This takes place several years after the Civil War and Alduin's death. While playing, I always thought it odd that Argis had a name like "Argis the Bulwark" without a back story. And the eye? His story had to be fantastic, and I hope I've done it justice.

If you love it, or you hate it, or you can't get past the first paragraph, I'd like to know, and why. Writing is fun for me, but I'd love, one day, to be good at it. Thanks!

Shoppers and merchants in the marketplace watched as the newcomer climbed the high steps to Vlindrel Hall, her fiery hair the only flash of color against gray stone blending seamlessly into gray, scattered clouds above. They looked at each other with cautious curiosity – was this the Dragonborn they'd heard so much about, the one who went to Sovngarde? Was she truly making her home here? In this glorified ruin of a city?

She'd been friendly, yet reserved, and hadn't bought much. Then again, she'd lodged at the Silver-Blood Inn over the last week, and didn't need meat or ale from a stall. But Tacitus, the loud-mouthed blacksmith's apprentice, gossiped freely about the ebony bow he'd restrung for her as well as the ancient-looking katana she wore strapped at her side. He said it sparked and glowed when she touched it.

The Dragonborn helped people. Ordinary people. And if rumor were right, and the Jarl made her a Thane, well...help was needed here, they thought, barely holding to hope.

Adara, the jeweler's little girl, stumbled out of the way as a couple of armed guards pushed through the square. The package she carried went flying, and a flash of silver glinted on the stone street before it disappeared beneath a guard's boot.

The girl cried out as the bracelet she'd finished with her father cracked, moonstones popping from their mountings and falling through cracks between the cobblestones. Under the guards' flinty stares, Adara ran to her mother's stall and hid below the counter. No one helped her. No one said a word. Eyes downcast, the citizens returned to their work, their children, their tasks.

This Dragonborn business would probably come to nothing, anyway. After all, blood and silver were the only currencies in Markarth. Common folk had no silver, and they'd already given enough blood. The rich and powerful could take care of themselves; better for everyone else to keep their mouths shut and hands busy...their families safe.

Watching the commotion below out of the corner of her eye, the red-haired Breton fumed, feeling helpless despite all her power. Play along, play your part. A thane wouldn't interfere. Wouldn't dirty her hands.

My new home, she cringed, her shiver having little to do with the setting sun. The misery concealed beneath Markarth's grand stone façade created its own, permanent chill.

From the moment she'd passed through those brazen gates years ago, even before Alduin had reared his terrifying head, the imposing city had a permanent last place spot on her list of places to live. By Ysmir's beard, she'd seen a man murdered before her eyes that day, and the guards barely batted an eye. It seemed little had changed.

Yet here she was, a Thane of the Reach, buying her first home in this…monument to avarice and pain. She paused on the top step, allowing one final moment of self-pity. She missed Whiterun: her home and friends at Jorrvaskr, nights at the Bannered Mare. And days under the sun, trees, and snowy mountains. Markarth was cruel enough to make her nostalgic for her days at Windhelm after the Civil War, and that was saying a lot. She hated Windhelm.

But in the end, she remembered: it wasn't about her. And the Companions were in it for the long haul. Corruption was a more difficult beast to slay than a dragon, these days. At least the dragons stayed dead.

Taking a deep breath, she turned her key in the ornate lock and pushed open the brazen doors, revealing a surprisingly warm entryway lit by stone firepits. She smelled herbs and snowberries and…fresh-baked bread?

Jarl Igmund had mentioned something about a housecarl, but she'd been too distracted and anxious to pay much attention at the time. And…for what she had to do here, it might be better to have no housecarl at all. It was going to get more difficult by the day to hide her distaste for Markarth. Then again, no one here seemed overly cheerful to begin with. Maybe she'd fit right in.

The living area was comfortable, less Dwemer-ruin than she'd expected, with colorful tapestries, comfortable seats and plenty of wooden bookshelves, none of the stone and metal that sucked all the warmth out. Exploring further, she opened double brazen doors into her bedchamber, again, comfortably furnished and clean. She dropped the one small bag she'd carried with her on the bed; the rest of her belongings would be arriving by wagon tomorrow.

Moving through the house, she noticed the kitchen, and yes, there was a loaf of warm bread cooling on a countertop. She cut off a piece and nibbled it appreciatively, walking around to another, smaller bedroom. Standing in the open doorway, she could see nothing offering insight into what her housecarl was like, other than swords and a Dwarven bow mounted on the walls. The wardrobe was shut, and everything clean and sparse, rather like space in a military barracks.

As she turned to go back to her room, she heard the entry door close, and footsteps slow to a stop on the stone floor. Calling up a flame spell as a precaution, she walked toward the entryway and, in the glow of twin firepits, saw the silhouette of a tall, long-haired man. He carried a linen shopping bag.

"Hello," she said, reluctantly walking toward him. "I'm Gillian. Since you have the key," she nodded to the shining object he held in his right hand, "I'm going to assume you're my housecarl and not a bandit or something?" She frowned as her dumb joke fell flat, and wished she had a normal nervous habit like biting her nails.

He stared at her flaming hands, and she dismissed her magic with a sigh as they walked toward the firelit living room. She turned to face him. He appeared to be in his late thirties, and he wasn't just tall, but powerfully built, his ceremonial armor exposing muscular biceps and forearms.

He had golden-brown eyes and Nord-blond hair, pulled back from his face and braided on the sides, leaving the rest to cascade down his back. His dark blond, trimmed beard partially covered a tattoo resembling an intricately-carved arrowhead, the point of which ended below his right eye.

She wondered how someone like him became a housecarl, and she took another look at his face, and realized only one of his eyes was brown – the left was pure white, and in the path of a pale scar, jagged and cruel, running from his forehead to his jaw.

"If you're finished, my Thane?" the tower of a man rumbled, making Gillian blush, caught red-handed in her lengthy examination of her new bodyguard. "I am your housecarl. My name is Argis. I am your sword and your shield," he said with a slight bow.

"Argis," she tried the name on and thought it fitted him. "I'm sorry for my rudeness. You…weren't what I expected."

"Wanted someone unimpaired guarding your house, hm?" he said, motioning to his eye. "I can assure you I'm capable of guarding one Breton woman, even if she is the Dragonborn."

Gillian rocked back in shock, shaking her head. "Th- that's not what I meant," she stuttered, angry at herself for starting on the wrong foot. "My housecarl in Whiterun is a young woman. Capable, yes, but not…" she motioned toward Argis, unable to verbalize, as usual. Why Vilkas thought she was right for this mission was beyond her. She pinched the bridge of her nose and took a deep breath. "Please, let me start over. I'm Gillian," she walked over to shake Argis's hand, "and I may be Dragonborn, but that's all over now, so you might find your life a wee bit boring from here on out."

Argis's lips tightened as he shook her hand, and she groaned. Shit. Can I never stop saying the wrong things? "Ok," she said, giving up. "It's been a long day. I'm going to bed. Hopefully we can talk again in the morning. I hope you…sleep well," she said with an awkward wave. Rolling her eyes, she walked as quickly as she could to her room, pausing at the threshold to look at him out of the corner of her eye. He was still standing in the same position, holding his string bag and key.

"Good night, my Thane," he said, as she shut the doors.

Argis tried not to give in to anger and frustration as Gillian disappeared into her room. Maybe she was tired. Maybe she'd had a run-in with one of the guards; they were always wary to the point of rudeness with outsiders. Maybe that explained why she so obviously wished him elsewhere.

Well, she wasn't the only one. He placed his key on the shelf next to the kitchen, and walked into the warm room to place his purchases on the shelves within. He noticed that a slice was missing from the bread he'd baked earlier that day, and smiled in spite of himself as he wrapped the remainder of the loaf. At least I did something right today.

Inwardly cursing himself for not being here when she arrived, he sliced onions, carrots, and chicken and put them, with some water, rosemary, and laurel, in a pot hanging over embers. Taking one last look around the kitchen, he picked up a lit candle and walked out.

He'd been in Markarth too long, he thought, walking toward his bedroom. After his injury, the Legion had sent him home, and he'd eagerly gone, hoping finally to marry his girl and settle down to an occupation more…friendly to his remaining eye.

He'd been a fierce soldier. A scout, he'd been the first in and the last out of every mission, so it was a miracle his eye was the only permanent injury he'd suffered after so many years, although his body was scarred enough. He'd earned the nickname 'Bulwark,' and most in Markarth used it as an honorific, his reputation in Skyrim as a veritable one-man fortress alive and well. Some who thought less of him because of what happened with Anya used it mockingly, though never to his face.

Nothing had worked out as he'd planned. Drifting and aimless, he'd signed on as a palace guard and for years, just worked, trained, and slept, day after day. He thought himself lucky to have escaped the Warrens, lucky his response to heartbreak and shattered dreams was work, rather than the bottle, or skooma. And extremely lucky that he was still strong and hale; many returning from the wars weren't.

Then, two weeks ago, the Jarl had informed him of his new position as housecarl to the Reach's latest Thane. But not just any Thane: the Dragonborn had chosen Markarth as her new home, and the Jarl wanted her protected – and watched, the unspoken directive hovered in Argis's mind.

He had to admit it was suspicious. She was one of the legendary Companions, a hero of the Civil War, and the only celebrated mage in the province. Why would she pick up and move to Markarth?

Well, Argis would do his job and leave the intrigue to the Jarl and his new Thane. His pretty new Thane, he couldn't help thinking to himself, and shook the thought away. It had been six years since Anya, and he hadn't let himself get close to any woman since. He wasn't going to start now, he thought, as he cased his armor and slipped on a linen nightshirt. Hopefully they could start again the next morning.

Gillian slid down the brazen doors and rested her head on her knees, finally allowing mortification to color her cheeks. She bit her lip and cursed herself. Over the years, she'd become used to Vilkas and Farkas making fun of her awkwardness, and because she was dragonborn, she had to be around strangers much more often than she cared to be.

But this was it, she told herself. Her last mission, and then she really would settle down. In Whiterun, though, never in Markarth. Maybe even in the country somewhere. That sounded even better.

Images of quiet spring breezes, buzzing bees, and waving grasses calmed her spinning head, and she turned her thoughts to her new housecarl. She would apologize in the morning, and explain that his injury wasn't a problem.

His maleness, on the other hand…although she could never explain that, and wasn't sure she understood it herself. She'd lived in Jorrvaskr for the past nine years, surrounded by men, and handsome men at that. It took months for her to get used to fighting next to the twins, but she had. So why did she feel uncomfortable around Argis?

Maybe…yes, that was it. There wasn't anyone else in the house, and the arrangement was so…private. That had to be it. Not to mention she was bound to keep secrets from this man, and that set her on edge.

Feeling better and surer of herself, she rose and began to unpack her bag. She hung her forest-green tunic and leather leggings in her wardrobe, and slid into bed wearing her undershirt. They would start again in the morning, she thought. It would be fine.