A/N: this is the sequel to my fanfic, "Heart of Frost." You probably don't need to read that story to be able to enjoy this one, but you'll be missing out on so many tasty, juicy bits… ;)

As in the first story, this is Rated M! That means no under-age readers allowed! Seriously. There are scenes in here dealing with sex and rape, murder and death, torture and violence and blood and gore (takes a deep breath), etc. I follow the guidelines and keep the descriptions vague, but if you've got a good imagination… Well, if you've read my first story, you know what I mean. So, you have been warned!

That being said, thanks to all of you who read my first story (and to those of you who are now going to find it and read it), and as always an even bigger thanks for Following/ Favoriting (if it's not a word, at least it's a running gag)/ and Reviewing!

Chapter One

"17th of Last Seed, 202: Vorstag left Windh_"

"Damn," Gerhild muttered under her breath, staring in consternation at the blotch of ink on the fresh page. It wasn't that she minded the wasted page or ink. It was the trembling in her hands that was unacceptable. With deliberate movements, she set the quill aside and placed her hands on the table, fingers splayed. She pressed them into the wood until her fingernails turned white with the pressure, until the tendons stood out like thick cords. Still the trembling would not stop.

For the past several months she had been chronicling her life since coming to Skyrim, at the suggestion of a friend who thought it might help with her…occasional difficulties. She began her memoirs with a few references to her parents and her father's dying wish that she deliver a message to Jarl Ulfric. Through two slender volumes she had faithfully recorded the first year of her life in Skyrim. This afternoon she had reached the date one year ago today—the day when Vorstag left her alone in Windhelm. Damn him.

She closed her deep violet eyes tightly shut, pressed her bow-shaped lips into a thin line, breathed slowly through her nose, and willed the shaking to cease. She told herself the date held no power over her. It was only a group of words, marks on a page, black ink on white parchment, words that she put into her memoirs. She put the words there, so she had control. She was young, strong, capable, intelligent, and more than a match for any day on the calendar.

"It's only a date," she spoke confidently into the empty room, "It's only numbers and letters on a page. It can't hurt me! Not anymore…"

She was formidable. She had defeated Madanach, the leader of the Forsworn; exterminated a renegade clan of vampires near Morthal; negotiated a treaty that kept Whiterun neutral in the Civil War; fought ash spawn and saved Councilor Morvayn from an assassination plot; infiltrated the Thalmor Embassy and bloodied their noses—that was particularly taxing considering her history with them; discovered and rescued the last surviving members of the Blades; learned the Way of the Voice and killed nine dragons. It would be challenging for anyone to accomplish these tasks, and she had done these things within two years. She was Lady Gerhild North-Wind, Thane of Whiterun and Markarth, well-known and respected in Morthal and Riften and Solstheim, agent and spy for Jarl Ulfric and his Stormcloak rebellion.

And Dragonborn.

She held onto these facts as she finally managed to stop the trembling.

"Are you alright, my Thane?" Lydia's voice floated through the closed bedroom door.

Gerhild cursed silently in her head, admonishing herself for having spoken out loud and attracting the attention of her busybody of a housecarl. The next moment, she lifted her chin and answered in a cool, clear voice, "Of course, Lydia, I was only talking to myself. But thank you for checking."

There was a sort of muffled acknowledgement from the woman, but no sound of fading footsteps. Suppressing the sigh, Gerhild carefully set aside the quill and inkwell, and called out, "Was there anything else, Lydia?"

Lydia opened the door, only putting her head and one arm past the portal, and didn't make eye contact as she answered, "A message came for you a little while ago. I thought you were resting, so I didn't bring it to you right away."

And you wanted to have time to read it, Gerhild thought to herself, fully aware of Lydia's snooping habits. Nothing of her thoughts showed on her face, however, as she stood and walked over to the door to take the folded parchment. Her hand gave a shudder as she noticed that Lydia was wearing her steel armor. The last time Gerhild had seen Vorstag, he had been wearing the same type of armor. Damn him. She wrenched her thoughts back to the present and forced a smile to cover any wayward sign of emotion. "Thank you, Lydia. Was there anything else?"

"No, my Thane," she bowed, her hand clasped over her heart, overly dramatic as usual.

"Very well, you are dismissed." She turned away from her door, but Lydia made no move to return downstairs. She ignored her for the time being and focused on the letter. As she suspected, Lydia had read it; the wax seal with the wolfs-head insignia was slightly off center from its original red mark. She didn't make an issue of it, but broke it open, her eyes flashing over the shaky, pained scrawl and instantly absorbing the text.

The letter was from Kodlak. "Lydia," she called out unnecessarily loud, as if expecting to have to shout to be heard downstairs. Turning back she feigned surprise to see her still nearby. "Oh!"

"Excuse me, my Thane, but I thought you might have a reply to send."

"No," she shook her head. "No reply, other than 'aye,' which I will deliver myself. Kodlak has asked me to dine with him tonight."

"I see. I only thought that, since you got home so late last night, you would rather rest."

One delicate eyebrow raised itself up onto her brow. Truthfully, she wasn't so upset Lydia had been waiting up for her, as she was surprised that Lydia had heard her come in. Either she had made too much noise last night, or she didn't give the woman enough credit. Her dimples deepened as she responded, "We both know it was early this morning when I got in, but I've gotten enough sleep. And it's not like dining with Kodlak would be taxing…"

"But the Companions can be quite… excitable."

Gerhild had enough practice dealing with personal relationships to realize that this would be a good time to laugh and make light of Lydia's description, though she felt none of the humor. "Aye, that they are, and none are more 'excitable' than the twins. But I'll be downstairs with their Harbinger, away from the ruckus of the main hall."

"Perhaps I should go with you," Lydia continued to press the issue, "Just in case."

"In case what?"

"Well," the housecarl shifted from one foot to the other, her face taking on a pained expression. "The last time you spoke with the Harbinger, you left on a quest for him so quickly you barely had time to change into any armor. And when you got back, you looked so strange, tired and bloodied, I was afraid…"

"It wasn't my blood," Gerhild reminded her in a gentle tone.

"I know that now, but when I saw you again, I couldn't help but think, all those things that could have happened to you, and I hadn't been with you." She squared her shoulders and lifted her chin. "It is my duty to protect you, with my life if necessary. Please, Lady Gerhild, I know you don't like traveling with me, but give me one more chance. Especially if the Harbinger is going to have you do another errand for him. You shouldn't go off fighting alone."

Gerhild was surprised twice in as many minutes. Perhaps she had misjudged Lydia, after that one disastrous time the two of them had gone together to clear out a bandit camp for Jarl Balgruuf. Though she had been more than willing to do the task, Lydia had acted like fighting mere bandits was beneath Gerhild's status of Thane. They had argued nearly the whole way, and eventually Lydia had turned sullen and sarcastic. It helped Gerhild to make up her mind never to take Lydia with her ever again.

Also, she hadn't been alone when she'd gone to Dustman's Cairn; Farkas had gone with her, but she couldn't tell anyone that—she couldn't tell anyone she had seen him change into a werewolf. That, more than anything, was what caused her strange behavior after the mission. The shock that the members of the Circle were all werewolves had almost overwhelmed her, and in an effort to keep their secret, she had turned even more withdrawn and private than usual. And of course Lydia had picked up on it; the woman was intuitive if not amendable.

Quickly she realized she had been letting her mind wander, almost for too long if Lydia's scrunched eyebrows were anything to go by. She smiled and leaned forward in an open and friendly manner, though her deep violet eyes remained dead and dark. "It's only dinner, Lydia, not an adventure. But I promise, if he has another errand for me to do, I won't go alone. If I don't take you with me, I'll at least take one of the Companions. Alright?"

Lydia nodded, knowing a compromise when she heard one.

"Good! Now, if you'll excuse me," she gestured towards the door, "I want to freshen up a little before heading over to Jorrvaskr. I know I'll be early, but I'm sure Kodlak won't mind the extra time for visiting."

"Of course, my Thane."

Gerhild watched Lydia close the door behind her as she left, and resisted the urge to breathe a heavy sigh. Lydia was who she was, and she was very good at protecting her house and property here in Whiterun. Still, she didn't think she could ever take her with on another quest. Mainly because Lydia didn't know Gerhild was the Dragonborn. So few did. Most in Whiterun knew she had helped defeat a dragon, and the Jarl had rewarded her with a Thaneship. And though the Greybeards had called for the Dragonborn shortly afterwards, very few knew they had meant Gerhild.

She shook herself out of her musings and walked over to her chest. She knew Lydia came often into her room whenever she was away, but she was sure the woman's morals wouldn't allow her to pick the lock of her Thane's private chest. It was still unlocked—though closed—from when she had retrieved her journal earlier that afternoon. She lifted the lid and set Kodlak's note on top of a stack of personal letters. Next she put the journal away. She had to set it in the chest carefully to leave the pages open as the ink had yet to dry. Later, perhaps tomorrow, she would pick it up and try to write some more, when it was no longer the seventeenth of Last Seed.

After locking the chest, she brushed off her skirts before walking over to her bedside table where she kept a handheld polished brass mirror. The reflection wasn't perfect by far, but it sufficed to show that her dark-gold hair was still neat and tidy within its intricate braids. She tilted the mirror slightly to peek at her cleavage, still marveling at the change. While in Riften this past year, she had discovered a face sculptor in hiding beneath the city, and amazingly the woman had been able to remove scars. No longer was her bosom marred by that ugly, wide, jagged scar given to her by a Hagraven not far from Markarth…

She knew she was having trouble again when the reflection began shaking. Damn Markarth. And damn Vorstag! One year ago today he walked out of her life. And one year before that she had almost lost her life in Helgen. Mordantly she wondered if anything tragic would happen to her on this date this year. Ever since making Whiterun her base of operations—it was far more neutral and less suspicious than Windhelm—she had spent quite a bit of time with Kodlak and the Companions. He had become like a grandfather to her, and he was getting very old, his joints twisted and his body weakened with age. If he were to die this evening…

Resolutely she set the mirror down and pushed the thought from her mind as she headed towards the stairs. She told herself there was no use tempting fate, she had enough on her plate already. Stormcloak spy. Thane. Dragonborn. All these fates pulling her in different directions, crossing her loyalties, consuming her time and energy. And she no longer had Vorstag to keep her focused and on course. Damn him!

"Your cloak," Lydia gestured with the rich material from where she was standing beside the front door.

"I don't know how long I'll be," Gerhild began, turning around so Lydia could set the rich green velvet with the snow bear trim on her shoulders. It was a little warm for a cloak, but she didn't argue; summer in Skyrim could still produce snow, even on the prairie lands of Whiterun. "But I have my key, so you don't have to wait up for me. Good night, Lydia."

"Good night, my Thane," she answered in a subdued tone. Gerhild tried not to roll her eyes as she walked out the door, knowing full well that Lydia would be waiting up for her. Again. She brushed the woman from her mind and stepped out onto the streets of Whiterun.

Though it was early evening, the sun was still well up from the horizon, the days nice and long this time of year. She smiled and waved to Adrianne next door, nodded to Jon Battle-born as they passed each other, laughed and jumped aside as two children chased each other down the street, and otherwise looked and acted like the young Nord woman the citizens of Whiterun knew as Lady Gerhild—except for one small moment. It was common practice for her to stop at Fralia's stall in the marketplace and look at jewelry whenever she passed by. This evening, however, she saw a simple silver ring prominently displayed. The memory popped into her head of how she had given her Silver-Blood ring to Vorstag right before he left. Damn him. She had to turn away before she lost control of her emotions yet again, and only gave a small shake of her head to Fralia, hoping she wouldn't think poorly of her for not taking the time to chat with an old woman.

After the market, she climbed the steps that led to the small courtyard outside the Temple of Kynareth. There she paused for a moment beside the large tree, the Gildergreen, old and ancient and dead-appearing. The feeling of a strange sort of kinship woke within her, as it did every time she passed it. They were the opposite of each other: the tree dead to all outward appearances—though Danica, the Kynareth priestess, was adamant it was still alive; and Gerhild appeared to be a vibrant young woman with her whole life ahead of her—though inside her heart was dead. She reached out a hand to lay it tenderly on the bark and gave the Gildergreen a private smile before turning towards the mead hall of the Companions.

Even as she climbed the steps, she could hear many sounds coming from the ancient longboat-turned-hall. There was singing coming from within, and behind the building she could hear at least two people sparring. To the side and up a steep climb of stairs was the Skyforge, where Eorlund Grey-Mane was still hard at work keeping the Companions in arms and armor. The sounds were familiar, sounds that she always heard whenever she came by, and the normalcy comforted her. Without a single tremble her hand reached out and unlatched the main door.

"Hail, Shield-Sister!" Farkas proclaimed warmly as soon as she stepped inside. The giant of a man—large even for a Nord—was dressed in his customary steel armor. She was saved from having to hide her reaction to yet another reminder of Vorstag, when he came up to her and embraced her in a bear hug. She was no where near a match for his strength, and couldn't spare a thought for Vorstag, all her efforts needed to keep her lungs from being crushed.

"Don't break me!" she gasped, trying to form words without being able to breathe.

"Oh, ah…" he heard her gasping and realized what he was doing. He let go of her and stepped back, allowing her to take a deep breath. He kept one hand on her shoulder to hold her up while the other patted her down and made sure she was alright. "Sorry, Shield-Sister, I guess sometimes I don't know my own strength."

"Farkas, you shouldn't call me a Shield-Sister," she reminded him gently, enduring his examination and feeling like a cub being looked-over by a mama bear—or rather a papa bear. She smiled to soften the rebuke, though none of the emotion reached her deep, dead violet eyes. "I'm not a Companion. I only went with you to retrieve the fragment of Wuuthrad as a favor to Kodlak."

"Oh, well, ya know, it's just, I thought, you might change your mind, and all, because you know about…" he leaned in close to whisper the next word, "'It,' and you still like me." He blinked, seeming to think his words might be mistaken, and started to sputter. "Like us, you still like us. I mean, you come around here a lot, and you're really nice, and…"

"Be warned, Lady Gerhild," Vilkas' taunting tone came at them from the side. The twin of Farkas, he was just a shave smaller in build and strength, though with more than his fair share of intelligence. He was wearing his wolf armor and leaning nonchalantly against a pillar, a mug of mead in one hand, his lips turned up into a sneer. "Farkas has taken a liking to you. I saw him shopping for an Amulet of Mara the other day."

"I did not!" he shouted automatically. Then, realizing how his words might sound, he turned to Gerhild and tried to explain. "I mean, I do not. Like you, that is, I mean, I do like you, but not like that, not that you're not pretty and all, but, ah…" his words trailed away into a growl before he turned back to his brother, "Shut up!"

"Fight! Fight! Fight!" Torvar started chanting, egging the brothers on. He was already deep enough in his cups that he tipped his chair to the floor when he stood up. Vilkas put his mug aside and flexed his fists, looking far too ready to fight—almost like he had planned this from the start. Farkas eyes narrowed, but he lifted his chin stubbornly and stepped forward to meet him.

Gerhild sighed, rolling her eyes dramatically and getting ahead of Farkas. Firmly placed in the middle, she held her hands out towards each of them, only barely able to keep them apart. "Stop this right now," she commanded in her best mothering tone.

"Stop what? I haven't started anything. Farkas is the one pawing… I mean fawning all over you," Vilkas taunted again.

"I'll show you pawing, with my fist!" He made to lunge forward, but Gerhild's hand on his chest reminded him he'd have to go through her first. He grabbed her wrist to remove it, and she pulled out of his grip and slapped his knuckles. The smack was loud, making his eyes widen in surprise, but most importantly stopping his advance.

"Farkas! Enough! And you, Vilkas," she rounded on the other brother, "You're acting like you want to fight."

He shrugged, tried to slip a slap in behind her back and got slugged on the shoulder for his efforts. "So what? I'm bored. And the big lug's been doing nothing but waiting for you ever since he heard you were back in Whiterun. Now he's seen you, so we can fight."

"Fine! You two want to fight, then fight," she said, deciding to admit defeat, if somewhat ungraciously. She took each brother by the ear, causing yelps and whines to come from both of them. Keeping her arms wide, she started walking them around the tables. "There's a whole, lovely practice yard just for that purpose. If you're so bent on fighting, take it outside. Kodlak's asked me to dine with him tonight, and you know how the sounds of fighting upstairs upsets him." She gave them a none-too-gentle shove towards the back doors, which Torvar only barely managed to wrench open in time.

Skjor and Tia were currently using the practice yard, but upon seeing the twins descending on them, they immediately stopped and got out of the way. Gerhild watched for a moment through the open doors, tilting her head as the brothers began grappling even before they had passed the tables under the porch. Both of them were smiling, Vilkas' smile cocky and Farkas' fully enjoying the moment. Then Torvar closed the door and the scene was blocked from view. Shaking her head, Gerhild turned on her heel and made for the stairs, heading towards the living quarters in the basement and Kodlak's chambers.

Her soft boots made no noise as she walked down the long hallway, but Kodlak was aware of her arrival. He was in his sitting room, the double doors opened wide to give him a clear view of the hallway. She called out a greeting to him anyway, and he turned towards her. Her steps faltered for only a moment as the tattoo on his cheek came into view—so similar to the tattoo Vorstag wore. Damn him. If Kodlak noticed her slip, he gave no sign. Instead he leveraged himself out of the chair and onto his feet before she crossed the threshold.

"My dear," he took her hands in his and presented his bearded, untattooed cheek for her to kiss. "You're early. Showing such enthusiasm to spend time with an old man might give me ideas."

She laughed, the sound musical and warm, but none of the lightness reached her eyes. "Oh, Kodlak, you're going to make me blush."

He smiled, holding onto one hand as he saw her settled into the second chair. "Hm, making Lady Gerhild blush. Aye, that would be quite an accomplishment."

"Harbinger!" she scolded, and saw the answering twinkle in his eyes, letting her know he was enjoying teasing her. He left just long enough to close the double doors before settling into his own chair with a heavy sigh.

"So, my dear," he started again, more serious now that they could speak privately, "How are you?"

"I'm doing well, Kodlak, and you?"

"No, none of that," he shook his finger at her. "You and I both know what day this is. And you came over early, so you must have something on your mind. I'll ask again, how are you?"

Gerhild glanced away, feeling the trembling return, but unwilling to let it show. "Kodlak…" She took a deep sigh, but she knew he wasn't going to let her off the hook. She decided to change tactics and go on the offensive. "Is that why you asked me here tonight?"

He nodded, "Aye, that, and I like your company." He poured her a glass of wine, knowing she preferred it to mead, and handed it over. "You came back to Whiterun early this morning, and you haven't been by to see us yet."

"I've been busy," she hedged, seeing as she couldn't put him off. He looked at her sternly, like the tough though loving grandfather figure she saw him as, and she gave in. "I've been taking your advice."

He hummed, sounding only mildly interested, and commented, "That's what a Harbinger does, gives counsel. What advice was this?"

She took a deep breath. "To write…" her voice cracked, and she took a sip of wine to moisten her throat. As she pulled the goblet away, she saw the surface of the deep red liquid filling with concentric waves. The shaking was back. "To write down what has happened in my life, especially since coming to Skyrim."

Kodlak nodded, "Now, that is a volume I would love to read. How Gerhild became Dragonborn…" He broke off suddenly when he noticed her reaction. His hand, the joints gnarled with age, reached out and took the goblet from her before she could spill any of the liquid. He set it on the table and continued, "But of course, I won't ever read it. And I'll never ask to. The writing is for you, to benefit you and help you come to terms with your past, not to satisfy my curiosity." He leaned forward and asked, "And has it helped?"

She had been surprised enough to raise an eyebrow when he called her Dragonborn. She had thought Jarl Balgruuf and his Steward and housecarl were the only ones here in Whiterun who knew she had been the one the Greybeards summoned. "You are remarkably well-informed," she evaded answering.

Kodlak smiled kindly this time. "I'm old, Gerhild, and my body may be weak with age, but I'm not senile. Oh, don't look like that," he patted her hand, seeing her take her lower lip between her teeth to keep it from trembling. "You've kept our secret. You can trust me to keep yours."

Sudden insight set upon her, filling her with ire. "Ah, so that is how it is. Because I found out the members of the Circle are all werewolves, you decided you needed to find out my secrets, so you could use them as insurance that I would remain quiet." Her words were a little more heated than what was warranted, but she reveled in the anger. Anger was one emotion she let herself feel, as it gave her such strength and endurance, two qualities she often needed in abundance.

"That was undeserved." Kodlak's face took on a saddened expression, not at all intimidated by her anger. "And unnecessary, lass. You know that. Truthfully I've known you were Dragonborn since you became Thane, far longer than you've known our secret."

Gerhild's eyes threatened to water, his gentle rebuke stinging harder than any blow she had ever received—even a blow from a dragon—but her will and her pride kept the tears at bay. "Excuse me, Harbinger," she began, her voice and manner formal, "For my outburst. It was uncalled for. I'm afraid…" she had to stand up and step away, still feeling the anger and needing to bleed off the energy. "I'm afraid I'm not very good company this evening. I am sorry."

Kodlak took a deep breath, squaring his shoulders. He knew this wouldn't be easy, but after hearing that Gerhild had returned to Whiterun early this morning, he knew he had to try to help her. Today, of all days.

"Gerhild, my dear, come here." When she shook her head and continued pacing, he became a little more insistent. "Young lady, don't make me chase you. I'm far too old for that. Come and sit down again, so we can talk."

She hesitated long enough just to show she wouldn't jump at his beck and call, but did as he asked and retook her chair across from him. "Now," he began, reaching out to take her hand even though she refused to look up at him, "Tell me what is troubling you today. Did something go wrong at the meadery?"

That got her attention. Gerhild lifted her face, the miniscule expression of shock clear on her delicate features to those who knew her well enough—a slightly raised eyebrow, parted lips, a twitch at the corner of her left eye. "How did you…?"

"How did I know you have ties to the Thieves Guild?" he finished her question. "You are a Thane of two holds. You have done good deeds in several other holds, including Riften, which is notorious for thieves. Also, even though you are the Dragonborn and honorable in your actions, you refuse to join the Companions. There had to be a reason." He picked up his goblet and continued. "I did a little poking around, asked a few questions here and there, and made a great many suppositions. Which you just confirmed," he raised his goblet to her.

Her shoulders slumped as she ruefully shook her head. "Oh, you are good." She picked up her own glass and took a sip, completely in control once again. "No, nothing went wrong during my little outing. This has nothing to do with that."

"So, what is it?"

"I… I don't know," she almost sighed, and quickly realized she was close to losing control yet again. She set the goblet aside, the liquid once more belying her difficulties. She pressed her hands onto her lap, willing the tremors away as she sought for a way to explain her trouble. "Every little thing just… keeps reminding me about… a friend of mine."

"Someone who was at Helgen?" he prompted.

She shook her head, surprising him. "No, he wasn't there. I met him in… another hold," she finished lamely. Peeking up she saw Kodlak's agreeable face patiently waiting, so she continued. "He's a sellsword. I hired him, and we got along fairly well. He traveled with me for several months. We were good together. Our fighting styles compliment each other, and we didn't argue too much. He even learned to look the other way whenever I picked a lock. But last year, he just left."

"Just like that?" Kodlak pressed, "No reason? No warning?"

"Well, not exactly," she hedged, thinking of their argument regarding Ulfric's plans for Markarth. She didn't want to admit that she was a spy for Ulfric, no matter how much Kodlak already knew about her. She decided to be vague in relating the facts. "He missed his home, and it was going to be some time before I could return there. So he decided to leave without me."

He knew she was leaving a lot of things out, but he didn't press her for the details. He was concerned with her emotional state—rather her denial of her emotions—not her actions. "You miss him."

"I…" the immediate denial died upon her lips. Looking at Kodlak, thinking of her actions, she knew it would be a lie. She ducked her head as she admitted, "Aye, I suppose I do. He was my friend."

"'Was' your friend? He's not dead, is he?"

"Well, no, of course not," she jerked her head up quickly, blinking rapidly, wondering how he had gotten that idea. "At least, not that I've heard. And I would've heard something from a mutual friend of ours. So, no, he must be alright. He must be," she repeated this last quietly to herself, unwarranted doubt creeping into her voice.

"So why do you think he's on your mind so much today, of all days?"

"Because he left me on this day last year," she replied quietly, dropping her gaze back to her hands. They were fists now, bunching the fabric of her skirts.

He heard the softness of her tone, the way her words trailed away into breath, and thought he understood. "I think we are too formal tonight," he said suddenly, catching her off guard. "Perhaps we should dine upstairs with the others."

Gerhild gave a short sort of laugh at the abrupt change in topic, but recovered quickly. "You'll have to wait a little while. The twins are fighting."

"Oh? What about this time?" His tone didn't sound surprised, or disappointed, only mildly curious.

"Oh, I don't know," she stood up again, the need to pace returning. "Vilkas claimed he picked the fight because he was bored. And do you know something else? I think Farkas knew he was doing it on purpose, and went along with it anyway. I think they both actually enjoy it." She leaned her hip against a dresser, her arms crossed over her chest as she asked, "Why do they do that?"

"Do what?" Kodlak asked gently.

"Fight," she waved her arms and started pacing again, enjoying expelling some pent up energy. "They're brothers, aren't they? Shouldn't they love each other? But every time I come over, it seems they have to have at least one fight."

He watched her carefully, noting her manner and stalking and thinking she could do with a good fight herself. Too bad she wasn't dressed for it, though they did have some spare armor lying around somewhere. Perhaps after dinner he could talk her into sparring with Ria or someone, just for the exercise. "Don't you have any siblings?"

"No," she shook her head. Truthfully, she almost had an older half-sibling, but Kodlak didn't need to know that. "I'm an only child."

He sighed, pushing himself to his feet. "Then you wouldn't understand. Believe me when I say that brothers like to fight, and that they don't mean anything by it, and leave it at that. Now, come on, let's go upstairs tonight. I think the distraction would do you good."

She set her hand in the crook of his arm, "Distraction. Aye, I suppose a distraction would be a nice change of pace."

"Then tomorrow, you should leave Whiterun and find this wayward friend of yours."

"What?!" She was so startled by his advice that she actually stumbled. Luckily her hand was still linked in his, and he was able to help her keep her feet.

"You've trusted my advice before, and it's been good advice, hasn't it? So trust it now. Go and find your friend, Gerhild," he repeated calmly. "I'm sure he misses you, as much as you miss him."

Gerhild would have liked to reply, but they were already walking up the stairs to the main floor. Instead she chewed her bottom lip, thinking about his words. Vorstag had kissed her before he left; perhaps he did feel something towards her and would be missing her. But never once in this past year had he tried to contact her. Then again, she hardly stayed in one place long enough to receive messages, which is why she had everything forwarded here to Whiterun. And she knew Vorstag couldn't read or write, so it wasn't fair for her to expect a letter from him. Furthermore she knew where he lived and that he would remain in Markarth, and it wasn't like she couldn't have written to him. His friend Ogmund was the local skald, and would be more than willing to read her letter to him.

But what would she write? What could she write? Vorstag had kissed her before he left. It had been so completely out of character… After all, she was sure that he preferred the dagger to the sheath—as sure as she could be without a dagger of her own to prove it. His kiss had been so unexpected that it had shocked her into cold silence. What words could she put on paper that would encourage him to explain himself, and not end up embarrassing him in front of Ogmund, who would have to read her letter to him and pen his response…

"Aye, lass, a distraction is just what the healer ordered," Kodlak patted her hand and pulled her out of her musings. She ducked her head again, and heard him laugh softly. "Come on, let's go outside and catch the end of the fight."

She lifted her chin and smiled, though none of the emotion reached her deep violet eyes. "Alright. But I'm not healing them this time. I don't care if they have broken bones and deep gashes and have bled out all over the yard. I won't do it." When Kodlak's eyebrows lifted, she relented slightly, "Well, not right away. They ought to suffer a little, just to discourage them from fighting out of mere boredom."

He laughed again, pushing the door open just as Vilkas landed a stunning blow to Farkas' chin, spinning him completely around on the spot. "I doubt that would work to discourage them, but you can go ahead and try. Duck!"

Vilkas heard his Harbinger and barely managed to escape Farkas' meaty fist aimed for his nose.

Gerhild sat beside Kodlak at the tables, watching the twins fight, and the others cheer them on. She gave a long-suffering sigh, "Boys…" But for the rest of the night, though she smiled and laughed, her thoughts were calm and her emotions locked away within her dead heart.