted away into the shadows, to keep watch over her two companions, and to meditate more on this Miraak.

The rain had let up during the night, and by first light the next morning the three were packed up and ready to leave. Gerhild ignored the few signs of yesterday's fight, what hadn't been washed away in the rain, her curiosity already satisfied. She felt again the pocket that held the strangely written missive, mentally adding it to her list of things to do—when she had the time. Right then, she had to reach Ustengrav. The Greybeards had assigned her this task over six months ago; it was past time she finished it.

Lifting Argis onto their surviving horse was easier with two of them, and Vorstag settled the spoils from his hunting trip behind the saddle. Gerhild took a moment to see the fine sheet of sweat on Argis' brow, and the way his hands shook while holding the reins. She was doing the right thing by sending him back to Markarth; there was no doubt about that. Yet she couldn't help a brief premonition if Vorstag would turn out any better of a companion.

"I'm sure Hogni will pay a good price for this meat," Argis was saying to Vorstag. "And I'll keep your money from the sale at Vlindrel Hall. You can pick it up when you and Lady Gerhild return."

"Argis, I won't be returning to Markarth for some time," she felt like she was repeating herself for the hundredth time.

He shrugged unrepentantly, giving her a knowing smile that said he was being deliberately obtuse. "At least send me a letter from time to time, to let me know that you're still alive."

She sighed, thinking he was probably being unreasonable, but she gave a small nod anyway. "Stay well."

Her voice was soft and full of concern, but Argis never noticed how the emotion stayed out of her eyes. Instead he bent down to place his hand on her shoulder, giving it a familiar squeeze as he responded, "Stay alive. And come home soon." Then he sat up straight, gave a nod to Vorstag, and expertly turned his horse to start his journey back to Markarth.

Vorstag stood there a moment, watching him ride away until a bend in the road took him from view. He turned his head slightly to comment to Gerhild, but quickly saw that she was no longer at his side. He finished his turn, and found her several paces along the road going in the opposite direction, as if she hadn't paused to watch Argis leave. Biting back his questions about her character—she wouldn't give him a satisfying answer anyway—he shouldered his pack and trotted after her.

"So," he began once he reached her side. Thinking to make conversation as they walked, he asked, "Whose tomb are we headed to?"

Gerhild stifled her frustration. She was tired and feeling no small amount of grouchiness, but of course it would be too much to ask for Vorstag to be a quiet traveling companion on the one day she had too much to think about. She decided to keep her answers short, hoping he would take the hint. "Jurgen Windcaller."

He repeated the name, rolling it around on his tongue as if he could get the measure of the ancient and long-dead man simply through his name. "Sounds impressive. Suppose he would have been, if he got a tomb all to himself. Especially one with so many dangers, as you've described. Why do you have to go there?"

Her chest heaved with a weary sigh. Yup, the usually taciturn Vorstag was making an effort to have a conversation with her. Normally she would feign interest, or at least civility, but today she was still too sore from someone trying to assassinate her yesterday. She had spent half the night trying to decipher the riddle of Miraak while on watch, and she was still too far from an answer. Refusing to pull back the hood of her armor even far enough to see his face, she answered, "I was asked to get something."

"Asked?" he repeated, and she cursed herself for her slip. "By who?"

"Whom," she corrected his grammar, hoping to sidetrack him.

"What?"

"Not what, either. 'By whom,' that's what you should have said."

He looked at her a moment in silence, and she began to hope she had shut him up for a time. After a dozen or so paces, she heard him sigh. "Alright, I get it. Just thought to make some conversation, ya know, to help the time go by faster. Didn't mean to pry."

Damn, now he was pouting. She could imagine his face, his large brown eyes drooping like a kicked dog, the corners of his mouth turned even further down from an expression of seriousness to one of hurt. No doubt his shoulders were set a little straighter, as if he could counteract his hurt feelings by standing taller. All that was missing was a knuckle chewed between his teeth. On one level she knew she should apologize for her actions, on another level she marveled at how she had become so intimately familiar with his moods and reactions.

And on a third level, she wondered why she cared so much.

It took almost half a mile before she finally caved in and answered him. "I was asked by some friends to find the Horn of Jurgen Windcaller and return it to them. It's a very important artifact, to them, and it's been in this tomb for centuries, but they were hoping I could find it and bring it to them, just… as a favor, or something. Look, I can't tell you everything, Vorstag," she stopped, setting her hand on his forearm to make him stop with her. She risked looking up at his face and wished she hadn't; he was still making the face just as she had imagined. "You probably wouldn't believe it, anyway. But… if anything strange happens…"

"You mean, like, you hearing voices coming from a wall with strange scratches on it?" He scored, seeing chagrin flood her face. "Or speaking a different language, that makes things fly away from you like they've been pushed without actually being touched? Stuff like that?"

"Yeah," she muttered, "Stuff like that."

He shrugged amiably, "No problem. You haven't ever told me anything about this, not really, so I don't know anything to tell anyone, right?"

She looked at him, blinked a few times as she struggled to follow his reasoning, and muttered again, "So this is how Ralof feels…"

Vorstag tilted his head, "Ralof? Oh, right, you've mentioned him. I suppose he knows about your… oddities."

She smiled, thinking it was an apt description for what was happening to her. "Aye," she resumed walking, and he fell into step at her side, "He knows, well, I've told him some of it. I don't know if he truly believes my stories." She paused to scoff, "I don't know if I believe them."

"Then don't try," he shrugged, looking away from her to scan the area for dangers. "You are who you are. You do what you do. No more. No less."

She snorted softly, but didn't comment. She appreciated the simple and uncomplicated view he had on the world, and though she knew the world was more complicated than he was willing to admit, she didn't want to take this away from him. He'd find out soon enough that Fate and the World were a pair of tricky bastards.

They went on for several more minutes, each lost to their own thoughts, before he asked, "Is he, ah, sweet on you, or anything?"

The sudden question caused her to stumble as it penetrated her thoughts. She regained her footing, thanks in part to his steadying hand on her arm, and looked up at him with one delicate eyebrow raised. "Sweet? On me? Who? The friends who asked me to find the Horn?"

"No, Ralof," he stammered, his cheeks flooding with heat. Seeing the look of shock and bewilderment on her face, he quickly retreated, "I… it was just that… well, I thought… if he knew… if you told him this stuff… if he was that close of a friend… Never mind."

Gerhild watched him turn away, but she could still see the redness staining his skin, from his neck to his brow. Even his ear was red. She pondered this, wondering why he cared if she had a sweetheart. It wasn't as if he could be interested in her. Maybe he was still making small talk to pass the time, trying in his clumsy manner to learn a little more about her. "I met him shortly after coming to Skyrim."

"You… you're not from Skyrim?"

Damn, she gave him a little information, and of course he wanted more. She supposed it might be strange for someone who's lived all their life here, to think that a Nord could have lived all her life elsewhere. Deciding it couldn't hurt, she let loose with a little of her past. "My parents were both Nords," she began, "From Windhelm. But I was born and raised in Cyrodiil. I didn't know Skyrim until almost a year ago. My mother died when I was little, and my father was never very well. Just before he died, he asked me to come here, to make my life here among other Nords, where I belonged." She left out the part of his message to Jarl Ulfric; Vorstag didn't need to know that. "But I was caught crossing the border, by the Thalmor. They… thought I was a spy, and questioned me, but I didn't tell them anything, because there was nothing to tell. So," she paused to swallow, the memories of those first few days in Skyrim still too painful to fully recount, "They sent me to be executed. In Helgen."

Her voice stopped, simply unable to work any more words out. After several paces, the sounds of their feet on the packed roadway a comforting rhythm, Vorstag finally breathed a, "Shit." She risked a glance at him, but he was still staring at the road ahead of them. "So Ralof was there, too, at Helgen?"

It was a question, even though it sounded like a statement. "Aye. Ulfric Stormcloak had been captured in an ambush and was being transported to Helgen with his men. They were all to be executed; we were all to be executed," she amended. "Ralof is a Stormcloak soldier. He was sitting across from me in the cart. Sort of, talked with me, on the way there, just to be nice." She never realized how her voice grew softer, the more of that day she related to him. Nor could she explain why she was telling so much detail of the story. All she had intended to say was that Ralof was a friend, but somehow a whole lot more of her past was spilling out of her mouth, as if a plug had been pulled.

"The dragon attacked Helgen shortly after our arrival. Actually, while my head was on the chopping block. Thought his ugly black head with those glowing eyes would be my last sight on Nirn." She paused, wondering if he'd ask anything, but he simply waited for her to continue, hardly daring to breathe. "There was fighting all around me, shouts, Alduin's Thu'ums—I'll never forget the power of those Thu'ums. Smoke and fire were everywhere. I think maybe I was knocked on the head, or I might have fainted. Wouldn't have been the only one. When I finally came to my senses and realized my head was still attached to my shoulders, Ralof was trying to pull me out of the open and into a tower. Jarl Ulfric was there, and he charged Ralof with keeping me safe. Then we escaped Helgen together, through the Keep."

Her words faded into the cool morning air. Again she was opening up to him, revealing far more of her past than she ever intended. She wanted to laugh with derision; she was honest as she related her memories of those first days in Skyrim, and still she couldn't move him to show any sort of manly protectiveness or support. He remained as aloof and impassive as he had been last night. He definitely didn't have any feelings for her.

Vorstag couldn't speak, trying to imagine what she had seen, what she had felt. It explained so much, why she sympathized with the Stormcloaks, why she hated the Thalmor, and why she was so cold and dead inside.

He thought most about the Thalmor. It had all started with them. They had accused her of being a spy, simply because she was trying to reach her native land. There had been no proof, so they had tried to make her confess to their lies. He could imagine their methods of 'questioning,' and it made his blood run cold.

He tilted his head, still staring at her hood as they walked, wishing she would look back at him, would give him another glimpse into her past, her motives. But he supposed he knew enough about her, for now anyway. Hearing what she had gone through and what made her decide to be the way she was, he felt again the hope that he could someday find a way to burn through the ice around her heart and make her feel. If she had put the wall up, that meant she could bring it down. And he wanted to show her how.

Yet he couldn't do it now. This was neither the time nor the place to show her how to feel again. He'd have to wait, take his time, show her little by little that others cared for her—loved her—until she was at a point where she could accept it. Right now, the wound was too deep to allow herself to admit to the pain. So he allowed her coldness, and what strength she could find within the ice, until she would be ready for the warmth of another's love.

They continued down the road in a silence that, if not exactly comfortable, was no longer awkward.

The next day found them further northeast than Vorstag had been while hunting. And he quickly remembered why he hadn't ventured any further northeast when a man came running down the road towards them.

"What is he screaming?" Gerhild asked, straining to catch his hysterical cries, which were slowly becoming clearer the closer he got to them.

"Fuck," Vorstag whispered, coming to a stop. He pinched his lips closed a moment before answering, "Dragon. There's a dragon ahead. That's what he's saying."

She looked from the running man to her companion and back. "You sound like you knew there was a dragon around here."

He made a sound deep within his throat. "Aye. Ogmund mentioned a while back that the Khajiit caravan had to hole up for a few days due to a dragon north of the city."

"And you didn't mention this why…?"

He sighed, "Because I forgot about it. Or maybe I hoped it had moved on by now. What does it matter? It wasn't like I was purposefully trying to keep you from knowing about it."

She decided not to mention that he had done just such a thing before.

The man had reached them by now, his clothing torn and half his hair white with frost despite the warm summer day—well, warm for Skyrim. "Run!" he shouted, barely pausing to make a grab for their arms before tearing past them, his own fear stronger than his desire to help them. "Dragon! RUN!"

She dispassionately watched him retreat further down the road before turning back north. She was thinking, Vorstag realized, seeing the slight crinkle between her eyes and noting that she wasn't really looking at anything in particular. After a few moments, she nodded to herself somewhat resignedly and looked up at him. "Have you ever fought a dragon?"

At one time he might have thought she was joking, but after getting to know her these past several months, he knew she was deadly serious. He shook his head, "Nope."

"Two pieces of advice: one, stay close to cover. Whatever kind of dragon it is, though this one looks to be a frost dragon, most of their attacks can't penetrate stone or a thick layer of earth. And they usually have trouble seeing you through thick foliage."

He nodded again, "Cover. Got it. And two?"

"Two," she turned to him, and the coldness in her eyes was as deep as the grave. "Never get between me and the dragon. No matter what you think might happen or you want to help or protect me or whatever. Stay back."

He wanted to argue, thinking it would be just as bad for her to be breathed on by a dragon as it would for him, but she didn't let him argue. "I mean it, Vorstag. Do as I say, or stay here until it's over."

He set his thin lips even thinner, and though rebellious thoughts still ran through his skull, he nodded his assent. "I'll find cover and fight from there."

"Good," she nodded, resuming their original course, though much quicker. She was also shrugging out of her pack as she continued. "Use your bow. In fact, take my quiver. Aim for the membrane of its wings. A dragon is a lot easier to fight on the ground than in the air."

He nodded though she couldn't see him, taking the offered quiver full of arrows even as he brought his bow—the ebony one she had given him—from behind his back. As they jogged she fumbled with the strings of her pack until at last she managed to open it. Then she looked around on either side of the road.

The roar of the dragon rang through the air, echoing with a supernatural quality. It trembled through the ground as well, sending shivers up his spine. Eyes wide and anxious for his first glimpse of the legendary creature, he risked a glance at Gerhild to see how she was reacting. Unsurprisingly, she seemed nonchalant, focused more on finding something particular along the side of the road than locating the dragon. He felt somewhat cheated by this, thinking she could at least pretend fear for his sake, even after their conversation the day before. Or even if she would acknowledge that he felt fear, that at least would have comforted him somewhat. But she was turning off the road towards a thick copse of trees, undoing the buckles of her armor, completely oblivious to his reactions.

He lumbered after her, "What are you doing?"

"Changing my armor," she answered shortly, dropping her pack and shrugging out of her hooded coat as quickly as possible. "Leather armor is good for moving quickly and quietly, but steel's better when you've got a tough battle on your hands. And believe me, this will be tough."

She was out of her armor, leaving only her thin tunic and leggings, before bending over her pack and pulling out another set of clothing. He watched, somewhat fascinated, as she quickly and efficiently slipped the padded dark fabric over her body, and finished with a small hood that fitted snugly over her head and covered her face. Next she picked up a heavy chest piece, slipping her head inside to pop out of the top.

He watched her fumble with the buckles beneath her arms before finally snapping out of his stupor. "Let me do that," he offered, or rather commanded, as his agile fingers made quick work of the small buckles. She allowed him to help, mostly because it let her focus on the other parts of her armor and save time. When he finished securing her chest piece, she had already pulled on her boots and gauntlets. Next came a belt, holding a studded fur skirt or loincloth that hung down to her knees, protecting her thighs both front and back. Last was the helmet, completely covering her head except for a half-circle across her eyes that was dissected by a nose-guard. In a bit of flamboyance, long wings swept up and back from the sides, looking like those of a bird of prey as it swooped in for the kill.

Another thing he noticed, this armor fit her perfectly.

"You've grown some."

She looked at him, or at least the face of her helmet turned towards him. He couldn't be sure where her eyes were looking, as nothing of her features showed through the helmet and its dark hood.

"When you first came to Markarth," he continued, feeling a little discomfited by her sightless stare, "You were shorter. And your armor fit you perfectly. But when we went after Cosnach and the Forsworn, I noticed that your sleeves didn't reach to your wrists. Now you're only a couple of inches shorter than me."

The helmet shifted, and he imagined her one delicate eyebrow lifting onto her forehead. "I'm still several inches shorter than you. The boots have heels," her voice was slightly muffled beneath the layers of protection. "But you're right; I have grown. I was a bit of a late bloomer, but when I started I quickly made up for lost time. I think I'm done growing now."

He nodded, not really knowing why he had said what he did, or why she answered him. It was an odd topic of conversation to have, right before fighting a dragon, and he wished he could have the time back to say something smarter, like asking if a shield would help against a frost dragon, or even how she knew it was a frost dragon. But their time was up, the dragon's roar sounding close enough to shudder the leaves of the trees around them.

"Remember, cover and stay out of my way."

He nodded again, accepting her grip on his forearm. Then they left their packs in the trees and headed out to face the dragon.

Chapter Text

"Fuck!" Vorstag ducked behind the boulder, feeling the biting cold as a chilly blast of… something… issued from the dragon's mouth and grazed his scalp. "Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!" He could imagine Gerhild's scolding tone, admonishing him to remain close to cover. But like an idiot, the first time he had seen her face the full force of the dragon's breath, he had run out to try to protect her. She had remained unscathed through the beast's onslaught, but then it had seen him and turned its head to Shout a breath of icy power at him. And he was too far from cover.

At least he learned his shield could protect him, somewhat, from the frost breath. Long enough, at least, for him to have survived the first blast so he could run for cover while the dragon took a breath.

He risked a peek to see her, striding forward once more, war axe in one hand and a purloined shield in the other. The dragon ignored her for the time being, deciding a nearby Imperial soldier would make a tastier snack. It snapped its jaws down on the unfortunate soul, nearly swallowing him whole, only leaving behind what small amount couldn't fit in its mouth—the legs from the shins down. Vorstag swallowed, trying to ignore the gruesome sight, and fitted another arrow to his bow.

The fight hadn't been going on for long, at least not for him and Gerhild. They found the dragon fighting an Imperial patrol, the three soldiers overwhelmed and outmatched by the demonic beast. There was only one soldier left now, and she was wisely finding cover like Vorstag had, a nice large boulder. She looked over at him, saw him aiming an arrow, and decided to follow suit. After all, what she did care if some crazy adventurer in steel plate armor was attacking the beast head on? She didn't have thick enough armor to combat it. But she did have arrows, and plenty of them.

Vorstag shot another arrow through the thin membranes of one of the wings, remembering Gerhild's advice to keep the dragon on the ground. He didn't know how many arrows it would take to damage the wings enough so it wouldn't fly, he only prayed he had enough.

The battle seemed to go on for hours, but he supposed it really hadn't been more than half of one before the dragon finally reared on its hind legs and flailed one wing uselessly. He cheered, unable to help himself, as he realized his hard work had paid off. The dragon heard him, however, and spotted his head and shoulder poking around from behind the boulder. Another blast of icy breath whipped towards him, and he only ducked back just in time.

He had caught a glimpse of Gerhild while he cheered. She hadn't been idle this whole time, her war axe dripping with dragon blood as she had chipped away at the beast little by little. He didn't know what she was doing, thinking such a small weapon was no match for something the size of a farmhouse, but apparently it was working. After Shouting at him, the dragon turned back only to find her at its tail; one strong swing and the appendage was severed.

The roar was as chilling as its breath. He almost felt sorry for it… but not quite. Sensing that the end was near, he ran out from behind his boulder, desperate again to keep its attention off of Gerhild as she worked to bring it down. Taking a deep lungful of air, he roared his own challenge at the beast. "You'll die this day, dragon!"

Predictably, a blast of icy wind bore down on him. He raised his shield, but the force knocked him down on one knee. Though this spared him any further damage, outside his little circle of protection the ground around him turned white with frost.

His ears were ringing with the force of the dragon's Shout, but through his knee on the ground he felt the trembling of approaching feet. He risked a glance around the edge of his shield, but couldn't see who it was coming to his aid. When another voice roared, echoing with a powerful Thu'um, he knew it was Gerhild.

"Faas!"

He was thankful that Shout hadn't been directed at him, as even being caught at the edge of it he felt a little fearful. He didn't run, despite the impulse, and instead raised his head to look up at the dragon. It had swallowed its own Shout, blinking at the small figure before it like a mammoth at a skeever, before shaking its head and gathering its courage. Gerhild didn't let it recover, however, and stepped forward to deliver another Thu'um. "Fus Ro!"

Amazingly he watched as the dragon was thrown off balance, staggering back, one good wing flailing to try to keep itself on its feet. She pursued, throwing away the shield and racing towards its snout, leaping at the last moment to land on its skull.

"Holy f…!" Vorstag stood in awe, his shield dropping to his feet as he watched the end of the battle, realizing on some level that his efforts were no longer required. Gerhild was on top of the dragon's head, one hand holding onto a horny projection, the other pulling her war axe behind her for a powerful blow. She leaned back a little, too, and when she swung forward she brought the full force of her body with the blow. The blade, dulled a little by the fight, still had enough bite left in it to slice cleanly through scale and bone. Blood and brain matter and other gore flew through the air, pumping out with the beast's last heartbeats, as it screamed and tossed its head. She jumped clear, taking her war axe with her, and landed just in front of its snout. Another blow, an uppercut this time, and the fight was over as its jaw was split nearly in two. The dragon's eyes rolled back into its head as it collapsed at her feet. Its death throes still horrific due to its size, but already weakening down to mild thrashing and a few twitches.

Yet this wasn't the most remarkable part of the battle. After the final blow, after dragon died, the strangest scene played out before Vorstag's eyes. The body of the dragon began to shudder and tremble, as if the corpse rested on a serving platter that someone was shaking. Like a hollowed out husk, the body collapsed in on itself, crumbling to dust and ashes in a fire that didn't burn, leaving behind only its boney infrastructure. Then a softly roaring wind ripped from within and around it, pulling away from the remains as if torn by some invisible hand. Glowing like a halo the wind twisted and tore through the air, seeking to find purchase on something solid—something living. The wind turned from the skeleton to enter Gerhild, whipping around and through her without a physical force, until it was at last fully absorbed into her body. She stood calmly in front of it the whole time, not even so much as flinching when the wind entered her, showing neither discomfort nor elation, but a sort of resigned acceptance.

Vorstag swallowed; he had just seen Gerhild absorb a dragon's soul.

"You… you… it's true… isn't it?"

He was startled from his own shock, having forgotten completely about the last surviving Imperial soldier. She was walking towards Gerhild, hesitant and in awe. "You are real, aren't you, warrior?"

Gerhild turned to her, but didn't answer.

"I never believed it," the woman was saying, shaking her head. "Andvar did. He was a Nord. He believed the stories were true, about the dragons returning. I… I didn't share his belief." She turned her head to glance where Andvar had been standing, only his leather boots and whatever part of him was inside them remaining. She swallowed and pulled her eyes away, but the sight of the skeletal dragon offered little comfort. She looked back at Gerhild, still searching for something that would make sense of the horrific nightmare she had just lived through.

"Ever since those rumors about Helgen, he said the Dragonborn would come, the one who could devour a dragon's soul, the one who could speak the Thu'um of dragons as natural as his own. It's you, isn't it? You're Dragonborn?"

Gerhild inclined her head.

"By the Eight! No one's going to believe this." She lifted beseeching hands to Gerhild and pleaded, "What do I tell my Captain? How do I explain this? The dragon? You?"

Gerhild sighed, but slung her war axe back onto her belt. Then she stepped forward, putting one comforting hand on the other woman's shoulder. "Tell them the truth, simply and plainly, with no embellishments."

"Oh, and a woman," she groaned, and Vorstag heard a tinge of hysteria in her voice. "Perfect. Let me guess; you're a Nord, aren't you?"

"Aye," she nodded.

The Imperial looked at her another moment longer, before swallowing again. "Ah, shit! I won't be believed." She looked a little flirtatiously from beneath her lashes as she asked, "So, what name do you go by?"

"Dragonborn."

She pursed her lips, nodding with a small amount of resentment. "I suppose I should have expected that." She glanced at the dragon's remains before turning back to her. "Fine. Keep your identity a secret. I'll even cover for you; I owe you at least that much. But this is still going to cause a lot of… I don't know… jeering and teasing. I don't know how to make it all believable."

Gerhild took a deep breath, squared her shoulders, and then unsheathed her war axe again. She strode over to the dragon's skeleton and swung her axe once, severing the skull still bearing marks from the battle. The bone was two-thirds as large as the soldier, and at least half as heavy, but she picked it up, understanding Gerhild's intent. "I get it. They'll have to believe me, if I bring back a trophy." She sighed, "But I didn't earn this; you did. All I did was sit behind a boulder and piss myself. Even this one did more than me, firing arrows and charging out to distract it. If anyone deserves the skull, other than you, Dragonborn, it's him."

"Oh, I don't keep souvenirs," Vorstag declined, holding his hands up and taking half a step back. "At least, nothing that I can't use. And a dragon's skull, that's gonna help you a lot more than it'll help me."

The Imperial looked shrewdly at him. "You're traveling with her?"

"Aye," he answered, but followed Gerhild's lead and continued with a lie. "Ah, we met at the tavern in Rorikstead. I was looking for an adventure, like fighting a dragon. She said she could probably find one for me."

"You… wanted to fight a dragon? Gods, you must be a Nord. Your whole race is crazy." She looked at the skull nearly as tall as her chest, and changed her mind. "No, the world is going crazy. You Nords have the right idea. Fine!" She looked back up and squared her shoulders, "I'll return to my Captain and report. Whether he believes me or not, he cannot deny this. Dragonborn," she nodded to Gerhild, "And you, Adventurer, may the Wind guide you."

The two of them stood for a time, watching the soldier walk away awkwardly with her prize. The skull was large and cumbersome, and was heavier than that amount of bone should weigh. Vorstag saw her struggle with it before finally finding a way to balance it across her shoulders and down her back. "I hope they believe her."

"If they don't now, they soon will," Gerhild answered him. "The dragons are returning; even the Thalmor can't deny this fact. If her Captain is smart, he'll not only believe her, he'll promote her. And if she's smart, she'll remember how this dragon was defeated, and develop tactics to fight other dragons." She turned her expressionless helmet towards him. "Speaking of smart, you were pretty quick to pick up on the fact that I'm not giving out my name when I do…" she gestured at what was left of the dragon, "That stuff."

He gave a huffed sort of laugh. "That stuff, eh? I suppose, if you're going around as one person, a normal person with a life and dreams and plans and such, but there's this other 'stuff' that keeps cropping up, 'stuff' that can get inconvenient, and maybe 'stuff' you don't want to be known for, at least not yet…" his voice trailed away as he stared at the headless skeleton. "Aye, I can understand. The Dragonborn," his voice only faltered a little at the title, "And Lady Gerhild North-Wind are two different people."

She was quiet, and for a moment he wondered if he had insulted her somehow, or perhaps misread her intent. He looked at her, concern written on his face, and debated whether or not he should ask what he had said wrong. Then miraculously she took off her helmet, pulled back the hood concealing her head, and planted a kiss on his cheek. "Thank you."

He swallowed, imagining he could feel the imprint of her lips on his stubbled skin. He would have to shave if she was going to make a habit of that. "You're welcome."

She turned away, walking back towards the thicket that held their packs. "Gods, but I need a bath."

He almost laughed, such a common statement flooding his soul with relief and familiarity after all the strangeness of the afternoon. "If you're desperate, there's always the river the road's been following," he pointed off to the side. "But it'll be cold."

She narrowed her eyes as she considered her options. "I reek of dragon blood. A cold stream won't deter me from smelling, and feeling better." She rummaged in her pack for a moment, making sure everything was secure that she hadn't had time for before. "What about you?"

He shook his head before giving it any thought. Here he had just been handed the perfect opportunity to bathe with Gerhild, and he had unthinkingly turned down the offer. Then again, she wasn't at a place where she would welcome his company, at least in the manner he was currently entertaining. "No, thank you, I'm fine. Wasn't close enough to get any blood or gore on me, just frost. And that's mostly melted away." He flicked his fingers through his lanky hair, showering his shoulder with a few flakes of frost.

She nodded, accepting his explanation at face value. She looked up at the sky and did some quick calculations in her head. "Alright. It's late enough in the day, and I don't know about you, but I'm tired. Why don't we travel a little further on, put some distance between us and that," she nodded at the skeleton just visible over a small rise, "And then make camp for the night."

"Sure. I'll even cook supper while you bathe. It's my turn, anyway."

She gave him a small nod, replaced her hood and helmet, and shouldered her pack. "Then let's go. I'd like as much distance as possible between us and those remains before the daylight is gone."

He fell into step beside her, but his curiosity got the better of him and he found himself asking before he could stop himself, "Does it bother you?"

She nearly stumbled, but her reactions were so quick he couldn't be sure. "Does what bother me?" she asked, her voice dangerous and growling, "Speaking a dead language I've never learned? Fighting mythical beasts turned real? Devouring their souls? Feeling them inside me, stirring, but never quite awake, dreaming of an afterlife they'll never know?"

Yup, he should have kept his mouth shut. "I'm sorry, Dragonborn. I spoke without thinking. I didn't realize, but of course you wouldn't want to stay near that thing. I'm sorry."

His voice was so contrite and his use of her title was so formal, that again the image of a kicked puppy appeared in her mind, making her clench her jaw in an effort to keep from looking at him. Yet she couldn't answer until they had passed the remains of the battle. "I'm sorry, too, Vorstag," she finally sighed, "For biting your head off. Aye, it's hard, trying to understand everything that's happening to me. Growing up I had no idea, ever, that this was something I could do. I was always just Gerhild, a poor, half-orphaned waif barely surviving, but no one extraordinary. Since coming to Skyrim, my life has turned upside-down…"

He didn't speak, wishing she would continue, but her words faded away into silence.

They stopped a couple of miles further on, far enough that the sight and memories of the battle were a little faded. Gerhild dropped her pack to the ground, bending down on one knee to rummage for a towel and a bar of soap. "Last chance," she waved the rough block of light purple soap in the air.

He smiled, but he already knew his answer. She wasn't ready for him, and he wouldn't be able to trust himself in such a situation. "No, no, you go ahead. I'll fix supper and pitch the tents."

He grimaced at the slip of his tongue, but she seemed oblivious to the innuendo. "Don't you like bathing? Smelling clean? Getting the dirt and grime off your body?"

He shrugged, trying to find his tent pegs in his pack, anything to avoid looking at her. "It rained on us the other day. Oh, if there's something obvious on me, aye, I'll want to wash it off. But otherwise, why take the chance?"

"Take the chance?" she repeated, bewildered.

"Aye, didn't you know? Frequent bathing is hazardous to your health. It allows all the bad humors to enter through your skin."

She thought she should be expected to laugh, thinking he was teasing her, but his expression was so serious, and she was sure she would be able to tell if he was joking, which he wasn't…

Shaking her head, she turned from him and retreated to the stream.

Vorstag worked on setting up their camp, and tried to ignore the visions that kept creeping into his head. Visions of her standing in waist-deep water, the sun sparkling on the drops beading down her back, the ripples as she leaned backwards into the water with arms spread, her blonde hair loose and drifting outward like the petals of a flower. He had seen her body before, but at that time she was suffering from poison and sick with a fever so he didn't really pay much attention. Yet he must have noticed quite a lot, at least if his fantasy was anything to go by. Knowing now a little more of her past, he saw in his mind's eye the crisscrossing lines marring her back and knew the Thalmor had caused them. He wanted to touch them, to run his fingers over them and erase them from her skin, erasing the memories of them with his touch…

"No fire yet?"

Her words crashed through his fantasy, sending it flying away into the evening shadows. "Ah, no, not yet," he gestured with the flint in one hand at the small pile of dried grass and twigs. "You were quicker than I expected."

She shrugged in an unconcerned manner, dropping her armor to the ground and plunking herself cross-legged beside it. "You were right; the water's cold."

He turned his face away from her to hide the 'I-told-you-so' smile.

"Besides, most of the gore was on my armor, not me. Gonna take me half the night to clean it," she sighed. Disgruntled, she settled her chest piece across her lap and began to scrub at it with a rag.

Vorstag began furiously striking the flint against a stone, trying to focus on starting a fire and not the way her breasts bobbed as she scrubbed. She had stripped down once more to that thin, sleeveless tunic and those far-too-tight leggings. She must have at least washed her face as the neck of her tunic was damp. One rather inconvenient—or convenient—drip had fallen just off-center from the nipple of one breast, and he could easily tell the water had indeed been cold.

"Are you trying to start a fire, or kill the flint?"

"What?" he asked, jerking his head up. He immediately wanted to jerk away again, seeing her watching him so intently, but his eyes were glued to her. She lifted one hand, and the space around her armpit showed a glimpse of her pale, smooth skin.

"Do you mind?" she gestured, her fingers waving in the air. "I know, it's cheating, but you'll never get a spark the way you're going, and I'm gonna need the light, if not the warmth."

"Oh," he said, finally wrenching his eyes away before she could see his cheeks flush. "Sure. I don't mind. I'll… um… just get some more firewood." He leaned away from the pit as she cast a flame spell without hardly looking. Immediately the twigs caught fire, the flames bright and cheery and eager to devour the dry and brittle branches. He quickly added a few of the larger pieces to the fire, before standing up to brush off his knees. "I'll… right… I'll be right back."

Gerhild watched him all but run off towards a small copse of trees. She sighed; she knew she shouldn't have used magic in front of him, especially for something so trivial as starting a fire. She knew he'd be uncomfortable, and sure enough he had raced to get away from her and her unorthodox methods. But it wasn't like she wanted to be good at magic, or show off or anything; it was just that he had been taking so damn long to get a stupid spark! He was just being prejudiced and superstitious running off like that. She might have scrubbed a little harder than necessary at the gore marring her armor, but at least she had her frustrations under control by the time he returned.

Vorstag carried an oversized armload of wood back to their camp, having taken longer than anticipated for him to get his libido under control. Damn, but she was beautiful, and intelligent, and talented, and… taxing! She definitely taxed his self-control, and so much of it seemed like she didn't even know that she was doing it. Luckily by the time he returned, the situation had improved somewhat. She was still sitting there, calmly cleaning her gauntlets, her movements a little less bobby. Her tunic had dried, too, and the fire made enough warmth to finish taking away the last of the chill from her bath.

"Are we staying for one night, or a week?" she asked, a smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth. She gestured at the overabundant supply of firewood in his arms. Seeing his face redden, she knew she was getting the hang of teasing. It was something she could practice on Vorstag, since she couldn't practice seduction. And being able to tease someone and recognize when she was being teased was also valuable.

"I… guess I didn't realize how much I had picked up. Besides, we'll need a bigger fire if you need the light."

"Not that big," she declined, and shuddered before she could stop herself, her mood changing mercurially.

Vorstag's brow wrinkled, "Are you finished already with your armor?"

"No, but…" she stopped, her bottom lip working its way between her teeth. Damn, but she was about to lose control around him again. She never—never!—wanted to tell anyone how much she feared fire, how it made her skin crawl every time she cast a flame spell, how the smell of burning wood brought back visions of the night her mother died. Those emotions—the fear—were dead and gone and she was never going to feel them again. She forcefully removed her lip and bent her head back to her work, scrubbing furiously at a bit of brain or something caught in a finger joint of her gauntlet.

Damn, he didn't know what he said or did wrong, but she was scrubbing so hard her breasts were bobbing again. Sometime while he had been away, her amulet had worked its way free and now hung outside her tunic, bouncing against her breasts. He pulled his gaze away from the movement, the horn appearing extremely phallus-shaped and standing up proud and erect between the tantalizing orbs, and stoked the fire.

Sparks shot up into the air, and she flinched. He might have missed the movement, so intent on ignoring her, but he had turned just far enough to rummage in his pack for something to cook. Out of one side he saw the sparks, and the other he saw her react, and he knew—he just knew she feared fire. The thought seemed incongruous, as she had not that long ago used a flame spell, but he knew he was right. She hid it well, but then again, she was a consummate actress.

He'd never mention it, though. Not unless she told him, first. If she didn't want to share it, then he wouldn't consider it. But now that he knew, he could see the tense set to her shoulders, the way her eyes flickered away from any reflection of flame on her armor, the slightly further than necessary distance she kept from the fire pit. She was afraid of fire.

He should say something to ease the situation, maybe tell her something that put him at a disadvantage, so she wouldn't feel so weakened by her fear. She had shared with him yesterday about the Thalmor and Helgen and Ralof; he should share with her something equally personal. "I didn't tell you the truth about my tattoo."

Gerhild paused in her work, lifting her eyes up to him and wondering where the sudden conversation had come from. He was studiously avoiding her eyes, his focus on pulling food out of his pack for their supper. "I know," she answered softly. Her words caused him to look up sharply at her, and she offered a small smile with her explanation. "You can't dissemble worth a damn, ya know."

"Diss-what-now?"

"Dissemble," she repeated, going back to cleaning her gauntlet. "Lying to mislead people into thinking you're something you're not. You're a terrible liar. I'm surprised Ondolemar even believed you were drunk the night of my party." She set aside the gauntlet to pick up a boot. "I could tell you and Argis were lying about the tattoos, the way you kept passing the subject back and forth, hoping the other would think of a convincing lie first."

He dropped his gaze, never realizing he had been so transparent. "I suppose you would be able to tell, wouldn't you, being so good at it yourself?" She couldn't tell if she was being insulted or not, and neither could he. He pulled a loaf of bread out and used his dagger to slice it in half lengthwise. "Like your story about the noblewoman."

Her hands paused in their movements, not long but long enough to let him know he had touched a nerve. "I didn't lie about that." He heard the softness in her voice, but glancing at her she didn't lift her face up from her work. He turned back to cooking supper, setting two chunks of dried venison in a bowl beside the fire and pouring a little mead in with it.

"It was just after my release from prison," he started, unable to look at her while he spoke. It would be easier that way, to just speak to the fire and let her hear if she wanted. "I… after Hamming's death… and getting out… I wanted to get away from Markarth for a time. Let things settle down and get my head cleared. Argis had just found employment protecting a Khajiit merchantwoman on her way to Riften. He heard I wanted to get away, so he convinced his employer to hire me, too. Didn't have much experience then as a sellsword, but figured it'd be as good a job as any. There were four of us then, for one merchant, but she did have a lot of goods to protect.

"We got to Riften alright, no more trouble than the usual odd bandit raid, nothing we couldn't handle. Made such good time she gave us all a bonus." He rummaged in his pack for some cheese, sliced it thin, and set it off to the side. "The other two sellswords, they found employment right away and left. But Argis and I decided to stay in Riften awhile. Though it's a cesspool of a city, infested with thieves and cheats, it was not Markarth, and I didn't want to go home yet. Had more coin in my purse than I'd ever seen in my entire life. Spent it on drink and food and music and… well, ya know."

He checked the meat, and finding it had softened enough he began pulling it apart into bite-sized pieces. "It was kinda fun. Got drunk nearly every night, got into fistfights and the guards never gave a damn. Blew off a lot of steam, ya know. We'd been there about a month, and spent half our coin. Came back from fishing in the lake one afternoon, and an Argonian offered us some skooma. I was stupid enough to think I could handle it, and Argis was always willing to try anything once." He paused to lick his fingers, cooling them after handling the heated meat. "Don't remember much else after that. There was something to do with a dare, and we staggered through some tunnels until we found this woman who said she'd change our appearances for a price. Argis said he wanted a tattoo, something detailed that looked like it hurt like hell to get it done. I patted his cheek and said I wanted the same thing." He scooped the meat out of the sauce and onto the bread, laying the cheese slices over the top. Then he picked up a twig burning on one end and held the flames over the cheese, melting it until it turned slightly brown.

"Next thing I remember clearly, was waking up in an alley with Argis on top of me. We'd been roughed up, our money gone, and these damned matching tattoos. Argis had to sneak into the inn to get our things, and sold his sword so he could pay our outstanding bill. Had just enough left over to get me back to Markarth. And he went to join the Legion."

Gerhild didn't speak the whole time. In fact, her movements had ceased entirely shortly after he started his story. When he passed her the bread with a bottle of mead, she started like she hadn't been paying attention and quickly shoved her boot aside to take the food. "So," she began, not making eye contact with him so she didn't see he wasn't making eye contact with her, "Basically, you sampled an illegal—and highly addictive—substance, dared each other to get a tattoo, got rolled by thieves, and woke up with probably the worst hangovers of your lives."

"Aye."

She nodded. "Now that, Vorstag, is one helluva story!"

He looked up at her, not sure what to make of it. She looked up at him, too, and saw the lost expression on his face. The hint of a smile tugged at her mouth, though she couldn't say why, and an answering hint played on his lips. Then he smiled, she smiled, and he laughed. "I suppose it isn't all that bad, after all."

"Oh, don't kid yourself," she shook her head, not laughing but feeling the tension of the day slipping away. "It is that bad. But funny as hell!"

He grimaced, which was quite an accomplishment with his shoulders still shaking with mirth, "Thanks."

She inclined her head, "You're welcome." She gestured with the bottle of mead and said, "To Riften: the only city in Skyrim that encourages miscreants."

"To Riften," he answered, "May I never see it again!"

She laughed, but he could tell it wasn't genuine. Still, it wasn't inappropriate and she meant it kindly, so he joined in. "Don't feel too bad," she offered, "It could have been a lot worse."

"Oh?" he asked before taking a large bite and trying to speak around it, "How?"

She had also taken a bite, and the flavorful morsel distracted her. "This is delicious. I've never seen anyone cook like this before. What do you call it?"

"I call it a 'cheese and meat boat'." He washed another mouthful down with a swig of mead.

She looked closer at what essentially was a bread trencher with stew and melted cheese, and shook her head. "The name needs work. No, it could have been worse. You and Argis could have woken up naked, the thieves having taken everything."

Vorstag sputtered, choking on his food and nearly spilling his mead over his lap. Quickly she set aside her supper to pat him forcefully on the back, trying to keep him from choking, but only making matters worse. He threw up a hand to deflect her blows, almost lost his 'cheese and meat boat,' and had to set his mead aside to save his supper. When he finally regained his composure, he managed a weak response, "Ah, right, that would have been worse."

She saw the blush again, not entirely from his choking fit, and knew she had somehow stumbled across the truth. Wondering if that was when they discovered they both preferred men, or if it had already happened, she wisely kept her suspicions to herself. It didn't matter, anyway, and Vorstag had suffered quite enough for one night. She moved back to her seat and picked up her supper. "Ya know, maybe 'cheese and meat boat' doesn't sound so bad after all."

He stifled a groan, not sure if she was teasing him again or offering a balm, and focused on finishing his supper.

Chapter Text

Vorstag stood beside the Dragonborn and a half step behind. Not because they were in any danger; the few Draugrs that were in the chamber were already dead by another's hand. No, he was cautious because she was fuming. Not an overt fuming either, like what a normal person would do when they'd been outsmarted, but a cold fuming, like the time she held a knife against Cosnach's throat and calmly severed his artery. She was out for blood, aiming purposefully towards her goal, and he was exceedingly glad he didn't stand at the center of the target.

Of course, standing beside her, he was going to get sprayed with the very same blood and gore she spilled.

He should say something, maybe ask to see the note, even if he couldn't read it. That might prompt her to explain what had just happened. He didn't like the fact that they had battled through an extensive burial tomb, avoided death traps, solved complicated riddles to open locked doors, all to find someone had not only beaten them to the Horn, but had left behind what must be a fairly insulting note—if the Dragonborn's silence was anything to go by.

He shuffled around slowly until he was within her line of sight.

Still he didn't speak, even though he felt he should to break her out of her cold rage. There was nothing to say, no comment he could make, that wouldn't be stating the obvious. If he was going to speak, it would have to be something helpful, something that would decrease her anger, or something that she hadn't noticed yet. And he couldn't think of a damn thing.

A shiver ran down his spine, the dank and dreary atmosphere adding to his already battered state. The trip through the tomb hadn't been easy on either of them, taxing their skills and intellect to their limits. The floor covered in fire-spurting pressure tiles had been the worst part for him. It seemed like he hadn't been able to avoid a single one, getting himself burned over and over. He wondered if he'd ever be able to forget the sharp feel of the flames crawling over his flesh, or the smell of his skin and hair burning. She had stopped and healed him every time, the magic not only healing his wounds but also keeping his skin from scarring. However, his armor had paid a high price. And it didn't help when they reached this last chamber, and large stone statues began rising from the water on either side of the pathway. He had jumped in to attack them before realizing they were just statues. Now he was soaked, exhausted, half-naked, and Shor's bones the crypt was drafty.

"This cold is unbearable. It's all I can do not to shiver until my teeth rattle."

Fuck, he thought, the comment had just slipped out before he could think. With a small amount of dread he watched the sightless face of her helmet turn slightly towards him. He didn't know, and hadn't asked, just how much she could see through that black hood, such as the gooseflesh prickling his arms right now. She saw enough to distinguish friend from foe, and that was usually enough for him, but right now he wasn't so sure.

She gave a funny little shudder, as if trying to wake herself from a nightmare. She might have been in a sort of daydream, her thoughts murderous and dark, full of blood and blades, but that was past. She could see him now, he was sure of it, especially when she handed him the note.

Gerhild chastised herself. She had indulged in a moment of anger—a beautiful, vile and dreadful ire that boiled her blood and fed her the only emotion she allowed herself to feel. But it hadn't been fair to Vorstag. He had no clue as to the cause of her rage, other than the Horn was missing. She had heard his comment, and belatedly remembered that she wasn't alone and had someone else's needs to consider. Somewhat apologetically, she handed him the note to allow him the pretense of reading it as she removed her helmet and hood.

"I'm beginning to hate these fucking notes," she growled, taking yet another selfish moment to enjoy in the cold though damp air against her sweaty skin. She was exhausted, having to spend a lot of energy using magic to keep Vorstag alive. He had borne it stoically, but she knew it had to hurt, and it had to be frustrating, trying to make it through that room full of firetraps. It seemed no matter where he stepped, he'd manage to set off a pressure plate. She finally told him to just run for it, and she followed him casting a healing spell the whole time. It was messy, and painful, but it got them past the traps. And then he had jumped into the icy, stagnant water…

She turned back and saw that he was still puzzling over the script, the note reminding her of why she was irate, and her blood began to boil again. It was difficult to keep the anger and frustration from her voice as she summed up the contents. "The ass-wipe that took the Horn left this note. He wants me to rent the attic room at the Sleeping Giant Inn in Riverwood. Says he'll meet me there. Only I've been to Riverwood. I've seen the inn. And there's no attic room."

Vorstag nodded, looking at the note with a serious expression on his face. He was definitely going to have to learn how to read. Still, she had removed her helmet and was talking with him; that was a good sign. He folded it and gingerly handed it back. "Sounds like it could be a trap."

"Aye," she agreed, feeling the darkness well up inside her again as she tucked the note safely inside a pouch on her belt. "Especially when he addressed the note to 'Dragonborn'. He knows me, or knows of me. At the very least he knows the Dragonborn has come to Skyrim. That parchment is too fresh, too new, to have lain down in this crypt for any amount of time. He's been here, recently, and the worst part?"

"What?" he swallowed, still watching her warily.

"He knew a fucking shortcut!" She paced away, wanting to revel in the rage and Shout something into splinters, like one of those strange statues in the water. She didn't; she was too afraid of catching Vorstag a glancing blow from a ricochet, and the poor man had suffered enough already. "I had to… we had to," she corrected herself, "Fight off all those mages, bandits and Draugrs. And those traps and spiders. All to get here and see that some prick has managed to get here ahead of us without going through all that crap. I'll kill the arrogant son of a bitch! Slowly."

"After you get the Horn from him," he said softly, trying to remind her of her true purpose.

She spun, one hand poised to hit something, the other gripping her helmet so fiercely she might have dented it. In fact, she wanted to slap him, thinking he was poking fun at her failure. Failure. She had failed the Greybeards. She should never have wasted so much time in Windhelm. She should have gone straight for the Horn after leaving High Hrothgar; then she might have beaten this so-called 'friend' here. But then Ralof would have suffered horribly, perhaps even have died. No, whatever else, she couldn't have come here first.

But perhaps she shouldn't have taken so long in Windhelm, sworn fealty to Jarl Ulfric, and taken on the extra task he set her. The events in Markarth had delayed her by half a year. This so-called friend of the Dragonborn's who took the Horn, might think she was dead by now, or not taking her destiny seriously. As if she had any choice in that matter, Shouting Thu'ums, devouring dragon souls…

"At times like this, I truly appreciate the joys of a warm fire and a stiff drink," his voice crashed through her thoughts like a frost troll.

She made her eyes focus on him, on his hands wrapped around his torso, his thin lips tinged slightly blue, the water dripping from his hair, the shiver he tried to suppress. He wasn't injured any longer thanks to her magic, but he was still weak and exhausted and soaked through, and his armor—cold and damaged—couldn't be mended by a spell. The flame traps had taken their toll on his clothing, burning away the fur and most of the leather, leaving behind only the toughest parts and anything metal. Amazingly the goat horns had survived, though they did little to offer protection from the clammy atmosphere.

She again let go of her anger, asking with no small amount of chagrin, "Vorstag, what would I do without you?"

He shrugged, glad that she was herself again, for the most part. "Probably flounder around uselessly," he answered, "Fuming and staring at nothing all the time. And you'd never eat. If I wasn't here to cook for you, you'd starve to death inside a week. That reminds me, there are a lot of mudcrabs and slaughterfish outside in the swamp. Could make a bit of fish stew for supper."

She laughed, recognizing the teasing tone, even though she felt nothing of the mirth. "Don't you think you've done enough cooking for one day?" she returned the jibe and pointed at his singed armor. "Maybe I should handle supper."

"Ah, no, Gerhild, really, I don't mind." He thought about her other attempts at cooking and shuddered. She had managed to burn water the other night—not boil it but burn it—something he still hadn't figured out how she had done. Of course, being afraid of fire might have inhibited her, which was one reason he usually claimed it was his turn to cook.

She had started to look around for any treasure or loot she might have missed, and caught his shudder out of the corner of her eye. Thinking that he was shivering again, she pushed aside her impulse to search and decided their first priority would be to get him warm and dry. "Then let's get out of here and find someplace to make camp, so you can cook your stew."

"Lead on. I'll follow," he motioned to the door behind the crypt.

Gerhild felt like kicking herself; she hadn't seen that door until he pointed it out. Of course, she had been fairly preoccupied with her anger. Still, she prided herself on her skills of observation. She was glad he was behind her and unable to see the look on her face, which she told herself absolutely did not have any redness tinting her cheeks.

The door opened to a small room crowded with urns, but it was the large chest against the far wall that distracted her. Immediately her eyes flew to it, and were slow to pull away, even after Vorstag gripped her armored shoulder. "I think," he began, letting go of her shoulder to reach out and grab the wall. He looked at her with his dark brown eyes rimmed in red and drooping. "We're both too exhausted to continue. I can barely keep my feet, and you can barely pay attention. Why don't we stay here for the night?"

"Here?" she asked, trying to focus on him.

"Here," he nodded, sliding down the wall to the ground, "In this room. It's cozy, easily defendable—though I don't think there's anyone or anything left here to harm us. If we light a fire, the smoke will draw up that tunnel there like a chimney. And," he pointed to the chest she had been ogling, "We even have wood for a fire. After you empty it, of course."

She looked blankly at him, too tired to even try to make her face form an appropriate expression. "How did you know what I was thinking?"

He gave a soft sort of chuckle. "Wasn't too hard, not after traveling with you so much. You just can't help yourself; you have to rifle every dead body, search every chest, investigate every nook and cranny."

"Well," she tried pathetically to excuse herself, feeing like he still might be disapproving of her slightly illegal habits, "There might be something worthwhile, hidden away, and if I don't look for it, I won't find it."

He nodded indulgently. "Sounds logical."

"Really, Vorstag, it's not like the dead will need the coin. And gems or jewelry is just sitting there in the urns, not being appreciated." Her fingers were twitching at her sides, as if already sifting through the dust and ashes. He was simply amazed she still had the energy. "Besides, I found my dagger down a dead end tunnel, and it's proven very useful over the past several months. If I had just ignored that tunnel because it didn't go the way I wanted it…"

"Go on and look through the chest and urns," he shook his head, smiling gently. "I'll just wait here."

She looked at him a moment longer before nodding, her fingers fumbling with one of her many pouches. She wore them, whether or not they matched her steel plate armor, as she was continually pocketing items. He was amazed by her ability to find the strangest trinkets or smallest gems. And the amount of gold she could find was staggering. Though he still didn't approve of thieving, he did allow her the argument that the dead at least weren't using these things any longer. Now, if she ever broke into someone's house or picked their pocket, then he might have to paddle her backside. But he would let her have her fun this time. She needed it, after the disappointment with the Horn.

He watched her methodically go around the room, searching every container, her hands delicate and sure, her eyes glinting each time she pulled out a couple of coins or a lonely gemstone. It was the only reaction that ever showed in her eyes, other than her anger, which was another reason why he was so willing to indulge her, just to see those deep violet orbs shine with something. "So, how old were you when you started picking locks and pockets?"

He had spoken again without thinking, and this time he was afraid he had truly insulted her. She answered quickly, however, and in a tone that sounded conversational, despite the strangeness of the subject.

"I found out at a fairly young age that I had a knack for stealing," she began, her words falling from her lips as her hands searched a large urn, reaching to the very bottom. "I think I mentioned once that I grew up poor. I implied it, at least. With my mother dead and my father a cripple, there was never a steady source of income. He'd beg in the streets, and most of the time we could at least buy food, but some days he wouldn't make a septim, and we'd go hungry. I didn't like that."

She finished her searching and settled on the floor, taking off her belts of pouches and her pack to resort her latest acquisitions. "One day, I couldn't have been older than ten, I was standing on a corner, watching a noblewoman put some coins in her purse after making a purchase. Two of the coins fell to the street, but neither the woman nor her servants noticed it. She started walking away, and I ran up and put my foot on top of the coins. I stood there, feeling scared—apprehensive—that she'd turn around and accuse me of stealing. But she walked away and got lost in the crowd. In fact, no one else had noticed the coins fall, and after a few minutes, I got brave and reached down to pick them up.

"It felt…" she paused, tossing a garnet onto a small pile of semi-precious gemstones, "I don't know. It didn't feel bad; it felt more like I had accomplished something, gotten away with something, ya know? Maybe not," she waved away his confused look and returned to her sorting and her story, "Doesn't matter. Quickly after that I discovered a had a talent for it, for knowing when a merchant had his back turned, or a passerby had too much coin in his purse. I'd rarely get caught, and when I did I usually was able to talk my way out of it. I was young and cute, and could make most people feel sorry for a poor, half-orphaned, starving little girl.

"But when I started bringing coin home to father, he thought I had started begging, like him, and though he told me I didn't have to beg—that I should wait until I was older and could do honest work—he did accept whatever coin I brought home." She put a few coins onto a pouch already half full.

"Did your father ever find out you were stealing?"

"Not for a while," her gaze dropped to a couple of unusually marked phials filled with some potion or another, "He did eventually catch me in the act of stealing dried fish from a vendor. He got mad and we had a fight. Then we had a long talk about honor and what it means to be a Nord. He made me promise," she tossed two phials aside and placed the rest within another pouch, "He made me promise, no matter how bad things got, I was to never do anything dishonorable, like steal from those who may need it themselves. He didn't even want me to steal from the rich, but if they forgot something or threw it away, that I could take. It was as close to a compromise as we could get.

"It was fun, though" she continued, lifting her face up to him again, "Like game, a treasure hunt, sorting through people's castoffs and rubbish beyond the outskirts of a town. I'd never know what I would find, sometimes just a rusty old knife, sometimes a gemstone or a ring. But it was addictive, a rush, ya know? It felt good," she emphasized the word, "And there wasn't much else to feel good about. So every so often, whenever the begging didn't get us enough coin, I'd slip away and come back with a few trinkets we could sell. Always had to keep moving, though, in case I stole something that somebody had lost or thrown out by accident."

"So that's how you came to be so good at valuing jewelry, like the necklace you got from Margret. You know pretty much at a glance what is worthwhile," he gestured to the pile of gemstones she was putting away, "And what isn't," he gestured to the phials sitting next to a dented tankard and some tattered burial linens.

"Aye." She finished the last of her sorting and stood, her latest acquisitions stuffed into her pack and pouches. Turning she caught his eye, and from his expression she got the feeling he saw right through her. Damn, but he had an ability to see more than what she wanted exposed. Thankfully he was the only one she couldn't fool, and thankfully he was on her side. Or was he, she asked herself. Sure, he was a true Nord of Skyrim, but he lived in Markarth. Markarth sided with the Empire, and even had a high-ranking Thalmor in residence at the Jarl's Keep. Yet he often cursed and swore by the Nine, and his closest friend worshiped Talos.

"You're doing it again," he chided her gently, bringing her wandering thoughts around yet again. Absently she supposed she should start feeling dizzy, this constant spinning within her mind. Then she caught herself this time, giving her head a little shake to clear it.

"Aye," she sighed, "I suppose I am a little tired."

"You get the fire started, I'll make us something to eat. Then we'll sleep."

"Shouldn't one of us stay on watch," she asked, "Just in case?"

"In case what?" he countered, "Another Draugr comes to life? They can't open doors," he thumbed the closed door back to Jurgen's crypt, "And if one manages to stumble down that tunnel, he'll burn in the fire."

She paused, her axe in her hands, working through his argument. "Again you're right. Damn, I am tired." She swung at the chest, but couldn't do any more than break a splinter off the lid.

"Of course I'm right," he answered cheekily. "Afraid I'm not gonna be much of a cook, though. Don't have anything left except a couple of bruised apples, cheese and some bread."

"It'll," she grunted as she swung, "Do." She swung yet again, but her arms were too tired, and her axe too dull, to do the job. "Enough of this," she grumbled, and sheathed her war axe. He looked up at her terse words, saw the expression on her face, her posture, and a feeling of dread filled his chest. He reached out a hand and was about to warn her when she spoke first. "Fus Ro!"

Vorstag threw his hands up over his head, ducking, as pieces of the chest went flying everywhere. Gerhild, too, went flying, the force ricocheting a large piece into her and knocking her off her feet. She landed with a whoosh halfway across the room, and for the first few seconds she did nothing but lay there as limp as a rag doll.

Once the dust had settled he pulled his arms off his head and looked around. He saw her form in the middle of the room, lying unmoving beneath a large chunk of the lid. "Gerhild," he coughed dust out of his lungs, but she didn't stir. "Gerhild!"

His aches and fatigue were forgotten with the force of his concern for her. He pushed himself to his knees and lurched for her still form. He pushed the wood off of her, but could tell she wasn't breathing. He had known what was going to happen, having seen her do it before, but he hadn't been quick enough to warn her. If she had killed herself because he was too exhausted…

"Gerhild, please, wake up," he pleaded, patting her cheek lightly with his hand. When he didn't get a response, he got more desperate and grabbed her shoulders, pulling her partway to a sitting position. "Please. Breathe, girl. Come on. Breathe, damn you!" he gave her a hard shake, her head lolling boneless on her shoulders.

Fear gripped him now, and he set her back on the floor, more gently than he had picked her up. He looked at her chest, but it still wasn't moving. Not knowing what else to do, not sure it would help, he splayed his hand against her chest piece and pressed, mimicking the act of her chest rising and falling with breath.

Her eyes fluttered, and her body convulsed as her lungs struggled to re-inflate themselves. She exhaled and paused, her eyes fluttering open for a moment to find him hovering over her. Then she inhaled again, the air gasping past her throat, and immediately coughed it out. After another few seconds, she coughed, groaned, and coughed again.

"Gerhild," his voice still pleaded with her, "Can you hear me? Can you open your eyes? Say something! Anything…"

"That was stupid."

Her words hung there in the dusty air, an honest admission, cool and clear and reasonable. And he laughed. He couldn't help himself, the chuckle bursting from his chest to echo off the walls. Relief flooded him, wiping away the adrenaline that had held off his exhaustion, and he leaned back from her. "Aye, it was. I tried to warn you, but…"

"I thought I heard you say something," she allowed, "But I was too frustrated with that chest to listen." She opened her eyes and tucked her chin, looking at him squarely, and asked, "Did you know that was going to happen?"

"Aye," he nodded again. "I've seen you Shout before; I recognized the way you pull your shoulders back and breathe in. When you were sick with the fever and Bothela was trying to take the arrowhead out, you Shouted that way, several times. The first time you'd been face down, and the Shout bounced off the bed and hit all three of us. When I saw you just now, standing so close to the chest, I knew it was gonna happen again. Just wished I could have stopped you in time."

She closed her eyes and groaned again, but allowed a smile to play upon her lips afterwards. "Now I understand why Master Argneir said to use the power of the Thu'um sparingly, not carelessly." Slowly she sat up, appearing surprised to find herself still in one piece.

"Who's Master Argneir?" Vorstag asked, his laughter under control. He turned back to fixing supper, calmly brushing splinters off of two plates before dividing up the last of the cheese and bread.

She tossed a couple of pieces into a small pile in front of the tunnel as she answered, "A Greybeard. At High Hrothgar. He's the only one there who can talk normally; the others' voices are too untrained in the Thu'um to speak without Shouting things to bits." Negligently she tossed a flame spell at the wood, igniting it almost before she turned away. "He gives me most of my instruction, answers my questions, though the others will give me their knowledge of certain Thu'ums."

He swallowed, imagining what a conversation with them must be like. After having seen a dragon and how it's Shouts shook the ground and made that strange wind without force, he had to wonder if the Greybeards sounded like that when they talked amongst themselves. Or even if they could talk with each other.

She continued to talk while they ate. He couldn't follow half of what she said, but it was nice to hear about her time studying with the Greybeards and what she learned. Feeling invigorated and fortified after finishing the last of their rations, he began removing his bracers.

"What are you doing?" she asked, curious, munching on a stale piece of bread.

"I'm still soaked and freezing," he answered, kicking off his boots, one of which fell apart. He grimaced at it before turning to rifle through his pack. "Fire's good and hot now. So I'm gonna dry out and fix my armor." He pulled an extra blanket from the pack—only slightly singed as it had been protected behind his back—and began shrugging out of what was left of his armor.

Gerhild swallowed, almost choked on the bite, and had to quickly grab her bottle of mead in order to finish swallowing. Shit, she thought, seeing that he was going to strip right there in front of her. Without a care. Without a thought. Like she was just one of the guys. Then again, since she was fairly sure he preferred men, he probably saw her more as a comrade than a conquest. Of course he would be comfortable around her. She should feel honored, not cheated somehow. Forcing away the disappointment, she made herself appear relaxed and as at ease with his near nudity as he seemed.

Vorstag had been planning it in the back of his mind all through supper. He needed to repair his armor, and he couldn't do that while wearing it. He'd have to take it off, and he didn't have any spare clothing or armor to wear, so of course he'd have to resort to wearing nothing but his loincloth—which had thankfully been spared from fire damage due to the modification he made to his armor after Dryston's defeat. It would be a perfect opportunity to show her how comfortable he was with her, how close he felt to her, and that he had an awesome body. He wasn't vain, but he knew he kept himself in very good shape. He forced himself to act cool and nonchalant, the dank air helping to keep his libido under control and the heat from his cheeks.

Out of the corner of his eye he caught her looking at him and the near choking fit she had afterwards. He decided to consider it a promising start, thinking that he had at the very least gotten an honest reaction out of her and not an act. He did caution himself not to move too quickly. This was just going to be a small sample, a glimpse of something personal, not a lewd exhibition. He wrapped the blanket over his shoulders, picked up the singed bundle at his feet, and shuffled over to the fire.

Somewhat forlornly he spread out the odd bits of metal and leather. Taking a really good look, he saw there was very little left of his horned scaled armor. His boots were falling apart, other than the greaves and soles. The cuirass was halfway destroyed; the metal and tough leather straps remained, but the decorative fur and padded undergarment were all burned away. He still had most of his leather tunic, and could repurpose it into a skirt that would at least cover his hips and thighs. The straps over his shoulders and the metal chest piece that held them in place would have to do for his torso. His armbands were gone, but they had only been decorative; at least his bracers were intact.

He looked up when Gerhild suddenly tossed him her leather armor. "Here, feel free to use what you need to."

He pursed his lips, not liking to have to accept charity.

"Oh, don't be so stupid," she chided him, reading his thoughts as easily as he had read hers about searching the chest. She began stripping down to her sleeveless tunic and leggings, making herself comfortable, as she continued. "That armor doesn't fit me anymore; I've no use for it. And I still have this armor to wear, so it's not like I'll be the one walking around naked. Your armor is falling apart, and you wouldn't want to be arrested for indecent exposure, like I would have been after Dead Crone Rock. Think of it that way; I'm just repaying a debt, keeping the score even, ya know."

He remembered the image of her breast, almost bursting out of her armor, after her battle with the Hagraven. He supposed he could swallow his pride and use her castoffs to fix his armor, "Well, just to keep the score even."

"That's a good boy," she did a fair imitation of Ogmund, including reaching over to pat his cheek, and Vorstag had to roll his eyes and laugh.

"Enough!" he threw up his hand, glad that she was teasing him and laughing with him. He knew the laughter was false, a considered response to a certain situation, but the fact that she made the effort to act warm and friendly to him was… nice. Being with Gerhild was nice, and something he wanted to keep doing.

And if he wanted to keep doing it, he had better get stronger armor. The woman was a walking death magnet, and though she could deflect the danger from herself, those around her were often unable to do so. He pushed the thought aside for now with the intention that he'd purchase better armor the first chance he got. Until then, he had his work cut out for him.

He worked carefully, measuring twice before he cut anything with his dagger, his skill at smithing adequate at best. The skirt he was fashioning might look as shoddy and slapped-together as it really was, but it would keep him warm and covered beneath his armor. And hold together until they got to where they were going.

"So," he began, drawing out the single syllable word as he tried to sound nonchalant, "What's our next step? Go to Riverwood and meet this friend?"

She had been humming, her back to him as she examined and cleaned her armor. She stopped when he asked his question, but her voice wasn't tense or angry as she answered, which he took as a good sign. "I was thinking about that," she began, scrubbing at a fictitious smudge. "My next stop was going to be Windhelm. First, I want to head to the docks and find out if the Northern Maiden is still there. I'd like to ask the captain a few questions about the passengers he brought here from Solstheim, ya know, the ones with the strange masks and orders to assassinate me. Second, you need new armor, heavier armor probably, if you're going to make a habit of jumping in front of dragons and setting off pressure plates. I know a good smith in Windhelm; he could set you up at a fair price. And then," she paused, closing her eyes. This would be the telling point, if he were on her side or not, "I need to check in with Jarl Ulfric."

He didn't answer right away, and her concerns began to rise. She thought, after all the things she didn't say and he didn't ask about, she still thought he knew she was a spy and that she worked for the Stormcloaks. When he didn't respond, she began to fear he hadn't known after all. She waited a heartbeat longer before looking over her shoulder.

He was holding a rather lopsided leather skirt up before him, his head tilted as he considered it. His blanket had fallen from his shoulders to pool around his waist, but he didn't seem too upset when he glanced to find her looking at him. "What do you think?"

She seriously studied his work, and had to struggle to find something positive to say about it. "Not bad. Should keep everything covered. Now all you need are a new pair of boots to protect those big feet of yours."

He made a face at her, but it was meant playfully. "Well, then," he sighed, setting aside his armor and settling himself back against the wall, "The sooner we get to Windhelm, the better."

She licked her lips, suddenly feeling the need to make sure he understood. "Vorstag…"

"You never told me," he interrupted, pulling his blanket up around his shoulders once more, "And I never asked, but aye, I know you are a spy for Ulfric Stormcloak. I have no problems with that."

"So, you're for the Stormcloaks?" she pressed.

He furrowed his brows, his thin lips frowning at the corners. "I'm not for either side, but I'm not against them. I guess I just want to see the Thalmor gone. Can't say I like the idea of this Civil War, the way it's tearing Skyrim apart and weakening the Empire, which only makes the Thalmor stronger by comparison. But I suppose there's no other way to do it. We have to leave the Empire, in order to kick out the Thalmor. Just hope we're still strong enough to do it after all this fighting."

She was quiet, staring at his bare feet but not seeing them. "I wonder if there is another way," she mumbled.

Vorstag knew she wasn't staring at him, but he still felt a little self-conscious, enough to shift his feet from her view. He hadn't ever considered his feet were that big, but he did have trouble stepping as easily around those pressure plates as Gerhild, so maybe she had a point. He tossed another chunk of chest on the flames before crawling back over towards her.

He quietly shook out his bedroll and laid it on the ground, shivering a little as he removed his blanket to lay it on top. He squirmed under cover as quickly as he could, but he still felt cold. Grumbling softly, he settled himself against his pack, using it for a pillow, "I could still use that stiff drink."

She gave a small laugh, rummaged in her pack a moment before tossing a bottle of mead onto his lap. He flinched, but her aim was true and didn't hit anything uncomfortable, instead landing safely by his knees. "You'll have to settle for that. Tomorrow we'll head to Morthal and restock."

He hummed an agreement, and twisted the cork out of the bottle. He watched her with a curious expression as she removed her own bedroll and blanket from her pack. "Why don't you sleep next to me," he offered, "Ya know, to share bodily warmth."

She looked at him a moment, startled like a deer in the woods. Then a slight tinge of red graced her dimpled cheeks, a shy and innocent response, and something completely out of character for the character of Lady Gerhild North-Wind, Thane of Whiterun and Markarth. It was out of character, too, for the Dragonborn; and he wondered if he was getting another glimpse of the real Gerhild.

"I promise, I'll stay in my bedroll and leave you in yours. A perfect gentleman. Just thought we'd be warmer with less space between us."

She gave her head a little shake, "Oh, of course, sure, alright." She bit her lip to stop her rambling, hating the effect he was having on her.

"That's a good girl," he did a fair imitation of Ogmund, and a short—though honest—bark of laughter erupted from her unbidden.

Nervously she set her bedroll next to him, and slipped inside still wearing her tunic and leggings. She turned her back to him and pretended he wasn't there, that it was just the warmth of a fire or something behind her. She listened to him swallow the last of the mead, amazed again at how quickly and how much he could put away. Then his bedclothes rustled as he shifted position, spooning into her back.

Amazingly she didn't feel uncomfortable, like she had with Argis; somehow it felt right to be nestled against Vorstag's front. His breath, sweet-smelling from the mead, fell warmly across her cheek. She let him slip one arm beneath her head to make a pillow for her, the other wrapped around her waist protectively. Though he was still dressed in nothing but his loincloth, there were several protective layers between them, and she didn't feel that ugly, blunt dagger that caused her so much pain, pressing against her backside. All she felt was secure.

Vorstag's mind was on a different though similar path, thinking of her embarrassed and naive reaction just now, so at odds with the cool and mature way she normally carried herself. Even though she had admitted she was a late bloomer, he began to wonder. "Gerhild," he stopped suddenly, wanting to ask, unsure and yet needing to know.

"What is it?" she asked, her voice as soft as the firelight.

"Mind if I ask you a personal question?"

Her flippant response was out before she could censor herself, "Only if I get to ask you one in return." She wondered why she had said such a thing. Stuhn's shield, but she had no idea what he wanted to ask her, much less what she wanted to ask him.

"Fair enough," he paused to yawn, his breath fanning her tightly braided hair, "How old are you?"

She blinked, not sure how to answer. "Um, what day is it?"

"Is that your question?" he asked, his tone teasing.

"No," she shook her head slightly, unable to move too much with him pressed so close to her. "I just lost track of the days. Can't remember if today's the 15th or the 16th of Mid Year."

"The 15th."

"Then I'm seventeen. Tomorrow I'll be eighteen."

She wasn't too young, at least not young enough to be acting so sheltered and inexperienced around men. But then again, after what the Thalmor did to her, maybe the naivety was a part of her brokenness. He tensed for a moment, but relaxed and quickly planted a kiss on her hair, "Then I'll wish you a happy birthday tomorrow. Afraid I don't have a present for you…"

She laughed a little, "I never had many birthday presents growing up, so I won't miss that. How old are you?"

"Twenty-six," he answered, "But my birthday was a few months ago."

"Oh, did I miss it?"

"Ah, well, sort of," he hedged. "You were sick with fever at the time."

"Oh," the sound was small in the room, "Then I'll make it up to you next year."

He laughed a little, "I'll look forward to that." He snuggled a little closer to her, his nose pressed into her braids. "Now your question."

Right, her question. She didn't really have anything she wanted to ask him, not directly, not that she hadn't inferred. Then again, maybe she should just ask him right out. This was a perfect opportunity, a free pass to ask whatever she wanted. She had to wonder, she had to ask, "Do you…" she paused, licking her lips nervously. "I mean, have you ever had sex with… with another man?"

She felt him tense, watched as the hand near her face flexed loosely a few times. Still she didn't realize how deeply she had wounded him until she heard the tone of his voice as he answered, "Aye, in Cidhna Mine…"

She spun in his arms, facing him and pressing one hand against his lips, stopping his words in his throat. "Shit, Vorstag, I'm sorry, I…" she took a breath. Of course, she had been there, seen what the other prisoners did to each other, not just to her. She had only been incarcerated a few weeks, and most of that under Madanach's protection. He had spent a year in there. "I should never have asked something like that."

"No," he shook his head, pulling away from her fingers. "It's alright. It was a long time ago."

"How," she paused to lick her lips again, not sure if she had any right to ask. Then again, he could always tell her to fuck off if things got too personal. "How long ago?"

He took a deep breath, amazed that it was still hard to talk about it. He thought, after all this time, after talking with Argis, after that month spent in Riften, he thought he had gotten over it. Yet he supposed there were just some things you never got rid of, but carried with you for the rest of your life. It was a part of him, aye, but only one part. And it might help her, encourage her to open up and talk about her own abuse, if he shared first. "Hamming was sixteen, I was fifteen."

She closed her eyes, ducking her head beneath his chin. He had been younger than her, and suffered more than her, and yet he still managed to laugh and dance and love. "How did you put that aside? How could you allow yourself to be intimate with someone after that?" She was sure he had been, with Argis, the two men doing to each other what the prisoners had done to him. Somehow, he had been able to separate the abuse from the intimacy, even though the act was the same. She needed to know his secret, if she was ever going to be able to allow that intimacy herself.

He smiled at the top of her head, though she couldn't see it, and offered, "I could show you, if you want."

She thought about him attempting to make love to her, his movements awkward and clumsy like that kiss had been, and pulled away a little from him. "No, no, I didn't meant that, I just, it, well, I mean…" her stuttering faded away when he laughed softly.

"I've flustered Gerhild North-Wind. That has to be a first."

She realized he was teasing her, and made a face at him. He laughed again, showing there were no hard feelings. She huffed, somewhat playfully, and rolled over to face away from him again. She intended to let the matter drop, and laid quietly listening to the fire pop and settle. Vorstag had other plans.

"It's not the same, ya know," he said, his voice a smooth baritone in the fading light. She thought absently that she should put another chunk of wood on the fire, but she was just too warm and comfortable to be bothered. Instead she listened to his voice, from behind and above her head, as he tried to reassure her. "What happened in the mine to me—to us—was brutal, something that was done to us, against our will. It's a lot different when you share your body with someone you care about and who cares about you. For one thing, if something doesn't feel right, if it hurts or makes you feel uncomfortable, you can tell him to stop, and he will. Also, if he does something that feels very good, he'll keep doing it, because he wants you to feel good, not just himself."

She didn't think it odd that he spoke of this fictional lover in the masculine sense, not if they both preferred men over women. She supposed it seemed a strange conversation, but as there were only the two of them to hear it, it didn't matter. And with her back to him, unable to see his face, it was a lot easier to ask those questions she hadn't thought of, or had the nerve to ask Bothela.

He was glad she couldn't see his face, feeling the heat flush his skin, as he told her how sex worked between two men. He was also glad they were in separate bedrolls. The very last thing he wanted was to let her know how aroused he was, just having her body next to his. Well, not just having her body so close. They were talking about sex, and the more they talked—the conversation moving on to sex in general—the harder it got for him to remain in control. They talked for almost an hour before she finally dozed off. All the while he kept telling himself that he was reinforcing the fact that it was alright to care about someone, laying the groundwork for the day when she'd be willing to let someone love her. Let him love her.

He fell asleep shortly after her, content to have the woman he loved in his arms, and a smile on his lips.

Chapter Text

27th of Sun's Height: 4E 202

The city of Windhelm didn't look as impressive as his native Markarth, at least in Vorstag's opinion. It was large and the walls were high, but it wasn't nestled within the bosom of a mountain, nor was it built by ancient Dwemer hands. To his mind it seemed odd, that the coldest city in Skyrim would be built of the blackest stone. All it served to do was make the snow look all the more white by contrast. Then again, perhaps that was the point.

"It seems colder here than it did in the mountains," he shuddered, pulling his second-hand cloak tighter around his shoulders.

Gerhild walked beside him, her shoulder occasionally brushing his, especially when the road narrowed. It always sent a shiver down his spine, and not just because she wore her steel armor, the metal absorbing the cold and transferring it to him even through the cloak. She looked up at the city, tall and dark and brooding, thinking it so much like its Jarl. "Ya know, I had the same thought, when I was here last, that Windhelm is a very cold city. Of course, I was here in the winter. The snowdrifts reached almost to the top of the city walls. And the narrow streets seemed like they channeled the wind, instead of offer protection. Aye, even now in summer, Windhelm is cold," she lifted her face to his, "And you haven't even met the people, yet."

He made a small grimace. "That doesn't sound very encouraging. I'm walking into a new city, wearing damaged armor and ill-fitting boots that don't match it, and a threadbare cloak. What an impression I'll make as a sellsword."

She touched his arm lightly, her own steel plate armor gleaming in the late morning sun. "Don't worry about it. You're with me, that'll be impressive enough. Besides, you've got nothing to worry about; you're a Nord."

He glanced at her, wondering what exactly she meant by that, but they were too near the city gate for him to ask without being overheard.

"Halt!" one of the guards on duty called out to them, tilting his spear across the main door as if to bar their way. "State your name and business within the city."

Gerhild pulled off her helmet and underlying hood, giving her head a little shake, though her hair stayed within their tight and intricate braids. She smiled sweetly at the guard, whose jaw had dropped as soon as her face was revealed. "Alfhed, wasn't it? So good to see you still have the safety of Windhelm foremost in your duties." She took her gauntlets off next, stuffing them into the helmet to make things easier to carry.

"Lady Gerhild North-Wind," he knuckled his forehead, remembering her from her first visit to the city, when he and his partner had assumed she had been a spy. "I… I didn't recognize you. With the helmet and all. Excuse me."

"Not at all," she waved aside his flustering, gracious and polite and aloof. "Allow me to introduce my companion, Vorstag. He will be staying with me in Windhelm for a time."

"Aye, of course, whatever you say, milady. Let me get the door for you and your escort. Welcome to Windhelm, good sir. If you're in need of lodging, there's the Candlehearth Hall just inside the gate. Also good for a bit of food or drink, if you need it."

"Er, thanks," Vorstag nodded pleasantly. He didn't know if he was more off-balanced from being called a 'sir,' or the sudden change in his friend's demeanor. She had slipped from 'Gerhild' to 'Lady Gerhild' as easily as she had taken off her helmet. Even as they passed through the gate and left the guard behind, she kept up her act, a light smile playing on her lips as her cold eyes observed everything around them. He sighed, already missing the woman he had traveled with, and dropped back half a pace as a hireling should do, trying not to feel rancor as he slipped into his role.

At least from his new vantage point, he had an opportunity to look around the city without alerting her to the fact. He wanted his first view of Windhelm to be his own, untainted by her previous experience or opinions. Though she had told him about some of the city's structure and citizenry, and some of her adventures here, this moment was all his.

The first thing he noticed was the sound of raised voices carried down the street by a strong breeze. He rotated his head, homing in on the source. There were two men, Nords by the build of them, accosting a Dunmer woman who appeared simply to wish to be able to walk away. They had her boxed in, however, and shouted insults and threats while they shook their fists in front of her nose. "What's going on there," he asked, touching Gerhild's arm. She had been turning to the left, intending to take him straightaway to the Blacksmith's. She had to turn almost completely around to see what he was talking about.

"Oh," she said, her brow furrowed a little, her bow-shaped lips forming a slight frown. "That's just Rolff and Angrenor blowing off some steam." She turned away again, but after a few steps realized that Vorstag wasn't with her. Curious, she turned to see him striding up to the little scene down the block. Trying not to roll her eyes, she caught up with him and gripped his arm. "What are you doing?" she hissed quietly, not wanting to attract attention. The other three were attracting more than enough, though unlike Vorstag, the citizens knew to stay out of it.

"I'm putting a stop to it," he answered, as if he was merely talking about the weather.

"Vorstag," she dropped her voice, "Don't get involved."

"Why not?"

"Because it won't change anything," she retorted.

"I think it might," he huffed, folding his arms over his chest.

"Look, nothing's gonna come from it. I've seen them do this before lots of times. They even go around the Gray Quarter at night, threatening and blustering, stomping their feet and making faces, but they don't do anything illegal. It's harmless."

"No, it's bullying, and bullying's never harmless." He continued to stare at the two men intimidating a single woman, as if he could pummel them with his eyes. "And they need to be stopped."

His arm straightened, pushing her to the side as he strode towards the threesome. Gerhild sighed, knowing she couldn't talk him out of it, that much was certain. He was determined to get involved, regardless of the consequences. Though the prison here in Windhelm was nowhere near as brutal as the one in Markarth, she knew he wouldn't want to be incarcerated. That might happen, if he had his way and picked a fight with the brother of the Jarl's Housecarl. Politics in Windhelm were almost as fickle as in Markarth. She closed her eyes briefly before chasing after him. "Stuhn's shield, he picked a fine time to decide not to be his usual, easy-going self," she muttered.

By the time she reached them, Vorstag had already planted himself directly in front of Rolff, the better dressed of the two antagonists, judging him to be the leader. The Dunmer, Suvaris, was already beating a hasty retreat, more than willing to let some stranger take a pummeling on her behalf, whether or not it was deserved. Angrenor looked like he wanted to melt away, now that their usual 'fun' had been interrupted. Rolff, however, looked even angrier that someone had chased away his prey.

"Do you know who I am, you gray-skin lover?" he bellowed.

"A bully," Vorstag answered simply. "Someone who feels empowered picking on a woman half his size. I bet you're too scared to handle a real fight."

Rolff laughed, his eyes lighting up eagerly. It seemed he'd have some fun today, after all. "One hundred septims!" he challenged the stranger, knowing he wouldn't get arrested for brawling in broad daylight; his brother would keep him out of prison. But the poor mer-lover, dressed in rags and ill-fitting boots, was going to get what was coming to him.

"Hey, let's talk about this for a moment," Gerhild tried to reason quickly, actually trying to step between them. Neither man seemed to notice that she was there, the two of them staring heatedly into the other's eyes.

"Deal!" Vorstag ignored her words, answering Rolff instead.

"There's no need for this," she tried one last time, eyeing a patrolling guard who seemed to be growing more interested in their little conversation. She gripped one of Vorstag's chest straps through his cloak. He finally took notice of her, and tried to dislodge her grip by moving to the side, but only succeeded in pulling her with him. At the same time, Rolff threw his first punch. With her attention on the guard, she never saw that she had been pulled into the path of his fist.

"…in Markarth…first hired…investigate…Forsworn…"

"…doesn't explain…here with…"

"Quiet, please. She's coming around."

The first two voices had sounded fuzzy and indistinct, but by the time the third voice spoke, everything was coming through painfully loud and clear. Thankfully the voices paused, easing the pounding in Gerhild's skull. She gave a little sigh, which turned into a grimace when the cool cloth was pulled away from her eyes. Blinding white light penetrated clear through to the back of her skull, and she raised a hand to try to shade her eyes.

"Lady Gerhild? Can you hear me? Do you know where you are?" the third voice asked solicitously.

She wanted to groan again, but even her own voice was too loud for her ears. Gingerly she tilted her fingers up, her eyes squeezed tightly shut to try to minimize the pain. She blinked, seeing three blurry faces floating in the center of her vision, but none of them looked familiar, and flicking her eyes between them only made her nauseous. She concentrated on the one in the middle, ignoring the pain until a blond braid on the side of the face came into focus. "…Argis?"

"Shit," the face muttered, turning towards the face on her left that was framed with long brown hair. "Galmar is going to have your head for this, ya know."

"He can have it," she murmured, closing her eyes, not quite realizing the blond-braided man hadn't been speaking to her. "Hurts too much."

Familiar laughter, with an undercurrent of relief, sounded from somewhere beyond her current ability to comprehend. "Sense of humor is intact. She'll be fine, just as soon as she can cast a healing spell."

"Oh, so she's a mage now, too, is she?"

She knew that challenging voice, all three of the voices, in fact. Peeking through her fingers, she finally got her eyes to focus on the closest and quietest face, the one to her right, a long mustache drooping down either side of his mouth, making him look perpetually sad. "Jorleif?"

"Aye, milady, that's better. You had us worried, ya know."

She turned her head slightly to see Vorstag and Ralof nearby. The movement made her dizzy, the dizziness made her nauseous, and the nausea caused her skin to turn green.

"Don't move," Jorleif put the cloth back over her eyes, cooled with fresh water. "You were knocked in the head pretty hard. Where'd that healing potion get to?"

"Don't bother," she said softly, raising her hand slightly and reciting the spell. She heard Jorleif gasp and jump back as the golden ribbons of magic pooled in the palm of her hand before sinking into her skin and suffusing her body. A few moments later and she let the spell dissipate, sighing, feeling as good as new. "Ah, much better. Now," she pulled the cloth away from her eyes, taking in the scene. She was somewhat surprised to find herself reclining on a low couch. Jorleif was sitting on a stool beside her, Vorstag and Ralof a few feet away, silent guards unobtrusively flanking the sellsword. "What in Oblivion is going on?"

"This mercenary here claims you accidentally stepped into someone's fist," Ralof thumbed over his shoulder.

"Not just anyone's fist," Vorstag appeared calm, but she could see the way he pressed his thin lips even thinner. The guards were keeping their weapons handy, though not directly trained on him, and his pack and war axe had been confiscated. "And I told you, I'm not a mercenary. I'm a sellsword."

"What's the difference?" Ralof growled, showing a confrontational and unreasonable side she hadn't seen before.

"A mercenary works for whomever pays him the most money," Gerhild answered, accepting Jorleif's help in sitting up. She spoke before Vorstag could, just in case. The situation appeared more volatile than she was currently prepared to comprehend, but she trusted her instincts—and her position—to keep him out of trouble. "Even if he's already employed, and he gets a better offer from his current employer's enemy, he'll quit in the middle of the job and switch sides. No honor. A sellsword, on the other hand," she brushed the assistance aside as she reached her feet, "Is a little choosier about whom he works for. He may not take a particular type of job, or work for a certain type of employer. And once his services are paid for, he stays bought until he's released from service or the contract is up."

Ralof huffed, but crossed his arms and backed down. The guards stayed in place, but exchanged a nervous glance. She supposed it was a start, but she had to completely diffuse the situation before anyone else arrived and changed the dynamics.

"Now, could someone explain to me why Vorstag appears to be under arrest?"

"I'd like the answer to that myself," Galmar's gruff, parade ground voice boomed from the doorway. Gerhild looked and, to her dismay, saw both the Jarl and the General staring at them. Well, so much for trying to calm things down before they got worse; things got worse. She brushed aside her anxieties and dropped a deep curtsy, graceful despite her being entombed within steel plate armor.

"Jarl Ulfric, General Galmar," her voice was calm and cool, the Lady Gerhild North-Wind persona in full force. "Excuse me, but this was not the way I wished to arrive at the palace." She had looked around the room by now, and recognized it as the one she had been given during her first visit.

Ulfric looked down his rather large nose at the occupants of the room, studying them with an intensity akin to a sabre cat. He didn't speak, as always letting Galmar do the talking when faced with an unknown, and potentially turbulent situation.

"Oh? And just how did you wish to arrive?" Galmar blustered, somewhat foolishly.

"A little less battle weary," she smiled ruefully, "And a little better dressed. Allow me to introduce Vorstag of Markarth," she paused after giving his place of birth, allowing Ulfric the time to get his emotions—if he felt any—under control, "A sellsword, and my friend." She wished she had been able to get Vorstag to the Blacksmith's for some new armor, or at least to Sadri's for a change of clothing, before reaching the palace. He wasn't making a good first impression, and she knew how much his reputation meant to him, but that couldn't be helped now. Her chin lifted and her expression calm, she stepped over to stand beside him, showing with her actions as well as her words that she would vouch for him.

Ulfric barely spared him a glance; instead his eyes feasted on her. She almost shuddered, never having seen him look at her that way before. It was disconcerting, as he had been one of the few Nord men who didn't look at her as they would a tall tankard of fresh mead. When he spoke, his voice was heavy with some sort of emotion she couldn't even begin to guess at, though his words were directed at Vorstag. "I take it that you were hired to protect Lady Gerhild on her way here." It was strange for him to throw aside Galmar's protective stance and speak for himself.

"Jarl Ulfric," Vorstag answered with a deep bow, "I've worked for Lady Gerhild before, true, but I came with her to Windhelm of my own accord, as her friend."

He seemed somewhat placated by this. "Then welcome to Windhelm, Vorstag of Markarth. Jorleif," he turned to his steward, "See to it that Sir Vorstag has a room here at the palace, and that he and Lady Gerhild have the opportunity to freshen up before supper. We'll dine at eight tonight." He stepped closer to her, close enough to reach for her hand and place a kiss upon the back of it, the hairs of his goatee tickling her skin. It might have been her imagination, but she felt the slightest, briefest tremble through those hairs. "And then, Lady Gerhild, I want to hear your side of what happened this afternoon."

"Though it hardly seems acceptable dinner conversation," she gently pulled her hand from his, not quite trusting or believing this change in manner, "I will, of course, oblige my Jarl. Until then," she fluttered her eyes, "Please excuse me. I'm going to need every minute available to make myself presentable."

He smiled, briefly, and all but hidden beneath his goatee. "A woman's vanity." His tone sounded indulgent, but his eyes once more swept her from head to toe, making her feel over-warm in her armor. Then he turned on his heel and left, a disgruntled Galmar in his wake.

"Well, then, Sir Vorstag," Jorleif broke the silence before the tension could build. "Let's find you a room, shall we? Do you have anything to wear for dinner tonight? No, well, we'll deal with that, too. You two are dismissed," he said to the guards who had followed them to the door, not knowing what else to do. The two guards looked at each other, and then over their shoulders at their Captain, who waved them away. They quickly left after that, heading the opposite direction as Vorstag and Jorleif, looking somewhat relieved.

Once the door closed, Gerhild turned on Ralof. "What do you mean, arresting my friend like that? And where's Rolff? He's the one who hit me."

Ralof opened and closed his mouth several times, looking like a fish, before he could answer. "I… I didn't see Rolff there. Word came to the palace that you were back in Windhelm, with a friend. I left to meet you, and on my way a guard ran up, saying there was a new Butcher in town attacking women, only in broad daylight! We went back to where he said the attack took place, and I saw that shoddily dressed mercenary…"

"Sellsword," she interrupted him.

"…leaning over you, looking like he was trying to rob you. He said he was your friend, and when questioned, he seemed to know quite a bit about you. I wasn't going to take any chances, but I gave him the benefit of the doubt, remembering that you had arrived with someone. That's the only reason he was here instead of in the dungeon, because he might be telling the truth. But you have to understand what it looked like."

Ralof appeared contrite, and she decided to let the matter drop. "It doesn't matter now, I suppose," she sighed, "As long as it's cleared up. Speaking of which," she walked over to her pack, sitting on a long chest at the foot of her bed, and dug around inside it. "I need to get cleaned up. I wasn't joking when I said I'd need every minute before supper tonight to make myself presentable. If you'll excuse me," she gestured with a chunk of soap.

"Oh, of course, right away," he started for the door, but stopped with his hand on the doorknob. "Gerhild…"

She had her head and shoulders in the wardrobe, searching for something to wear after her bath, surprised that Ulfric had kept her gowns here just as she left them. But then again, she supposed it did make a sort of sense; as the daughter of two of his closest friends, he'd look upon her as kin and keep a room for her at the palace, especially as he had no kin of his own. She pulled out a deep red gown and draped it across her arm, surprised to see Ralof still there. "Aye."

"Is… I mean, you and Vorstag… there's nothing… the two of you…"

She narrowed her eyes, studying the way he stumbled through his words and refused to turn around, his hand on the latch as if he wanted to leave as quickly as possible, but unable to until he had some sort of answer to the question that was giving him so much trouble. Brushing an imaginary dust mote off her gown, she asked gently, "What are you trying to say?"

He took a deep breath, squaring his shoulders and turning back to face her. "I've been charged again with protecting your person while you are here in Windhelm," he began, struggling to focus on his responsibilities in order to keep himself civil. "Seeing how familiar you and Vorstag are, I have to wonder, if there's something going on that I should know about? Purely from a duty standpoint. I wouldn't want to step on his toes, if he's already been hired to protect you, or whatever your relationship is."

It hit her suddenly—the unusual amount of hostility and protectiveness coming from Ralof—that he was jealous. It was ridiculous, but the more she thought about it, the more it made sense. She knew Vorstag couldn't have feelings for her, but Ralof wouldn't know that. And Ralof must still be entertaining some sort of feelings for her, or he wouldn't be immediately jealous of Vorstag. She had forgotten all about her plans to practice seduction since discovering Vorstag wouldn't be interested, but it was obvious now that Ralof was interested. And she knew how kind and gentle he was towards her. Aye, he'd be a perfect test subject. She smiled to herself, glad that she still had those phials she kept secreted away in one of her many hidden pockets. That particular potion was tricky to brew, and as far as she knew only Bothela could brew it. She'd take one right after her bath and before supper; Bothela said one potion would last a month, or until her next cycle. Then tonight she would flirt with Ralof and see where things may lead.

"Well, that hasn't changed," he sighed.

She ducked her head coyly, knowing immediately what he was referencing, "I was lost in thought, wasn't I." It wasn't so much a question as an admittance. "Excuse me, Ralof, it's just that, well, I was trying to think of what to say, because, well, Vorstag, he's just, ya know, just a friend, nothing more." She looked up at him, a funny sort of expression on her face, like she was trying to tell him something without words. "He's with me because we're friends, our fighting styles compliment each other, and he likes to travel. But there's nothing more than that. He… he wouldn't… be interested in… me, ya know?"

Ralof looked like he wanted to understand her, and she was about to give up and just say it—Vorstag's reputation be damned—when his eyes lit up. His jaw dropped, and he looked at the door, as if he could still see Vorstag there, and then back at her, then stuttered, "So… the two of you… just traveling… together… you never…"

She shook her head. "We slept next to each other a couple of times in the mountains, to share bodily warmth, but he never so much as kissed me." There, that should reassure him. To continue her ploy, she reached up and pecked the short beard on his cheek, her cool hand pressed against the other. "But it's sweet of you to still have concern for my virtue."

As she pulled away, she saw the slight flush to his skin, and the difficult swallow that audibly spasmed through his throat. "Aye, well, I'll leave you to your bath. Excuse me."

"Ralof," his name on her lips paralyzed him, "Will you escort Vorstag and I to dinner?"

He nodded, not sure he could speak, and all but ran from the room, leaving the door wide open in his haste. She tilted her head, staring after his retreating form, not anticipating she would have had such an affect on him so quickly. She thought again of their harrowing escape from Helgen, and the months he spent as her personal guard here in Windhelm, and she supposed it wasn't too far fetched that he would respond so quickly to just a few little suggestions. Humming the tune Ulgaarth had always loved to sing, she left for the baths, her plans for the evening cementing as she walked.

Vorstag looked at the clothing draped over his arm, unsure what to do. "Er, thanks," he glanced up at Ralof, hating the heat he could feel stealing across his cheeks as well as the lisp stealing into his voice. "I've never had a need for a spare set of clothing before, but then I've never dined with a Jarl before. I'd've bought new armor, if I'd had the time…"

"Don't worry about it," Ralof waved the excuse aside, taking a closer look at the younger man. "This day has been full of surprises for all of us. Besides, we're nearly the same build, and I won't need to wear that if I'm in my armor, which I will be wearing whenever I'm on duty. I am Gerhild's personal guard whenever she is in Windhelm," he explained, watching some of the tenseness leave his shoulders. "I suppose I'll be your escort, too, not that you need the protection…"

"Neither does Gerhild," Vorstag countered with a smirk.

Ralof laughed, a little forced, "True. But it's a status thing. A lady shouldn't go around without an escort." He paused, watching Vorstag fidget nervously with the borrowed clothing, and deciding to make an effort to get to know the man before he judged him, "Ya know, I could show you around for the first few days, just until you get your bearings."

Vorstag nodded, not liking to ask for help, but thinking it wouldn't hurt to get to know Ralof. If he was also Gerhild's friend, it'd be a good idea to find out just how far their friendship had gone, just so he'd know what kind of competition he might be facing. "I'd appreciate that. I know Gerhild will have a lot of business to do with the Jarl, and won't have a lot of time to show me around, at least not at first."

Ralof held his forearm out, and Vorstag took it in a sure grip. "It's settled then. I'll show you around Windhelm these next few days while Gerhild is otherwise 'occupied'. How long are you planning to stay, do you know?"

Vorstag shook his head, walking down the hallway with him. "Nope. I know she has her business with Jarl Ulfric, and then she has some other business in Riverwood…"

"Riverwood?" Ralof asked, interested enough to stop him. "What's she gonna do there?"

"Oh, ah, ya know, stuff," Vorstag hedged, trying to think how much of Gerhild's other life he could reveal. He thought she had said Ralof knew she was Dragonborn, but then again maybe he didn't believe it, or something like that.

"I only ask," Ralof continued, "Because I'm from Riverwood."

"Oh, well, then, it has to do with her other business, ya know. The, ah, Dragonborn stuff." He had dropped his voice, not wanting the conversation overheard.

Ralof nodded, but a slightly disbelieving look was in his eyes. "Do…" he stopped suddenly again, shaking his head as he tried to think of what to say. "She said some strange things, the last time she was here. Have you seen her…?" he ended the question with a vague gesture of his hands.

Vorstag swallowed, "Aye."

He gave a funny sort of convulsive laugh, and then relaxed and threw his arm around Vorstag's shoulders. "After supper, we're going to the Candlehearth Hall for a few tankards of mead, and you're gonna tell me all about it. I'd ask her, but she embellishes it so much, it's hard to find it believable."

Vorstag nodded in understanding.

"Well, then, this is the bath," Ralof stopped them outside a door. "You'll find just about everything you need in there. I'll meet you back in your room when it's time to go down for supper."

"Thank you, Ralof," Vorstag smiled. He watched Ralof nod before leaving, and had to wonder to himself why he had suddenly grown friendly towards him. When they first met, Ralof had almost run him through without a word or thought. Then again, if their situations were reversed, and he had seen Ralof for the first time leaning over an unconscious Gerhild, he'd probably have reacted the same way.

He shook himself out of his musings, and tried the door to the bath. It was locked, which he took to mean someone was in there. He wondered if he should wait, or just forego waiting to use the bath in favor of washing at the basin in his room. He was just about to turn away when the door opened to reveal a slightly damp Gerhild.

"Oh!" she gave a start of surprise, having opened one door to find Vorstag standing as if he would make a second door. "Excuse me, if I'd known you were waiting, I wouldn't have taken so long."

Vorstag found himself staring at her, unwilling to look away. She was in a gown of red silk, the dark color darkening her hair from gold to bronze. Her skin was still flushed from the heat of the bath, her lips fuller and darker to match her gown. Her hair, held so often in such tightly woven and intricate braids, was loose and falling to her waist in a myriad of ringlets like a bronze waterfall. When he lifted his eyes to hers, however, all the warmth and color faded away into those two cool, deep pools of violet.

"I, ah, just got here," he finally answered. "Ralof was kind enough to lend me some clothes. Thought it'd be a good idea to get cleaned up before I put them on."

"Oh," she tilted her head and smiled, "That was nice of him." Her voice sounded a little surprised, as if he wouldn't normally have done such a considerate action, but he didn't have long to think on that as she stepped aside. "I'll let you get to it, then."

He pivoted on the spot, watching her walk away from him, her hips gently swaying beneath the rich fabric. He remembered all those nights on the road, when they had to sleep next to each other for warmth, how he had pressed up against her back, thankful that his modified codpiece kept his cock under control. Though well worth it in the long run, those had been long and uncomfortable nights, as this moment was turning out to be. He swallowed and limped awkwardly into the bath, wondering if he should keep that one part of his armor on underneath the leggings, at least until after supper.

He closed the door behind him, remembering to lock it, and surveyed the room. It was warm and cozy, the heated water lending itself to the atmosphere through steam. He stared at the raised pool in the center, and his mind immediately began wondering how the apparatus worked that continually refreshed the heated water. He knew Windhelm had been built by men, not Dwemer who had first discovered how to make such things work. Perhaps the men who built the palace knew something of Dwemer mechanics. He wanted to take the time to investigate it further, but knew he couldn't that evening.

Quickly he stripped out of his battered armor, leaving it in a grimy, lumpy pile on the floor, and walked up the steps to the pool. He hissed as he dipped a hand into the water, the temperature just hot enough to leave his skin red but not hot enough to burn. He looked around for some soap, figuring he may as well do things right, and spied a familiar lump of light purple on the far side of the bath. Gerhild had left her soap behind. With a cocky smile, he slipped into the waist-deep water and strode over to where it lay.

The bar was light in his hands. And smooth, smoother than the simple unscented soap he normally would use. He brought the bar to his nose, closed his eyes, and inhaled the light scent of lavender. An image suddenly fleshed-out in his mind's eye, Gerhild standing where he was standing, the water lapping at her waist much as it lapped at his hips, her long fingers stroking the purple block over her skin. He jerked his head back and opened his eyes, the thought of what that bar had just touched mere moments before too arousing to comprehend. Yet he couldn't—or wouldn't—stop himself from taking that same bar and running it over his own skin, stroking his chest, drawing circles around his abdominals, following the trail of hair to where it joined the thick patch at the base of his cock.

By the Nine, he could hardly catch his breath. He never should have touched her soap, much less thought of what it had touched, and set the block deliberately on the rim of the bath. The damage was done, however, his shaft painfully thick and dripping. He needed a few private minutes, just to take the edge off, but didn't think he could make it all the way back to his bedchamber. He groaned, crouching in the hot water to wash his hair, barely keeping himself from ripping out the strands in frustration. Opening his eyes under the surface, he followed the swirling current of dirty water towards the drain in the bottom, an idea forming in his head. He could do it, perhaps; it wouldn't take long, with how close he already felt. And the dirty water was continually replaced with clean, fresh water, so any evidence of his episode would be flushed away. He lifted his head above the surface, reassured himself that the door was still locked, and let one hand trail down between his legs.

His hand wrapped around his cock, stroking it slightly. He didn't pull too far, not wanting to catch and drag along the sensitive skin, merely rubbing it up and down in small movements—small, tight movements. It was over embarrassingly quick, due no doubt to his closing his eyes and bringing back that imagined image of Gerhild and her soap. One day, he promised himself, he'd have to try fulfilling that fantasy. He opened his eyes, feeling a little less tense, and watched the come wash down the drain.

"Honestly, Vorstag, you look fine. Stop fidgeting." Gerhild felt like she was scolding a child, and he looked like one, freshly bathed and clothed as if being presented for the first time to a doddering great-aunt. He kept tugging at the hem of his tunic, trying to pull it lower, and then lifting one hand to run nervously through his freshly washed hair. She had to admit, it looked fuller now that it was cleaned, like it did the night of her party in Markarth. She had to suppress the smile, however, when he had first walked up to her, the smell of her lavender soap not quite agreeing with his natural masculine scent. She thought juniper would be a more fitting scent for him, something clean and cool that would remind her of the mountains around Markarth, and resolved to get him his own bar of soap as soon as she had the time.

"It feels drafty," he mumbled, still trying to pull the hem lower, though it already reached to mid-thigh. His thoughts dwelling on his activity in the bath, he was afraid everyone would be able to tell what he had done, and what he was still thinking about, without his normal protection of armor. He wondered how—or why—any man would walk around so open and vulnerable. "And I want to make a good impression. Never been given the title of 'Sir' before."

"Don't become too attached to it," she murmured, as they were approaching the main hall that served as Ulfric's throne room as well as dining room. "Jarl Ulfric takes away titles as easily as he gives them."

Ralof coughed from her other side, uncomfortably shifting his shoulders, remembering the pain of the whip striking his back. Though he didn't want to say anything disloyal about his Jarl, he did offer his own quiet utterance, "Aye."

Vorstag looked at them, the question on his lips, but the door to the main hall opened and Jorleif greeted them warmly.

"Lady Gerhild, Sir Vorstag," he also seemed amused by the distinct title, if the smile hidden beneath his mustache was anything to go by, "Captain Ralof. We've been waiting for you."

"Not too long, I hope," Gerhild smoothly took the lead, stepping forward from between her two escorts to take Jorleif's offered arm. She continued as he walked her to the table, set out with what amounted to nothing less than a feast. "I know I'm a tiny bit late, but this hair of mine is so difficult to manage some days. After undoing the braids to wash it, I just didn't have the energy or the time to braid it again." She gave the dark gold tresses a little shake, the two men walking behind her each privately enjoying the play of highlights, like sunlight plummeting down a waterfall.

"No worries, my dear, no worries," he patted her hand on his arm before leaving her at her chair between Ulfric and Galmar on the Jarl's right. They had already been seated, neither man rising as she took her seat, Ulfric because he outranked her, and Galmar because he didn't know of the social mannerism. The other three men walked around to sit opposite her, Vorstag finding himself in the middle and across from Galmar.

Dinner was even more uncomfortable than the tunic, Vorstag decided, not used to having to adhere to social graces. He followed Gerhild's lead as much as he could, thankful that she was on the opposite side of the table where he had a clear view of which utensil to use for what. He noticed that Galmar had no manners at all, a marked contrast to Ulfric's measured and deliberate habits. Jorleif at least seemed normal, and Ralof just as nervous and out of his depth as he felt, which made him feel immensely better, if not a little bit closer to the Captain.

"Do you find your accommodations to your liking?" Jorleif asked, sounding like he wanted to be solicitous, but only making Vorstag feel at the center of attention as every eye turned to him.

"Ah, oh, aye, just fine, I suppose," he took a sip of wine to stop his nervous babble. "But you needn't have bothered going through such trouble for me. I could have gotten a room at the Candlehearth Hall. No offense, but I prefer the atmosphere of an inn to a palace, anyway."

"But I'd prefer it if you remained near me," she said, catching his eye. "I've grown used to your company. Besides, I want to make sure you don't get into any trouble here in Windhelm."

He ducked his head, knowing she knew exactly what he had been thinking about, "Spoil sport."

"I don't get it," Galmar's voice sounded slightly bewildered. "What sort of trouble would he get into?"

"Vorstag and Rolff have an outstanding wager on a fist fight," she explained, "And I'd rather they didn't get the opportunity."

"A hundred septims is a lot of money," he protested somewhat pathetically. "I could buy a set of steel boots and maybe some gauntlets with that much coin."

"That's only if you could take my brother," Galmar laughed, gesturing with a drumstick. "Ralof, keep an eye on this one. And if he should happen to meet up with Rolff again, put fifty on my brother."

Vorstag laughed, rich and confident, "I'll cover that bet."

She sighed, "Men," earning a laugh from all of them, other than Ulfric who had remained silent throughout the meal, watching everyone with his sabre cat gaze. She tried to ignore him, thinking instead how well Ralof and Vorstag were appearing to get along.

"So, when did you meet Rolff?" Galmar asked, using his hands to dig into a pheasant breast.

Vorstag felt the heat rising to his cheeks, and damned his lack of confidence or whatever it was that caused the constant blushing. Gerhild spoke for him, thinking she was coming to his rescue, which only served to heighten his discomfort. "It was just as we came through the gates," she rolled her eyes. "Rolff and Angrenor were up to their usual tricks, pestering Suvaris Atheron this time. I tried to explain to Vorstag that it was harmless and to not get involved, but before I knew it he was nose to nose with Rolff, and, I believe, Vorstag challenged first."

"I only told him he was a bully for picking on a woman half his size, and that he couldn't handle a real fight. He's the one who bet a hundred septims he could take me." He frowned down at his plate as he tried to defend himself.

Galmar laughed, completely unperturbed that someone would insult a member of his family. "Ya know, it would serve that hothead right if you did manage to knock him flat. So what happened? Why didn't you two fight it out right away?"

Gerhild gave a little cough. "Well, that's where things get a bit fuzzy for me."

"Rolff threw a punch at me," he explained, only feeling better because she was the one now looking foolish, "Only she was still between us, trying to break it up. Stepped right into it. Never saw it coming."

"Just like a woman," Galmar smirked, "Sticking her nose in where it doesn't belong."

Gerhild winced, feeling the movements of Galmar's suppressed chuckles beside her. She gave in to the humor of the situation, glad at least that no one was taking offense, and rubbed at her chin, "Aye, now I know why your family name is Stone-Fist."

He gave up trying to stifle his laughter, slapping the table with glee. "Be glad you didn't get that punch, my boy, or you'd be out a hundred septims."

He shook his head. "No way. I could take him easily."

"Hmm, Ralof, if those two do meet up, come and get me. I'd like to see that firsthand."

"I'd like to know why you were wearing armor, Lady Gerhild," Jorleif spoke up, trying to change the subject for her benefit. "Surely you didn't travel all the way here from Markarth on foot?"

"Ah, well," she paused to dab her linen napkin at the corners of her bow-shaped mouth, "Technically, I suppose you could say that. I hadn't intended to, but I lost one horse to a bandit attack, and the other to an injured housecarl. And we had to swing around by way of Morthal, so, aye, it was quite a trip, and we needed protection for some of it."

"Morthal? What were you doing in that gods-forsaken swampland?"

She turned to answer Galmar's question, "I had to visit Ustengrav…"

"The Horn of Jurgen Windcaller," Ulfric's deep voice spoke for the first time that evening, though his expression remained carefully frozen in a look of neutrality. She nearly snapped her neck to look back at him, sitting at the head of the table, caught off guard for the second time that day at his speaking out of turn. After a moment's consideration, she realized she shouldn't have been surprised. She had been given the task by the Greybeards, and Ulfric had spent years studying at High Hrothgar when he was a boy. Of course he would know about the tales and legends. "Do you have it?"

"Ah, well, that's somewhat awkward, but no." She saw the disappointment cross his features at her admittance of failure, short-lived but deep, and she found herself explaining quickly about the note they found on Jurgen's crypt.

"But you were there," Jorleif asked, almost reverently, "In his tomb? What was it like?"

Vorstag groaned, "Painful. There were mages and bandits we had to fight outside, and Draugrs inside."

"Don't forget about the locked doors and pressure plates," she added. "There was one room filled with flame spurting tiles, almost too thick to walk through without setting them off. In fact," she paused to take a breath, and Vorstag groaned again, "Vorstag couldn't get through that room at all. I'm sure you saw the state of his armor, almost everything that wasn't metal burned away."

"So, how did you get through?" Ralof asked, curious enough to speak up despite being at supper with his Jarl.

He reached for his goblet, but answered before Gerhild could, "Just said 'to Oblivion with it' and ran. Gerhild followed behind casting a healing spell, or I'd've been dead half-way through."

Galmar looked at the man with renewed respect. "You've got balls, boy, I'll give you that, or at least you did before that trapped room, eh?"

"Still got them," he shrugged, feeling the heat steal back into his cheeks at his tongue-in-cheek joke, "Or I wouldn't have challenged the brother of the Jarl's housecarl."

Galmar roared this time, and even Jorleif had to give in to a chuckle. The steward cleared his throat and leaned around Vorstag to look at Ralof, "Captain, put me down for fifty on Vorstag here. I don't think Rolff could put out enough punishment to defeat him."

"I'll cover that bet!" Galmar stuck out his hand across the table, starting a bit of a betting war. Gerhild sat quietly through it all, realizing that she'd never be able to keep the two apart. Well, if no one really objected to it, and Vorstag wasn't going to get thrown in jail over it, she supposed what the men wanted to do with their free time and gold was their own business.

After the cheering and wagering died down, Vorstag felt more relaxed and confident around the other men. He ventured a question he might not have before, "So, why was your brother bothering that Dunmer woman?"

"What?" Galmar blinked at him a moment before shrugging and returning to his meal. "Oh, Atheron? I'm sure he had his reasons."

"I don't mean to be insulting," he pressed, and Gerhild was unable to reach him to kick him beneath the table. She raised an eyebrow instead, but he decidedly ignored her, "But it looked unnecessary to me, two Nord men bullying one Dunmer woman. And accusing her of treason."

"It isn't treason," Ulfric spoke again, his rich voice rolling down from the head of the table and sending a shiver down Gerhild's spine. At the questioning look from Vorstag's face, he elaborated. "I've known for some time that Suvaris Atheron has been acting suspicious. I had someone look into it a few months ago. Seems she's negotiating some shady dealings with pirates, disrupting trade for the East Empire Company. Nothing I need to concern myself about."

"That can't be good for the city," Vorstag continued, oblivious to the political tightrope he was walking.

"I think what he means…" she tried to head him off, but he spoke over her.

"I know what I mean. Disrupting trade, encouraging piracy, that's not good for the economy. Skyrim is already in an economic slump because of the Civil War. I know the Reach suffers more than the other holds, thanks to the addition of bandit raids on caravans and trouble with the Forsworn." He was keeping eye contact with Ulfric, only now thinking he may have stuck his foot in it, but it was too late to back down. "Just saying, it might be better to stop this before it gets out of hand, and the price of mead jumps to fifty septims a tankard."

Ulfric didn't listen to Galmar's scoff that mead could ever be so expensive. He held the younger man's gaze, weighing his character, plans and strategies forming within the depths of his mind. "Perhaps," he allowed, the single word falling with a judgment that ended the conversation.

Ralof had been quiet through most of the evening, always feeling out of place at the main table whenever he had been asked to dine there. Listening to Vorstag state his opinion so clearly made him reconsider yet again the man beside him. He had been thinking more and more on Gerhild's words, that Vorstag wouldn't find her interesting, especially when he picked him up for dinner and a light smell of lavender reached his nostrils. He thought it meant Gerhild was already there, but when he saw that Vorstag was alone, he realized the flowery scent was coming from him.

Vorstag was the oddest man he'd yet met. On the one hand, he felt comfortable challenging a stranger to a fistfight or challenging the judgment of a Jarl. On the other hand, he was fussy about his appearance and used lavender scented soap. Either way, he decided it didn't matter, as Gerhild obviously didn't have feelings for Vorstag.

"I believe it is time to retire," Ulfric rose from his chair, signaling the end of the meal, whether or not the others had taken their fill. Gerhild set her glass aside and rose, intending to round the table after Ulfric had passed and have a few words with Vorstag. Ralof beat her to him, much to her annoyance, offering to buy the first round at the Candlehearth. Vorstag quickly agreed, and shoulder-to-shoulder the two men headed out of the palace. Neither one had so much as glanced at her before they left. A tiny furrow briefly flashed across her brow, and she barely acknowledged either Galmar or Jorleif as they bade her good night.

Damn, she had taken that nasty tasting concoction of Bothela's for no reason. She swallowed, the rich wine and richer dinner having done nothing to take away the memory of the taste. Well, at least the potion would remain effective for a couple of weeks yet. There would be plenty of opportunities for her to get Ralof into her bed. Feeling reassured, she quietly let a breath out through her nose and turned away from the main door.

And turned right into Ulfric's chest.

Chapter Text

Ulfric had watched Gerhild all evening, her dark gold hair soft and loose, the same way her mother had worn her hair. Maeganna never styled her hair, except for the simple braid she'd wear during a battle, preferring to allow her hair to flow freely down her back. He could still remember the scent of it, and the weight, as his fingers would play and twist the thick strands during their lovemaking. He used to spread the tresses over her shoulders like a cloak, caressing her skin beneath the silken sheet, feeling her body respond to his touch through the mass of waves.

He pulled his mind to the present, reminding himself it was Gerhild who sat at his right, not her mother. Gerhild, who had nearly lost her head at Helgen, who had become Thane of Whiterun and Markarth, and who was… Dragonborn…? He had scoffed when she first told him what she could do, what the Greybeards were teaching her. He thought she was embellishing, trying to make herself look competent and formidable beyond her tender age. It was ridiculous. He couldn't believe that the gods would send a child to Nirn in time to face the World-Eater.

Yet that is exactly what the gods had done. He had heard the stories beginning to spread, of the young Nord woman who fought a dragon outside Whiterun, and again not far from Rorikstead, and absorbed their souls, who called herself Dragonborn. There was a third story, this time taking place just north of Markarth, though the Dragonborn was now covering her face to hide her features. He had begun to believe it, that she, Gerhild, the daughter of Maeganna, was truly Dragonborn.

This young child, this girl who should have been his daughter, this consummate actress and talented spy. He had watched her closely through the meal, and the subtle expressions that played across her features. Not the overt laughter nor the bosom-heaving sighs, but the slight raise of an eyebrow or the brief tick in her left eye. These hidden mannerisms where her true feelings, and he found himself wondering what had caused her to bury these feelings so deeply that only a mere glimpse of them could ever be seen.

He was so preoccupied that he hadn't noticed he had stepped up to Gerhild, until she turned around and nearly ran into his chest. The surprise on her face was expressed within a single raised eyebrow and a slight parting of her bow shaped lips, the signs already easily read by him. No, she hadn't been expecting him to be standing there, and truthfully he hadn't expected it either. Still, he was the first to recover.

"You seemed so lost in thought," he began, deciding to express a sort of excuse for his unexpected closeness, "That I didn't feel it right to disturb you." After Galmar and Jorleif left, he had noticed her failed attempt to reach her hireling before he left. He had watched enchanted while the minuscule expressions flashed across the otherwise blank canvas of her face as she pondered her deep thoughts.

"My Jarl," she inclined her head, observing that only the two of them remained in the main hall other than the patrolling guards, "I should apologize on Vorstag's behalf. He's a straightforward sort of man, used to giving honest opinions, and sometimes when they're not asked for."

Ulfric made a rumbling sound somewhat close to a laugh, and his eyes flashed briefly, amused by her attempt to protect her hireling, and he wondered if there was more between them. "It is of no consequence. I only have problems with those who refuse to obey orders, not those who voice dissenting opinions. Why do you think I listen to Jorleif? The man continually annoys me, with his soft and peace-filled thoughts, but he reminds me that there are those who do not share my goals or that which drives me, and those people and their opinions are just as relevant as mine."

"Then I am glad I brought him with me."

"As am I." He took a moment, another self-indulgent moment to sweep her form, enjoying the darkness of her dress and the way it reflected onto her skin. He would like to think he was making her blush maidenly, but he knew better; she was not a woman who felt desire, and the days when he could flirt and woo a girl were long gone. Holding his elbow out, he offered, "I find my thoughts are too restless just yet for sleep. Would you care to join me for a glass or two before retiring?"

There was a hesitation, almost over before it started, as she glanced to his offered elbow. Then the mask slipped back in place, and she was Lady Gerhild North-Wind once more. "I find myself unable to think of sleep just yet as well, since I had quite a nap this afternoon. I would be delighted to keep you company," she dropped her gaze with her knee, her curtsy gracious and demure. As unaware of his intentions as he was, she settled her hand in the crook of his arm, allowing him to lead her from the main hall.

They walked the corridors and stairs in silence, their footfalls echoing softly amongst the ancient stonework, their minds adjoined in quiet thoughts. Amazing they were thinking along the same lines as, after they entered Ulfric's chambers, he asked about the very man she had been thinking. "How long have you known Vorstag?"

He could tell she was surprised he had been thinking about Vorstag, as one delicate eyebrow rose to reflect this. "Since my first day in Markarth," she began. He could feel her eyes on him as he walked over to a table set off to the side. He poured two glasses from the pitcher left there, and raised one to her as she continued, "I sort of got mixed up in something as soon as I walked into the city. A man named Weylin took out a dagger and tried to kill a woman named Margret, right there in the middle of the marketplace in broad daylight."

The names sounded familiar to him. "I remember you mentioned something of the sort in an earlier letter," he thought of the frequent reports she had sent him, keeping him updated on her progress. Taking a sip of the dark gold liquid, he listened to her story.

"Well, after saving Margret, I quickly discovered myself embroiled in the middle of something way over my head. I needed a local, someone who knew the people and places and politics and such. The neighborhood tavern was the likely place to start looking. I spoke with the tavern keeper for a bit, but there was this man off to the side who kept listening in on my conversation. After I ordered a mug of mead, I looked around the room and took the measure of everyone there. The man who had been listening in, Vorstag, was sitting by the hearth trying not to look at me." She shrugged, "He was a Nord, he was a local, and he liked me. He seemed like the best choice."

"I don't quite follow your reasoning," Ulfric commented, amused by the way her mind worked. He watched her take a sip of the Black-Briar Reserve, a distilled version of mead, and saw a slight crease form across her brow. She recognized the drink, and with deliberate movements she set it aside, wary of its potency. He hid his smile behind his goatee and the rim of his own glass.

Gerhild held up her other hand and began ticking points off on her fingers. "The man who wanted me to help him, Eltrys, was a Breton and obviously biased. I needed someone honest, unbiased, and non-Breton, so I looked for a Nord." The second finger raised as she said, "I also needed someone who knew the area and the people who lived in Markarth, so I looked for someone who acted like he lived there and knew the city well." She held up a third finger, "And I wanted someone who would be loyal to me, and protect me, so I looked for someone who liked me, thinking the attraction would help influence him. Vorstag was obviously trying not to look at me, so just as obviously he felt some interest in me." She paused to pick up her glass again. "It turns out, I chose a little too well."

"Oh?" he turned the sound into a question, genuinely curious, wondering again if there was something between her and the sellsword.

She had taken another sip and had to ether swallow quickly or spit the liquid back into the glass. She chose to swallow, choked a little, and had to back away before Ulfric decided to pat her back. She was more wary of his heavy hands than she was of choking. "Excuse me. Aye, Vorstag liked me so much he started protecting me, so much so that he actually hindered my investigation at first. It took quite a bit of intimidation before he finally began to open up and talk with me about Markarth and the Forsworn." She left out Cidhna Mine; Ulfric didn't need to know of Vorstag's own experience in the mine unless he told him. She had already related her experience, dry and brief and vague, in one of her many reports.

"So, there is something between the two of you," he concluded. The next moment he was amazed at her laughter, light and gentle, though no part of the humor showed in her eyes.

"Aye, friendship," she allowed.

"Nothing… romantic," he pressed.

She felt it was an opportune moment to roll her eyes but didn't, deciding to keep the mood tonight more mature. He watched her stare into her glass as she sought to find the right words. "Vorstag… prefers the dagger to the sheathe."

He smiled a little at the discreet way she put it. He had deduced quite a bit of the young man's character this evening, the smallest clue a blazing beacon in Ulfric's experienced eyes. Vorstag had been protective of her as she recovered from being knocked unconscious, not uncommon for a hireling, but most would have looked to their own welfare and distanced themselves in a situation like that. He had been nervous and uncomfortable at dinner; the hasty bathing using her borrowed soap and Ralof's borrowed clothes made it obvious that he didn't dine with Jarls every night. Yet he had been willing to suffer tonight because she had asked it of him. "Are you sure?" he asked, thinking few men would put up with such pains unless deeper feelings and motives were involved.

"As sure as I can be," she shrugged, "Without a dagger of my own to test it." When he didn't answer, she added, "In the mountains we spent several nights, sleeping close together for warmth. Never once did I feel any sort of… reaction… from him to having our bodies so close together."

Ulfric could well imagine how to keep such reactions hidden, but kept this to himself. He decided that regardless of what Vorstag felt, Gerhild held no feeling for him, if she held any feelings at all. He made some sort of noncommittal sound, a deep and gravely sigh or hum, and allowed the matter to drop.

He watched her, holding her glass with both hands, standing straight and tall as she faced him. Her visage was so like her mother's that it made his heart ache. Maeganna, the only woman he ever loved. Maeganna, who had nearly birthed him an heir. That woman had been on his mind repeatedly tonight, ever since he had heard Gerhild was back, hurt and recovering in her room. He had rushed to see her, finding her standing in steel plate armor, her posture ready for battle, a stance so like her mother's… He had to physically turn away to pull his eyes off of her before he said or did something foolish. "Forgive me, but I have forgotten my manners. Would you care to sit?" he gestured to the chairs set near each other, tucked away in a cozy corner.

She didn't answer, but he could sense her following him to the chairs. He took his favored seat with his back to the corner, the cushions worn from all the other restless nights he had spent drinking or pacing or thinking. How many of those nights now lay behind him, the time non-reclaimable? He didn't want to think of it, knowing his days were more than halfway gone, even more so if he continued to lead his men in battle. And after his death, after he was gone, regardless if he ever managed to achieve sovereignty for Skyrim, his own hold of Windhelm would be without a Jarl, his line ended. In his youth, this goal, this dream of throwing out the Thalmor and freeing Skyrim from tyranny, had seemed worth the risk. Now as his years began to weigh equally heavy on his body and soul, he wished again he had managed to take Maeganna as his wife, regardless of her social status.

Yet he knew he could have done nothing other than what he did, even if he had known the consequences. He was driven, driven by his hatred of the Thalmor, driven by the unholy outlawing of Talos worship, driven by the unjust tyranny of a crumbling Empire already bowing to Thalmor masters…

"You appear troubled," Gerhild's cool voice broke into his thoughts, blowing away his dark mood like a gentle spring breeze. He smiled, a little but he made the effort to hold it, and lifted his face to hers.

"Don't mind me. I find I grow remorseful when it's late at night, and I'm alone in my chambers with nothing to do but think of the past."

She set aside her glass, and leaned over to lay her hands on his wrists. "You are not alone, nor are you without distraction." She straightened up a little as she pouted, "Or is my presence undesired?"

He laughed again, a little rueful, as he recognized the clumsy and unpracticed ploy. Once he would have pretended to fall for her unschooled charms, but now he knew better. "You would play with me, Gerhild? I wouldn't advise it. Most women find me an unsavory conquest."

She frowned. First of all, she didn't like being read so easily; only Vorstag could have read her intentions any clearer, though she would never have used such a ploy with him. And secondly, she didn't like the deprecating way he referred to himself. Ulfric acted as if he was obsessively depressed, perhaps suicidal. The thought of Eastmarch and the Stormcloaks leaderless sent a chill down her spine. If he wasn't here to fight against the Thalmor, she had no one to hold at her side. "Please, Ulfric," she pronounced his name the way Galmar did, the way Maeganna had, "Please, don't crumble on me. I need your strength, or mine will disappear and I'll be left at the mercy of the wind."

He looked up at her, saw the cool violet depths of her eyes appearing black in the candlelight, the pupils dilated with wine and dim lighting. He moved a hand to cover one of hers, without dislodging her other hand, and said, "Gerhild, my dear girl, you should not build your house on such an infirm foundation as another man. We are all fallible, all feeble. Look to yourself to find your strength, not to me."

"Are you so feeble," she challenged, her voice incongruously gentle, "Or so imperfect, my Jarl?"

"Do not call the that!" his anger flared before even he could notice it. To cover his embarrassment, as well as his simmering emotions, he disentangled their hands and stood, pacing towards the fire. He leaned his hands against the mantle, staring down into the flames, his braids falling forwards to hide his face. Her expression had been so shocked at his outburst, so open for once, he knew he had hurt her. He didn't want that, not tonight, not ever. "Out there, I am Ulfric, Jarl of Windhelm, leader of the Stormcloaks, Liberator of Skyrim. In here," he turned to her, one arm dropping from the mantle to gesture to himself, his eyes earnestly seeking understanding, "In this chamber, I am merely Ulfric, a man, no more, no less."

She had endured his anger, weathered its storm and the gentle breeze of explanation that followed. When she spoke, her words surprised him. "Well, that mystery is solved." At his bewildered expression, she stood and walked towards him, explaining, "I've noticed that Galmar pronounces your name with a double 'o'—Oolfric—the same as my parents called you. Yet everyone else pronounces your name with a 'u' sound. I've been wondering what you prefer, how you pronounce it. Now I know."

He looked at her for one moment longer, wanting to laugh, but he was too tired, too worn down by the day's troubles and everyone looking to him for leadership, for answers, for direction. And now, it seemed, Gerhild did as well. He was too weary of that. "Regardless, Gerhild, I am no stronger than the next. I am merely a man, weak, imperfect, unstable."

"Perhaps so, most of the time," she allowed, stopping in front of him. "But for one moment, one bitter moment in my young life, I needed a cornerstone, a guiding light, an anchor in the sea of chaos that threatened to drown me. My life was in shambles. My simple errand of delivering my father's message landed me in the back of a wagon on the way to my execution. As if to mock me, fate set the very man to whom I was to deliver the message, bound and gagged beside me." She placed her long, cool fingers against the edge of his jaw, holding his gaze with a gentle grip. "I could have spoken to you then, but it would be too late, too impersonal, too brutal a deliverance. Bitterness I felt, aye, I was overwhelmed by it. And pain. And anguish. And more emotions than I care to even attempt to remember. I looked up at you, at your face, and knew that you recognized me for my parentage. And I saw your calm acceptance, your strength, to face death with bravery, even if bound and gagged and led to it like trussed up wild game. I admit it frightened me, to look at the headsman's block and know my neck would soon be gracing it. I didn't want to die, but I didn't want to show weakness, either. I looked to you, as a touchstone, to show me how to be strong, how to be brave. I didn't know you had a plan to turn the tables on your abductors. I only knew that I wanted to face my death—my defeat—with the same strength and forbearance as you."

"You give me too much honor," he reaffirmed, his jaw moving against her hand, the hair of his beard brushing at the sensitive skin of her wrist. "Worship a god, not another man."

She tilted her head, a mischievous smile playing at the corner of her mouth. "Was not your god, the one whose worship you safeguard, once a man? Talos. Tiber Septim. Ysmir." She let go of his head to clutch at her neck, drawing out her amulet by its chain. "Besides, if it's any god I worship, it's Stuhn."

He saw the horn, the symbol of Stendarr, and understood her intent. "You wear Stendarr's amulet, but give him his proper name. Stuhn, the Shield-thane of Shor, the Apologist of Man, the God of Ransom," the fingers of one hand reached up to stroke the amulet nestled just above her cleavage, "And Enemy of the Aldmeri. Fitting."

She was grateful that he understood. No one else had quite realized what she meant by wearing Stendarr's amulet. Most thought she was of one mind with the Vigilants of Stendarr, rooting out Daedra worshipers, vampires, werewolves and the like. But Ulfric understood. He remembered the old teachings, the Ancient Nordic worship, that Stuhn had shown man how to fight the Aldmeri. That race was extinct, but the Thalmor claimed to be descendants, and she was against the Thalmor.

Just as Ulfric was against the Thalmor.

For the first time in so long her eyes shone, overflowing with the words she couldn't say, the meanings she couldn't convey. She felt his fingers touch the amulet, and then spread out from it and touch her through the fabric of her dress. Her body gave a little shudder, something she hadn't expected, and it shocked her into stillness, like a doe startled by a strange sound in the woods.

Ulfric let his fingers touch the amulet, allowing them to slip off it and touch her, telling himself it was accidental. But he felt something beneath the fabric, something that even his toughened and calloused hands could sense. He walked his fingers up to the neck of her dress, and when his flesh touched hers, she gave a shudder of desire. He saw the startled look on her face, stronger than anything genuine he'd yet seen, and knew he had somehow awakened the deeply buried emotions to bring them closer to the surface. There was something in him, amazingly, that aroused her.

He hadn't affected a woman in such a way for years, and even before then there had only been Maeganna. And that was because she had been able to see past everything—every title or blemish or action—to find the man beneath. When they first met, she had seen the young man capable and ready to prove himself, not the sheltered Jarl's son who would be the ultimate sexual conquest for any woman aspiring to elevate her status. And after his imprisonment, the state and scars in which the Thalmor left him were far too ugly for anyone to find attractive. Yet she had seen past the prisoner or victim, seen past the damages and changes. She had seen Ulfric, the man she loved—she still loved.

When his thirst for revenge drove him insane, when he fought recklessly to redeem himself, when he willingly gave in to the berserker's rage and reveled in the gore and blood and death, it had been Maeganna's gentle touch, Maeganna's dark blue eyes that cooled his fevered madness. Without her love, he doubted he would have survived the rest of the Great War.

Now her daughter stood before him, her own destiny driving her into a kind of madness. He wondered if he could return the favor, save Gerhild as Maeganna had saved him. She already looked to him for guidance, for an example of how to act and survive. And it was obvious that she wanted this, or she wouldn't have agreed to come to his chambers so late at night, she wouldn't have tried clumsily to flirt with him, she wouldn't have responded to his touch despite the coldness she had wrapped around her heart.

He pulled gently at the neck of her dress, curious and yet knowing what he would find, having felt the raised ridge through the silk. Not far from the edge of fabric lay a scar, long and jagged, marring her otherwise creamy skin. Again he thought of a woman's vanity, the modest change in her style of clothing now explained. He looked at the length of the scar, how it crossed her chest to disappear somewhere beneath what was yet covered by her dress, and wondered how far it reached. "How did you get this?" he asked, fairly sure the scar hadn't been there on her first visit to Windhelm.

Her voice was husky as she answered, "Drascua, the Hagraven at Dead Crone Rock."

"I'm surprised she made it through your armor." He heard the tone in her voice, the cool clearness replaced by a deep throatiness. She was ready; whether she understood it or not, whether she intended it or not, her body was taking over from her mind. He could hear it in her voice, feel it through her clothing, see it in her flushed skin. Aye, it would be so simple, their bodies already so close together, and his latent member awakening from its long slumber. He could bed her tonight.

She found her mind sluggish, her body flooding it with so many novel sensations and signals that she couldn't process it all. She licked her bow-shaped lips, buying herself time, as she struggled to answer. "I, ah, wasn't wearing steel plate armor at the time. I had a set of leather armor, lightweight, quiet when I moved, lots of pouches. I was wearing that armor when we cleared out the Forsworn and confronted Drascua. Her talon cut through it like it wasn't even there." She paused, feeling his fingers trace up and down the length of it, each time pulling her neckline a little lower. "That's when I decided to study Restoration Magic, healing, specifically. Healing potions are all well and good, but magic doesn't leave behind any scars."

His fingers had been toying with her breast through the silk, feeling the nipple harden as his palm brushed against it, unable to help enjoying the fact that he could after years of self-imposed celibacy still affect a woman's body. He lifted his gaze up from her chest, his fingers following. They paused at her mouth while he continued upwards to her eyes. "Vanity and womanhood. You don't want any scars to show," he challenged, his fingers stroking the corner of her mouth, "Like this one here."

"Some scars I mind, aye, and would remove them if I found a way." Her lips brushed against his fingertips as she spoke, the sensation almost tickling. Her eyes held his as she took his hands and brought them around to her back. Standing before him, wrapping his arms around her body, she commanded him to touch her. "There are other scars I will never give up. These scars drive me. These scars define me. These scars remind me of my purpose, my goal. Until the Thalmor are gone from Skyrim, until the Thalmor are diminished, I will wear them with pride."

His hands were behind her now, caressing her body through her dress, trying not to get tangled in her tresses. He needed to feel those scars she spoke of so proudly. It was like a hunger, a thirst, a dearth of soul that demanded to be filled. To know, to learn, that another shared such pain as his, such unrelenting compulsion, chasing her to her doom as it chased him to his. His thick fingers fumbled with the laces until he growled in frustration and ripped the fabric.

Then his hands were there, touching her cool skin blanketed by her mane, absently noting that she didn't wear any sort of smallclothes. He felt the random pattern of crisscrossed lines that covered her back. She had suffered at Thalmor hands, he knew that, but he hadn't truly understood to what extent. As he watched her tremble in his grip, he knew she was virginal. Not that she hadn't experienced the act, but she had never desired it for herself. Not until this night. Not until he touched her. Remorsefully it aroused him to see that she had chosen him to be the one to deflower her already plucked petals. He stared into the deep violet pools of her eyes, watching a ripple of current run across as his hands traced each and every scar.

Every man has his breaking point. He had been foolish in his youth to think he did not, but the Thalmor had taught him better. It had taken so long that time became meaningless, but he had broken. To his never-ending shame he had given the Thalmor the information they needed to take Imperial City. He escaped shortly afterwards, and tried to reclaim his honor, to fight bravely and distinguish himself, but the damage had been done. He gave secrets to the enemy, even though under duress, and that made him a traitor.

He moved his hands further across her back, inside her dress, molding her body against his own. She had been tortured, as well. The pain and humiliation she had endured he could not bring himself to imagine. Though her incarceration had only lasted three days, it had been enough to break her. He could see the shattered remains of the young Nord girl within the shell of Lady Gerhild, cool and detached, yet desperate to heal, desperate to progress, desperate to feel. And he had unknowingly provided the impetus to that which kept her alive and moving towards her goal—her hatred of the Thalmor.

His hatred of the Thalmor.

His lips descended onto hers, warm and strong against her unpracticed coolness. He thought of the things she could do, the power she was learning to control, and imagined a world where the Thalmor ran from her Thu'um. And she could do it, with a little guidance, guidance that he could give her. The Greybeards would never approve of it, believing the Way of the Voice should only be used to worship Kyne, the deity who gave man knowledge of the Thu'ums. Yet if that were true, then why did this Dragonborn appear at the same time as Alduin? No, her fate, her terrible doom, was tied with the reappearance of dragons. She would need to grow her power, to learn to use it, and he could use this need to bind her to him.

Then, after the dragons were defeated, together they could free Skyrim from the Empire and the mutually hated Thalmor. Perhaps before, if the opportunity arose. To do that, he would first have to gain her absolute trust and loyalty. And to that end, he would start with fulfilling her deepest, most secretive desires, the ones she was unable to admit even to herself.

She watched him as he kissed her, his lips moving against her mouth, much the same as Vorstag's had done all those months ago. She was ready this time, parting her lips, relaxing her jaw, hoping she was reacting correctly. She was rewarded when his tongue dove inside her mouth, exploring with a conquering force, claiming her for him alone. His eyes remained opened as did hers, each of them studying the other, learning, measuring, assessing, planning. She didn't know—didn't truly understand—where this was leading, but she was beginning to get the idea. He had stated himself unworthy of a woman's desire. She had knelt at his feet and professed her adoration. Now they stood before each other, opening to each other, hoping the other could fill the void that tainted their lonely lives.

The pool of heat and fire, of tightness and wetness, was filling that place inside her. His hands were warm against her skin, the calluses and a chipped fingernail lightly scratching her. She wanted to let herself feel it, enjoy the sensations, but that would require opening the door that led to all emotions, including fear. She wasn't strong enough to do that. And when his hand flattened itself and slipped between her waist and dress to cup her buttocks, she unraveled completely.

He pulled back, sensing her tense, hearing the gasp as she caught her breath. He held still, watching her bottom lip worm its way between her teeth, as she struggled not to feel. He retreated his hand from her ass, the other staying on her back though loosely, and lifted her chin up until she was looking at him again. Holding her gaze, his eyes asked the question, 'What do you want of me?'

She thought she had known the answer, but no longer. She shook her head, unable to find the words to convey what she was feeling.

"What is wrong?" he asked, already knowing the answer.

"Pain." The word was simple, the meaning complex. Yet he understood. He pressed his forehead to hers, closing his eyes as he inferred how the Thalmor had tortured her. He knew their techniques intimately, and now he realized: so did she. Yet he could use this, her pain and brokenness. He would go slow, giving her little tastes and leaving her wanting, and eventually she would respond by coming to him and demanding more. Then he would empower her, allow her to set the pace, stopping when she felt discomfort, and she would grow to trust him. It would take time, but he would have his pet dragon.

"You should leave."

"I… I don't… Ulfric…"

Her violet eyes were darker than ever, her lips trembling with unacknowledged emotion. "It's alright," he assured her, stroking her cheek with the pad of his thumb. "I understand."

"I do not!" Her anger was forceful, fueled by bitterness, negative emotions being the only ones she allowed herself to feel because they gave her strength.

"Then trust me," he answered, unmoved by her display. "Trust that I know what is wrong, and how to fix it, if that is what you want."

"It is…"

He stroked her cheek once more, and bent her head forward to deliver a kiss on her furrowed brow. "It's been a long day, Gerhild. Go to bed. We'll talk in the morning."

"Ulfric…" she sighed, her anger dissipating beneath his ministrations. He didn't answer, other than to turn her slightly towards the door. Numbly she obeyed, her legs walking and her arms wrapped around her shoulders to keep her dress in place. He hadn't realized he had ripped the fabric that far, but then again, perhaps on some level she wanted the comfort. It was a promising sign, showing that she was thawing, warming up to him. He'd leave her alone for the night—for the next several nights—and wait for her to come back to him.

Gerhild sat on the edge of her bed, not quite understanding everything that had happened. She had gone to his room; she should have known that something would happen, but not this. Not that he would stop. Not that he would send her away. She felt the arousal that Bothela described—for a man old enough to be her father!—and once it started, she expected the pain to follow like an ever-loyal dog. And it did. But then he sent her away. He knew, he understood what she felt, and he didn't force her. He stopped…

He stopped as soon as she felt discomfort. Just as Vorstag said. When a man cares for you, he won't do anything that makes you feel uncomfortable. He wants you to enjoy it, so he'll stop. Ulfric stopped…

If she could trust Vorstag, then by that reasoning, Ulfric—as crazy as it sounded—had feelings for her.

She stood up and let her ruined dress fall to the floor. Dazedly she pulled back the covers and climbed into bed, leaving the lone candle burning across the room. The covers were thick and warm, enveloping her cool flesh, lending her comfort and security. The same as she had felt within his embrace. Carefully, timidly, her hands went over her skin, touching where he had touched. She felt like she should have burn scars everywhere he had stroked, his hands had been so warm. No new marks marred her flesh, yet she felt different… changed… branded…?

Ulfric stopped…

…and she wanted him to continue.

Her fingers traveled further, finding that place where the heat had simmered, where the pain had started, and where amazingly she still ached. It was different now, confusing her, but she knew Ulfric would understand what it meant, just as he had understood her discomfort. She would ask him, beg him if she had to, but she doubted that would be necessary. He had feelings for her; she had proof of that. And she could use his feelings to manipulate him into helping her, into showing her and teaching her this missing area in her skill-set.

She pulled her hand back, amazed by the dampness, and wiped her fingers on the bedclothes.

Chapter Text

Vorstag sat gingerly on the bench, his head in his hands. No, his head buried in his forearms. It was darker there, and more quiet. And less likely that anyone would bother him unnecessarily.

Coming down for breakfast proved a worse mistake than he had anticipated. He knew he'd face sound and light, and undoubtedly Gerhild at some point chastising him—she never understood about the ritual of sharing a round or seven of drinks. But he hadn't thought about the smell of food. It was torture. Normally his mouth would water and he'd be pulling onto his plate one of everything within arm's length, but this morning his stomach twitched in warning and his mouth tasted bile.

He should have stayed in bed.

He felt the bench shift slightly, winced at the movement, before a body settled beside him. A grunt answered his wince. He gave a small moan, and received a suffering sigh in return.

Translation: 'Mornin', Ralof.'

'Morning.'

'Don't tell anyone I said this, but we drank too much last night.'

'No shit.'

Gerhild didn't understand the exchange; she hadn't even heard it. She was at the opposite end of the table, talking with Jorleif, when Vorstag stumbled past her to find a quiet seat. She noted a few moments later, Ralof stumbling up from the barracks to sit beside him. She decided to finish her conversation with Jorleif first, letting the men suffer for a while before going up to them. She knew they'd never learn, never repent of their over-indulgence, and though she'd willingly heal their hangovers, she wanted them to understand that she disapproved. Her hesitation and lack of urgency should be enough to tell them that.

"Those two seem to be getting along better than they did yesterday."

Gerhild looked up at Galmar's comment, though she knew of whom he was speaking. She nodded, but it was Jorleif who answered, "There's something about sharing a few tankards, and the consequences, that binds men in something deeper than friendship."

"You mean misery?" she spoke, more a comment than a question, and Jorleif chuckled while Galmar gave a grunt of humor. She rolled her eyes at their responses, and stood up to excuse herself. "I think I'll put an end to their male bonding, at least the suffering part. Otherwise, there might be a mess or two that Sifnar will have to clean up."

Their laughter followed her down the length of the table, though thankfully it was quiet enough not to be overly obvious it was at Vorstag's and Ralof's expenses. She reached their sides, hearing the silence and labored breathing, and almost left them to suffer. But Vorstag had saved her life more times than she could easily remember, and Ralof had once or twice, too, so she set her hands on their shoulders and spoke softly, leaning between them. "If you wish, I could heal you two."

Vorstag grunted in the affirmative, but Ralof lifted his head far enough to squint at her. Nervously he licked his lips, but when he saw her hand resting on his shoulder, he decided it would be discreet enough. He sighed, "Aye," and let his head droop from his shoulders once more.

She didn't move, her lips forming the words of the spell without sound, and between her hands and their clothing, the golden ribbons of magic were well hidden. After a moment, both men took deep breaths, almost in unison, and sat up straighter. Vorstag smiled his thanks and began immediately piling his plate, and Ralof gave a little shudder before saying, "You're pretty fair at that."

"I've had a lot of practice," she admitted, taking the seat to Ralof's other side. "Though I admit, the first time I tried a healing spell, things got a little out of hand."

"What happened?" he asked, attempting to keep pace with Vorstag.

"She fainted," he answered, washing down his mouthful with a swallow of mead.

Ralof was shocked. "There's got to be a good story behind that!"

"Go 'head," Vorstag mumbled around his mouthful, "I'm eating."

"Well, it happened just as I was leaving Markarth for Ustengrav. I was traveling with my housecarl," she started, eyeing both men with amazement and not a little disgust. They were acting as if they hadn't felt near death only a few moments before, shoveling in food with vigor and determination. "We were attacked by bandits not far north of Markarth, but too far to go for help. Luckily Vorstag was returning from a hunting trip, and just happened to come across our little party, and helped finish the fight. Anyway, during the fight Argis was wounded in the hip, shattered the bone and tore through muscle and veins." Her voice faded a little, noting that the appetite of neither man seemed diminished by the gruesome topic of conversation.

"Argis is her housecarl from Markarth," Vorstag supplied around a mouthful of food.

Ralof nodded, "So, you healed him?"

"I… that is… we had plenty of healing potions, but the bottles were in the saddlebags of the horses, which had run off during the fight. Vorstag had one potion, but it wasn't enough. So I went to find the horses, but the one with the bottles had fallen down a ravine. The bottles were crushed. Vorstag offered to take the surviving horse and go back to Markarth, but I knew there wasn't time. So I healed Argis magically. The damage was fairly extensive, and it was the first time I'd ever used that spell, so my stamina wasn't up to the task. I was so weak afterwards that I fainted."

"She just sat there," Vorstag paused long enough to swallow, "And I asked her if she was alright or something like that. She gave a funny sort of nod, then rolled her eyes up into her head and crumpled like a wet blanket."

Ralof shook his head. "But Argis lived?"

"Aye," she nodded, "He was weak—lost too much blood—so we sent him back to Markarth on the surviving horse. That's why coming back here took so long; we had to walk the whole way."

"That's…" he paused to swallow, glancing at her hand, "That's a handy spell to know; I'll give you that, I suppose, being that it's Restoration Magic. But please tell me you don't use magic when you fight."

"I prefer my war axe," she answered, and left it at that. Ralof must have understood, because he didn't press the issue. "So, did you two run into Rolff last night?"

"No," Vorstag sighed, "Though we tried. Think we took a lap through the Gray Quarter, anyway. But it was already late by that time, or early, depending how you look at it. I suppose," he took a deep breath, "That I'll just have to settle for the steel cuirass at the blacksmith's. Would've like to have gotten boots and gauntlets to match, but…"

Gerhild lifted a delicate eyebrow, the corner of her lip quirking upwards in unison. "I could always pay for it…"

"No," he said, almost a little too vehemently. "I'll pay for my own kit."

Her face fell with the knowledge that she'd touched his pride again. Someday, he was going to have to get over it and not be so pissed off when people offered to help him. "I was only thinking, there's been enough times that you've saved my life, I probably owe you quite a bit."

"And how many timesh have you shaved my life?" he countered, and Ralof leaned back a little, hearing the way his speech impediment grew and not wanting to get between the two if they were going to have an argument.

She saw Ralof's movement, noted Vorstag's lisp and subsequent reddening of his face, though that could have been from anger, and timidly she backed down. "Well, then," she reached for the purse at her waist, "Ralof, if they do meet up today, put me down for fifty septims on Vorstag. And another fifty that Rolff will fail if he tries to take Vorstag down with a blow to the… sweetmeats."

"That's… fairly specific," Ralof commented bewilderedly, but took the offered coins in his hand.

She shrugged, standing up from the table. "I have faith in my friend."

He watched her go, wanting to ask but knowing she wasn't about to explain anything. He turned the other way, but Vorstag was still too proud to look up from his plate. Thinking it would at least get a rise out of him, Ralof baited, "So, what's the story?"

"What story?"

"With you and your balls." Yup, that did it. Vorstag finally looked up, his expression just a little wide-eyed. "They made of brass or something? Heard the story last night how they can't be burned off, and apparently Gerhild's under the impression a blow to them would be equally ineffective. So, what's the secret? Are they made of brass? Enchanted against harm? You lose them already? What?"

He gave a funny little laugh. Looking around to make sure they weren't overheard, he related the story of Gerhild's fistfight with the hireling in Markarth, and how he took the opportunity to adjust his armor.

"Well, there's only one problem that I can see with this day."

"Oh? What?" Vorstag asked.

"Everyone is wagering, and I'm holding all the money, so I can't place any wagers myself."

Vorstag laughed, clapping him on the shoulder. "Tell you what, if I beat Rolff, I'll split my winnings with you."

"Fair enough," he nodded, "Just remember to wear your modified armor."

Vorstag grinned evilly and wrapped his knuckles against his groin, "Put it on first thing this morning."

Gerhild looked over her shoulder, hearing the two men laughing heartily, but left them alone. Ulfric had just walked in, and with a slight tilt of his head, called for her to join him. She turned her back on the two, imagining she'd have to heal them again tomorrow morning, and followed her Jarl into his war room.

The morning passed slowly, their conversation dry and repetitive, as he had her relate once more all that had happened in Markarth. Galmar joined them, leaving Jorleif to handle whatever daily hold-related affairs might crop up. Gerhild decided to ignore the two men and address the map table, when she came to the part of her adventure that involved Cidhna Mine. She reached deep inside her for that icy emotionless state that continually helped her to survive, and merely recited the incident in a dry and nonspecific manner. Her change in demeanor didn't go unnoticed by either man, but where Galmar shifted uncomfortably, Ulfric watched her closely with his sabre cat gaze.

She had arrived at the part where Cosnach betrayed her when they were interrupted by a guard. He coughed to gain their attention, and she stopped her recitation to allow Ulfric to deal with whatever pressing matter had arisen. It was Galmar that the guard motioned for, however, and after a brief exchange, the old man laughed. "I'll be right there," he clapped the guard on the shoulder, who raced away without another word. "Excuse me, Ulfric, Gerhild," Galmar nodded to them, "But a matter of importance has come up. I… ah… I need to see to it immediately. Don't wait for me, this might take some time, depending on how it turns out…"

He didn't wait for permission, but turned and left before he had even finished speaking.

Gerhild stood still, one delicate eyebrow lifted and her lips parted slightly, as she gazed at the now empty space where Galmar had been standing all morning. Ulfric saw her expression and, quite unexpectedly, genuine laughter rumbled through his chest. She turned her cool violet eyes to him, but it did nothing to cool his humor. "The look of surprise on your face is priceless," was the only explanation he gave her.

She sighed, deciding not to make an issue of it, as it very likely wasn't any of her business, and returned to the map, showing Ulfric the location of the Forsworn camp.

"And this is where you met Drascua?" he asked, moving around the table to stand beside her. Now that they were alone, he decided to give her another little taste of intimacy. He leaned over her, their bodies close but not touching, and placed his hand on the map next to hers.

"Aye, but that was a little later," she admitted, seemingly unaffected by the heat from his body, "After Cosnach betrayed me and Vorstag rescued me." She picked up her story where she had left off, her recollection perfect and descriptive, and he was impressed by her ability to remember so many details. Half of him listened to her report as the other half studied her form and actions. Her voice was warmer now, her posture less tense, even though she spoke of a hireling betraying her. He would have been furious had such a thing happen to him, even long after the fact, but upon learning that she found Cosnach and slit his throat, he allowed that justice was served—Stuhn's justice.

The thought made him look to her chest, at the approximate place where the amulet would lie. It was nestled in her cleavage, almost hidden in the softness between the two mounds, but he knew it was there. He could see most of its outline beneath her dress, the open end of the horn hanging downwards, the other end tapering to a fine point that disappeared behind the fabric. He wanted to see it, wanted to see her wear it with pride, not hide it. Then again, he wasn't one to talk; his own amulet of Talos lay beneath his armor and clothing, next to his scars, next to his heart.

Sudden insight broke upon him, and he knew they shared yet another thing in common, in keeping their amulets so personal. He smiled to himself, filing the discovery away to be used later, and returned his full attention to her report.

It was early evening by the time she finished, having taken Ulfric all the way to Ustengrav in her recitations. She once more saw interest flash in his eyes as she described the tomb and caverns and the Word Wall where she learned 'Feim,' a Shout which changed her form from physical to spectral, protecting her from harm. When she described the sarcophagus with the empty raised hand, she again saw that look of deep disappointment cross his features, as it had last evening at supper.

"When I'm done here," she vowed, laying her hand over his still on the map, "When I've reclaimed the Horn from the presumptuous thief, I'll bring it to you, first, before returning it to High Hrothgar."

He smiled, his beard moving with his expression this time instead of covering it, knowing exactly why she made the offer. "You would claim to read me so well?"

"Father often spoke of how all of you met," she answered sincerely, unaware of the pain she caused him, "You and he and Mother, Galmar too, I believe. And others. Anyway, he said you had intended to study at High Hrothgar, learn the Way of the Voice, ever since you were a lad. But then the Great War started, and you felt your duty as a Jarl's son outweighed your calling to become a Greybeard." The look on his face confused her, the tightly controlled neutrality, but she continued, "I should have remembered this, after hearing stories even while still in Cyrodiil, of how you Shouted at High King Torygg. But those stories are easier to believe when you're a little girl."

"And what other stories did he tell you?" he demanded, his voice deepening, "In what other ways did he betray me?"

A tiny crease formed between her eyes, the only mark of her confusion. "Excuse me, my Jarl," she dropped her eyes with a curtsy, pulling her hand away from his, "I did not intend to give offense. It is the truth that my father betrayed you through his love of… Maeganna," she had almost said 'my mother,' but instinctually decided against affirming her parentage so bluntly. She had seen it was a great disappointment to him, learning that she was not his child, and didn't want to aggravate him further. His sudden anger and coldness had surprised her, and she hastened to recover his favor and discover whatever secret trigger she had unwittingly provoked. "But that was his only sin. And he paid for it, with deep regret, every day of his crippled life."

It wasn't often that he fucked up, and even less often that he would admit such a thing to himself, but he saw now he had lost ground with her. All the talk about the Horn, and his memories of High Hrothgar, were pleasant though bittersweet, but again something he knew he couldn't have done any other way. Yet to go from his sheltered youth to those first few years in the Legion, fighting in the Great War, with Maeganna and Galmar—and Ulgaarth damn him!—inevitably his mind had to continue on to his imprisonment by the Thalmor. Maeganna of course knew what had been done to him, and Galmar though to a lesser extent. Those were the only two he ever spoke to about that year. And if Maeganna lived with Ulgaarth, if she came to love him, he couldn't help but wonder how many of his confidences she had revealed to Ulgaarth.

And he had taken out his insecurities, his vulnerabilities, on Gerhild. He would need to recover quickly if he wanted to regain her trust and continue his plans for her. He grabbed her elbow gently and lifted her to her feet. "It is I who should be asking your pardon, Gerhild. As I said last night, I am fallible, unstable, and weak." After she reached her feet, he let go and moved away. "I should not have spoken to you thus."

Her eyes followed his movements, but her mind didn't register the action, so deeply inwardly focused on what had just happened. He had grown hostile at the mention of her father, or the mention of any stories of his past. There was something in this that bothered him, either an incident that occurred between he and Ulgaarth, or some other incident that was told to Ulgaarth in a confidence that he feared might have been broken.

Or something deeper and yet undetermined.

Still she thought she had inferred enough to understand the sudden anger and the equally sudden remorse, the pattern intimately familiar to her. How often had she snapped at Vorstag in just the same way? Like her, Ulfric had been hurt emotionally, and whether it was due to her thoughtless mention of Ulgaarth—bringing back memories of Maeganna, or whatever stories Ulfric feared revealed, she needed to calm him or she wouldn't stand a chance of sharing his bed.

She walked up beside him, making sure she didn't approach from his blindside, and settled her hand upon his shoulder. Her fingers sank into the rich fur of his mantle, the hairs thick and soft and deep enough to hide her slender fingers. She didn't try to turn him, merely let the weight of her hand tell him that she was there, that she cared. "That is yet another thing we share, in our lengthening list of likenesses." He didn't look up, but he didn't make to pull away, allowing her to continue. "We both hate the Thalmor. We both were at Helgen. We both can Shout. And we both have been wounded deeply."

He heard the implications in her words, the pain and brokenness. He wanted to take her in his arms again—gods knew he needed to—but he realized what was happening. Gerhild was apologizing to him, for causing his outburst. She was taking the blame squarely on her own slender shoulders, pardoning his unreasonable actions. She was doing the work for him, patching their relationship and keeping their options open. She still wanted him, to show her and teach her and heal her. And he was still willing to do so, but he had to let her do the work, or she wouldn't feel that she had accomplished anything. So he remained silent, and in this silence he waited for her to open herself to him.

"I need help, Ulfric," she said, dropping his title, as if they were in his chambers again and it was only the two of them. She needed him to understand, and knew she would have to tell him everything in order to earn his help. "I feel like I'm standing at the top of a… at the Throat of the World. My life—my fate—lies stretched out upon the world at my feet, every direction open and every option available. But though the wind howls and tugs at me, I cannot move, I cannot take that first step which will forever determine my future." Now she was the one who turned aside, her hand sliding from his shoulder to his arm, slowly pulling away. "I cannot understand this destiny that opens before me. It burns me, consumes me in icy flames, and I cannot escape it. I cannot find anyone who understands…"

"…who understands what it's like," he broke over her words, grabbing hold of her hand before it was out of reach. He had heard his cue, and pretended to play along with her none-too-subtle plea for empathy, "To speak a Thu'um. To open your mouth and call mastery over the Elements. To strike a blow that staggers your enemies without having to touch them, without having to lift a finger. To know what it means to be Dragonborn."

"Aye," she breathed, facing him once more at his touch. He brought her palm to his chest, holding it against the front of his armor, pinning the hand with his own as if afraid she would pull away again.

"The power," he murmured, his other hand claiming her elbow and forcing her forearm to lie against him, bringing their bodies closer, "The temptation. With a single word you can stagger a man. With three, you can knock him off his feet, send him flying from you to shatter against the walls." He made a catch in his voice, letting her think he was referring to High King Torygg and feeling regret over his actions. Truthfully, he felt nothing of the kind, but as a woman she would identify with the remorse. His steel eyes bored down into her violet depths, and he waited for her next prompt.

"You understand," she breathed, her face expressionless as she faded into one of her deep musings, though this time she spoke her thoughts aloud. "You understand the responsibility, the consequences, of every act. And feel the regret and shame for every mistake. You also hold a power beyond the capacities of most men.

"Yet I'm becoming something more," her words swept onward like a torrent, "Something beyond normal man, something beyond you. I am changing and growing with each dragon I kill." She didn't resist when he wrapped his arm around her, keeping her hand captive between them. Her eyes were still focused on that which only she could see, so deeply shielded beneath her dead violet eyes. "I can feel them. All three of them. Constantly. Restlessly moving and disquiet, never quite awake, never quite asleep. They know where they are, what is happening around me, and they are impotent to affect anything."

"Gerhild…" he breathed, able to imagine the torment she was feeling. He might have wished that she had picked someone else to confide in, as he could easily sense the souls churning within her own soul. He wasn't about to stop her, however, or this time he'd lose his chance to tame the Dragonborn. So he closed his heart to keep himself from drowning within her anguish and waited for his next cue.

Gerhild was unaware of his reactions, only knowing there was a sympathetic body before her. Her free hand reached up, entwining in his hair and twisting the rope of his braid around her thumb. "I have consumed the souls of dragons. When I kill them, I take that part of them that is their own true selves. I absorb them," she almost sobbed, her desperation for him—for anyone—to comprehend making her tremble. "I have become a monster, feeding on death. Even dragons do not deserve this entrapment, to remain forever locked within the soul of their enemy, not dead but no longer alive." She pulled his face downwards, forcing him to lock with her suddenly animate eyes as she finally focused on his face, prepared at last to reveal the lowest depths of her depravity. "And I desire more, because I've felt it. With each dragon I kill, with each soul I consume, I grow more powerful, and the hunger for that power grows with it."

"Do not deny it," he growled, his voice husky with his own desperation. Gods but she was beautiful, even scarred and damaged, her posture and build was so like her mother's that it made his heart ache. He needed her, he needed her tonight, to possess her body and soul and power. "Do not deny your destiny. It's terrible, I know," he paused to brush a kiss against her forehead. "But you are strong and capable, Gerhild. You can do this. Believe me," he kissed her lips, closing his eyes and squeezing her trapped hand. "Trust me." His mouth moved across her skin, traveling from her lips to her neck, savoring her coolness pressed against his heat. "Let me help you."

Gerhild let her head fall back, closing her eyes, intensifying the sensation of his warm, moist mouth as it fell to her collarbone. She felt it again, the ache and heat and wetness from the place within her, and sensed that he could fill it. She wanted it filled, needed it to be stretched and occupied with something—someone, engorged with his own heat, ready to burst.

"I could teach you," he offered. His powerful muscles flexed as he stroked her back with his free hand, once more tracing the scars he knew were just behind the fabric. He felt her tremble, her body remembering how close they came last night, and pressed their fronts to fit together. "There is so much I could teach you, if you wish it."

She understood exactly what he was saying, that he meant more than just Thu'ums, his body language plain and truthful even in her inexperience. She didn't hesitate, merely opened her mouth to answer throatily, "I wish it."

He smiled to himself, knowing he would own her from this moment forward, and carefully planned his next move.

There was the sound of voices floating through the doorway. She made to pull away guiltily, but he held her fast, his eyes locking with hers. She understood the message: no sudden movements, no guilty starts, and no one would catch on. She slowly released his braid, having forgotten she was holding it, and settled her hand instead on his shoulder. He kept hold of her hand between them for a moment longer, until he heard steps behind them.

Galmar walked through the doorway, having just finished calling out to Jorleif. The sight that met him in the war room turned his blood to ice, freezing him to the spot. He couldn't speak at first, seeing them standing so close together. He recognized Ulfric's posture, knew exactly what he had been doing, seeing his slow and deliberate movements as he tried not to act guilty, and how quickly she followed his lead. He wanted to curse, and probably should have, but the words froze on his tongue.

"Galmar," she acknowledged for both of them, so easily slipping into the role Ulfric offered her at his side. "What happened to you today? You look upset."

Ulfric turned around at this, letting their entwined fingers fall to their sides, his expression neutral. Galmar couldn't quite answer, not as completely as he should have anyway, as he said vaguely, "Rolff and Vorstag… ran into each other…"

"And they…" her voice trailed away, but at the look on his face she feared the worse. "Oh, no. Where is he?" She saw him thumb over his shoulder, heard voices beyond him in the main hall, and didn't wait for Ulfric's permission to excuse herself. She raced away, her fingers slipping from his as she hastened to learn the fate of her former-hireling-turned-friend.

Ulfric let her go, slightly amused and slightly concerned over her sudden and fierce distress for the sellsword. His concerns changed quickly, however, when she had to all but shove Galmar out of the way, as he remained shocked and still in the doorway. His eyes narrowed, the two men having known each other for too long not to be able to read each other's minds. After he was sure she was out of earshot, he said, "Whatever you have to say, keep it to yourself."

"Gods, Ulfric," he breathed, unable to keep quiet, now that the spell had been broken. He staggered into the room, "She's the Dragonborn."

"I said to keep your damned opinions to yourself," he grumbled, turning to the map table. "I know what I am doing."

"I don't think you do." Bravely, and somewhat foolishly, he stalked up to his Jarl. "She's young enough to be your daughter. She almost was your daughter. You can't…"

"Stop right there, Galmar, I'm warning you."

"I know you think to get back at Ulgaarth this way, by bedding his daughter, punishing him for taking Maeganna from you…"

"I said shut up."

"…But he's gone, too. He'll never know what you've done, never feel the insult or the bitterness."

"I said…"

"She's Maeganna's daughter, too, remember. Do you think she'd want you to do this?"

Ulfric didn't respond with words this time, as Galmar was obviously beyond listening. Instead he responded with his fist, square and true, connecting with the underside of Galmar's jaw. The force was enough to lift him off his feet, falling back and away a good two feet before finding the floor with his backside. He sat there a moment, stunned once more into silence while he blinked the stars from his vision.

Ulfric watched him closely, judging when he was in command of enough of his senses to hear him. "It may surprise you," he started, his tone of voice full of danger, "That she wishes this. I've already tried several times to rebuff her, but she," he jabbed his finger at the doorway, "Wants this. Wants me. How many times can I be expected to say no?"

Galmar didn't answer. He got to his feet, somewhat shakily, and grabbed the corner of the table for support. They looked at each other for a moment, before Galmar's hand went to his belt. Ulfric tensed, fearing the worst, but he only pulled out a coin purse and tossed it on the tabletop beside them. "Your winnings."

Ulfric made no move to take up the purse, nor to watch Galmar as he walked past him for the door leading upstairs to the bedchambers. Enough had been said between them—more than enough—and they both needed time to cool down. He was confident that Galmar would back down; he always followed his Jarl, regardless of the morality behind his methods. This time would be no different, once he realized how fortunate it would be to have the Dragonborn on their side, fighting beside them, as they swept the Imperials and their Thalmor masters from Skyrim.

Galmar felt the door close behind him and suppressed the urge to bash his fist against the stones. Damn, but he had once more seen the madness—the delusions—in his Jarl, his friend. Never in the almost thirty years since Ulfric's imprisonment and torture had he questioned his reasoning. It wasn't for lack of opportunity or grounds, gods knew there had been enough of both of those, but because he had an idea of some of what Ulfric had been through, and thought he knew how to help him. He thought what the man needed more than anything was support, someone reliable, constant, and loyal. So he remained the unquestioning follower, and watched over him faithfully as the insanity lessened over the years.

But today he had seen the madness return in full force, had seen the unholy light in his eyes and feared for his friend. It wasn't right—it wasn't fair—that even after all this time, he had never fully healed. Perhaps if Maeganna had lived, if she hadn't been driven into hiding in Cyrodiil and instead made it back to Windhelm, things might have been different. She could always cool the fevered mania that plagued him. But she was gone and so, it appeared, was the young man once known as Ulfric, the Jarl's son.

Galmar pushed himself up the steps, unaware that he had been leaning against the wall, and aimed for his room. He'd drink himself into insensibility tonight, if only so he wouldn't catch sight of Ulfric with Maeganna's daughter. And hopefully, if the gods were willing, in the morning he'd think of something to help his friend back from this current madness, something short of tying him down and banishing Gerhild.

Earlier that day, the midday sun could do nothing to dispel the coldness of the city of Windhelm, snow clinging to the shadowy nooks despite it being summer. Vorstag stood in the center of the street, feeling somewhat exposed and under-protected in Ralof's borrowed clothing instead of armor. Even his battered armor would have offered enough protection, but it was too late to do anything about it now. At least he had the important parts protected, he thought to himself, as he looked the few feet to where Rolff was pacing back and forth. Apparently the story of the impending fight between the two of them had spread, and as a result they were forced to wait until certain people had arrived to watch.

That didn't mean that they hadn't gotten started. Not a punch had been thrown, but several insults and degrading comments had been exchanged already. Vorstag didn't mind the banter too much, seeing it as a preliminary custom to a fight. And it was a pleasant enough distraction from the betting that had begun within the crowd. Ralof was almost overwhelmed with keeping track of odds and bets, but was determined to make Vorstag keep his promise of splitting his winnings. With that in mind, he outrageously skewed the odds to make Rolff the favorite to win, so most would place their bets on him.

"Your sister lies with giants!"

Vorstag laughed, "Don't have a sister."

"What?" Rolff stumbled a moment, completely thrown off his rhythm.

He shook his head, standing still as Rolff resumed his pacing to his right. "I'm an only child."

"Damn, some of my best insults are about your sister." He paused to scratch at his cheek. "Don't suppose you have a cousin?"

Again he chuckled good-naturedly, shaking his head. He was saving his energy, studying the way Rolff moved and allowing him to get himself worked up first. He could vaguely hear the crowd, betting more and more money on Rolff, as he stood there looking like an uneducated farmer rather than an experienced adventurer. The fight had better start soon, or Ralof was going to lose track of the odds.

"You look uncomfortable," Rolff started anew, "Had your first wet dream last night?"

"No, but judging by the sounds coming from your brother's room, I'd say he was having quite an experience—with his hand."

"Hey! I'm right here!"

Vorstag kept his smile in place, turning towards the shout. "My apologies, Galmar," he bowed, "Didn't know you'd arrived yet."

Apparently Galmar had been the one person they'd been waiting for as, without allowing him a chance to turn back around, Rolff let his first punch fly. Vorstag saw it coming out of the corner of his eye, and barely had time to roll with it. The force spun him around to face Rolff again, and he blinked a few times to clear his vision. "Thanks for the warning," he grinned, but his eyes narrowed menacingly.

"No problem," Rolff answered, throwing another punch. Vorstag blocked it, but didn't see the second fist jabbing into his ribs. He grunted, tucked his elbow in to steady his breathing, and stepped back a couple of paces.

"Why are you just standing there?" Rolff taunted. "Don't you know you're supposed to try to hit me?"

"Just catching my breath," he overacted the wince, pretending the blow to his ribs had actually done damage. As far as he could tell, he hadn't gotten more than a bruise, but no one else needed to know that. He grinned again, actually enjoying the opportunity to fight and blow off some steam. If this lasted long enough, he might even be exhausted to the point where he could sleep tonight. Even after all the drinking he and Ralof did last night, he still had trouble staying asleep as visions of Gerhild and her damnable soap kept popping into his head.

He broke himself out of his daydreams just in time to duck beneath Rolff's far-flung punch. He started to counter, thinking he saw an opening, but too late realized that the awkward punch had been a distraction. The other hand came up aiming straight for his jaw, and he had to change his punch to a block instead. That's when he felt a foot behind his knee, collapsing his leg out from beneath him.

The stone street was hard when he hit it, banging his elbow which sent shoots of pain down his arm. He grunted again and rolled away from Rolff, the crowd scampering out of the way. He made the side of a building and reached out a hand to steady himself as he gained his feet.

"I'll shay thish for you, shellshword," Rolff imitated his lisp, "You sure know how to take a beating. Lotsh of practishe?"

He had heard the innuendos before, based solely off his lisp, but the frequency did nothing to take away the sting of such comments. "Fuck you!" he snarled, letting his anger vent for just a moment. He finally saw an opening and swayed as he pushed away from the wall.

"You'd like to, wouldn't you?" Rolff taunted, giving him a rude gesture. "Or do you prefer to play the girl?"

Vorstag growled something unintelligible and charged at him, making the crowd back away yet again. Rolff wanted to stand his ground, but at the last moment decided to step aside and let him fly past him. Unfortunately, that was what Vorstag was anticipating, and veered to the same side. He tackled him with his shoulder, sending him flying through the air for several feet before landing in the arms of the jeering crowd. Rolff struggled to push away the hands trying to help him up, only managing to take twice as long to regain his feet.

"Alright, you're a crafty bastard," he said, throwing his cap away rather than trying to straighten it. "But you're rather bulky. I wonder how fast you are on your feet."

Vorstag shrugged, all the anger evaporated as if he'd never spoken. "Don't know. I do know you're pretty fast; saw you running just yesterday. But I've never run away from a fight."

Rolff roared, stampeding back to Vorstag with his fist clenched. He didn't strike with it, however, again using it as a distraction so he could bring his knee up into Vorstag's groin. This time he was ready, and rotated his hips so the knee landed against his thigh. He lost his balance, and Vorstag reached out to grab hold of him, turning him around to pin him in a headlock. Rolff grinned, his eyes lighting up as he said, "Oh, this is going to be fun!" just before digging his fingers into Vorstag's kidneys.

The pace of the fight lessened after that point, each now having the measure of the other. It became more an exercise, a practice fight where every style was acceptable, from grappling to fisticuffs to kicking. Rolff played dirty, which Vorstag expected. Vorstag fought with minimal movement and force, which wore down Rolff's patience. It had gone on for quite some time, definitely longer than the spectators had anticipated, both men becoming winded, when Rolff finally landed the finishing blow. He threw a heavy punch to Vorstag's stomach, winding him and doubling him over. Then he side-stepped around him, in such a familiar way that the sellsword later wondered if Gerhild had learned this from Rolff, and with all his might brought his knee up between Vorstag's legs.

Both men cried out in pain.

Chapter Text

Gerhild raced out of the war room, leaving behind Ulfric and the oddly acting Galmar. Her thoughts weren't so much on them, as they were on Vorstag. She realized now that when Galmar had left earlier that day, it was because Vorstag and Rolff had met up and were finishing their fight, and of course Galmar would want to see it. And after his return, the look on his face gave her cause to fear that Vorstag had faired the worse in the fight. Concern for him gave energy to her movements, speeding her steps into the main hall.

She needn't have bothered. The sight that greeted her was so shocking, it not only sent her eyebrow soaring to her hairline, but her jaw dropped to the flagstones. Even her feet stuttered to a stop, causing her to stumble into the shoulder of Jorleif. He glanced over long enough to see who had bumped into him and held out an arm to steady her before turning his attention back to the story.

"Then I stepped behind him and slammed my knee into his fucking balls!" Rolff exclaimed, with a lot less heat than his words implied, no doubt due to a copious amount of mead. The men in the room, mostly soldiers, roared with cheers and jeers for the two combatants, who now stood with their arms around each other's shoulders. Both men were battered with more than their fair share of bruises and cuts. Vorstag had one eye half-swollen, and a large gash just under the eyebrow—though no longer bleeding—left behind enough blood to coat nearly half of his non-tattooed cheek. He winced every time he took a step, and held his hand at the side of his ribs when standing still. Rolff had lost his cap and a dark bruise ran the full length of his jaw. He was hobbling, a hasty brace tied around one leg he refused to put weight on, but he threw his free arm extravagantly as he recited the fight.

Despite these injuries, both men wore the same, goofy smile on their faces.

"So who won?" an anonymous voice called out.

"Arctic Stones, here," Rolff proclaimed, without any embarrassment or resentment, slapping his back in congratulations. Vorstag's face flushed a little at the odd nickname, but since it was meant as a compliment and the crowd cheered, he inclined his head to accept the title. Rolff didn't notice his discomfort and swept onward, "Like I said, I kneed him in the balls, hard enough to take down a mammoth, but he's got a pair as hard as the frozen tundra. Kept his feet with only a grunt for the pain, whereas I fell to the ground with a broken kneecap, crying like a whiny little…"

"Lady Gerhild!" Ralof called out, drowning out whatever metaphor Rolff had been about to describe. He pressed through the throng to reach her side.

"Lady Gerhild?" Rolff asked bewilderedly, unable to see more than two feet in front of him, though his hearing was still working. He blinked at Vorstag, looking for help. "Lady Gerhild doesn't whine. Least she didn't yesterday. Dropped like a sack of potatoes." He mimicked the punch he had thrown at Vorstag that Gerhild had accidentally taken on the chin.

Vorstag shook his head indulgently. "No, Lady Gerhild ish here, in thish room," he explained carefully, his lisp intensified by his own overdose of alcohol.

Rolff's jaw dropped, immediately followed by a wince due to the bruise. "Gods, and my language hasn't been fit for polite company. I hope she didn't hear what I said about her. Where is she?" His head rotated around as he tried to focus on the faces in the hall. Vorstag rolled his eyes but, the two men in such a tight embrace, he limped around until he managed to aim Rolff in the right direction. "Lady Gerhild," Rolff bowed, almost causing both men to again topple to the floor, "You have a good man here. Strong as a bull! Aye, a good man. Good fighter." He paused to laugh, "And a fucking good drinker!"

The crowd roared with approval, even as Rolff's face suddenly flushed and he mumbled an apology for his cursing. Vorstag whispered something in his ear, which Gerhild couldn't hear due to the noise. Then Ralof was beside her, pressing a large purse into her hands. Astonished she looked from the purse to his face, noting he had a bit of a flush to his cheeks. She lifted the bag in an unspoken question. "Your winnings," he explained, leaning in to her to be heard.

"Are you sure?" she asked, weighing the purse. "This seems quite a lot. I only bet fifty septims." When he had leaned over to speak into her ear, she had gotten a strong whiff of the mead on his breath. It made her wonder just how much time had been spent fighting, and how much spent celebrating afterwards.

"Aye," he nodded, at least appearing more sober than the other two, "And another fifty that Rolff couldn't take him down with a blow to the testic… er, sweetmeats. That one drew more odds than who would win." No, he wasn't sober, but at least he could still stand unaided. The only thing holding Vorstag up was Rolff, and vice versa. She let the matter drop, thinking she'd be curing hangovers again tomorrow morning, and walked with him back to the two 'champions.'

"Lady Gerhild," Rolff bowed again as soon as her face was in view. Vorstag chuckled as he tipped, thrown off balance by Rolff's movement. He almost let go to keep his feet, but decided he didn't want to let him fall to the floor, so he hauled him upright once more. Unaware of his near miss and steady on his one good leg, Rolff smiled in what he thought was a charming manner. "I hope there's no hard feelings after yesterday," he continued, gesturing to her jaw.

She suppressed the urge to sigh and shook her head politely. "Of course not, Rolff. As your brother said, I shouldn't have tried to stick my nose into someone else's business."

"Ah, ah, a wise man, my brother." He tried to crane his neck and see where Galmar had gotten to, and took half a step to turn around. He quickly realized that was a mistake as pain shot through his leg, collapsing it from underneath him. Vorstag again barely managed to keep them both from falling to the floor. "Gods, my knee! Someone, get me another healing potion!"

"You've had enough of those," Ralof answered, "You just need sleep. You'll be better by morning."

"I could help," she offered, hesitantly. She didn't want to heal them so readily, as that might encourage them to fight again, thinking she could just erase any little—or large—injury away. But one look at their tattered and battered states caused her to change her mind.

"What do you mean?" Rolff blinked at her, his mind too sluggish to understand what she was implying.

"Gerhild shtudied Reshtorashun Magic," Vorstag explained, pressing his hand into his side again. At least, he appeared to be wincing more from talking than from lisping. "Sheesh offering to heal ush."

"Gods! No!" Rolff almost shouted, he was so aghast at the suggestion. "Where would the fun be in that? If you heal me, I'll have nothing to point to when I tell my grandchildren how I challenged and lost to Arctic Stones, Companion of the Dragonborn. No, I'm hoping this knee will at the very least ache in bad weather."

All the men in the hall applauded approvingly, and the lone woman at last gave in to a long suffering sigh and rolled her eyes. "Men!" This of course only caused another round of ovations.

Rolff was the first to recover his senses, "Well, I won't stay too long. I was only walking Vorstag home, making sure he got here alright." He leaned in close to Gerhild, talking in a loud whisper behind the back of his hand, "He might have gotten a little tipsy with all the celebrating we were drinking."

"And who'sh gonna shee you home shafely?" Vorstag slurred, again grimacing. She was beginning to suspect he did hear how strong his lisp had gotten.

"I'll get Rolff home," Ralof volunteered, stepping up to his other side, "If you think you can handle Vorstag on your own. Otherwise, just sit tight and I'll be right back to help."

Gerhild realized he had spoken to her, and took a moment to look Vorstag over from head to toe. He was inebriated—she could smell it from where she stood—but he wasn't so far gone as to be without pain. There were tiny lines around his eyes, and every so often his breathing hitched in time with the fingers twitching at his side. "I think I can manage, Ralof," she answered, encouraged by his level of responsiveness. As Ralof peeled Rolff away, she stepped up to Vorstag's other side, taking his arm from his ribs to her shoulders. Vorstag swayed, but after wrapping his other arm around his lower ribs, he seemed steady enough.

"Good night, Arctic Stones," Rolff called. "If you should ever need assistance, don't hesitate to look me up."

"I won't, Rolff, thank you," he beamed, rather proud that he had spoken a sentence without lisping.

"Come on, Arctic Stones," Gerhild muttered softly, turning him away as Ralof did the same with Rolff. The mass of bodies began breaking up, moving back to allow them to reach the hallway leading to the stairs. "Let's get you to bed."

Vorstag leaned in close to her ear, his breath sweet with mead as he hummed, "That shoundsh good." There was an undercurrent to his voice, something deep and soft, like the smooth baritone when he sang. He briefly touched his head to hers and his hand on her shoulder gave her a small caress. His actions were strange, and in reaction to them she felt a jolt of warmth puddle somewhere beneath her navel. She turned her head to look at him, wondering what he could mean. His eyes were still pained, his breath shallow between his slightly parted lips, and she decided whatever he meant wasn't what she first thought. He was merely hurt, drunk, and looking forward to a good night's sleep.

She gave a funny sort of scoff, "Stuhn's Shield, but you're drunk."

He nodded. "Aye, but I drank… oopsh!" he had to stop talking, having nearly missed the first step. He stumbled, and she pulled his weight into her to keep him from falling onto the stairs. The two of them lurched to the side, his one arm moving from his ribs to brace himself against the wall or he might have gotten a face-full of stonework. As it turned out, he ended up pressed loosely against her yielding curves.

Gerhild swallowed, her eyes flickering between his, their faces only inches apart. She began to doubt that she could get him to bed on her own, and wondered if she should go back and wait for Ralof, or call one of the patrolling guards to help her. She felt his arm twitch, pinned between her back and the wall, and knew she'd have to step forward to free him, but he was in her way. She licked her lips, put one hand on his chest, and gave a small push in suggestion.

"But I drank him under the table," Vorstag leaned back under the pressure of her slender fingers. His tone sounded far away, as if he was having a conversation while under a trance.

"I can imagine," she agreed, taking a deep breath once he was back to her side rather than looming over her. She looped his arm around her shoulders once more, eased her arm around his waist—mindful of his ribs—and started back up the stairs, slower this time.

He rambled a bit, still in the strangely distracted tone, summing up the fight for her benefit as she navigated the stairs. She half-listened, adding in the appropriate ooh's and ah's whenever he paused, just as distracted as Vorstag. They reached his room, thankfully near the top of the stairs, and she steered him inside.

"It ended when he tried to knee me in the crotch," he gave a small chuckle, followed by a small wince. The hand gripping his ribs dropped to his front. "Damn, but I hope thoshe potionsh shtart working shoon. Had to get them from the ashishtant apocathirsht."

"Apothecarist," she corrected, slipping out from under his arm and leaning him against the wall.

"Whatever," he shrugged good-naturedly. She turned away to close the door, and when she turned back around it was to find him with a shit-eating grin on his face. "Wanna know how I did it?"

"Did what?" she asked, "Drink him under the table?"

"No, the blow to my shweetmeatsh."

Now she did roll her eyes. "Vorstag, you're drunk, you're hurt, and you need to let the healing potions work. Get into bed. Now." She grabbed his arm and spun him, intending to dump him onto the mattress. Perhaps she moved a bit too ungentle-like, but she was a bit too fed up with his bragging about the fight. She knew he was limping, and unable to keep his balance, so she shouldn't have been surprised when he stumbled backwards into the bedpost.

"Gods!" he gasped, doubling over in pain. He missed the bed, falling to the rug, curling up tightly into a fetal position.

"Vorstag?" she asked, her irritation replaced with concern. She fell to her knees beside him, wanting to help but unable to until she knew what was wrong. She thought he may have hit himself in the balls again, the height of the bedpost nearly right for that. But after all the mead he drank, he shouldn't be in this much pain. She settled one hand lightly on his shoulder, not trying to roll him over, but just to let him know she was there for him.

"It…" he gasped, unable to unbend much less open his eyes, "It slipped… Fuck!"

Understanding swept over her face, though a little confusion still showed. "You wore your…" her eyes glanced at his crotch, "Codpiece under your leggings." It wasn't so much a question as a statement. She saw him nod, a fine film of sweat across his brow. She looked from his face to where both hands were now cupped around his cock and balls, completely at a loss on how to help him.

"Aye, been wearing it since this morning." He stopped to glance downwards, opening his hands slightly before clamping them protectively again, and finished it with a grimace. "That's why I didn't lose the fight and Rolff broke his kneecap. It was a little crooked after the fight, rubbing into one side, making me limp. But just now… the damn thing…" he paused to stifle a moan as one hand fumbled at the top of his pants. "Fuck! It's made to fit in my armor, ya know, with straps holding it in place. But there's nothing holding it in place beneath these fucking leggings, and…" he panted, opening his eyes to meet hers, the pain clearing the alcoholic fog from his brain, "The edge… pressing into… Gods… the end of my…"

His words cut off, but the last of the confusion had already left her. "Shit," she breathed, "And falling against your bed just now made it worse." He nodded, his lips pressed into a thin line so tightly they were almost white. "I'm sorry, Vorstag. I didn't realize."

"I know," he moaned, turning to bite at the rug, his other hand reaching further down between his legs. Obviously he was trying to pull the metal off the more sensitive areas, but the tight material of his borrowed leggings was getting in the way.

She squared her shoulders and mentally prepared herself, as if going into battle. She spread her arms wide, golden ribbons beginning to glow in one palm as the other reached for his crotch. "Alright. Let me help you. Just lie back and…"

"Don't touch it!" he snapped, his eyes blazing with warning. His current position, though easing the pressure, left him with no room to maneuver and fix the situation. The frustration was mounting, and he gave vent to it verbally, not caring who—even if it was Gerhild—was on the receiving end of his ire.

"I'm not going to," she reassured him, brushing a few sweaty strands of hair out of his eyes. She let go of the magic spell, deciding it might be better to wait until the codpiece was out of the way. "But we have to get it off, don't we?" She watched his face closely, praying the eyes would focus coherently on her. At his hesitant nod, she took a deep breath and tried again. "Alright then. First thing to do is get the leggings out of the way. We'll go slowly, only move as far as you feel comfortable with, and I'll ease the leggings down."

"I can manage," he groaned, his hands still protectively cupped over his loins. "Just… just turn away… for a moment… please…" he panted. She met his gaze, saw him blinking the tears from his eyes, and knew what it cost him to ask this of her.

Vorstag and his damnable pride, she thought to herself. She straightened up, disappointed he wouldn't let her help him, but understanding that what he needed most right then was for her to accede to his wishes. "I'll be just over here if you need help. Alright?" She saw him nod, and gave him a little smile before standing up. She took several steps away to give him some privacy, her fingers twisted with anxiety in front of her belly. She knew she couldn't help him, but it left her frustrated—she needed to do something.

With her back to the bed, she found herself facing a table with a pitcher of water on it. At last she thought of something he might accept from her, even though it involved magic. She walked up to the pitcher and poured a glass. Then quietly reciting a spell, she set her hands around the cup until the water froze to ice. Another moment, and she managed to get the chunk of ice out of the glass and onto the tray.

All the while, Vorstag made noises behind her. Mostly grunts and soft curses, and one quick inhale followed by a brief moment of silence that almost made her turn around. At last there was the gentle thud of the codpiece hitting the rug, a staggering creak as something heavy landed on the bed, and a relieved moan fading away into the darkened room.

She turned back around, half expecting him to shout at her again, but he didn't notice. He was lying on his side with his back to her, curled up on top of the blanket with one hand between his legs, looking like he had barely managed to pull himself onto the bed. She craned her neck and saw that his eyes were closed, though his expression was still pained. Telling herself it was only out of concern for his welfare, she approached the bed and took a good look around the area of concern. His leggings had been pushed down to mid-thigh, just far enough out of the way to allow for the removal of the codpiece, and his loincloth had been loosened to hang halfway off his hips. Carefully, without touching anything, she loomed over him to look even closer. What she saw made her heart tighten into a knot. "You're bleeding."

"Aye," he sighed, his free hand moving from his stomach to touch lightly at his eye. "But it's stopped. The healing potions will take care of it by morning."

"No," she shook her head, wondering how she could make him understand without letting on that she peeked. She decided it was more important that he know of his injury, than protect her pride. "I mean… down… there…" she gestured vaguely, even though he couldn't see.

Immediately his eyes sprang open to find her staring at his groin. The look of concern on her face worried him, and though he could tell everything was still attached, he hadn't noticed any blood. He lifted his head, grunting as his abused ribs protested the movement, and saw what she meant. "Damn," he moaned, both hands returning to their protective cupping. "Just… just let me… look at it…" he ended in a hiss, his head falling back onto the bed. "Ah, fuck!"

"Are you…" she stopped, reconsidering what she was about to say.

"I'm fine, I'm fine," he tried to reassure her, and himself. "Everything's fine. Just stay back… over there again."

"Vorstag, you're not fine. There's blood on your loincloth."

He heard the tremble in her voice, and felt an overwhelming impulse to laugh. By the Nine, he must be drunk. Otherwise why in Oblivion would he be fighting so hard to keep her from seeing his cock? Especially when she was—for once—so eager to see it. "Don't worry, Gerhild," he said, lifting his head to look at her over his shoulder. "It's all there, still attached. The edge of my armor's been rubbing into the crease of my leg ever since the fight. That's what's bleeding. I'll be fine by morning. Just let the potions do their job." He let his head fall back onto the pillow, closing his eyes and concentrating on breathing.

He thought a half-hearted curse to himself, wishing she would leave him alone, his pride damaged enough this evening, but that wasn't to be his fate. He could hear her in the room, and though he tried his damnedest to feign sleep, she didn't take the hint to leave. He laid still and listened to the soft rustling of her dress as she moved, the gentle drone of a tune hummed beneath her breath, and a repetitive chipping/shushing sound that he couldn't quite place. He was far too gone from the fight and the drink to work up enough energy to look, simply relaxing into the feeling of no longer being pinched.

Gerhild had returned to the table and her earlier idea of making an ice pack for him. She used her dagger to chip away at the block of ice, breaking it into smaller chunks, and wrapped them in a towel. She set the ice pack on the tray, and poured more water into a small bowl that she also set on the tray. She rummaged in the nearby wardrobe until she found what she was looking for, a small jar of medicinal salve. Then with another towel draped over her arm, she picked up all her items and brought them to his bedside.

She stopped humming when she reached the bed, seeing him breathing peacefully and wondering if he was asleep. Cautiously she set herself and the tray on the mattress beside him, not wishing to disturb him if he was resting. "Still here?" her cool voice was gentle, like a spring breeze, but he cracked his swollen eye to blink at her.

"Nope. Left ten minutes ago, right after the codpiece." He closed his eye again, wishing he could think of some reason to get her to leave.

She hummed noncommittally before putting her hands on his shoulders. "Come on, let's get you situated so I can see to your wounds." She gently rolled him onto his back.

He groaned a little, still trying to keep his knees bent, but was too exhausted to put up much of a fight. Both eyes were open now, but still glazed and blinking slowly at her as if she was out of focus. "By the Nine, woman, can't you let me be?"

"No," she replied calmly, picking up the ice pack. "Not when you're twisted up like a long taffy treat. Here," she pressed the towel against the back of his cupped hands, "Try this." When he didn't make a move to take it, she sighed and took matters in her own hands. She grabbed one wrist and lifted his hand out of the way, dropping it lifelessly at his side. Then she shoved the other hand away and held the pack in place herself. He gave a small convulsion and hiss at the touch, but the coolness felt so good on his bruises that he quickly relaxed, unbending his knees and resting his head on the pillow.

"Thank you," he sighed, moving his hand back to hold the towel-wrapped chunk of ice in place. His hand clasped over hers, and though any other time he might have tried something, right then he was too pained to consider it. He did feel her remove her own hand, slowly, and after a moment those cool fingers were in his hair, brushing it off his face.

"I don't suppose, now that we're alone, that you'd reconsider my offer to heal you?"

He gave his head a little shake, his glazed eyes following her movements as she reached down to pull off his boots. He wanted to help her, but that would require moving which might upset the wonderful ice pack. "Can't. Went through all this to earn their respect, Ralof and Galmar and Rolff and all them. If I let you heal me, it would be cheating, and I'd lose that respect."

She nodded resignedly, having already guessed the answer, though the reasoning behind it continued to escape her. She did remember Ralof saying a similar thing to her after his whipping. And though she could understand why some scars could be carried with pride, like the ones the Thalmor gave her, she didn't understand why injuries from a pointless fight required scarring to increase their worth. Giving up, she carefully eased his trousers the rest of the way down his legs. "I figured something like that."

"Though, one thing," he said hesitantly, his voice almost cracking with embarrassment, "If you think you can, that is."

"What?" she asked, looking up at him. She saw the flush in his cheeks, heard the hitch in his voice, and had to wonder what was causing him embarrassment now. It wasn't like she hadn't seen him before; just a few weeks ago he had calmly stripped down further than this to repair his armor. Tonight, however, he was keeping the ice pack firmly in place, even while she tried to shift his tunic off his torso.

"Could you… maybe…" he paused to duck his head out of the tunic, "I don't know… just heal that one area? Leave the rest?"

One delicate eyebrow floated upwards as she tilted her head, considering his request while folding the tunic. "You mean, just heal…" she gestured at the ice-packed towel, "And leave your eyebrow to scar?" When he nodded, she gave half a shrug. "I don't know. I've never tried such a thing."

"Oh, well, never mind, then," he brushed it aside, "I've taken enough potions; I'll be fine by morning."

"Aye," she sighed in agreement, sitting back down at his side. Humming again she picked up the extra towel and dipped a corner of it in the bowl of water. She brought it around to his face, and he closed his eyes while she gently began to wipe away the blood. He kept his eyes closed after she had finished, trying again to feign sleep so she would leave. Unfortunately she was determined to remain and minister to his cuts and bruises. The salve was as cool as her fingertips as she dabbed it over the cut between his eyebrow and eyelid. It smelled of something akin to those blue flowers found in the mountains, pleasant and light, and he quickly found himself at the mercy of her tender care.

She continued on from there, working her way downwards, cleaning up the blood and dirt, applying the salve to every cut and bruise she found. When she saw the large mark against his ribs she paused in her humming to hiss in sympathy, but he didn't respond, her touch too soothing to allow him to care. Even as she neared his waist, and he felt the tug of the last knot in his loincloth being undone, he couldn't rouse himself to decline her nursing.

In fact, he couldn't arouse himself at all. Whether from exhaustion due to the fight, or from the drinking, or from the injury, or from the ice pack, the whole area remained numb and passive. He should move, should tell her to leave it alone, but that would mean revealing that he was awake, awake and unable to lift his cock, to even twitch. Gods, that would be even more embarrassing than suffering through her treatment of his wounds. He decided right then and there that he would be 'asleep' for the rest of the night, even if she stayed to watch over him for hours.

Gerhild's fingers gently spread the salve on the crease of his groin, the delicate skin rubbed into an angry red by the displaced codpiece. She didn't notice anything amiss, her attention on each and every injury rather than his twitching hand or pained expression. Not until she finished, that is, and looked up to check if he was awake or asleep. Finding his eyes closed with tiny creases in the corners, like he was in pain even while asleep, she let out an empathetic sigh. Carefully, afraid of waking him and bringing more pain, she lifted his hand off the ice pack and set it on the bed. Then she lifted away the towel.

She heard his breathing change, growing hoarse and labored, and thought it was due to the numbing ice being taken away. Her hands shook as she took hold of his cock to lift it out of the way. "He's not Braig," she muttered to herself, "Or any of those other men, and there's nothing sexual about this. I'm just making sure he's alright." She continued to reassure herself, unaware that he heard every word. Still she finished her examination quickly, relieved to find nothing more than a bruise off to the side and the cut she had already treated, and replaced the towel.

Her hand continued to shake as she wiped the back of it across her forehead, still trying to reassure herself everything was fine. Vorstag wasn't injured too severely for the healing potions to fix. And she had been able to care for him without too much of her own discomfort. "There," she squared her shoulders, nodding to herself, "That should make up in some part for his taking care of me during my fever."

She pushed herself to her feet, picking up the dirtied towel and tray to remove it from the bed. Then she walked over to the chest and pulled out another blanket, as he was still lying on top of the one already on the bed. Softly she draped it over his battered form, tucking it in around his shoulders. Looking up at his face, she confirmed that he was still asleep, his eyes closed and his breathing deeper and more even than before. She sat back down for a moment, humming again as her cool fingers stroked his matted hair back from his face. After a few minutes she saw his face relax a little more, and decided it was time to leave. She bent forward to plant a soft kiss against his cheek.

Vorstag definitely noticed the kiss, could feel the imprint of her bow-shaped lips against his skin. It was all he could do to lie impassive and inert beneath the touch. Gods he wanted to take her in his arms right then and there, to kiss away every memory of pain and humiliation, to show her what love could be like—should be like. But he knew he wouldn't be able to perform. More importantly, he had heard her mumble to herself, trying to keep her anxieties at bay while she tended to his hurts. He knew she wouldn't welcome his touch, not yet, not until she could set aside those ghosts that haunted her and want it for herself. Until then, he had to be patient, he had to simply love her and allow her to find out for herself that she could love him.

A drop of something fell against his cheek, but he was controlling himself so tightly he didn't even flinch.

Gerhild pulled back, staring at the tear that had escaped her eyes to fall on his face, shocked into sudden stillness by the sight. Her eyes followed it as it slid down the side towards his ear, leaving behind a trail that glistened wetly in the firelight. Slightly panicky, she flicked her fingers over his skin, wiping it away, praying not to wake him. Seeing his eyes had remained closed, she gave a little sigh of relief and stood up from the bed.

What the fuck? she thought to herself, unable to understand where the tear had come from. She knew it came from her eyes, and could feel more pressing towards freedom, but her mind refused to comprehend the reason behind them. She wasn't hurt. She wasn't scared. She wasn't sad. There was no fucking reason for the damn tears. Finding her anger, turning it against the unreasonable weepiness, she scrubbed her hands over her face until the skin felt warm and the tears were gone. She didn't cry, she told herself she didn't cry, she was merely rubbing at her face until she was back in control. Then she quietly left his room, trying hard not to think about anything.

Gerhild was so deeply wrapped within her cocoon of numbness, she didn't notice that she had been noticed. Ulfric was standing at the top of the stairs, one hand on the corner of the stones as he watched her walk down the hall. Vorstag's room was near the stairs, the room she had just left, and her room closer to his own, right across the hall from Galmar, so her back was to him and he knew she hadn't seen him. But he had seen her. Leaving Vorstag's room. Long after she had helped him up the stairs.

He watched her, his sabre cat gaze cold and hungry, willing her to perform a certain action, but she didn't even try the door to his room. She went directly to her own, and as she turned to enter he caught her in profile. Her lower lip was wormed between her teeth, and though he couldn't see it, he could well imagine the furrow between her brows. There also seemed to be a slight flush to her cheeks, and he wondered just what had happened in Vorstag's room.

A fingernail chipped against the stones as his knuckles turned white, but Ulfric was oblivious to the fact. He turned back to look at Vorstag's door, and cursed softly under his breath. He knew the sellsword had feelings for Gerhild, and though she somehow convinced herself he preferred the dagger to the sheath, the longer they were together, the more likely Vorstag would eventually show her the error in her reasoning. Then he'd lose her. Again.

No, he'd have to get rid of Vorstag. But in a way that wouldn't alarm Gerhild. She liked him—as a friend—and Ulfric couldn't do anything to damage that or he'd look like a monster. Vorstag would have to be the one to make the decision, to want to leave her side, and he thought he knew of a way to do it. He pushed away from the wall, leaving behind the broken fingernail, and headed for his room. He had a lot of planning to do, and the night held only so many hours.

Chapter Text

16th of Last Seed: 4E 202

The sound of a hammer striking steel rang into the air, only to be drowned out by any one of the vendors trying to sell their wares. Vorstag tried not to get distracted by the sights and sounds of the busy marketplace. He had to stand still to allow Oengul to strap on the steel armor with pauldrons. "So, I hear you're called Arctic Stones now, is that it?"

Vorstag kept the blush from his face, but only because Gerhild wasn't there. She had accompanied he and Ralof to the market that day, and while Ralof browsed the stalls and he got fitted into his new armor, she had gone into The White Phial on some secret business. Even if Oengul's assistant, Hermir, was listening in it would have been enough to make him blush, but she was working so hard on a piece of armor that he doubted she heard any of their exchange.

He allowed a somewhat self-satisfied chuckle to slip out in place of the redness. "Aye, or so Rolff claims. I don't really care, just so long as I'm not called a 'Mercenary.' Never did like that term."

"What do you call yourself then? Spread your fingers wide, now make a fist. Good."

Vorstag obeyed his commands, still trying to get used to the Nordic gauntlets, the plate across the back of his hand making them weightier than his old braces. "'Soldier of Fortune' sounds better. Or even 'Freelance Adventurer for Hire.' 'Sellsword' if you're looking for something simple. But not 'Mercenary.'"

Oengul hummed something that could have been approval or could have been neutral. Either way, he knelt down to help him into the steel cuffed boots. "Anyway, you managed to win enough money on that fight three weeks ago to finish out your kit."

"Aye, more or less," he grinned.

"I can imagine how you did it," the blacksmith stated quietly, looking up with a crafty grin, "After taking your measurements for the cuirass earlier that day. But don't worry," he grunted, gaining his feet, "Your secret's safe with me; I enjoyed Rolff getting a taste of his own medicine, and I made a bit of coin betting on you. I'm just sorry it took so long to finish your armor. Stomp around a little, and settle your feet into the boots. I want to make sure the fit is right."

Again Vorstag did as commanded, feeling a little awkward—not to mention sounding like a soup kitchen—as he walked around, swinging his arms, getting used to the weight and restricted movement of the heavy armor. "By the Nine, how am I supposed to fight in this?"

"Very conservatively," a cool, clear feminine voice floated over his shoulder. He had to physically turn before he could bring Gerhild into view, the heavy armor inhibiting his motions. She was leaning over the wall separating the blacksmith's work area from the rest of the market. A small parcel wrapped in plain brown paper was in her hands, and a sly smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. "I think you'll get used to it fairly quickly. Your fighting style is already conservative enough; it shouldn't need that much of an adjustment to fit in with the loss in your range of motion. But the hardest part will be learning to move quietly."

He shook his head, "Not gonna happen soon, with the weight of all this. I probably shouldn't have ordered the helmet."

"Too late now," Oengul grunted, lifting the helmet onto his head, the piece heavier than either the gauntlets or the boots. "There, how does he look?"

The smile at the corner of her mouth was joined by the other corner, and she had to bring one hand up to hide it. Yet when she spoke, her words were still that same, calm and cool quality. "Aye, well, very impressive. Your work is excellent, as always."

"Better than Eorlund Gray-Mane?"

"You know I won't answer that."

He sighed, tapping Vorstag on the back of his helmet to get his attention. He leaned back slightly to avoid the horns as Vorstag turned back to him. "I know she knows Eorlund's work, and she knows mine, but she won't judge which of us is the better smith."

"I'll be satisfied so long as the helmet protects me in a fight," he offered as a balm to his pride.

"Actually," Ralof came up and joined the conversation, "It makes you look a lot different."

Vorstag had to lumber around again before he could face him, almost knocking into the forge this time. Oengul steadied him as he tried to get used to his increased mass. "Oh? How?"

"It hides your tattoo."

Vorstag's face fell, what little could be seen between the cheek guards and the distractions of the horns. "Does it really?"

"You sound disappointed," she said, her hand still hovering suspiciously around her mouth. "I thought you once said you'd like to get rid of your tattoo."

"Oh, well, I did, once, but I've kinda gotten used to it, ya know? Besides, it's a great way to break the ice, people asking about it, did it hurt to get it done, how old was I, were my parents pissed, and all that. And it's fun coming up with different stories on how I got it."

"You mean, the story you told me wasn't true?" she batted her eyes at him playfully.

"No, well, aye, I mean," he coughed, "The story about wanting to look all bad-ass like Argis, the story I told at your party, that one was made up. The other one's true." He fussed with his gauntlets, praying she would keep her mouth shut regarding any details about he and Argis in Riften.

"What story is this?" Ralof asked, bewildered. Even Hermir had stopped working to listen.

"Never mind," Vorstag ground out between his teeth.

"Wait, you didn't get it to hide a scar given to you by a sabre cat?" Hermir asked. When everyone turned to her, she stammered, "That's the story I heard, anyway. The story going around the Candlehearth Hall."

"There's a different one going around the barracks," supplied Ralof, "That you were held captive by ten Forsworn women who used the tattoo to mark you as their sex slave."

"I heard it was ten men," Oengul joined in, catching on to the game of let's-tease-Vorstag, "Only they were also sex slaves, and it was a Hagraven who marked you all as her property."

Vorstag's face positively burned, and he was sure the sweating he was doing wasn't from the heavy helmet as much as it was from the heat of his embarrassment. Gerhild saw his discomfort in his stance, but his face was effectively hidden by the helmet—even in the bright midday sun she couldn't see the blush on his cheeks. She dropped her hand, giving in to the smile, and let him off the hook. "Keep the helmet, Vorstag. It works just fine."

He glanced at her sharply, saw the smile, and knew she knew why he had ordered the helmet. Deciding enough was enough, he nodded his assent and turned back to Oengul. "Fine. Good. Well, you've got your money, I've got my armor, I guess we're done here."

"Aye," Oengul waved them off, "We're done. Come see me the next time you need arms or armor, eh. Hermir, where's my good hammer, girl. Blast it! I've told you to keep your hands off my tools…"

Gerhild nodded for them to start walking away. "Come on. Let's get out of here before the row gets any louder."

"Sounds good to me." Vorstag was walking carefully, trying to set each foot down with the minimal amount of noise. The straps holding his cuirass were creaking, and his gauntlets kept bumping into the armor on his hips, making a light tapping noise. "Will I ever be able to move quietly?" he grumbled.

"Once you break in your armor, it'll be quieter," she advised. "Remember how my steel plate sounded when we fought that dragon north of Markarth? But by the time we got here, it wasn't clattering or creaking anymore."

"Aye," he nodded. He paused to swing his arms, mindful of Gerhild beside him—Ralof followed behind at a respectful distance, still in the role of her personal guard. "I suppose I should be glad I won so much coin on the fight, and didn't have to send to Markarth; it would have taken a lot longer to get this done."

"You're the one who left your money in Ogmund's safekeeping. You could have brought it with you, then you wouldn't have had to fight Rolff." She thought she made a very convincing argument, but he was ready for her.

"When I left Markarth, I was going on a hunting trip; didn't have much need for coin to do that. And I didn't have a chance to go back there before leaving with you. So I didn't have a whole lot on me by the time we got here and I needed to replace my armor. Besides," he sniffed, "There was no way to avoid that fight. And it all turned out for the best, didn't it?"

"Aye, Arctic Stones," she used his new nickname teasingly, "Other than that limp."

"I only limped the first day. Rolff is the one still limping. And bragging about it."

"Did he ever find out you cheated?" she asked, still in a teasing mood.

"It wasn't cheating," he ground out between his teeth. "It was protection. Besides, Ralof knew about it; if he felt it was cheating, he would have told me so. Though…" he paused, and she twisted her neck to try to see around the cheek guards to his face within the helmet, "I did offer to split my winnings with him. I suppose that might be considered a bribe."

She laughed, a little too readily, the sound clear and light on the late summer air. Quickly she got a hold of herself, and briefly wondered why this humor kept bubbling up. She decided it was due to her teasing Vorstag, and that she'd better stop—that should end the disconcerting laughter. Besides, she only wanted to practice teasing on him, not abuse their relationship, and he was starting to look a little upset. "Don't worry about it. Ralof is a very honorable man; I don't think a true bribe would ever work on him."

He glanced over his shoulder, or tried to, but the Captain was out of sight beyond the edge of his helmet. He supposed she was right; having spent more time with Ralof than with Gerhild over the past three weeks, he had gotten the measure of the man. Ralof was honorable, almost to a fault, so Vorstag could be assured that his dealings with the fight hadn't been dishonest.

Still, he decided to change the subject. "Did you ever hear back from the docks?" There had been no word yet on the Northern Maiden. She had gone to the docks during those first few days to inquire about the ship and had been informed that it had sailed months ago, but was due to return any day now.

"Not yet, but I'm not too worried. I've left a strongly worded message for the ship's captain. He'll tell me what I want to know about this Miraak and his cultists, or leave word if I'm no longer here by the time he returns." She linked her arm with his, more to give him an excuse to use her for balance as he got accustomed to his new armor.

"So, you're leaving soon, then?" he asked, working awkwardly into a subject he knew was going to be sensitive.

"I was planning on it, aye," she looked at him sharply, noting his odd tone of voice and the way he left himself out of her travels. "I still have to go to Riverwood and deal with that presumptuous thief. Why?"

"Oh, well, ya know, no reason, just wondering."

Gerhild knew he was lying, knew there was something bothering him, but he was too easy-going to bring it up himself. She glanced over her shoulder, but Ralof was several paces behind them and out of earshot. She signaled him to fall further back, and focused her attention on Vorstag, trying to ignore the writhing in the pit of her stomach. "What is it, Vorstag?" she stopped him just inside the courtyard of the palace, her hand on his chest pinning him to the wall, "What's bothering you so much?"

He sighed, looking around, but no one was close enough to hear their conversation. He tried to stall for time, taking off his helmet and running his fingers through his lanky brown hair, but she was staring at him with the intensity of a predator. "I guess, I miss Markarth, I suppose."

He watched her face soften and a sad little smile cross her lips. "You love that city, don't you?"

"It's my home," he answered simply. Seeing the tiny crease form on her brow, he elaborated. "There are times when I don't see it for months, even a couple of years, but I always know I can return there, that Frabbi will have a room for me, and Ogmund will catch me up on all the news I missed. That's important, ya know?"

"Oh," she sounded a little surprised, as if this was something she hadn't considered before. A strange sort of look flashed in her eyes, something other than the dead coldness that inhabited the violet. It almost made Vorstag shiver, the look was so hard to describe, but it was gone before he could identify it. Then she was back to her old self again. "I suppose, going by that definition, I have two homes now."

Thinking he might have an idea what that look meant, he argued gently, "I'm not talking about a group of rooms hewn out of the stone by ancient Dwemer," he referred to Vlindrel Hall, "Or the structure of stone and wood or whatever you have in Whiterun. I'm talking about a home, having a place you can return to, filled with people you know, where you feel loved and missed when you're not there. A home."

Sometime during their conversation, he had brought his hand up to cover hers against his chest. His fingers laced with hers, warm as opposed to the coolness of his armor. She looked down at his chest, saw their fingers together, and was reminded of how Ulfric had similarly held her hand captive. "I guess I don't understand," she allowed. "Growing up, I never had a home, not that I can remember. I know we lived in a house before my mother died, but after that…" her voice trailed away, and she gave a funny sort of jerk, as if physically pulling herself away from a thought or idea.

He again thought that he might finally be melting that ice around her heart, that she was showing signs of starting to feel again, that she was growing warm and alive inside once more. He wasn't going to make an issue of it, however, ever patient to allow her to realize she felt something, and what it was, and come to him. "Well, you'll have a home in Markarth, so long as I'm there," he vowed, his fingers moving over hers in a soft and caressing manner.

"Thank you, Vorstag," she smiled up at him, but again—as before—none of the warmth reached her cold, violet eyes. Whatever progress he'd made had been squelched, but he didn't despair; he made progress once, he could do it again.

"What are you doing this evening?" he asked suddenly, pulling her hand off his chest and restarting their walk.

"I suppose dining with the Jarl, as always. Why?"

"Well, I was wondering if you'd like to stop by the Candlehearth Hall after dinner tonight," he offered, letting go of her hand to rub the back of his neck as they neared the main entrance. He was fairly sweaty even after the short time of wearing his new armor. "I was asked to sing tonight. Not that I'm becoming a bard or anything, but I was singing the other night along with Luaffyn, and she said I had a good voice, and worked it out so I could sing tonight, just for a couple of hours." He pulled his hand away from his neck, "You could come and listen, if you'd like."

"I wouldn't miss it," she smiled encouragingly, "Just so long as you don't do that version of 'Ragnar the Red' again."

He pouted, playing along as he held the door for her, "I thought I was pretty good, making it up on the spur of the moment, just to get Ondolemar and Ogmund apart. Course, I didn't have time to be nervous then. I've got time now. Can't tell if it's the armor or the thought of singing in front of so many people that has me sweating so bad. I'm gonna need another bath before tonight just to get rid of the sweat and this new armor smell."

She gave a small laugh, and he joined in, glad that the mood between them was so comfortable and light once more. "That reminds me. I've got something for you," she smiled up at him.

"Oh. What?"

She took out the small package she had purchased that afternoon. "Think of it as a belated birthday gift."

He took it from her hands, only a little apprehensive. Unfortunately his helmet was still in his other hand, and he had to tuck it between his knees before he could unwrap the small parcel. "Soap?"

She shrugged. "I know, not very exciting. But," she leaned in close to him, dropping her voice so it wouldn't carry the length and breadth of the hall, "I noticed you had tried using my soap, that first night we were here. I know, there wasn't anything else for you to use, but lavender doesn't smell very good on you. I think juniper would be a better scent, something that smells clean and cool, like the mountains in the Reach."

He was silent for a time, looking at the bar, and she thought that perhaps she had wounded his pride yet again. Not wanting to lose that comfortable closeness she felt with him, she stammered an explanation, hoping to head off his disgruntlement. "I… I didn't mean that you stink… or that you're filthy… or anything… I was just…"

He laughed, easy and honest, overcoming his discomfort after seeing her stutter. Truthfully, he wasn't upset or insulted that she thought he was filthy or anything like that. He was remembering that time in the bath, the scent of her soap, the heat from the water, and his trouble getting things under control. But when it dawned on him how nervous she was, he couldn't help but laugh. "I love it when I fluster you," he teased her, letting her think he had pretended to be insulted rather than give her time to figure out the truth.

"Vorstag!" she punched him playfully on the arm, her bow-shaped lips pouting with mock irritation. He knew she didn't mean anything more, that she was merely mimicking the appropriate response, acting the part… but it meant something—it had to mean something—that she made such efforts for him.

"It's a wonderful gift, Gerhild. Thank you." He bent over to plant a chaste kiss on her cheek. "I'll just, well, let you go, to meet with the Jarl, and I'll go use this, and get ready for tonight."

"Now who's flustered?" she teased. He rolled his eyes but let the matter drop, grabbing his helmet from between his knees before he started walking one way to the stairs and she the other way to Ulfric's throne.

Their exchange hadn't gone unnoticed. Though Ulfric was too far away to hear their words, he had seen the parcel passed to Vorstag, and the kiss he offered as a thank you. He felt his blood boil, but kept his emotions under control. If all went as planned, Vorstag would be leaving Windhelm in a few days. He had learned of the sellsword's love for the city of his birth, and had used that against him. It was a simple matter to convince him that he alone could keep Markarth safe and perhaps find a way to pass over possession of the Reach without bloodshed. It was even easier to convince him that Gerhild would be better able to concentrate on her own tasks without him as a distraction. Aye, in a day or two, Vorstag would leave Windhelm—leave Gerhild—and everyone including Vorstag would think it was his own idea.

Ralof had noticed the exchange, too. He had gotten to know Vorstag quite well over the past three weeks, and even though he never said it he knew Vorstag loved Gerhild. He wasn't sure how she had gotten the wrong impression regarding him—and he'd never bring it up himself!—but it was plain to anyone with eyes that Vorstag did everything to show her he loved her, short of saying those words. Thinking back to how he had first met her—a year ago tomorrow—how he had witnessed the change that damaged her, he felt like kicking himself. Had he known it at the time what it would cost her, he would have stopped it, would have kept her heart open and alive. But he was more concerned with getting them out of Helgen and away from Imperials and dragons than he was with the emotional well-being of one young girl.

He might have loved her himself at one point, but he knew it wasn't true love. They had been through a harrowing experience together, had to rely on each other for survival, and that created a bond between them, but it wasn't love. Not like Vorstag felt for her. Ralof's love was more like that of an older brother. He watched over her and cared about what happened to her, but he wasn't going to interfere unless he had to. And he sensed he'd never have to worry about Gerhild as long as she was with Vorstag.

Seeing she was at the head of the main hall talking with Ulfric, he maintained a respectful distance, knowing he would be called if he was needed.

The mood was lively at the Candlehearth Hall that night, the upstairs so full it was standing room only, forcing Vorstag to stand on a table in order to be seen by everyone. Luaffyn, the Dunmer bard who usually played for the guests, was standing nearby with her lute in hand, strumming whatever song had been requested. And at the end of each tune a cheer rose up along with calls for another song.

Gerhild had to smile; it was hard not to when everyone else was smiling. But mainly she smiled for Vorstag, seeing that he was enjoying his newly found fame. He looked happy and relaxed, though it still seemed odd to her to see him in anything other than armor. Tonight he was wearing a new dark green tunic, the trim decorated with brown embroidery that matched his hair and eyes. She knew also that he had used his new soap, as whenever a wayward draft pushed through the crowded room she caught a scent of juniper. And he was smiling, his straight white teeth flashing as he sang in that smooth baritone that made her cheeks flush. Or that might have been from the heat of all the bodies around her. A shudder ran down her spine at the thought of all these people, pressing down on her, keeping her away from the exits, holding her captive…

She gave herself a little shake, wondering why her mind kept wandering. All day she had trouble concentrating, alternately fighting off bouts of giggles and bursts of anger and knots of anxiety. She was nearly sweating with the effort of trying to maintain control of herself, not liking at all what was happening to her, especially not knowing why it was happening.

But she was here for Vorstag, and made herself focus once more on his singing. He had just finished 'The Age of Oppression,' and had done a masterful job of changing the lyrics to fit the Stormcloak side instead of the Imperial viewpoint he was used to hearing in Markarth. He could become quite a successful bard, if he wanted, with these musical talents of his. He danced, too, entertaining the audience with a little jig while he waited for Luaffyn to decide which request to play next. Gerhild had to groan when the first stanzas of 'Ragnar the Red' were strummed, and Vorstag boyishly grinned in her direction. They had made eye-contact as soon as she entered so he knew approximately where she was standing, but with the press of bodies she hadn't been able to reach his side much less talk with him. As he started singing, she rolled her eyes but clapped along with everyone, knowing he would sing the song correctly and leave his improvised version a private joke between them.

And it helped to lessen her riled emotions if she listened to his voice.

The last song of the evening was a surprise to her. She immediately recognized the tune Ulgaarth had always whistled, the tune she sometimes hummed when she thought she was alone. Upon hearing the lyrics, she realized her father had changed them for her benefit. Yet to hear such a familiar tune coming from Vorstag's velvet baritone was almost too much for her to endure. She looked up at his eyes, caught him watching her, and knew that he understood what this song meant to her. And he was singing this last song just for her. A shocked sort of trance enveloped her before she could contemplate the meaning behind such a gesture, blocking off any potential avenue of pain or regret or sadness, instinctually knowing such emotion would be too strong for her to deny.

The final chord faded away beneath a thunderous applause. Vorstag raised his hands, waving off any more requests, and turned the stage back to Luaffyn. He had to force his way through a throng of well-wishers, feeling like a salmon swimming upstream, but at last reached Gerhild's side. She was alone for once, having excused Ralof from his escort duties for this one night. He smiled down at her, the hair at his temples soaked with sweat, his breath a little labored. "Not sure if they came because I was singing, or because I'm Arctic Stones."

He had to turn away to accept praise from another patron, so he didn't notice the change in her demeanor. By the time he turned back, her shock had been pushed aside and she was Lady Gerhild North-Wind yet again. "You missed your calling. You should have been a bard, not a sellsword."

His face flushed a little deeper than it already was and he glanced away. "No, I wouldn't want to have to sing for my room and board. But it was fun just for tonight."

"You don't think you'll be asked back for another performance?" she teased, latching on to a distraction from her unstable state.

"Depends, I suppose, on how long you'll be here, in Windhelm."

The crowd was thinning, now that they were back to the regular entertainment, so Gerhild was able to hear the underlying tones in his voice, like she had earlier that afternoon. Sensing something amiss, she grabbed his arm and steered him towards a quieter corner were it would be less likely they would be overheard. "Alright, what's going on? You make it sound like I'll be leaving you behind when I go, but I won't. I like having you with me. And I thought you liked traveling with me." She crossed her arms just under her bosom, lifting the mounds just a little.

Vorstag grimaced and had to look away before he ended up ogling her. Taking a deep breath, he ran his fingers through his sweaty hair, ruffling it to air it out. "Aye, I do, but… Jarl Ulfric is hinting that he would like to send you off to spy in another hold. Alone."

One delicate eyebrow raised, right on cue, the mannerism so familiar it made his soul yearn to touch her. Instead he settled for a twitch of his lips and imagined he was kissing the fine golden hairs.

"Aye, he'd like to send me to Morthal next." She tilted her head. "But I don't have to go alone. You could come with me. It would be a great help, knowing I had someone nearby I could rely on."

Vorstag glanced away, his larynx bobbing in his neck, as he thought of Ulfric's words to him. The two men had talked often, the Jarl appearing to be interested in his ideas and opinions, and his stories about Gerhild. They talked about her almost every time, about Ulfric's plans for her, and what Vorstag thought of her and her abilities. He knew—though Ulfric had never come right out and said anything about it—he knew that she would stand a better chance blending into an enemy hold without him tagging along, holding her back, hindering her with an extra person to worry about. If he wanted to keep her safe and allow her a greater possibility of succeeding, he would have to let her do it alone. After all, what she did for the Stormcloaks would be considered treason by the Empire, a crime punishable by death if she were ever caught.

"That may be so," he allowed, looking back at her, "But there's still Markarth to consider. The Reach is important, and its silver, and I worry about it." Damn, this was not coming out right. He wanted to tell her, before she figured it out, but the words just wouldn't come to him. "Someone needs to be there and keep an eye on things."

"Aye," she nodded, "That's true. But I can't stay there all the time. Jarl Ulfric needs me. And I have this 'other stuff'," she used their code word for her Dragonborn business, "To take care of. Not to mention Miraak and the thief and every little issue that keeps popping up…" She stopped to sigh, seeing the pained expression in his eyes and misreading it. "I know you're homesick. I'll try to get us back there before the end of the year. I promise."

She was smiling at him, her hand on his arm, her head tilting upwards in a way that lifted her lips invitingly. Gods, he wanted to kiss her, but he knew she wouldn't allow it. And even if she did, she had to focus on other matters and not be distracted by him. He had to let her go—at least for now.

But saying goodbye was too damn hard.

"Vorstag!" Rolff's voice called from the top of the stairs. "You milk-drinking, honey-worded, mer-loving, knee-breaking… ah… Fuck it! I can't think of any more. Let me buy you a drink." He gestured with two mugs, one in each hand, towards a table.

Gerhild gave him a gentle squeeze before letting go. "We can talk about it later. Your admirers await you."

"Gerhild," he began, licking his lips when no more words would come. But she was already turning away, heading towards a side door to disappear into the night. Then Rolff was at his side, nudging him towards the table, handing over a mug as he spouted praise. Vorstag didn't really hear him, his mind preoccupied with the problem of Gerhild.

The night air was cool against her skin, a welcomed relief from the heat of the inn. She took in a deep breath, tilting her head back to cool her neck as well. In the dark stillness, the unsettled feelings and memories seemed to fade away. Then, whistling her father's tune, she started walking through the streets of Windhelm, no real destination in mind, just letting her feet move while she tried to plan a trip to Markarth into her already busy schedule.

Something out of place tripped an alarm in her ever-working vigilance, pulling her out of her thoughts to take conscious notice of her surroundings. She was in a side street not far from the inn, about to pass an empty house—an empty house with a light in the upstairs window. An eyebrow rose and, curiosity getting the better of her, she fumbled at her waist for her lock picks before she took another step. She suddenly felt glad she had given Ralof the night off, though she was sure he had been at the Candlehearth anyway, because she didn't want him involved in this. If there was a thief in the house, she wanted to make contact with him alone. She had yet to find a fence for those goods of hers that were from more of an… unauthorized transaction.

The door opened quietly, surprising her as she would have expected it to be rusty and creaky from disuse. There was a sound, however, the voice of a boy or young man, cracking with fatigue and puberty. "Sweet Mother, sweet Mother, send your child unto me, for the sins of the unworthy must be baptized in blood and fear."

Gerhild barely kept herself from gasping—she hadn't stumbled across a thief stupid enough to use a candle; she had come across someone performing the Black Sacrament. She listened for a while, just inside the door, as he moaned his exhaustion and pleaded with the Night Mother for her answer. Despite his weariness, he resumed his chanting, interspersed with threats to some woman named Grelod. Whoever this boy was, and whoever Grelod was, she had done something that made him determined to see her dead. It struck a sympathetic chord within her, making Gerhild push away from the door and start up the steps.

At the top of the stairs a floorboard creaked, alerting the boy to her presence. He turned, his face full of hope and fear, but upon seeing that it was a noblewoman who stood there and not a guard, he became relieved. "It worked! Oh, thank you, Night Mother. It worked, with the body and… things…" he gestured behind him at the disgusting arrangement, more than glad to stop looking at it if it was no longer necessary. "I performed the Black Sacrament, and you came, and now you can kill Grelod."

She sighed, settling herself on the dusty floor, unmindful of the grime spoiling her skirts. "Look at me, boy. What do you see?" He blinked at her, unwilling to understand her meaning. "Do I look like an assassin, a member of the Dark Brotherhood? Am I wearing armor and a veil that hides my features? Do you see any weapons that would allow me to kill stealthily?"

"But…" he blinked back tears, angry and bitter and disappointed. "But I did all this, so an assassin would come, and you came…"

"I came because there was a light in the window of what is supposed to be an empty house. As a loyal subject of Jarl Ulfric, I felt it was my duty to make sure this place wasn't being robbed. That's all."

He sniffed, scrubbing his face on his sleeves, unable to look at her. "After everything else… my mother's death… the orphanage… I'll have to start over now… but I can't keep doing this… not for much longer…"

Gerhild set a hand on his shoulder, feeling him tremble with the silent tears. "What's your name?"

"Aventus. Aventus Aretino." His voice was muffled with his face still in his arms.

"What happened, Aventus? What's so terrible that calling upon the Night Mother seems your only option?" Her hand made small, soothing circles on his back as he shifted closer to her.

"My mother… got sick… died. The Jarl said I had to go to Honorhall Orphanage in Riften. It wasn't fair! I'm almost old enough to be a man; I could have lived here on my own." He lifted his face to her, red with anger as well as from rubbing on his sleeves.

She thought she might have remembered hearing something when she was last in Windhelm about the Aretino family. Feeling a strange sort of kinship with him stir inside her, as their situations were similar, she encouraged, "So where does Grelod come in?"

"She's the headmistress at the orphanage. She calls herself Grelod the Kind. But she's not kind! She's a monster! She starves us and beats us and makes us clean the hall and work and we never get to go outside and no one ever comes to adopt us and…"

She watched as he broke into tears again, angry with himself this time for acting so childish. A hot, stinging sensation pushed at the back of her eyes, and she felt herself again losing control.

"I ran away," he picked up his story, "And came back home. I got everything together and performed the Black Sacrament and…" he raised his face up again, but she had managed to push back her own tears, "And here you are. But you're not an assassin, are you?"

"I'm not," she confirmed, even though he hadn't spoken the words as a question. She felt like she knew the young man, not personally, but they were both orphans, and both had suffered abuse of a sort, and she could help him as Ulfric had helped her. "You're determined to see Grelod dead?"

"I've never been more sure about anything in my entire life!"

She thought it foolish he would speak of his entire life, considering he couldn't be much older than thirteen or fourteen, but refrained from commenting on that. Instead she reached to her waistband and pulled out her enchanted dagger. She held it in front of her, spinning it slowly to play in the flickering candlelight. "Then why don't you kill her?" She heard his breath catch, stopping his tears, and knew she had his complete attention. "You're, what, fourteen years old?"

"I'll be fourteen in two months," he affirmed eagerly.

"Nearly fourteen years old. All alone in the world. And yet you escaped from an orphanage that sounds to me like a prison, traveled across a countryside infested with bears and other wild animals, managed the distasteful task of gathering the items necessary to perform the Black Sacrament… All these things would be difficult even for an adult, but you did them before you were fourteen. How much harder could it be, do you think, to return to Riften and take care of matters yourself?"

She probably shouldn't be doing this, but if the boy felt so strongly about this matter, he wasn't going to rest until Grelod was dead. Who knows if the Night Mother could even hear his prayer—the items weren't exactly right for the Black Sacrament—much less answer it. Aventus was already teetering on the edge of exhaustion. He needed this, needed to put his demons behind him, take revenge on the one who abused him and other children. She could relate to that.

"I would need a knife," he said bluntly, his eyes locked covetously on her dagger.

"Aye, you would," she agreed, showing off a little with the blade. She balanced it, twirled it, flipped it and caught it and flipped it again, "A good knife. One you could trust. Like this one here. It's enchanted, won't harm anyone who's a friend of whoever is wielding it. But it will harm every enemy. And the blade remains razor-edged without having to be sharpened. Try it."

He looked at the dagger, offered to him hilt first, for less than a heartbeat before he grabbed it and thrust it at her. She laughed at the startled look on his face as he stared at his empty hand fisted just beneath her ribs. He had accepted her challenge a lot faster—and with a lot more zeal—than Vorstag. She reached around his outstretched arm and picked up the dagger to offer it to him again. "Now you know who I am."

He was a little more hesitant this time, a little bit stunned to believe she was giving him the dagger. He looked up to her face, searching for a clue as to her intentions, and studied her features. After a moment, his eyes widened with recognition and he gave a few quick, short nods. "Aye," he breathed as his fingers wrapped around the hilt once more. "You are my friend, Lady Gerhild North-Wind, Dragonborn."

"Keep that last one to yourself," she leaned in close as if giving him a confidence. "I don't want people outside of Windhelm to know Gerhild and the Dragonborn are one and the same."

He glanced at the knife cradled in his hands, "Of course, milady."

"Let's go," she said, standing up and brushing off her skirts. "Riften is quite a ways away, and Grelod isn't going to kill herself." She picked up the candle from the dresser and turned to leave.

"Why are you doing this?" he asked, following her down the stairs. "Why are you helping me kill someone?"

She stopped at the door, her hand on the latch, considering her words before she answered. All the pain and angst Aventus felt echoed in her soul, too strong to deny, so she wrapped herself in the icy calmness that let it wash over and around her, like an iceberg in the Sea of Ghosts. "I've been hurt, too. Different than you, but hurt still the same. I know how it leaves wounds behind that won't heal, not until the cause of those wounds has been dealt with. I cannot deal with mine, not yet, but I can help you deal with yours. Maybe that will be enough for me, at least for a little while."

He shook his head, "That doesn't make sense to me, but I suppose if it makes sense to you, I don't have to understand. You've helped me, Lady Gerhild, and I will owe you. If there's anything I can do for you, ever…"

"I'll be sure to ask you," she accepted his vow. She had no intention of ever needing to ask him a favor, but he needed to make the grand gesture, so she accepted it. Opening the door caused a draft to blow out the candle, but the night was bright enough with both moons shining. She smiled a little sadly, watching him slip away down the street, heading for the gate near the docks. After he disappeared into the shadows, she turned and made her way to the palace.

The night hadn't quite fallen in the Reach, being to the far west of Skyrim, the sun below the rim of the mountains though not the horizon. A dark form marched out of the evening shadows, heading towards the entrance to Markarth. Two more forms came into being behind the first, their elven armor glowing softly in the twilight. The guard at the gate moved to block their path, unwilling to open the gates at such a late hour to strangers. "Hold! State your business in Markarth."

The first shadow solidified, his Thalmor robes distinctive despite the darkening light. He kept his hood up, but turned his head slightly to address the guard. "Open the gate," he commanded, letting his attire speak for his authority. The guard hesitated, but seeing the Thalmor Justiciar wasn't slowing, he jumped ahead of him and wrenched at the handle.

The three Altmer passed into Markarth, their steps steady and sure, despite not having been there before. They worked their way through the streets, avoided by the citizens who were just closing up their shops and heading home. The patrolling guards kept their distance as well, though offering nods of obeisance that were haughtily ignored.

They met less resistance at Understone Keep, the guards there must have received word somehow of the three new Thalmor in Markarth. Both doors were opened without a word, and they continued unerringly on their course.

Ondolemar looked up as the newcomers stalked down the ancient hallway towards his suite of rooms, but he only paid attention to the one in the lead, the heels of his boots leaving sharp staccato raps behind him. He tilted his head, his eyes narrowing as he recognized the approaching Altmer, and smiled to himself. He didn't seem to mind that they had arrived so late in the evening; he was still at work, sitting at his desk. This should be interesting, he thought to himself, as he stood and prepared to greet his visitor.

The lead Thalmor stopped before him, his escort a respectful three paces behind, and waited. "Norilar," Ondolemar acknowledged, "How good to see you again. Welcome to Markarth."

Norilar lifted his hood off his head, revealing a scarred and pointless ear.

Chapter Text

Ondolemar wanted to rock back on his heels, enjoying the uncomfortable look on his visitor's features. He knew the other Justiciar would have preferred to keep his hood up, to hide his disgraceful stump of an ear, but he outranked Norilar. Barely. And since his hood was down, relaxed as he was in his own quarters, it would have been rude for Norilar to keep his head covered. "Allow me to extend the hospitality of Understone Keep, such as it is, to you and your escort. You may have this room for your own use; I'll have a cot brought in. They may share quarters with my own warriors, that is, assuming you will be staying here for a while."

"Just for the night," he ground out between tightly clenched teeth, trying hard not to sneer. Clearly he was having trouble keeping himself under control, which only heightened Ondolemar's amusement.

"Very well. You may dismiss them." It was a bold move, ordering Norilar to order his own guards, but he had to assert his position and authority, if only to discover if he truly did outrank Elenwen's favorite pet. Everyone knew there had to be a great amount of ass-kissing going on, since Norilar hadn't been terminated after his shameful disfigurement. He had been demoted to a certain extent, working now as Elenwen's personal assistant rather than an Interrogator. But Ondolemar was still the Head Justiciar in all of Skyrim, answering only to Elenwen herself.

And apparently, Norilar acknowledged his rank. He turned the unmarked side of his face to his guards and nodded curtly, dismissing them on Ondolemar's orders. Again he smiled to himself, this was going to be an extremely interesting interview.

"So," he said cheerfully, once the door closed behind the guards, "To what do I owe this honor? Oh, would you care for any refreshments?" He gestured to where a pitcher of wine sat on a side table.

"I wouldn't want to impose on your already generous hospitality," he deferred, however unwillingly. "As it is, I see I have interrupted your supper."

He waved negligently at the tray holding grilled leaks and salmon steak, forgotten on the edge of his desk. "That was delivered hours ago; I've been too focused on work to make time to eat. But I could send for something, now that you're here, if that was what you were implying."

Norilar saw where he had nearly slipped up, but refused to rise to the bait. He simply could not afford to make any more mistakes, not until he redeemed himself. "No, thank you. We ate while we traveled. If you don't mind, I would prefer to get down to business, before retiring for the night. I fear I must leave early tomorrow morning, if there's nothing to keep me here."

Ondolemar smelled blood in the water, but remained cautious. He knew that Norilar had purposefully affirmed his weaker position, and wondered if there was a trap hidden within his capitulating demeanor. He hadn't risen to the status of Head Justiciar by taking too-good-to-be-true offers at face value. Yet it was obvious Norilar was tired and upset, so he decided to be the gracious host and offer to help him in any way possible. Besides, the time might come when he'd need Norilar to return the favor. It couldn't hurt to befriend this disgraced Thalmor—in private, of course—if he still held Elenwen's ear.

Smiling to himself over his little joke, he gestured to the chair in front of his desk. "But where are my manners. Please, Norilar, sit down. You look exhausted."

"Thank you," he replied, his words automatic and his voice strained.

"So, tell me, what brings you all the way here from the Embassy?" He eased himself into his own chair, leaning back and staring down the length of his nose at his reluctant guest.

Norilar could barely look up higher than the top of the desk, fearing what he would find on the other's face. "As you know, I am no longer functioning as an Interrogator…"

"Obviously," the laconic reply was oozing with sarcasm. So much for his intention to be helpful.

"Yes, well," he coughed. He had known this wasn't going to be easy, but damn Ondolemar, he didn't have to make it worse. "I have been given the assignment of searching for one particular person."

"Oh," Ondolemar leaned forward, interested, "Who?"

"The Nord girl who escaped Helgen," he ground out between his teeth. Glancing up, he knew he had been right not to look at Ondolemar. The other Altmer was staring at his stump. Anger flared and he spoke without thought. "Yes! The little bitch who did this to me!"

Ondolemar smiled. There used to be a time when Norilar was the very embodiment of composure itself. He had fallen very far indeed. "Calm yourself, Norilar. Do not get upset with me. It was the girl who disgraced you." He waited, watching as his guest struggled to bite back any scathing comments. When he seemed calm enough, he continued, "Now, how can I help you find this girl?"

His sudden offer of assistance was not without strings, he was sure, but he no longer had a choice. Elenwen had made it quite clear that his future within the Thalmor depended upon his redeeming himself by finding and gutting the bitch. Extra points if he brought back her head on a spike for confirmation. "I don't know if you can, but I'm going around to all the holds, speaking with all our agents, to find out if anyone has seen or heard of her. She seems to have disappeared right after Helgen, or perhaps she's being careful with her identity, and knows somehow that we are still looking for her. I don't know; I only know it is my task to find her."

"And so you've come here, wondering if I've seen her?" Ondolemar pursed his lips. "Perhaps, but I don't know what she looks like, other than her race, and all Nords look the same to me. In fact, I sometimes have trouble telling Nord from Breton, there are so many of each running around Markarth. Could you give any specifics?"

"I don't have much to give you in way of a description," Norilar ground out between his teeth, his eyes returning to the desk, his lap, the tray of food, anywhere but Ondolemar's condescending leer. "She's young, about so tall, light brown hair. She didn't tell us her name—wouldn't tell us a damn thing—but she gave her name to the headsman. I wasn't there, but Elenwen was, still trying to convince Tullius not to behead Ulfric. Anyway, she said the bitch's name was Hilde, or something like that."

"Hmm," Ondolemar thought, going over all the Nord girls he knew. "What was her age?"

Norilar shrugged. "Young. Definitely of birthing age, but hardly more than that."

Again he paused to think, tapping his chin. "There is a Nord named Gerhild," he offered, "Young, but older than you describe, and taller, and her hair is lighter. I suppose she doesn't share much in common with your intended victim other than her race and a similar part of her name."

"Is she a citizen of Markarth?" Norilar pressed, desperate enough for any lead that he would eagerly pursue every dead end.

"Lady Gerhild North-Wind?" he used her full name and title, but there was nothing for Norilar to recognize. "No, not originally. Came here from somewhere else, though I don't recall if she ever mentioned where. However, she purchased a house and was made a Thane just a few months ago. She retrieved Jarl Igmund's father's shield from a Forsworn camp, or claimed to, anyway. I think the mercenary she hired did most if not all of the work. The lady is far better adept at hosting parties than hoisting steel."

"Still, it's…" he paused, hating the distraught tone creeping into his voice yet unable to stop it, "She doesn't sound spirited enough to be Hilde, but it's enough for me to want to check. Could I see this Lady Gerhild? Could you arrange an introduction?"

Ondolemar took a deep breath, preparing to deliver what was going to be a heavy blow, and trying not to overtly gloat. "Afraid not. She's not at home currently, traveling to visit a friend in another hold or something. I don't keep track of her social calendar. In fact, I hardly waste my time on her as she worships Stendarr, not Talos, and is blatantly zealous about it."

Norilar looked disappointed, but what should he have expected. He was going to get this everywhere he went, forced to beg for help from people whom he had gladly walked over earlier in his career. They were going to enjoy watching him squirm, watching him beg for every scrap, and rejoice at every one of his failures.

"You could speak with her housecarl," Ondolemar offered a crumb, just to annoy him, "But I don't think that would do you any good. From what I understand, it was that mercenary fellow she spent most of her time with, if you catch my meaning. He'd know about her and her past, if anyone would."

"Where can I find this mercenary, do you know?"

Ondolemar was truly enjoying himself, the way he had Norilar dancing at the end of a string. "Usually he stays at the Silver-Blood Inn, when he's not hired on a job that takes him out of the city. You won't find him there now, though. He left a couple of months ago, and hasn't returned. From what I understand," he leaned forward as if sharing a great confidence, "She asked after him before leaving Markarth herself, and was disappointed to find him already gone, forcing her to travel with her housecarl. Well, it wasn't long before they met him on the road, and she quickly threw off her housecarl for the mercenary. Scandalous, if you ask me, but these Nords are uncivilized."

Norilar was fisting his hands so tightly his muscles cramped. "What about his name?"

"Whose name?" he pretended not to understand at first. Seeing the other's lips press so thin that they turned white, he decided to give in. "Oh, the mercenary. Vorstag. I thought you were asking about the housecarl. Argis the Bulwark, if you're wondering."

Norilar nodded, filing the names away in his mind, always having had a good memory for names and dates. "Thank you. Are there any others you can think of who might fit the girl's description?"

He tapped his chin again, but was already growing bored with the game. "Not who hasn't lived here all her life. Lady Gerhild is the only one not from Markarth, or has spent an adequate amount of time away from the city during the correct time frame."

"Fine," he nodded, trying to relax his fists. "Well, if she returns, could you send word to me at Northwatch Keep? I would like to meet her, just to make sure."

"Of course. What about the mercenary?"

Norilar waved that aside, grateful that his hand was no longer twisted into the shape of a claw, "He's of no importance. Just contact me if she returns, or if anyone else arrives who might fit Hilde's description. Please," he added the last word, ground out between his teeth, a blatant indicator of his current state of affairs.

Ondolemar wished he could send Norilar away to stay elsewhere, the urge to laugh growing almost too hard to bear. He wanted to guffaw, but couldn't do so in front of the man. That simply wasn't done. The corner of his mouth did twitch, and he was sure it was noticed, but when he spoke his voice was calm and controlled. "As you wish."

The night was further along in Windhelm. Gerhild stood in front of her wardrobe, holding up her dress at arm's length. The fabric was soiled, the dirt from the Aretino house staining the red silk. She sighed, knowing it couldn't be cleaned, not well enough at any rate, and set it aside. It didn't truly matter, she supposed, as helping Aventus had been more important than keeping her skirts clean, and she had plenty of other dresses to wear. But for the rest of this night, a robe would do well enough. She reached into her wardrobe and pulled out a simple white robe with dark blue trim, soft and light over her shoulders, and tied the sash at her waist as she gazed through her room, searching for a distraction.

She wasn't sure what time it was, but she knew she was too keyed up for sleep. She had been out of sorts all day, and had been unable to fathom the reason. She felt she needed something, what exactly she wasn't sure, her mind a restless tumble of thoughts: Vorstag homesick for Markarth, where Ulfric had first sent her; Aventus desperate for vengeance, after Ulfric sent him to the corrupt orphanage; her own driving hatred of the Thalmor, which Ulfric shared…

Always her mind wanted to return to Ulfric, to that night he had sent her away. They had spoken since then, of course, but the conversations had been about Markarth or the Civil War or what he wanted her to do next. They stayed away from anything intimate, Galmar's constant and looming presence a great deterrent, though whenever his back was turned Ulfric would show her a kind smile or a gentle touch. And at night she had stayed away from his chambers, timorous of going to him lest she get caught. Galmar's room was across the hall from hers, and for some reason he was always opening his door whenever she opened hers.

But Galmar had been at the Candlehearth to hear Vorstag sing, and was very likely still there. And this night she was too restless, and knew it was very likely Ulfric would be restless, too. Without stopping to think she opened her door and slipped into the hallway.

It was deserted, and Galmar's door remained blessedly closed. She told herself she would simply knock softly, and if Ulfric didn't answer then he was asleep and she would leave him to his rest. Her bare feet padded up the stairs to his bedchambers, her mind refusing to plan a course of action if he was awake. Her long fingers curled into a fist as she raised her hand and rapped gently on the door, her ears expecting silence. She was just knocking, and he wouldn't answer, and she would go back to her room.

Ulfric was tired. It was late enough that he had set aside his mantle and armor and boots for the night. All he wore now was his simple, long-sleeved tunic and dark leggings, never being comfortable with undressing any further than that. He was sitting in his favorite chair, the lamp beside him turned down low, one leg bent with the ankle resting on the other knee. In this triangular lap rested a book, but he wasn't reading so much as listlessly flipping through the pages, a ritual that some nights helped to ease his incessant urges enough to allow him to sleep.

He hadn't expected the knock, but ever the soldier his first thought was of battle. "Come," he commanded forcefully, projecting power and strength, assuming he'd see a soldier enter with news of some ambush or skirmish. When a lithe body appeared with freshly unbraided, dark gold hair, long-neglected heat burst through his chest and settled at the inside corner of his triangular lap, instantly banishing the tiredness. He watched her look through the room, unable to find him, and he had to stifle a chuckle. "I'm behind the door."

Gerhild started, her lips parting with surprise, but she turned to look towards the corner holding the chairs, one hand still on the edge of the door. She could barely discern him, sitting relaxed and casual, a book opened on his lap, and she wondered how he could read in such dim light. He was dressed in only a tunic and leggings, his bare feet white against the dark fabric. She was suddenly unsure, seeing herself as an intruder into his privacy, never having considered that she would find him at his leisure. Asleep, aye, or even wide-awake and pacing, but not so informal. Ulfric Stormcloak, the Jarl of Windhelm, would never pad around in bare feet. But then she remembered, he wasn't a Jarl in these chambers; he was simply Ulfric.

"Are you going to stand there with the door open, or finish coming in?" he challenged, intrigued and a little amused by her late night visit. He willed this to be the point where he finally possessed her, but he knew it couldn't be that simple. Vorstag was still around, perhaps even in his room just a few doors down, and she couldn't truly be his until her hireling left. Yet she was here, in his room, though standing with the door opened as if desiring an escape route, unsure of her own actions or motives. That wasn't a good sign; she had to come to him willingly, fully of her own volition, if he was to truly tame the Dragonborn.

When she still didn't move, standing like a startled doe about to bolt, he took a slow, deep breath. It seemed he'd have to lead her by the hand tonight. "Gerhild?" he motioned to the door, his hand mimicking the action of it closing shut.

"I…" she stopped, unable to speak as she didn't know what she wanted to say. She glanced over her shoulder to look down the stairs to the hallway below, but no one was there. If she left now, only Ulfric would know she had acted strangely tonight. Then again, only Ulfric would know she had been here.

"What is it?" he asked, making his voice gentle and understanding. She was obviously having trouble of some sort tonight, and if she came to him for help, he would be more than willing to give it, seeing it as an opportunity to strengthen their relationship.

She licked her lips, the tiny point of her tongue lingering in one corner before disappearing back inside. "I don't know how I got here."

He closed the book quietly without marking the page, but left it on his lap. He needed to slip one hand downwards to carefully readjust his shaft before it thickened too much in its current bent position, and wanted to use the large tome for cover. Still, he distracted her with a question, knowing she could oftentimes be inconveniently observant. "You mean, you were under some sort of spell, and only now awoke to find yourself at my door?" He smiled, his goatee bending with the expression.

She dropped her gaze and allowed for the humor in the situation. After closing the door, she lifted her eyes and squared her shoulders. "That wasn't quite what I meant. But I cannot find the words to explain…" she spread the fingers of one hand, "…this."

He set his book on the table, showing her that he was giving her his complete attention. He gestured to the other chair, and watched her approach it warily. "Start with what you can explain, and we'll work our way through it all."

"I don't know, Ulfric," she sighed, taking the seat, clasping her hands in her lap to keep from wringing them. "I… I didn't mean to disturb you… you were reading…"

"I was flipping through the pages without seeing the words," he admitted since it would serve to reassure her, before finishing with a half-truth, "I found myself unable to sleep tonight."

"As am I," she eagerly agreed. "Ulfric…"

She was moving in spurts, her words and actions oddly manic and uncharacteristically uncontrolled. He began to recognize the signs, that she was avoiding something unpleasant, and tried to decipher what it was that upset her so greatly. If he could help her in this, it would only reinforce his position as a trusted confidant. "What is wrong?"

"I don't know," she shook her head, "I find my mind is restless tonight, unable to settle and… I don't know if anything is wrong." She leaned forward to set her elbows on her thighs, staring at a spot on the floor.

"Something must be wrong," he reasoned, reaching across the table to set his hand near her, the tips of his fingers brushing her upper arm, "Or you wouldn't be so troubled."

She closed her eyes and bowed her head, "That sounds logical."

He watched her, sitting there and simply breathing, her head bowed and her hands clasped before her. Suddenly he knew what was wrong, recognizing her pose as it had been the first time he saw her on the back of a wagon heading into Helgen, one year ago tomorrow—or today, considering it was after midnight. Fuck, he thought to himself, amazed she had come so far in the past twelve months. Yet it was obviously bothering her, this first anniversary of such a harrowing event, and just as obviously she was unable to understand what it was that bothered her. He'd had plenty of experience dealing with painful anniversaries—nearly thirty years worth—and felt confident he could walk her through the steps necessary to regain her sanity. He took another breath, squaring his shoulders. This was going to be even harder than he had first thought, but he would never have it said of him that he would back away from a challenge.

"Gerhild," he began, and was rewarded when she looked up at him. "Do you know what day it is?"

Her head tilted, surprised at the unusual question, unable to see how it could affect her. She tried to turn away, but his gaze held her, the steel of his eyes willing her to answer. She gave her head a tentative shake, not daring to break eye contact, and took a deep breath. Her voice came out as a small whisper, the sound akin to a bleating lamb. "I… I don't…"

"Answer me!"

She jumped at his harsh command, recognizing the authority and bowing to it. "The 16th of Last Seed."

"It's already the 17th," he said, his voice suddenly soft. It was a familiar tactic, alternating between brutality and gentleness, and it would serve to help her remember—help her face what she was suppressing. Gently his hand reached out to stroke her cheek. "We met one year ago today, do you remember?"

She pulled away.

"You woke up bound in the back of a wagon…"

She pushed herself out of the chair.

"…heading to Helgen for your execution…"

She reached for the door, her hand turning the latch, and pulled. The door opened nearly an inch before Ulfric's heavy hand slammed it shut. She flinched at the sound and fled from him again.

"…after being captured and tortured by the Thalmor."

"Stop!" she shouted, covering her ears with her hands and squeezing her eyes shut. He was suddenly before her, his more powerful body easily catching up to her. His hands grabbed her wrists and pulled them from her head, forcing her to at least hear his words if not listen to them.

"Do you remember?"

"I… I can't… I… please… stop… let me go… I don't know anything…" More words followed, but without any breath to give them voice, they were lost within the movements of her lips. She yanked and twisted in his grip a few times, trying to pull her wrists free with a strength born of mania, but he held on fast. Then just as suddenly as her fight started it stopped, and she took in a staggering breath. Her face lifted up, and a brief flash of something dark crossed her features before she could quell it and wrestle back her self-control. He recognized that look, having been its acquaintance for decades, and the last little clue fell into place. He knew if he wanted to help her, he'd have to delve deeper—into both their pasts. Gods, this was going to hurt him as much as it hurt her, before he was finished. He prayed he had the strength.

He asked quietly, "How old are you?"

She closed her eyes, but the question sounded innocent and could be easily answered, "I just turned eighteen."

"When?"

Her brow furrowed. Unable to see where this was going, she gave a wobble of her head that might have been considered a confused shake. "Two months ago, the 16th of Mid Year."

"When did your father die?"

Now she looked up at him, her lips parted, her confusion increasing. "Over a year ago." When he stood and waited for a more detailed response, she continued, "Three weeks before my seventeenth birthday."

He took a deep breath, hating himself for doing this to her, but knowing it had to be done. "What do the Thalmor do to their captives?" he asked, all gentleness gone from his voice. All gentleness was gone from his grip as well, his hands tightening like irons around her wrists. Her eyes closed tightly shut once more, her head shaking from side to side, her body again writhing in his grasp as he forced her backwards, step by step. "What's the first thing they do?" He slammed her back against the wall, the smoothly hewn stone hard and unforgiving. "After you're captured, and before they start your torture, what do they do?"

"I don't know!" she cried, opening her eyes, reveling in the anger and violence that thrummed through her body. "Why do you keep asking? I've already told you what they did to me!"

"It doesn't add up." He spoke softly, a stark contrast to his fierce grip. She struggled again but he easily held her against the wall, her arms wide. "You claim you were tortured for only three days. But three months passed from the time your father died, to when we found ourselves on our way to Helgen. It might have taken you a month, at most, to travel to the border between Cyrodiil and Skyrim, depending on where you were when he died. I might even allow a month for crossing the mountains, if you didn't use the pass, but you did because you were caught. That still leaves a month that somehow disappeared from your life. Three weeks at minimum."

"Gods…" she prayed, softly moaning. But they weren't answering her, not the way she wanted. Ulfric continued to hold her wrists against the wall, but moved them lower, spread apart, until she was forced to her knees, knowing exactly what he was mimicking.

"What do they do?" he demanded.

She had had enough. She wasn't the lost little girl she had been last summer. She was a warrior, a Thane of two holds, Dragonborn. "Fus Ro," she Shouted, flecks of foam at the corners of her mouth. She hit him squarely in the stomach, her Thu'um strong enough to push him away and finally rip her wrists from his grasp, but not to knock him off his feet. He staggered, however, his ankle catching on the bottom step of the dais leading up to his bed, and lost his balance. He spun, trying to catch himself with his hands, but banged his cheek on the foot of one of the braziers and knocked the wind out of himself on a step.

It would be easiest to give in to the ringing in his ears and pass out. Gods knew he had done so before with less incentive. But he couldn't leave Gerhild like this, only half remembering. As much as it hurt, physically and mentally, he positioned his hands beneath his body and pushed, his ribs protesting the bending movement. He tried to get his feet underneath him, but his ankle quickly made him reconsider. Giving up for now, he rolled over to sit on the bottom step and take stock of the situation, to see if there was anything he could salvage.

Warily he looked across to Gerhild. She was still kneeling in front of the wall, her arms dangling at her sides lifeless, her opened eyes blind, her lips parted in silent screams. He wanted to go to her, but the throb in his ankle and the twinge in his ribcage made him reconsider. He wasn't sure he could take her Shouting at him again, so he wrapped an arm around his chest and spoke from where he sat, halfway across the room.

"Gerhild?"

Gone was the commanding tone, gone was the cajoling, he was simply asking, in that one word, if she heard him, if she was alright. He saw her shudder, trembling as if in some sort of fit or seizure, before her eyes cleared and she focused on him.

"Stuhn's Shield," she breathed, "What have I done?" She scrambled over to him on all fours, stopping at his side. She stared at his ankle, the pale skin easily showing the darkening bruise. Raising her eyes she saw his one arm holding himself stiffly, the other braced on the steps.

"I'm alright," he spoke reassuringly to try to assuage her guilt.

She shook her head. "You're not. Your ankle is already swelling and bruised, and you're holding your ribs like they're cracked. Oh!" she stopped, biting her lip. With hesitant fingers she reached out slowly, leaning closer to him, and touched her fingertips to his cheek. The cut wasn't deep, but it left a fresh crimson line to join the older scars. She dropped her hand, "I Shouted at you. I… I could have killed you."

He shook his head, regretting it when the ringing intensified, nearly drowning out his own words. "Your Thu'um isn't quite strong enough for that, yet. Besides, I've gotten a lot worse of a beating while sparing with Galmar." He could tell by the look on her face that she didn't believe him. He tried to take a deep breath, immediately regretted it, and settled for a grunt. "Gerhild, don't blame yourself. I pushed you into it."

"You… you wanted me to Shout at you?" One delicate eyebrow rose above a deep violet orb.

"Not quite," he grimaced. The step was hard and uncomfortable, the edge of the next step biting into his back. "Help me up. There's a healing potion or two over in that dresser." He made to stand, but she held her hand up before him. He stopped before she could touch him, wary of her intentions.

"I… I could…" she tried to offer help, but the way he held himself back from her left her feeling unworthy, mistrusted, unwanted. She swallowed and tried again, determined to do her penance. "Let me heal you. Please."

Damn, this was costing him. But he couldn't blame her; she had no idea of the price she was making him pay, not yet anyway. Hesitantly he nodded, hating the idea, hating the memories it brought back, but knowing it might bring those same memories to her. And she needed to remember.

Gerhild relaxed a little at his nod, the tight knot of guilt untwisting slightly within her gut. She recited the spell, slowly moving her hand to hover over him, watching fascinated as the golden ribbons slipped through her fingers to suffuse his body. She saw his ankle return to normal in both size and color, and his arm relax from around his chest. She looked up at his face, the cut healed as she expected, but found something more. There was a look in his eyes, something she couldn't quite describe, but something she realized she was familiar with, something dark and hopeless and enduring and dead. And she had to look away before the same expression was mirrored in her own eyes.

She knew. The realization hit her with the force of a warhammer, reeling her mentally and breaking through a wall she didn't know existed. She knew. The spell was finished, and her empty hand now moved, almost fearful and timid, to touch the center of his chest. She knew what would be there. His tunic was dark and tightly woven to keep anyone from seeing through it, but it wasn't thick enough to hide the shape of his Amulet of Talos from her discerning fingers, or the scars that lay beneath it.

"They start by shackling you to the wall."

Chapter Text

"They start by shackling you to the wall," Gerhild started, her voice droning as if in a trance. She knelt beside Ulfric, having just used Restoration Magic to heal the hurts he'd gotten after she Shouted at him. The look on his face after she had done so brought back memories she didn't know she had been missing. She had touched his chest, knowing how Thalmor operated, knowing she'd find the scar. Now her fingers pulled back from him though her eyes remained glued to the spot. "It's too low for you to stand without breaking your own wrists, and too far off the ground for you to sit, forcing you to kneel…" her voice cracked, and she swallowed to clear it, "Kneel before them. Then they make you watch, as they torture someone else, cutting and breaking and burning and…" her lips kept moving, but she had run out of breath. After a moment, she heaved in a lungful and continued, "All the while you know you'll be next, that soon you'll be the one they do that to.

"And he knew it, too," her words changed from a generalization of the Thalmor's technique to her personal experience, "The man they were torturing. I saw it in his eyes, whenever he looked at me, that desperate wish to be where I was, still chained to the wall, not the rack or the table. They worked on him every day for at least a month, healing him with magic, not enough to prevent scarring, just enough to keep him alive, until finally his heart gave out. But his face was frozen in death, frozen with that look." She lifted her eyes to his, "The look is in your eyes, too." She put her hand back over his heart, felt that wide scar falling down the center of his chest, heard the staggered breath rattle in his throat, and knew that he also had once been tortured by the Thalmor. Worse, she knew the hopelessly-enduring-pain look that twisted his features also twisted her own.

Damn the Thalmor! Damn Gerhild! Damn the gods for making her Dragonborn! And damn himself for wanting her! It couldn't be worth this, the pain and humiliation, bringing it all back again. He wanted to push her away, Shout at her as she had done to him, but then he would lose. And that loss would be due to the fact that the Thalmor had tortured him, allowing them—in a strange and convoluted way—to win. He wouldn't let them win, not again. Manfully he strove to keep the anger and hatred from his face as he listened to her exorcise her demons.

"I really don't know how long I was there, more than a month I think. It was hard to keep track of the days; there was only the sessions to count. They had accused this man of worshiping Talos. He confessed, but they continued to torture him as penance. After he died, they started on me." She paused to stifle a hysterical giggle, drowning it in anger. "They thought I was a spy. I wasn't, not then, but I am now, aren't I? They caused me to become the very thing I had been innocent of." The giggle resurfaced, stopping her words, and she shoved a fist into her mouth, her eyes widening with fear over her inability to control herself.

"Don't fight it," he whispered, his hands gripping the sides of her face, grounding her. "Let it out, Gerhild. Let go of it all. Otherwise it will kill you, rot you from the inside out until you're nothing but a shell." He leaned forward to press his brow against hers, praying she could hear and understand him. "Believe me. Trust me. Let it go."

"I think it was the third day," she started again, her fist moving to grip her other hand on her lap, her fingers wringing with enough force to threaten to break them. He didn't know if she had heard him, or if she simply couldn't stop now that she had started remembering, but at least she was no longer holding it inside. "It was the third session, anyway. Norilar had me on the rack, had broken my limbs and healed me twice already. I know I screamed every time, but I didn't answer his questions. I didn't so much as tell him my name. He was about to order his assistant to start again, but then waved him off. There were voices from the hall, a man and a woman. They were arguing, and he stopped to listen, I guess. The woman said she wanted some particular prisoner, to torture him just for old time's sake. But the man wouldn't give him to her, said something about cutting off the head would kill the snake. The door opened, and I didn't know then who they were, but it was Elenwen and Tullius. They were talking about you, weren't they?" She lifted her violet eyes to his, seeking confirmation.

Ysmir's Beard, how the fuck was he supposed to answer that?

"He stayed in the hall, but she came inside," she swept on, possibly satisfied by whatever horrifically traumatized expression was on his face. "That's when I learned who she was; she and Norilar called each other by name. She asked how far he had gotten breaking Ulfric's latest spy. He told her he couldn't even get my name. She looked from him to his assistant and said something like, 'You're male, aren't you? Rape her.' She left then, and Norilar and his assistant raped me, both at the same time."

Ulfric wanted to shut his ears, to burst his eardrums and drown her story into silence, but it was too late. Her droning tone penetrated to his heart, bringing back his own past, his own agony, his own humiliation. Damn Elenwen! And damn this Norilar! He wrapped his arms around her, holding on for dear life, not sure if he was trying to save her, or save himself.

"Norilar was in front of me, his face so close I could smell his breath," she was saying, a little more heat coming back into her voice. "I don't know what possessed me. I hadn't been able to fight back once since being captured. But he turned his face to the side, and that damned ear kept bobbing up and down, up and down, the only thing I could reach, so I bit it off!"

A staggering breath wracked her chest; he could feel the vibrations through his arms around her torso. "He screamed that time, instead of me, and his assistant went to heal him. I chewed the ear; I didn't know if they could have reattached it, but I didn't want to give them the chance. I might even have swallowed part of it," she giggled humorously. "Norilar held his hand to the stump, and ordered his assistant to whip me. Before he left, I heard him muttering something about seeing if there was room for one more body in the execution carts, but the whipping had already started. I didn't last long before I blacked-out, maybe five strokes, maybe less. I know there are a lot more scars on my back than that."

He could feel them through the thin fabric of her robe, but he knew he could never bring himself to count them.

"Then I woke up in the cart. It must have been his idea, putting us next to each other. It would have given him a laugh, wouldn't it, if he had known the truth? That I only came to Skyrim to see you, and there you were, but I was unable to tell you what I needed to? But he thought that I was your spy, and that he would be hurting you, showing you that he caught me and your attempt, whatever it was, had failed. I'm sure he felt he had won.

"But he didn't win," she continued, her body still thrumming, "Not really. Because we lived. I lived. I lived and I know his name. And some day, when I have the time to focus on the Thalmor, I will track him and find him and kill him. But it won't be quick. I'm not going to Shout him or run him through with a blade. I'm going to strangle him with my hands, close and personal, so I can see that moment when his soul leaves his body. I'm going to face him, look him in the eye, make him see me and remember me and know that my face will be the last thing he sees before his soul parts from his body and he's damned to whatever plane of Oblivion claims him…"

Her words had been tumbling over each other so quickly he almost couldn't follow it. When she suddenly stopped, he feared what he would see, but he had to pull away and look at her. Tears fell from bloodshot eyes to streak her cheeks. Her bottom lip was swollen between her teeth, a tiny drop of blood forming. Her knuckles were white, her fingernails biting into her palms, staining her robe with blood.

"Gerhild," he breathed, his voice husky. Belatedly he realized he might have pushed her too far, too fast. She was such a strong person normally, he forgot that she might have vulnerabilities, a chink in her armor, something that could leave her open for destruction. "Gerhild," he kept his voice calm and tender, one hand cupping her face, pulling her lip from her teeth, forcing her gaze towards his face. If he broke her, he'd never forgive himself. "Gerhild."

She took a shuddering breath, her dead violet pools finding and locking with his steel blue eyes. There he was again, her savior. In the wagon on their way to Helgen, when she was lost in emotions too deep to fathom, he had been there to show her a way to handle them. Now again, a year later, when she became lost in a dark forest of suppressed memories, it was his voice that called her name. His voice that carried a torch, lighting her path, showing her the way out. And he was there before her, right now, so close… "…Ulfric…"

"I'm here," his words confirmed her thoughts. "I'm here, Gerhild. Right here. I'm not going anywhere." He set light kisses on her cheeks and across her brow, his hands at her back again and petting her, soothing her, tangling her hair. "It's all over."

"I know," she breathed, "It's been over, for a year. But… why couldn't I remember it? Why did I remember it tonight? What's wrong with me?"

"Nothing," he pulled back to look at her, but continued to stroke her spine. "Nothing is wrong with you. You are perfect, Gerhild. Beautiful. Strong. Dragonborn." She glanced away at this last, and he brought one hand out of her hair to cup her chin, lifting her face.

"Listen to me. It's always hard to cope with something like that. Most people never find a way. You did by making yourself forget it, perhaps not the best way, but it kept you functioning. Then a year passed, a full twelve months since your capture, and somewhere deep inside yourself you were reliving the event. You couldn't have known this, but anniversaries are always difficult. I recognized the signs, realized what you were going through, and knew you needed help. That's why I pushed you, to make you remember, to make you accept your past. It will get better now, easier," he vowed, pulling her into his arms, rocking her gently. "The pain fades with time. Next year won't be quite so bad, and the year after that, until you can finally lay it to rest." It was all a lie. The pain never faded for him, the anniversaries never got easier, but maybe it would be different for her. Maybe she would believe him, and that would be enough to allow her to come to terms with her abuse. "Trust me."

"I do," she sighed. She leaned back to see his face, lined with age and—she now knew—excruciating experiences. The haunted look was still in his eyes, and she wanted to expunge it. She wanted to return the favor, to allow him some healing as he had done for her.

Her lips were cool against his. He tasted her blood, dark and tainted like a bloodied blade, and he sucked her lip to remove it. She gave a little whimper and leaned closer, intensifying the kiss she had started. He let her, neither holding her tighter nor deepening their kiss, allowing her to set the pace, to do what she wanted. When her teeth parted and her tongue slipped out, he permitted her entrance to his mouth. When her hands pressed against his chest, he eased backwards off the step to the floor. When her body followed his, when it settled between his legs and covered his torso, he moaned his desire without making any moves to sate it.

Her fingers tugged at the hem of his tunic, trying to lift it off of him. Immediately he exaggerated his discomfort, tensing as she might have done if the situation was reversed. She stopped, reading the signs as easily as he, knowing them just as intimately. Pulling back, her hair falling like a curtain around their faces, she asked simply, "Ulfric?"

"I want to. Gods know I want this." She would know too, with his arousal pressed against her thigh. He'd have to handle this carefully, putting her in the role of seducer and himself in the role of abused victim. It was the only way to stave off her own fear and pain, making her think she wanted this, making her think she was making this happen. He had to make her believe that he was just as damaged as she was, if not more. He had to make her believe that he needed her strength, her courage, to allow this intimacy. Then he would empower her, surrender to her, and finally tame her.

He swallowed and said, "And I thought I could, with you. But you were right, what you said earlier. Elenwen…" He stopped, seeing the surprise on her face, watching her expressions change as she figured it out but kept herself from trusting her deductions. He waited for the right moment before continuing. "During the Great War, I was captured. Tortured. By Elenwen."

She pulled away, knowing she would need space to breath if she was in his shoes and wanting to give him that space. She didn't want him to think she was pulling away from him, however, and held her hands out for him to take. He accepted them, and allowed her to help him sit up. "How long?"

He closed his eyes. She was still before him, sitting on her feet, her knees spread slightly and trapped beneath his thighs. He shifted, trying to keep from physically dominating her, bringing his legs together and turning to the side. "A year."

"Did she…?" she stopped. She couldn't ask it of him. Not very long ago, she would have thought such a thing impossible. But she knew better now. She had seen such an act in Cidhna Mine, and knew Vorstag had suffered it during his imprisonment. Elenwen obviously used such a tactic in torture, having recommended it for her. And Elenwen had tortured Ulfric for a year.

But he understood her half-spoken question, and was already nodding his answer.

"Ah, gods," she moaned, "No wonder you understand me so well. No wonder you know just how to save me. But Ulfric," she gripped his face in her palms, forcing him to twist towards her. His eyes held that indescribable-doomed look once more, and she tried to reach him as she had reached her. "Ulfric, you survived. You survived and you recovered, didn't you? You and Maeganna? The two of you were together after the Great War, weren't you?"

"Aye," he nodded, not having to fake the pain that threatened to strangle his throat. "We loved."

"How?" She begged all her desperation into that one word, but he acted as if he didn't understand her, forcing her to elaborate. "How did you do it? How could you be intimate again, after that? I've got to know. Please, Ulfric, show me. Love me!"

He shook his head, making her hands fall away. "There's no simple answer, Gerhild," his voice was deep and rumbling like distant thunder. "I was a broken man for years afterwards—perhaps, in a way, I still am. Your mother understood this. She loved me before my capture," he paused to swallow, "She continued to love me after. You'd have to ask her how she did it; gods know I wasn't easy to be around. I was driven, trying to prove myself, expunge the shame of my betrayal." He took a deep breath. "I had a lot to make up for."

"I don't understand."

Damn the cost! Damn the pain! Damn Gerhild! But he was as unable to stop his urge to own her as he was to stop the sunrise. His confession, their shared pain, would only strengthen his hold on her, his power over her. "I gave Elenwen information that led to the fall of the Imperial City. I had to make up for that. Somehow. I escaped—they let their guard down once they had what they wanted from me. I escaped and rejoined the Legion. I fought every battle I could, killed every Thalmor I came across. I was driven insane by bloodlust. But, somehow, Maeganna reached me, the real me still inside that broken man. She found me. She loved me. And she saved me. If it weren't for her, I no doubt would have died in the Great War, single-handedly taking on fifty Thalmor or something equally foolish."

"She saved you," Gerhild put her hand on his shoulder, not to try to turn him again, but just to let him know she was there. "And you saved me."

He shook his head. "You give me too much credit, Gerhild. You saved yourself. You live, because you will it. You wear the marks the Thalmor gave you with pride—you said so yourself that one night. And I stood there and accused you of vanity, when I'm the one who hides my scars." He turned and reached a hand towards her cheek. "You're the one with the strength to stand on your own, to accept your past, and your destiny. I don't have that in me."

"You do, Ulfric, I'm sure of it," she placed her hand over his, holding him to her. "Don't be ashamed of your scars. They mark you, aye, but you survived. That counts for something. That counts for a great deal. Because now you stand against the Thalmor, a finely honed sword that they forged. They created their own doom when they tortured you—when they tortured me. Accept your destiny, as I've accepted mine."

"I could," he agreed, his eyes flickering back and forth between hers, "If you'll show me how."

She nodded, "I'll show you how to live with your scars, and you show me how to love."

"Show me," he whispered, his lips barely moving. He shifted until he was fully facing her, his hands stroking her arms from shoulder to elbow and back again. "Show me your scars. Show me your pride. Show me your strength."

She shivered, her body responding to his prayerful plea. Almost trance-like her hands reached for her belt, nimbly working the knot open. His hands slipped to her waist, encouraging her to stand up. She did so willingly, reaching her feet, filling his vision with nothing more than golden hair and pale robes. His hands fell to his sides, his face turned up expectantly, hopefully, desperately. Then she pulled the front edges apart.

He watched fascinated as the fabric drew open like a curtain, hanging for a moment at her shoulders before it slipped off to fall to the floor. She stood before him wearing nothing but her amulet, her body a perfect mixture of tone and softness, and it was all he could do not to tackle her right then and there. He reached his hands up, kneeling before her like a supplicant, hesitating as if he dared to touch a goddess.

"Look at them," she softly moaned. "Look at every scar. See where they hurt me. Imagine what they did to me. Know that I survived." She turned her back to him, lifting her hair to uncover the crisscrossed pattern caused by the assistant's whip. The scars covered the expanse of skin, the highest line passing at a slight angle across the tops of her shoulder blades, the lowest line breaking across the backs of both thighs.

He started there, his calloused fingers scratching her skin, tracing her scars. She shuddered when his mouth followed, his tongue warm and wet as it passed over where his fingers had been just heartbeats before. She remembered how he had caressed her that night three weeks ago, how she had begun to feel aroused as she did tonight, how the panic had followed…

"You are so beautiful," his deep voice was even huskier than normal, breaking into her thoughts before she could be undone. He had felt the tremble, sensed the prelude to her pain, and headed it off before it could start. He was not about to let her feel pain due to his touch. "So strong. You've endured so much, Gerhild." He traveled up her body as he spoke, stroking and kissing and praising her scars. "So much undeserved pain. Such heavy responsibilities. And terrible power."

He was standing now, his lips pressed to the corner of her neck, his arms wrapping around to explore the scars down her front. She let go of her hair, draping it over his shoulder, to bury her hands in his hair. Her body arched before him, bending her front outwards and hiding nothing from his exploration. "So few understand. So few could ever understand. But I do."

"Aye," she moaned again, tilting her head back as he tucked his head into the crook of her arm and brought his lips near her jaw. "We understand each other. We share so much. Including our scars. Show them to me."

"Not yet," he pleaded, his hands stopping their caresses but remaining around her. "Please, don't make me do this. Not yet. I'm not ready. Let me love you first."

"How can you love me," she ended his begging, letting go of his hair and turning within his embrace to face him, "If you can't love yourself? Show me, Ulfric. Show me your scars, your pains. Let us heal each other." Her arms were now around his, her hands drifting down towards the hem of his tunic. "If you can't do it, let me do it for you."

Gods, he hated pretending to be weak, but his plan was working. She was strong, she was free of fear or anxiety, and she would be his. Her fingers were ready, prepared to reveal a man's body to her eyes, without any nervousness or inhibition. She only waited for his assent. He placed his hands over hers, but didn't move to take hold of his tunic. Instead he wrapped his fingers around the base of her palms, and gave a gentle tug upwards.

She accepted his unspoken appeal for help. He felt her fingers grip and bunch the fabric of his tunic, lifting it up his sides, neither slowly nor rushed. He lifted his arms up above his head and ducked to allow her to pull the dark cloth from his shoulders. Only two other people had ever seen these scars—Maeganna of course, and Galmar by accident, when he had come to make a report and found him sleeping. Since then he slept in the tunic and leggings, in case someone else had to wake him in the middle of the night.

Unexpected apprehension made a boiling knot in his guts. He suddenly had no idea how she would respond to the ruined torso that was now revealed to her sharp eyes. One more ruined than her own. He'd have to watch closely for any sign of discomfort or disgust and make sure he reacted first. There was a tick in her left eye just before she touched the scar down the center of his chest. He shuddered, showing himself to feel vulnerable beneath her touch, and empowering her before her anxiety could resurface.

The body before her was firm and strong, hardly what she expected of a man nearing fifty. Yet it was pale from years of hiding, only the skin around his face and hands had any sort of tan to it. She ran her fingers over his scars, starting with the thick one running down the center of his chest, just below his amulet, and felt him tremble with remembered pain. Briefly she thought of reassuring him. Her lips parted, but really there was no need for words; they both knew how such a scar was created. And there were so many scars.

She wanted to close her eyes, to stop looking, the light from the braziers bright enough to reveal every marring of his skin. But he needed this. He needed her to accept him, accept every one of his flaws, before he could accept himself. She did as he had done for her, tracing each and every line with her fingers and lips, as if her touch could erase every mark from that year of his life. She moved around to view his back, resisting the urge to flinch at what she saw. Several evenly spaced scars marred the flesh, thin and curving out from his spine. If he stretched his hands above his head, as if tied to a rack, it would pull the scars to lie between each rib. She knew how these were made, too, and worked to erase them, her cool fingers and light touch sending tremors through his body. She heard him gasp when her tongue traced a mark along his ribs. She felt him stifle a moan when her fingers followed the scar down his spine and neared his waist.

"Ulfric." His name was spoken as a question, a request for permission to continue. He was ready with his answer. He guided her hands, his thumbs warm against her palms, as he pulled them around his waist towards the front of his belt. Her fingers fumbled with the buckle for a moment as she struggled to unfasten it without being able to see, pressing kisses into the burn scar on his shoulder blocking her view. It came free at last, and followed his tunic and her robe to the floor.

He didn't make to let go of her hands, keeping his there to give her unspoken permission to do what she wanted, assuring her with his touch that he'd stop it if he felt too uncomfortable. Her hands settled at the top of his leggings, thumbs dipping inside to brush against his heated skin and grip the waist of the fabric. Then she gave a little shove downwards.

Something caught the leggings, halting their fall. She gave another little push, but they were still stuck. She heard a breathy chuckle from the chest in front of her, and a whispered, "…haven't been so hard in years…" that made her feel good about herself, made her think he was this way due to her, made her smile. She gave a firm, steady push until his cock popped free and the leggings could continue to the floor and puddle around his ankles. In the back of her mind she smiled, finding another similarity between them—he didn't wear underclothes, either.

Now he stood before her wearing nothing but his amulet, and as her eyes took in the sight her mood changed. Her emotions were still too tender and raw to be completely pushed aside, and apprehension gripped her. She didn't move to return to his front. She couldn't bring herself to do it. The back skin of his legs was just as blemished as his torso, and she was afraid. Afraid to see what else they had done to him, afraid to know. She remained behind him, her hands at his hips, and simply held him.

"Gerhild?" he asked, forcing insecurity into his voice, "What's wrong? Are you alright? Or… or is it me?"

"No," she shook her head, pressing her forehead against his spine, causing her nose to rub against a scar. She had to be brave and strong, for his sake. Besides, he had been hard enough to keep his leggings up without a belt, surely he couldn't be damaged that badly. "I'm a little nervous; that's all."

"Why?" he asked, covering her hands with his, bringing them again to wrap around his waist.

"Habit," she answered glibly. "Nothing more than habit. There's no reason, no excuse, just…"

"Shh," he sighed into the darkened room. "None of that. Not tonight. This is something new, for both of us. We can't have any habits for something new, can we?"

She smiled against his back. "No, we can't." Boldly her hands slipped out from beneath his and traveled lower, burrowing through the coarse hairs to discover the base of his shaft. Loosely at first, but then becoming firmer, her hand wrapped around him and she began to stroke his length. Her fingers were sensitive, discerning every detail, mapping and committing to memory all that was there. She heard his breath hitch, felt his body sway, and suddenly his hands were there, stopping hers.

"Gerhild," he panted, "Stop."

Immediately her hands froze, concern creasing her brow. "Ulfric? Did I… did I hurt you? Are you…? I'm sorry, I didn't mean…"

Her apologetic babbling was broken by his breathy chuckle. "Nothing like that. It feels good. But I need you to stop, or I'm going to come in your hand."

Understanding dawned and she felt… please? Flushed? She didn't know, other than he was enjoying this, even standing with every disfigurement open to her scrutiny, he was still enjoying this. And if he could, so could she.

She pulled her hands out of his. He momentarily tightened his grip but let her go, looking at her over his shoulder, his face full again of uncertainty and fear. Yet she wasn't pulling away. She walked around him, stood in front of him, trailed her hands up to burrow in his hair, and brought his lips down for a kiss.

Ulfric immediately closed his eyes, surrendering to her dominance, allowing her to set the pace again. When her lips parted, his parted. When her tongue reached out, so did his, matching her slow and thorough rhythm. He stroked his hands up and down her back, tangling the tresses around his fingers, pulling the strands over her shoulders, spreading them like a cloak.

He had to peek. He had to see if she looked the same as Maeganna, when he used to spread her hair over her slender form. He opened his eyes into slits, and the sight made the breath catch in his throat.

Gerhild had her eyes closed.

She was standing before him, kissing him, touching him, and she was surrendering to the experience, her ever-watchful gaze shut off for the moment. She was trusting him, in this most intimate of moments, in this sharing of souls, in this joining of two bodies.

If ever a time came to hate himself, this was it. But Ulfric wasn't prone to self-incrimination. He knew what he wanted, what he was driven to accomplish. He knew what needed to be done to reach his goal. So he did whatever was necessary. This was no different. Taming the Dragonborn was no different from any other objective. And he had succeeded!

Gerhild sensed his pulling away even before he broke their kiss. Her lips remained parted and wet, her eyes closed, savoring the memory of those sensations just a moment longer before she lifted fine golden lashes apart. He was staring at her, with a look of craving and dearth and marveling that took her breath away.

She was ready, he knew it. She had to be, staring at him with eyes full of lust and desire. He couldn't hold back much longer regardless, so he swept her up in his arms, pressing her close to him until their amulets met, lifting her feet off the floor as he climbed the steps to his bed. He heard her gasp, felt her tremble, but didn't stop to contemplate those signals. He didn't stop. They reached the mattress and he laid her on top of the covers, his body following, eager to finish claiming his pet dragon.

She knew what was going to happen next. All the gentle kissing, all the timid exploration of each other's bodies, all of it always led up to this one act. This one hurtful, degrading, one-sided act. She thought she was ready. She thought she could do this, could open to him, allow him to use her body as those other men had, but she was wrong. As ever, as soon as he loomed over her, as soon as he lined up his dagger to her sheath, all desire fled. Remembered pain and the fear of it filled her breast, and she sucked in a staggering breath.

Ulfric heard her strangled sob. He felt her tremble. Yet it wasn't until he thrust into her and felt her muscles clench him too tightly, that he realized she wasn't ready for this. He stopped, finally, holding himself perfectly still, as he listened to her muttered pleas. He pressed his brow to hers, his eyes closed, unwilling to look and see the pain he knew he'd find. He had hurt her, the one thing he knew he couldn't do if he wanted to keep her trust. And she lay beneath him, her half-spoken, half-sobbed words begging him to continue, to just do it, that she accepted it would be painful, don't think, just act, she wanted to do this, despite the pain, only please don't pull away, don't give up on her, please…

But he couldn't, or he'd lose his dragon. Damning himself, damning her, he pulled his cock out.

Gerhild flinched at the movement, biting her lip, expecting more, but nothing came. He shifted off to her side to lean above her, keeping contact with only her hair, stroking it away from her face. She looked at him, wanting to weep, wanting to hate herself and her body, and expecting the same emotions from him. What she found on his features was understanding, sympathy, and patience. She rolled away and sat up, unwilling to face his compassion.

"Don't, my love," he whispered, sitting up and petting her through her hair. "Don't feel ashamed. It's alright."

"It's not alright!" Her voice was harsh though quiet. "I'm not alright!"

"What did you expect?" he asked, his voice still gentle and understanding. "This was only our first night together, and look how far we came. How far you came. Remember how this night started, with your troubles over what happened last year? And just a few moments ago we were standing before each other, touching each other, kissing each other. That's quite an accomplishment, all things considered."

"It wasn't enough," she moaned softly, letting go of her lip to answer.

"You didn't expect a miracle, did you?" He stopped to rumble his deep chuckle, trying to lighten the mood. "By Talos, you flatter me. I'd like to consider myself that good, but I know better. I'm too old and disfigured."

"You're not," she flared, turning at last to face him, cupping his face. "You're not…"

"Gerhild," he paused to kiss her palm, his beard tickling her skin. "Take a good look at me. I am old enough to be your father. And it's alright; I know what my body looks like. Not many women would feel desire after seeing this."

"That's not what I see," she denied, holding his gaze. "I don't see the age or the marks. I see you. Ulfric. The man inside. The man untouched by time or trauma. The man my mother saw. The man she loved. He's still there. I see him now, speaking to me, taking the blame for my shortcomings."

"You don't have shortcomings," he denied, and the smirk on her lips told him she had been right, that he was doing exactly as she said he would do. He glanced away a moment to concede the point, anything to make her feel powerful and in control again. When he looked back he caught her eye and continued, "What I mean to say is, don't push yourself. It will happen, but it's going to take some time. Let it. I wouldn't want to rush this, anyway." He leaned forward and kissed her brow. "I want to savor this," he kissed her cheek, "Every moment," he brushed against her lips, "And I couldn't do that if you're not savoring it with me. I would rather suffer discomfort," he glanced down at his still engorged shaft, "Than allow you to suffer pain. And I couldn't enjoy this, if you're pushing yourself," he kissed her cheek again, "Denying yourself," he brushed the sensitive skin below her ear, "Telling yourself it's alright to let me sate my body against your pain. Unless you think me a monster?" He pulled back to look at her face.

"No," she shook her head, before she saw the twinkle in his blue eyes and realized he was teasing. She sighed, smiling a little sadly, "So what now?"

"Now, you go to bed. Get some sleep."

"And you?" she pressed, nodding to his lap.

"I'll be fine," he assured her. Truthfully he didn't know why he hadn't deflated yet, the bitter disappointment of failure was so strong, but there were ways of taking care of things. He didn't want her to worry about him, or the guilt would start all over. "Honestly, Gerhild. Don't concern yourself. Go back to your room, and get some sleep."

He felt akin to a father trying to send his little girl back to bed after waking from a nightmare. She was reluctant to leave his side, but she couldn't stay. If she did, he wouldn't be able to control himself, and he would hurt her. When she still refused to move, he took matters into his own hands. He scooted to the edge of the bed and stood up, trying not to think of all the skin and marks he was showing, and bent over to pick up her robe. He brought it back to her, holding it out between them like he was hiding behind it, making his face kind and understanding and accepting.

Gerhild still felt defeated and betrayed by her body. She wanted this, wanted him, but he was right—she couldn't force it to happen. She had to be patient, give her body time to get used to the idea that Ulfric was different, that he wouldn't hurt her, that his intentions towards her were honest and with her best interests in mind. He cared for her. He stopped when she felt pain. And if he was willing and able to be patient, then she could be, too. She trusted him.

She climbed off his bed and stepped backwards into the robe, allowing him to settle it across her shoulders. He lifted her hair out of the way as she tied the belt, enjoying the weight of it as he spread the strands over her shoulders, covering her front and back. She faced him one last time, her eyes wishing to etch his image into her memory, forever sealed to her soul. He stood relaxed and confident, still flushed and engorged with passion, arms loose at his sides, a leg cocked on the step, skin shining with the sweat of his desire.

Gods, he was magnificent.

She reached up and kissed him, closing her eyes to savor the moment, as he had suggested. His hands reached for her shoulders, holding her close but not pulling her in, just enough to let her know he cared.

"Your lip is still bleeding," he commented after she pulled away, licking a drop of red from his own lips.

"I'll heal it back in my room," she answered, thinking of how he felt about Restoration Magic, and not wanting to distress him. He nodded, though a brief flicker of that tortured look crossed his eyes, he pushed it aside to smile at her. Then she turned and left.

The corridor was still deserted, the only movement from the patrolling guard who luckily was at the far end and turning away. She shut the door softly behind her and flitted towards her room like a ghost, absently reciting the spell and healing herself as she walked.

Vorstag stumbled on the last step, not expecting to come face-to-face with a patrolling guard. He accepted his help in reaching the landing, nodding his thanks before the guard continued down the stairs. He blinked, twisted his head to get his bearings, and started around the corner for his room. He had stayed up half the night it seemed, sharing stories and singing songs with whomever was in the Candlehearth. Every story or song gained him another tankard until he couldn't remember how many he'd drunk. All in all, the life of a bard might not be so bad, Vorstag thought to himself, nodding. Quickly he stopped and reached for the wall, deciding that nodding and walking didn't mix. After the hallway stopped spinning, he pushed himself off and continued to his room.

He saw a ghost just ahead of him, glowing golden in the dim light. He blinked, disbelieving, but the vision remained, floating at the far end of the hallway. He watched as it finished glowing, solidifying into Gerhild, before entering her room.

He shook his head again, and again chastised himself for doing that as the world threatened to upend. What if it had been Gerhild? So she had been walking down the corridor in the middle of the night, wearing only a thin white robe, walking in her bare feet, her hair mussed and her skin flushed. It didn't mean anything, surely, other than… other than…

He blinked, trying to get his bearings again. Her room was there, right at the base of the stairs that led to Jarl Ulfric's chambers…

Fuck it, he thought to himself, lurching away from the wall. He remembered spying a pitcher of something sitting on a side table in his room. Maybe it held mead or wine or something to take the edge off the pain.

Fuck it, he thought again. After all, what did it matter? It didn't. She was a grown woman. She could do whatever she damn well pleased, with whomever she damn well pleased. He was in his room now, his vision tunneling, focused only on that pitcher. He brought it to his lips, not even bothering with a glass, and took three healthy swallows before he spit out the water and threw the vessel across the room.

Fuck it! Fuck her, he thought, and then realized that someone already had. He felt his knees give out from beneath him, and luckily fell onto a chair. Weakly he turned his head to see the dented metal pitcher lying by the hearth, the water puddling on the stones in front of the fire, to be evaporated by the heat. With a groan he closed his eyes and settled his head on his arms.

Chapter Text

Boom!—Boom!—Boom!—Booooom!

He was dead.

That was it. He had to be dead. There was no other explanation. He was dead and on some plane of Oblivion.

A realm where his neck was broken and his head felt like it had been split it two with a battleaxe.

A loud beat sounded again, echoing, like a heartbeat but outside his body, not within it. Four steady beats. Then silence.

Ah, blissful silence. At least his ears only hurt when there was the heartbeat. Otherwise, the only pain came from his neck and head.

The damned heartbeat returned, but he chose to ignore it. Not like there was a helluva lot he could do about it, anyway. Paralyzed. Head chopped open like a gourd. Must have been a giant that killed him. A dragon would have eaten him, leaving nothing behind to hurt. A giant would have struck him with his club; that could easily split his head and break his neck.

There was that fucking heartbeat again. He should have been wearing his new armor; his helmet could have easily saved his head—and maybe his neck, too. He could imagine Oengul's disappointment, after finding out he had taken on a giant and hadn't worn the armor he worked so hard on for three weeks…

"Vorstag?" a voice called.

Aye, that had been his name, when he was still alive. He supposed he should try to make an attempt to speak, but his tongue was unresponsive, swollen and glued to the roof of his mouth. Yup, he was dead.

Ralof gave up knocking and entered the room, not surprised to find Vorstag looking half-dead, slumped over a chair with his neck craned painfully on a table. His mouth was hanging open, drool congealed on the table top, and one arm hung limply towards the floor. Ralof pulled open one of his eyes, and received a pitiable hiss in answer. "You awake?"

"Hugnh," he at last managed to make a noise, mostly in response to the question and, to a lesser extent, in protest to the bright white light that pierced his vision.

"You alive?"

"Nope," he mumbled, finally able to move his tongue and form words, only to have them deformed by the side of his face stuck to the table. "'m dead. Giant got me."

The light-hearted chuckle did nothing to ease his misery. "Aye, a giant-sized amount of mead."

There were new sounds reaching his freshly reanimated ears. He heard footsteps heading away, the creak of a door opening, undetermined items being shifted and knocked against each other, and then the footsteps returned. "Here," the gently lilting Nord voice said softly, "Drink this."

"No more drink," he whined.

"Nope, none of that now. Be a good boy and sit up and drink this; it'll help." He didn't know who the hell was trying to raise him from the dead, but for a moment he talked like Ogmund.

Well, maybe he wasn't dead. At least his neck wasn't broken, not if he could feel something being pressed into one of his hands. Encouraged he opened his eyes under his own power, squinted at the brightness, and thought he recognized the blond man next to him. "Argis…?"

Ralof sighed, standing up to walk around behind him. "One of these days, I'm gonna want to meet this Argis everyone keeps confusing me with. Now," he pulled on Vorstag's shoulders, yanking him into an upright position, "Drink the healing potion."

Pain! Pain shot through his neck, down his shoulder, along one arm straight to his fingertips. He wanted to scream, surely he made some sort of sound, but couldn't be bothered to listen and find out. He sat in the chair with his head falling backwards on a boneless neck, his breath hissing with agony, as he tried not to pass out.

"Shit!" he finally managed once the throbbing eased. He opened his eyes to see Ralof hovering in front of him, and felt his hands on his neck, holding his head up. "Ralof?"

"Better," he acknowledged, though his face remained full of concern. "What happened? Are you alright?"

"Got a shooting pain down my arm," he answered, "And a crick in my neck. Must've been from sleeping on a table last night," he glanced out of the corner of his eye at the offending piece of furniture.

"Should I go and get Gerhild?" he asked.

…Gerhild? Gods! That brought back another wave of pain, this one emotional, though his head was too clouded to remember why she would make him feel so miserable. "Shit!" She was the last person he wanted to see right then, but he couldn't explain why. "No, no, I'm fine. It's already wearing off. Just drank too much."

"We figured that," he nodded, "When you didn't come down for breakfast. A guard mentioned he saw you get in some time around three this morning. Gerhild was concerned, so I offered to come and check on you."

"She was?" His tone was confused; for some reason he didn't think she should be caring about him, but again he couldn't think of why that thought had popped into his head. He'd have to clear his mind if he wanted to figure it out. He shifted to sit up under his own power, waving him away. "You said there was a healing potion?"

"On the table there. Lucky for you it didn't fall to the floor when you had your fit."

"Lucky for me," he breathed. He picked up the bottled, unstoppered it, and downed the contents in one swallow. "Or you'd have had to fetch Gerhild…"

"Aye," Ralof added, not having noticed the gray color stealing across Vorstag's features, "You know how she likes to gloat and smirk disapprovingly before using her magic to heal our hangovers, like that would ever stop us."

"She's…" he paused to lick his lips, still tasting the potion on them, trying to battle down the queasy feeling writhing in his guts, "She's downstairs, I suppose."

"Aye, with Jarl Ulfric. They've been together all morning, discussing what she can expect to find in Morthal. What is it? What's wrong? Do you need another potion?" He looked so horrible, his expression and posture like a kicked puppy, that Ralof put his hand on his shoulder, trying to give him encouragement.

"I'm…" he took a staggering breath, feeling like the wind had just been knocked out of him. "I'm fine. Just gonna sit here and try not to throw up."

He nodded, "Good idea. Do you want me to stay?"

He shook his head. "No, no, I'll be down later. Want to freshen up first, after the potion's had a chance to work."

Ralof gave him a sympathetic pat on his shoulder and moved away.

The door closed softly and he knew he was alone. He bowed his head, thought about slumping over the table with his head in his arms, reconsidered after remembering the stinger in his neck, and ended up with his face in his hands, his elbows on his knees.

He wasn't sure it had been real, thought that maybe he had been dreaming that part, hadn't even remembered it until Ralof mentioned her name—but Gerhild had been in the hallway when he got in last night. He moaned softly at the memory, his loins giving a twitch in emphasis. Gods, she had been beautiful, her golden hair loose and flowing around her like a halo, her skin flushed, her robe askew, gliding on bare feet as she entered her chambers…

Fuck! That was what was so fucking wrong. She was heading into her chambers, in the middle of the night. She hadn't been walking from the stairs, where he had come from, but from the other direction. Which meant she either had to have just left Galmar's chambers, which was ridiculous, or Ulfric's at the end of the hall.

They'd been together all morning; that's what Ralof said. That was when he felt a knife twisting in his heart—thinking of Gerhild and Ulfric together. By the Nine, she didn't… she couldn't have… with Ulfric?

Memory crashed back like a force of nature, a tidal wave of despair, a blizzard of heartbreak, a landslide of humiliation. She had slept with Ulfric last night, and he had seen her sneaking back to her own room afterwards. He moaned and dropped his head down between his knees.

He loved her. He'd done everything he could to show her he loved her. All the groundwork he laid. All those months they spent together. All the stories he shared about his past and his dreams. All the times he was there for her, protecting her back, keeping the bloodlust from consuming her reason. All those nights he spent holding her within his arms, getting her used to the idea that someone could care for her, could touch her without causing pain, could love her—it was all for nothing. When she was finally ready for it, she went to another man, not him, but…

But. She was a grown woman. She had her own mind, her own life, and didn't need to do what he wanted. He couldn't make her love him. And even if he could, he would never force her into that or anything else. Nor would she ever submit to any man's will. Nope, she was Dragonborn. She could do whatever she damn well pleased, with whomever she damn well pleased. And she had chosen. She had chosen Ulfric.

He felt like one of the poor saps in the stories Ogmund liked to tell, of the foolish adventurer who would fall in love with the beautiful princess and race off to climb mountains, swim oceans, slay monsters, all to prove his love, only to come home and find she'd gotten married while he was away.

He loved Gerhild. Gerhild didn't love him. And there was no way to force her to love him, to make her open her heart to him. That was the bottom line, the immutable fact that he could not change. But at least…

At least she had been able to open to someone, though the thought provided him with little comfort.

By the Nine! What was he supposed to do?

First, he'd get washed up and put on a tunic that hadn't been slept in. Then, he'd talk with Ulfric about Markarth. It was something he had been planning to do, anyway, and after this…

He pushed himself out of the chair, heading towards the washbasin, pulling his tunic off as he walked. It'd be better if he left. He knew before last night that Gerhild would be better able to work without having him around as a distraction. He knew someone needed to be in Markarth, a lot more often than Gerhild could manage it, to keep an eye on things, to find a way to handle matters without bloodshed. And he knew he couldn't stay near her, knowing she was with another man, knowing she'd never love him. He had to leave, for his own sake. She didn't need him any longer. Besides, who in their right mind would chose a Mercenary over a Jarl?

Five minutes later he was walking down the stairs, his mind sober and his steps determined.

They were at lunch. Vorstag wasn't hungry, his stomach feeling queasy, whether from his hangover or his feelings for Gerhild or the thought of what he was about to do. He didn't want to stop and think about it. He'd rather act before he lost his nerve.

Gerhild's back was to him, blissfully, her dark gold hair once more in the customary intricate braids. To her left was Ulfric, a bemused sort of smile on his face, as he listened to some story Galmar was telling. Vorstag felt that sharp knife twist in his heart again as Ulfric set his hand close to hers, and lightly brushed the back of her fingers.

Jorleif noticed him first, and Vorstag motioned to him, turning to slip out of sight before she could turn around and see what had attracted Jorleif's attention. He waited, chewing a knuckle, while the Steward excused himself and met up with him in the side corridor.

"Sir Vorstag," he said warmly, using the honorary title Ulfric had bestowed on him. "It's good to see you're up and about. We were all concerned about you when you didn't come down this morning."

"I'm fine. Thanks," he waved that aside. "Listen, I need to ask you a favor."

"Oh?" he said curiously. He clasped his hands behind his back, rocking on his heels as he waited to see what Arctic Stones would want of him.

He felt the twisting in his heart, in his guts, but he couldn't stop now. He had to do this, for his sake as well as hers. "Could you distract Gerhild after lunch? So I can speak with Jarl Ulfric? Privately?"

Jorleif was surprised first, and concerned second, his hands unclasping to fall to his sides. He couldn't think of anything Vorstag would wish to speak about with Ulfric without Gerhild around, unless it was about her. He knew both men cared for her, though he had thought Ulfric looked at her through a father's eyes, and Vorstag saw her as a friend. In fact, he himself saw her as a favorite niece, and he didn't want to see her hurt. If Vorstag and Ulfric felt stronger emotions towards her than they were letting on, and came to blows over her, that would hurt Gerhild deeply. He stroked his long mustache, the hairs matching his frown. "I don't think I like the way this sounds."

Vorstag nodded, "I expected that. I assure you, Jorleif, I'm not planning anything sinister. I just… would like to talk with the Jarl without her around." When he saw the Steward continue to hesitate, he added, "You and Galmar can be present, if you're worried I'll do something rash. But please, make sure Gerhild is occupied. Just for an hour or so."

Jorleif studied him a moment longer, noting the gray undertone to his skin that the healing potion hadn't quite cleared up yet, and finally made up his mind. "Aye, alright, I'll find some errand to send her on. I just hope I don't come to regret this.

Vorstag breathed a heavy sigh, feeling some weight lift from his shoulders. He could have done it with her in the room, but it would have been a helluva lot harder. "Thank you, Jorleif."

"Fine, well, wait in the war room. I'll send Gerhild on an errand to Oengul's or something, and then let the Jarl know you wish to speak with him."

He nodded, watching him walk away, before turning on his heel and making his way to the war room.

Vorstag paced in front of the windows, not knowing what else to do until the Jarl arrived. The minutes passed by, seeming to stretch unendingly, and he began to worry that Jorleif couldn't get Gerhild to leave. Getting tired of pacing, and feeling a trickle of sweat beginning to run down between his shoulder blades, he decided to stop and lean against the wall instead.

Male voices carried down the hall before the door opened, and Ulfric walked in with Galmar in tow. Jorleif was not present, and the two men seemed surprised to find Vorstag, leaning against the wall, a knuckle between his teeth, looking like he was about to deliver bad news.

"Vorstag!" Galmar took the lead, using his best parade ground voice, trying to bolster some decency into the young man. Vorstag had been standing in the shadows, looking like he was lying in wait for his prey. Galmar could only imagine what might have happened had he not been with Ulfric, and Vorstag had been an assassin. "What are you doing here? Don't get me wrong," he corrected, seeing his face turn gray. Ralof said he made sure that he drank a healing potion, but perhaps he wasn't fully recovered yet. "It's good to see you up and about, and we've all been worried about you, but maybe you should see Gerhild first. You still look like death warmed over, no offense."

"None taken," he replied automatically, at last taking the knuckle from his teeth. Galmar tried not to notice the deep white marks etched into the skin. "I suppose this does look bad. I had spoken with Jorleif just now, and he said he would let you know I was waiting here to speak with you."

"Ah, well, he didn't," Galmar answered, still protecting Ulfric. His instincts screamed at him that something was very wrong here, and he did his best to shield his Jarl from whatever danger could be lurking. He even moved to stand between the other two, though off to the side. "He said there was a shipment he had to check on, and Gerhild offered to walk with him down to the docks. She's looking a little pale today, and Jarl Ulfric suggested a walk and some fresh air might help."

Vorstag nodded, not thinking about her being upset or sick, merely glad that she was out of the way. "Good, aye, well then…"

"Is something wrong?" Galmar asked, picking up on Ulfric's narrowed eyes and subsonic rumble in his chest. Over the years he'd gotten very good at reading his Jarl, and knowing what was on his mind—he had to if he wanted to ask those questions that Ulfric wanted answers to, without forcing him to get directly involved.

Vorstag took a deep breath, squaring his shoulders. Sometimes it was best to do unpleasant things quickly. "Nothing is wrong. I've just decided," he looked directly at Ulfric, "I want to be your spy in Markarth."

Neither man answered him, and he took a moment to swallow down his nervousness. "Gerhild's gonna be busy working for you in other holds. When she's not doing that, she has her Dragonborn matters to deal with. She won't have time to keep an eye on what's happening in Markarth. But I will. I'm good friends with the local skald, who'll keep me informed on all the gossip and rumors he hears. As a sellsword, I'll be able to travel around the Reach, chose jobs that would get me into places where I can check these rumors or catch a glimpse of Imperial activity. Also, I'm known in Markarth, been a citizen all my life, so no one would have reason to suspect me. And who knows; I might be able to find a way to hand the Reach over to you without bloodshed." That came out a lot better, and a lot clearer, than he had thought. It gave him a little more confidence, feeling like this was something he was supposed to do.

Ulfric felt his heart race, not knowing what had finally pushed Vorstag into acting, but thanking the divines for whatever it was that had happened. For Gerhild's sake, however, he had to defer, so if she asked, he could honestly say he tried to talk him out of it. "I can't ask it of you, Vorstag. You're a good man; I respect that. But you're not a Stormcloak. I won't have you risk your reputation and your neck for a cause that isn't yours, for a Jarl you hold no fealty towards."

"I'll take the oath, if that's what you want," he lifted his chin stubbornly, his thin lips pressing even thinner.

He shook his head. "No, I do not want that. I do not want this. That is what I am saying. You are a loyal citizen of the Reach, not Windhelm. I'm not responsible for your safety, nor do you have any responsibility towards me. And I will not accept any oath from you. The only reason you are here is because of Gerhild. We both know how much she relies upon you."

"She doesn't need me, or any man. She's her own woman, a very special woman," he allowed, thinking about more than just the fact that she was Dragonborn.

"Aye," Ulfric's voice was deep as he agreed, almost a sigh, "A very special woman."

That cinched it. Not only did Gerhild choose Ulfric, but he chose her; the strong emotions in his voice were proof enough. He knew he was doing the right thing by stepping back out of the way, before he made a fool of himself, before he lost the respect he had paid so much to gain. "I want to do this, Jarl Ulfric. This is my choice." Vorstag confirmed. He held out his forearm. "I give you my word; I am your man. I'll do everything in my power to see that the Reach falls under your banner as bloodlessly as possible."

Ulfric raised himself to his full height, staring down his large nose at the other man, and then gripped his offered forearm in the Nordic fashion. "I can accept that. Sir Vorstag, I hereby appoint you my agent in Markarth and the Reach. I expect reports from you monthly on any and all matters you learn regarding Imperial or Thalmor activity, sooner if it's an emergency. I'll not hold you to any oath, but take you only at your word, which I know is above reproach."

"Thank you, Jarl Ulfric."

"Have you spoken with Gerhild about this?" Galmar's question fell like the headsman's axe on his shoulders.

"I will," he promised vaguely. "I wanted to make this official, first, but she knows already how I feel about Markarth. This shouldn't come as a surprise to her, just a logical outcome of our situations and circumstances. If you'll excuse me, I need to go pack. I'd like to get started as soon as possible."

Ulfric inclined his head.

After he left, Galmar turned on him. "You did this. You put him up to this."

"I did no such thing, Galmar," he answered, his tone growling like a sabre cat about to pounce. "You've been present in every conversation I've had with him. Besides, I tried to talk him out of it."

He blew a heavy breath through his nose, snorting like a bull. "Aye, aye, so you did. But if that boy loses his head because of this, it will be your fault."

"Careful, Galmar, you're walking on dangerous ground."

"Wouldn't be the first time," he shrugged. "Excuse me a moment. I've got to find a guard to chase down Gerhild and let her know what's happened."

The knock sounded on his door almost as an afterthought, the portal wrenched open before he could turn around and grant permission. A vision of deadly, pissed-off beauty filled the threshold. Dark gold hair framing a pair of violet eyes, floating above a dress of deep blue. Her cheeks were flushed, her bosom heaving with the effort to catch her breath. He supposed he should be flattered that she had raced to reach him before he left, but he had time now to prepare himself—not just to pack his knapsack and strap on his armor, but to align his reasoning and harden his resolve. Gerhild could always manage to have her way with him, but this time would be different. This time, he knew she was having her way with Ulfric, too. It was time to give her a taste of her own medicine, to wrap his own heart within ice and remain untouched.

"I didn't believe it," she said simply, when she finally caught her breath. Vorstag turned away, adjusting the strap on one of his gauntlets. "You are leaving." He finished and reached for the second gauntlet. "You're going back to Markarth." The strap was giving him trouble, as he was right-handed and the gauntlet was on his right wrist, and the new leather was stiff. "Answer me, damn it!"

"I would," he kept his voice calm and mostly easy-going, just a touch of wounded pride slipping in. "If you were asking questions. All you've done is make statements." He finished and looked up at her, saw the flush deepen and her bow-shaped lips turn hard. "Fine, it's true. I'm heading back home to Markarth to be Jarl Ulfric's agent in the Reach."

She shook her head. "Stuhn's Shield, you don't know what you're doing," she started. "Vorstag, you'll be a spy…"

"I know…"

"…in your own land. You'll be committing treason…"

"I know…"

"…risking your life for a cause you don't believe in."

"Don't tell me what I do or don't believe in," he growled, pulling the ties of his pack a little too tightly and almost breaking them. She had the wind at her back, however, and wasn't about to stop now.

"Oh, so you're a Stormcloak? You've taken the oath? Sworn fealty to Ulfric? I thought you didn't agree with him."

"I don't, not entirely." Damn, this was getting out of control, his carefully planned argument lost beneath her torrent of rebuke. He had to grab her shoulders to get her to stop long enough to listen to him. "But I don't agree with the Empire, either. The Thalmor have to be stopped, they have to be kicked out of Skyrim, and Jarl Ulfric's doing that, where the Empire is not. There are Thalmor Justiciars all over Skyrim because of the Empire; one right there in Markarth. At Understone Keep."

"Exactly why you shouldn't do this," she gripped his arms in return. "Vorstag, you're not a spy. You don't have any talent for it. What if you get caught? What if Ondolemar is the one who catches you? You'll be killed!"

"That's a risk I'm willing to take, for my home, for Markarth, for Skyrim. And I can do this, Gerhild," his eyes hardened, "I'm not incompetent. I've actually given this a lot of thought. I can gather rumors from Ogmund, and use my work as a sellsword to travel around the Reach and follow them up, or look for Imperial activity. I know what I'll be doing." He let go of her shoulders, making her hands fall from his arms, and turned towards his pack.

She didn't know what to say. She didn't want Vorstag to leave, not unless they were leaving together, but she knew Ulfric wanted her to go to Morthal next—after she retrieved the Horn. She knew he and Vorstag spoke often, and she had been privately pleased that Ulfric found Vorstag's advice as valuable as she found it. However, she would never have guessed that this was what they had been talking about.

"Ulfric put you up to this," she stated simply, her deep violet eyes troubled. Damn it, but her emotions were still clawing their way to the surface. Ulfric was right; anniversaries were hard—and Vorstag wasn't making this first one any easier.

"No," he denied, missing the look, the brief flash of emotions pass through her eyes, as he was focused on buckling the straps of his pack. "Like you said, I'm not a Stormcloak. I don't answer to him. I make up my own mind. And I'm going back to Markarth."

She squared her shoulders. He caught the movement out of the corner of his eye, and for a moment he thought she was going to Shout. Instead she said quietly, "I won't be going with you."

"I don't expect you to," he confirmed. "Nor do I expect you to come running if I get in trouble, which I won't. I'm known in Markarth. Trusted. No one will suspect me of being a spy." He settled the straps of his pack over his shoulders, picked his helmet up in one hand, and turned to face her again.

She was still blocking his way, her bottom lip squirmed between her teeth. She managed to make herself look small and vulnerable, like a child, scared and lost within a dark forest. He could almost imagine he saw true emotion in her eyes, but he knew that wasn't possible. Gods, he positively hungered for her, even knowing she felt nothing towards him. He had to leave before he did something he would regret. "I should get going."

She nodded, finally realizing that Vorstag was leaving, and there was nothing she could do to change his mind. She stepped aside, but as he passed her she found herself speaking, "Wait!"

He stopped, though not until he was already in the hallway, as if it had taken an extra step for him to make up his mind. But he did stop, and he did turn back to her to ask, "What?"

"Take this," she pulled at her finger, removing the silver ring she had gotten from Thonar Silver-Blood after killing Madanach for him.

"Gerhild," he sighed, shrugging his shoulders to settle his pack. "I can take care of myself."

"Still, for my peace of mind, take it. If you get into trouble with the guards, just show them this ring," she tried to put it on his left index finger, but the ring was too small. "And they'll let you off the hook. Remember," she tried his ring finger next, but it still wouldn't fit, "The Silver-Blood family sympathize with the Stormcloaks. If you find yourself in trouble," she finally managed to slip it onto his smallest finger, "Don't hesitate to use this ring, to go to them for help. Promise me, Vorstag. Please."

She looked so sincerely concerned for his welfare, he found himself giving in. "Fine, I'll keep the ring; don't think I could get it off without losing the finger, anyway."

"Why are you doing this?" she asked suddenly, her hand still holding his even though the ring was firmly in place.

He had been about to turn away, had been stopped by her words, had been unable to help looking at her face one last time. He saw the moisture at the corner of her eye, and unbidden the memory came to mind of that miraculous tear the night of his fistfight. Perhaps he could try, just one last time, to see if there was anything…

His hand pulled out from hers and slid behind her neck. His lips, thin and strong and warm, descended the same moment, not giving her time to think, not giving himself time to think. They touched through those expressive muscles, his fire against her ice, and he did everything he could to melt her.

Gerhild's eyes were open, ever watchful, and she was remembering that first awful kiss he had given her months ago. This time was different, though she couldn't say why. He held himself against her, barely moving, barely daring to breath. She had a little more experience now, however, and before she could consider the reasoning behind it, she parted her lips slightly.

His tongue sliding inside didn't surprise her. What did surprise her was the gentleness of it. He didn't forcefully invade her mouth, trying to reach everywhere with his tongue, pillaging her and marking his territory. He was curious, nervous, often coaxing her tongue to get it to move with his. She gave an experimental flex of the muscle, and saw his closed eyes tighten just a little bit more, not with pain, but some other deep emotion or desire…

Desire. That was what he was feeling towards her. Vorstag desired her. The revelation should have elated her, perhaps even startled her, at worst disgusted her. She could feel nothing towards him, however—nothing but shock. Vorstag preferred men. Her mind reeled. Vorstag desired her. It wasn't possible. Under the circumstances, she did the only thing she could do, the only thing that would allow her to survive, and wrapped herself within that icy calmness that kept her from being overwhelmed.

He thought he felt something—some sort of reaction from her—but when he pulled away and opened his eyes, all he saw were her dead, deep pools of violet staring back at him. "You really don't have a fucking clue, do you?" he asked, praying for a reaction, not at all surprised when she remained still and silent. By the Nine, he had been a fool, clinging to this unrequited love. He had done everything he could for her; and thanks to his efforts, it looked like she would be able to make her own way in life, but a life that wouldn't include him. As for himself, he had thrown his heart against her heart of frost, trying to free her from her self-made prison, and instead all he had accomplished was to break his own heart.

"Farewell, Gerhild North-Wind." He turned away and walked out of her life.

Gerhild's emotions were threatening to sweep her along in their current, pulling her under, overwhelming her like they had a year ago on the back of a wagon heading into Helgen…

She jerked, physically jerked to wrench her thoughts away from that.

Her sight turned inward, her mind trying to find a way to process all that had happened this day, culminating in her cold response to Vorstag's departure. What else could she have done? He had kissed her. He had told her he was leaving, and when she asked why, he kissed her. It didn't make any sense. And she had been too shocked, too confused, to have any clue on how she was supposed to react. Or think. Or feel. She had to wrap herself within that icy fortress, where nothing could touch her, where nothing could overwhelm her, where nothing could unman her.

She couldn't have done anything else, not today, not remembering how close she had come to losing everything a year ago. And today she lost her closest friend.

She had stood there passively while Vorstag kissed her. She had remained silent as he told her goodbye. She had watched him walk away and turn the corner…

And now she stood alone. The one person she had come to feel she could always rely upon, had just walked out of her life.

Thinking back over the weeks they spent in Windhelm, she remembered several times Vorstag had hinted at this. She knew he felt that Markarth was important and believed that Ulfric would eventually win the war. He told her that he didn't want to see the senseless bloodshed of unnamed battles take the lives of people he knew and cared about. She remembered, last night at the Candlehearth, he had again said something about Markarth's importance and wanting to return home. Only she never imagined he would do so without her. And as Ulfric's spy.

"Gerhild?" a voice called her, and she lifted her eyes up, hoping to see Vorstag had returned, had come to his senses and realized the danger and… Ulfric stood before her, his face full of concern, his hand on her arm. "Gerhild, can you hear me? Are you alright?"

She didn't answer, her eyes unwilling to remain on his face, her vision turning inward once more. Quickly he realized she was having trouble, the kind of trouble like she'd had last night. He didn't try to speak with her anymore, mainly because he wasn't sure she could hear him. He took a firmer hold of her arm and guided her to the end of the hall and into her room. He closed the door behind them, thankful that Galmar had remained downstairs for once, and didn't let go of her until he had her seated on a low couch.

She didn't want to accept it—Vorstag was gone. Something was put between her hands, but she couldn't be bothered to hold on to it. Her one constant and unchanging reference, her Eye in the constellation of the Warrior, her north-pole-star, had winked out. When she seemed about to drop whatever was in her hands, someone else's hands wrapped around hers and brought the firm rim to her lips.

The Black-Briar Reserve was strong, and she recognized it too late—after she took a healthy swallow of the burning liquid. She coughed, sputtered, and tried to shove the glass away. Ulfric was having none of it, however, and forced her to take another sip. "That's better," he said at last, as the fire fell down her throat and pooled in her belly. "Now you've got some color back into your cheeks. I was worried when you didn't come down after Vorstag left, over an hour ago. I thought something like this might have happened, considering what day it is." He paused to set the glass aside and cup her face in his hands, forcing her to look at him. "Are you back with me, yet?"

Her eyes registered that it was Ulfric who knelt before her. Ulfric… "Stuhn's Shield," she moaned aloud, the distilled mead lending heat to her words as well as her cheeks. "You sent him to his death!"

Whatever kind of reaction he was expecting, that hadn't been it. He had to think quickly, come up with something that would convince her that Vorstag wouldn't be in as much danger as she feared. "I… no, Gerhild, I did not. Listen to me: he won't be in any real danger. He's not going to be actively on any missions or performing sabotage or anything else dangerous. He'll simply be listening and reporting what he learns."

She acted like she hadn't heard him, continuing to cling to the thought that Vorstag was doomed. "He'll make a terrible spy. He can't lie to… to save his life," she went on humorlessly. "He'll be caught. Tried for treason. Tortured. Beheaded. You've killed him!" She pushed him away so she could stand. She had to pace, to bodily work off this anger, afraid that if she didn't she would Shout at him again.

"I didn't put him up to this," Ulfric tried to head her off, physically and verbally, pursuing her across the room as he argued. He finally got rid of Vorstag; he wasn't about to lose her. "By Talos, I swear to you that I tried to talk him out of it. Galmar was there. Ask him if you doubt me."

She paused, unsure of herself, thinking that she did trust Ulfric, and was sure that he wouldn't lie to her.

He sensed her hesitation and pressed his hand. "I tried, Gerhild. I argued with him. I told him he owed nothing to me. I told him I wouldn't accept an oath of fealty from him. I told him this would upset you." She finally let him reach her, suffering the touch of his hand on her cheek. "He insisted this was what he wanted to do. Actually, it sounded like he had already made up his mind, and would do this whether or not I gave it my blessing." He leaned in and kissed her, lightly, gently, not pushing or demanding, and let his brow rest against hers afterwards.

"I…" he made his voice catch, sounding like it was full of emotion. She heard it, her cool violet eyes lifting up to search his, but the angle made it too difficult. "I love you, Gerhild. I would never do anything to harm you. If you wish it, I will send men after him to bring him back, in irons if necessary."

"No…" she responded absently. The image immediately came to mind: Vorstag in prisoner's rags, his hands bound before him, forced to walk to his doom. She shuddered, remembering the feel of ropes around her wrists, and pulled away from Ulfric. Her hands wanted to shake, her emotions threatened to drown her, but she prevailed. She wasn't going to let any of these memories affect her any longer, especially now that she didn't have Vorstag to watch her back. She squared her shoulders and set her anxieties aside. "No, let him go. He has his own life to live. He can make his own choices. And I can make my own choices."

Ulfric smiled, thinking he had won. He reached out again for her, and she came to him willingly, wrapping her arms around him, her cool lips pressing against his. The kiss was brief, over before he could deepen it. A little concerned, he leaned back to look at her. "Are you alright now?"

She held his gaze and smiled deep enough to flash her dimples, though none of the emotion showed in her eyes. Before she could answer, however, there was a knock on her door and Galmar's voice calling, "Excuse me, is Ulfric in there?"

"What is it?" he called, his tone conveying his annoyance at being interrupted.

"We've received word regarding the location of the Jagged Crown. Thought you'd want to know right away."

Ulfric's eyes narrowed, not wanting any such thing, but Gerhild laid a hand on his cheek. "I'm alright, Ulfric. Go talk with Galmar. I'll be down in a little bit."

"I'll hold you to that," he vowed. He turned his face to kiss the palm of her hand before letting go of her.

Gerhild watched him leave her chambers, beginning his conversation with Galmar even before he finished opening the door. She wasn't listening to them, but making her own plans for tomorrow. She had reached a conclusion: she had to stop letting herself get distracted and start doing what she needed to do. She'd spent a year in Skyrim, and sure she had delivered her father's message, and was a Thane in two holds, and killed three dragons, and was learning what it meant to be Dragonborn—but something told her she would run out of time if she kept letting herself get distracted by things like relationships. She lost three weeks here in Windhelm waiting on Vorstag's armor, and he wasn't even traveling with her any longer. She needed to get moving, the sooner the better.

So she would make her own choices, just as Vorstag had made his own choice. Tomorrow she would leave Ulfric and Windhelm. Tomorrow she would head to Riverwood and retrieve the Horn of Jurgen Windcaller. Tomorrow, she would stop stalling and focus on her life as the Dragonborn.