NOTE: I've had this story for a while, but I never quite finished it. I still don't think I have. It's meant to be a one shot, but I might add things on every once in a while because there is more than one possible ending to the game, and one of those is total open to possibilities. Anyway, please read and enjoy. And again, I love messages and reviews!

Thornkeep was not the place that Lars wanted to spend the rest of his days, that was for sure. After a day training in the resentment of the Snow Queen's frosty breath and the tremor of the Mountain King's anger, he was frozen stiff. Even now, held in the warm embrace of a fireplace at the Stubborn Mule Lodge, he could feel the stinging in his fingers and toes, the numbness of his nose, and icy burns from the winds many indelicate kisses. Lars knew that he would not train with Rhen after this. Not ever again.

"What the hell are we doing here?" Lars muttered under his breath. As he spoke he could see the air raking its way from his chest and flickering in front of his eyes, taunting him even inside; he would freeze tonight.

"Did you say something?"

"Not at all, you insolent slave," he whispered, making sure that Rhen was still in the next room. The words that had been so familiar to him seemed to have become much more foreign in the week or two that he and Rhen had been traveling and training together, but he was still uncertain he wanted to let go of that life. It was sick, he sometimes thought, to want to keep her down. She was just as strong as-

"Lars, no matter how much you don't like me there's only one bed. I hate to break it to you, but we'll have to sleep together. Are you coming to bed?"

He turned around, his breath brandishing a sword inside his throat.

"What?"

"You and I are sharing a bed. I'm afraid we can only afford the one room."

The snarl that wrinkled his brow and tore his mouth was completely out of habit, as was the thought of sharing a bed with a commoner. He put his thoughts aside as he stood up, still clutching for dear heat to the blanket that he had confiscated from under the bed, and walked toward the bed.

Rhen was standing across from him, staring him down in her undershirt and skirt. He seemed to recall seeing her in less at the inn in Ghalarah, the day he'd informed his mother of his successful graduation. Rhen had made a pathetic attempt of avoiding him then and her modest attire now was little better. But she was clearly uncomfortable with the arrangement. More uncomfortable than his mother when Lars told her he and Rhen were to be partners. Yes, Rhen was more uncomfortable than she let on.

"After you," Lars managed to say with almost complete gentility. Rhen eyed him suspiciously, keeping her head down and her eyes pinched. Part of him enjoyed it. Some sick pleasure derived through making her unhappy. Briefly he wondered if there was something wrong with him. Suddenly Rhen's hand was clutching the corner of the blanket and yanking it backwards. She slipped into bed in the time it took the sheets to hover and fall, the training from earlier having done little to diminish her reflexes. She was remained perfectly rigid as Lars turned around, dropping his cape to the ground and shedding his robe. Whatever her discomfort demanded of her, he was sleeping in his pants, nothing more. He didn't care what she thought.

As Lars met her eyes he realized that he had no idea what she thought. In fact, the blatant disregard on her face aggravated him. He pushed the thought aside, placing himself beneath the covers as quickly as he possibly could. It was freezing inside the room, despite the roaring fire.

Rhen closed her eyes almost immediately, willing him gone, Lars imagined. He smirked and rolled onto his side so her could stare at her. A little discomfort was a suitable punishment for making him train in this blasted weather all day. He felt the need to egg her on, to push her just a little bit further from mental balance.

For several minutes there was no response and soon Lars realized that Rhen was already asleep. He inched closer, as if to confirm his assumption.

Nothing.

She was, indeed, asleep.

Lars couldn't help it now. He was watching her as she slept, the utmost serenity balanced on her face, the serene beauty of her dreams releasing every muscle in her face. Though – he realized as he regarded her more closely, now leaning over her to watch her face – dreams were not the only thing of beauty. Rhen was, though he had never seen it before, quite fetching. He propped himself up on his elbow, allowing himself a better view as the cold nipped at his exposed torso.

This was the first time that Lars had ever seen her so tranquil. He had owned her, lived with her for such a long time, but this... this was the first moment he had ever seen her.

She was delicate; just a fragile young girl with milky white skin that had dropped from the moon, with hair that could only be accounted for by claiming that a lilac nymph had been her mother. And yet… he had never noticed the way that her nose curved ever so slightly up, or that, when she slept her lips puckered. He had never realized that her eyelashes were so thick, or that her lips parted in the most sensual way when she let in one lucky breath.

Muffled noises came from the just outside the door – the pitter-patter of little fur covered dwarf feet, the hustle and bustle of one or two travelers who had braved the wrath of the King and Queen, a muffled gasp and the door shutting once more – and Rhen turned towards him. Lars laid down faster than a bolt of lightning. If she had woken with him hovering over her the effect would not be a good one. He pictured her raising her sword over his head, letting the blade fall with the force of the Demon Lord himself. He shuddered at the thought.

But temptation and his newly found realization overwhelmed him.

Slowly but surely Lars turned on his side until he was face to face with the sleeping Sword Singer.

The face that lit the sky could not be seen for miles and yet, here in the blissfully eternal darkness Rhen's face glowed in the golden light from the hearth. Now he was only inches away from her, able to hear the soft patter of her heart through the bed, able to see the glisten of her lips as they parted slightly with the nirvana of sleep, able to feel the warm air that tenderly curled against his cheek before flitting away.

Sweet intoxication.

Only an inch separated his lips and hers. Something inside him was screaming out, telling him that it's sick and wrong and terrible for him to even think about allowing his lips to touch hers: she, the ill-bred, lowlife, cretinous, slave. The voice in the back of his mind, the same one that couldn't help but notice how beautiful she was egged him on: you only get one shot at this.

No longer was there a friendly inch between sanity and sardonic pleasure.

Perfectly erect, Lars sat up staring at the hearth and hoping to any god that he was still the man he was before wandering into this tawdry realm of passion. The flames in the hearth laughed at him as they twisted about in their blackened ballroom, contorting and leaping in their masquerade. He envied them their lustful dance and even the love he envisioned within the licks of each flame.

Nipping at his bare chest, Lars could feel the cold digging its sickly fingers – an infinite count – into his skin, imploring him to slip once more into the deep embrace of the Dwarven weavings. He strained his body until it did his bidding and remained intertwined with the bitter winter mistress. He wasn't sure that he could risk curling up once more under the covers of the bed. What might he do if he did? Might those pink lips draw him in, finishing their spell? Uncertainty was no friend of noble Lars Tenobor. So Lars stayed still, back strait, looking directly into the hearth and hoping that he could fall asleep sitting up.

Completely unanticipated, the air slipping beneath the covers had done something so simple that he couldn't fathom it. A sleeping Rhen had been struck by a case of the chills and shivers, and reacted in a way that was very much human: she sought out the nearest source of warmth.

There were many things running through Lars' noble brain at that time, very few of which were anything even resembling righteous. Of course, this may have been caused by the mere proximity of his companion. Rhen was clinging to Lars' leg, touching dark and mysterious places with every movement of the body which seemed, at the moment, to be startlingly fragile.

Lars found himself startlingly aroused and tried with all of his might to free himself from Rhen's grip. Surely, he thought to himself, if Rhen awoke, she would holler bloody murder and kill him with the sword that was only a fingertip's length from the bed – she kept it there just in case such an unsettling emergency arose. He tried to lift his leg and remove her hand, but to no avail. In fact, he tried this several times but could produce no positive result. At long last, Lars lowered himself beneath the covers, bending his knees first – as if allowing Rhen and her calloused but strangely tender hands the room to move – then curving his spine and sliding his way along the fine Dwarven cloth he could at last rest his head upon an uncomfortably downy pillow. Rhen, feeling rather subconsciously uncomfortable at last, removed her hand and turned on her side, back to the awkward noble boy.

A lively mixture of congratulations and commiserations ran around hitting one another inside of his, by now, aching mind. He had gotten rid of her, yet his body yearned for the touch of her skin against his: even if the aforementioned skin was covered with clothing. Lars turned on his side so he could look at Rhen's back. It was a movement away and looked so perfectly inviting, as if it had been crafted just for him. He resisted the temptation to pull himself against her, managing – if just barely – to turn away. The wall before him was not any company to be kept.

He began to turn towards her again, only to realize that her hands once more were embracing him. Wandering hands, he thought, had never been so admirable. Despite his thoughts he pulled away from Rhen's stray hands as quickly as he could, sending him stumbling onto the floor.

"Have you been fondling spiders every day since you were brought to us," the nobleman whispered to himself. He gave a start when she stirred, though he had moved both the bed and the air. Standing as frigid as the barren trees outside Lars waited for her to wake, not daring to move, lest she strike him dead. Several minutes passed and Rhen began to breathe more heavily, muttering unintelligibly to her dreams. Still not daring to move Lars listened very closely.

"You idiot…" she muttered. "Egotistical… whiny… spineless… moron…"

It didn't take a genius to figure out that the next word she would speak would be his name. When at last it did come – slightly garbled by the pillow and what Lars thought might have been drool – Lars' shoulders fell. He had always known that the girl did not like him. How could he blame her? Had he not been a senseless boy, driven by social standards and hatred of all things he had been told were despicable? He had been a cruel keeper, and even now, when Rhen had been freed for so long, Lars was still a terrible companion. As quietly as he could Lars made his way to the chair before the fireplace. He sat pathetically, his shoulders drawn up and his head hanging upon his hands. He was an idiot.

"Lars…"

There it was again: his name coming from her lips. But it was not what he wanted, it was not way that he wanted her to say it, he admitted to himself.

With a sigh, Lars rolled his eyes and lolled back into the chair until he sat straight up with his hands dangling off the arms of the chair. "Rhen… I'm so sorry."

And he meant it. Maybe that was the worst part. Maybe that was why it pained him so much that she hated him. He was honestly, truly sorry. Maybe it was jealousy of her power, of her ability to rise above her situation and become something that others yearned to become. Rhen was a strong and beautiful woman who would one day accomplish great things. Of this he had no doubt.

Lars peered around the back of the chair, staring at the lump in the bed. It now consumed the place that he lay only moments ago. A small fire burned in his chest, envious of the carefree bed.

"Stop this," Lars whispered to himself. It was pointless to freeze himself as he watched a girl that hated him lounging in a bed he too should be in. Lars slid across the room noiselessly and then fell into the bed. Rhen groaned and opened her eyes.

"What are you doing?" she grumbled as she hit him.

"Nothing."

"Well then do your nothing in your sleep. Some people are tired."

And then she turned away from him, breathing heavily once more.

Watching her back once more, Lars could feel his hands twitching beneath the warmth of the blankets, inching their way towards the resting woman. He willed them to stop, told them that they had no business with her pearly white skin, but they did not hear him. His fingers continued until they rested against her skin. Lars winced, waiting for Rhen to wake and slap him, but she did not stir. After a moment he opened his eyes, staring through the semi-darkness at the covered shoulder that peered above the bedcovers. He had forgotten for a moment that she was clothed… Lars leaned into her until he was only a breath away from her.

"I love you," he whispered. And then he fell into a deep, coma like sleep.