AN: Revised on 16/02/2015 - my eternal gratitude to harmoniedusoir for pointing out the Terrible Tense Mistake.

"Hello there", a female voice purrs huskily next to his right ear, so surprisingly that his hand jerks and almost sends the glass of Cyrodiilic brandy flying. It's so damn hard to stay alert in the crowded inn full of drunken sailors.

The woman - an elegant Imperial, about thirty, in a low-cut burgundery dress that leaves hardly anything to the imagination - now slides onto the seat next to him. "What are you doing in the Flowing Bowl, hm?" She leans closer. "Looking for...company? Me and my friends-"

He lets one hand drop on the pommel of his sword, stares at her with the cold, hard glare he's been using for months whenever he deals with people. "Looking for Amirial, and don't tell me you don't know where she is. You can be lucky I don't turn you and your friends in."

Her lips drawn to a hard line, she stands up. Swaying her hips seductively but probably unconsciously, she says: "I'll send her outside to you." Then she vanished in the mass of hot bodies filling the tavern.

Outside is cold compared to the crowded inn, but the air is silent and clean except for the smell of salt. He waits, breathing the night, listening to the waves, until he feels her next to him.

And there she is. She seems smaller than usual, hugging herself against the coldness, and alien. Her back is as straight as ever though. She doesn't look at him but gazes into the darkness as if she's searching for the waves, trying to stare down the shadows. "What is it, Baurus?" she asks.

"Come back, Amy."

"And why should I do that?" He can hear the bitterness in every word, the barely restrained anger.

"He needs you, Amy."

"I'm not Amy anymore, Baurus."

"Then it's Captain. Not Baurus."

"Congratulations." She could have been commenting the weather for the lack of passion in her voice.

"He needs you," Baurus repeats.

A strong gale sweeps in from the sea into their hair. The Altmer squeezes her eyes shut as honey-coloured strands whip around her head. She doesn't answer.

"Would it be so bad?" the Blade asks quietly. "You'd sleep in a bed. You'd be safe. You'd no longer have to rob husbands for a few pitiful Septims."

"Have I not done enough?" she asks. "Is it not enough?"

"That's what he said as well."

She chews on her lower lip, white teeth leaving deep gouges in the thick layers of red lipstick. "Is it an order?"

"Amy-"

"Is he commanding me again?" she screams into the night, at the black water waiting unseen ahead.

For the first time his voice contains a hint of something like accusation, soft and biting deep like a knife. "You know Martin wouldn't order you around."

"Then tell him...tell him, 'Emperor or priest, it's my life. I've done enough." And as she walks away, the night swallows her without a sound, and only the redness of her dress lingers for a moment on the surface of the darkness.