A/N: so sorry the update is so late. I was really busy this past week :B

But it's done so I've posted. Next chapter is already halfway done, and I'm back to my normal schedule, so it should be out sooner. And, as always, thanks for all the F/F/R! Please enjoy…

Chapter Seven

Argis padded on bare feet back to Rhiada's bedchamber. He hadn't wanted to stay there with her, but he knew he couldn't have stayed in his room, right across the private dining room from the master bedroom, not tonight. And the only other room was the alchemy lab, which was full of the oddest smells due to his Thane concocting some potion or another. No, it was either sleep with Rhiada—on a small cot he had set up in Rhiada's room, not her bed, of course!—or sleep on the floor in the main hall. By the Nine, life was so much simpler before Lady Gerhild returned home. He set his jaw when he actually found himself wishing that his Thane would leave Markarth and never return. It was unseemly for a housecarl, and he berated himself thoroughly for it. But after what he had just heard, he was glad he had moved out of his room, at least for this night.

He knocked softly, waiting for Rhiada to call out permission before opening the door. Immediately he blushed a deep red, or rather a deeper red, seeing that she was nursing Maniel. "Is everything alright?" she asked, preoccupied with settling her son down for the night. When Argis didn't answer right away, she raised concerned eyes up to him. "Lady Gerhild, is she…"

"She's fine," he said quickly, ducking his head and dragging his eyes away from her exposed torso. Rhiada seemed to show an alarming lack of concern on certain matters, especially when it came to their relationship. She knew they weren't really married, that he would never see her in that light, but she continually showed a lack of propriety. He was a man who liked his privacy. And he gave her her privacy. He was only in this room because…

Because his Thane and her lover were having sex. Passionate sex.

"What was the noise?"

Right, the noise that alerted them in the first place. He and Rhiada had heard a piece of furniture being kicked over, and he was the one who had to make sure that Vorstag wasn't killing Gerhild or something equally sinister. He still didn't trust the sellsword, even after Gerhild had explained everything to him. "A chair got knocked over. I set it back."

"And the door slam? The voices?"

Gods, what he had heard. After setting the chair back on its legs, he had heard the sounds coming through the bedchamber door, Gerhild calling out Vorstag's name louder and louder, Vorstag gasping and repeatedly slamming the bed into the wall with the force of his… "They're fine, Rhiada. Let it be."

"But… what were they doing…" She stopped suddenly, seeing the tense set of his shoulders, the hard line of his pressed lips, the red spreading from his tattooed cheek to his neck. "…oh…"

"Aye," he agreed, a hard and sarcastic edge to his voice as he finished getting ready for bed. Divine Dibella, he wished he could unhear what had happened in Gerhild's chambers. "Oh."

He laid down, facing the wall, not wishing to be rude but only wishing to stop the conversation. Damn it, but he felt uncomfortable, filthy, disgusting, and more words he couldn't think of. He'd been at his Thane's bedchamber door, listening to her being ardently bedded by her lover. He should never have gone in there; he should never had stayed so long listening to the noises. But he had been concerned, because he was leaving his Thane alone with Vorstag, who had been acting so strangely as of late…

And that's what irked him the most. He knew Vorstag from when they were younger. He'd… he'd opened up with him about his preferences—one of the few times he'd ever done so—because he thought Vorstag might feel the same way. And the month they'd spent in Riften had been one of the best times of his life, despite Vorstag turning out to be straight. To meet him again after all these years, and see how much he'd changed, going from kind-hearted adventurer-for-hire to cold-blooded mercenary!

Sure, Vorstag had just come back from escorting two orphaned children across the Reach, and according to one story, had even tried to waive his usual fee. But there were other jobs that just didn't fit the Vorstag he had known, whether or not he owed Gerhild a substantial amount of money. And there were too many little things, things Argis couldn't put into words, things that showed there was a change in the man. He wished he could tell if the change was for the better or the worse.

Behind him he heard Rhiada singing softly to her son, rocking him to sleep. His thoughts drifted to his own mother, how kind and gentle she was, how hard she'd cried when his father had sliced his face and kicked him out of the house. He'd never seen her again; she had died while he had been serving in the Legion, and no one thought to write and tell him. By the time he returned to Markarth a couple years ago, she had been buried for years.

"Rhiada…" his normally gruff voice was a low growl in the dim room.

"Yes," she sighed from the other side of the room. He didn't speak again, not knowing why he had spoken in the first place. He did hear her bed creak and her soft footfalls cross the room. He felt her hand touch his shoulder and his bed shift as she sat down. He heard her quiet question spoken into the soft shadows. "He was one of your lovers?"

She knew about his preferences; he had been honest with her when he proposed marriage. And she had promised not to reveal his secret, for which he was grateful. He had hoped that would mean she would never bring up the subject, because as matters stood, he was going to have to spend the rest of his life celibate just to keep up appearances for her sake and Maniel's sake. Not that he had had a whole lot of lovers, or had anyone current, or had been actively seeking anyone…

Her fingers gripped a little tighter at his shoulder, not to hurt, but to reassure. His voice was equally gentle. "No."

She didn't pull away. She didn't let her hand drop. She didn't speak. He took a deep breath and sat up, surreptitiously wiping a tear from his eye as he did so. The blanket sown from pelts puddled around his waist, and Rhiada allowed herself a good look at his physique, knowing he wouldn't mind—at least he wouldn't notice. The man was gorgeous, and she'd been widowed for more than a year. If only…

"No, I… I had hoped… once when we were younger… I thought he might… but he doesn't like it."

"You mean," she paused to swallow, "He's tried it? With you?"

Argis shifted on his bed, making more room for her, "No. I mean, he has… Ah, gods, this is complicated. I probably shouldn't tell you, but he probably wouldn't mind, knowing you wouldn't repeat this." He leaned back against the wall, and she settled in beside him, taking his hand, encouraging him without words to say whatever he wanted to say without judgment.

"When Vorstag was younger, he had a best friend, Hamming. They did everything together, and I always thought they might be a little too close, ya know. And he never seemed to like girls, at least he never talked with them or tried to seduce them. He was always a little shy, blushed a lot, and lisping, those sorts of things. Anyway, when he was fifteen, he and Hamming got arrested for fighting in public. They were drunk, just a couple of kids really, but they were sentenced to serve a year in Cidhna Mine. I don't have to tell you what would happen in there to two young men, where women are so scarce."

She barely dared to breathe, imaging what the two boys had been put through.

"Hamming died a few months into their sentence. I never did learn how or why. But when Vorstag was released, he was changed, hurting, anxious or something. He wanted to leave Markarth, in a hurry, and didn't much care how. I got him a job with me, protecting a merchant-woman as she traveled to Riften. When we got there, I asked him if he would share a room with me at the local inn for a while—a room with one bed in it. I thought, well, he and Hamming had been so close, I thought he might be like me, ya know. And after what my father did to me, I was scared to admit what I am to anyone, unless I was fairly sure he would be the same.

"Turns out, I was wrong, though at least it wasn't because of what happened in the mine. Vorstag just wasn't interested in that, but he never held it against me, either. We were friends, just friends, and that was alright, too. We hung out in Riften for a month, drinking, brawling, gambling, the guards there didn't give a fuck what you did as long as you didn't cause them too much trouble. Then one night, this Argonian offered us some skooma. I didn't really want to try it, but Vorstag did. The rest of the night is a blur, but the next morning we woke up with these stupid matching tattoos."

"So that's how you got them," she hummed. "I thought that other story sounded suspicious."

"Aye, well, now you know the truth. Vorstag and I got wasted out of our minds. It was a stupid, dumbass thing to do. After that night, I left for the Legion, and didn't see Vorstag again until last year."

He grew quiet, just sitting there and thinking, remembering. Rhiada continued to hold his hand, her fingers soft and warm. "How much has he changed?"

Argis rubbed at his scarred eye with his free hand. "Not that much, really. Nothing I can tell you. But he is different. I don't know. Maybe I'm different. I mean, he still likes girls; that hasn't changed. He still likes to help women and children and those who might not be able to help themselves. It's just…"

Rhiada rested her cheek on his shoulder. "It's because he's Lady Gerhild's lover. When she left Markarth, he took your place at her side, which couldn't be helped, but they grew closer because they traveled together. Now he's back, she's back, and they're together." Rhiada lifted her face to look at his tattooed cheek. "She's your Thane, but you can't protect her from him. If anything happens, if he breaks her heart, there's nothing you can do about it."

He exhaled loudly through his nose, something close to a snort, "Aye, I suppose you're right. That's all I'm worried about."

"Of course I'm right. Now, get some sleep," she kissed his cheek in a sisterly fashion, "Or you'll be even more grumpy and surly tomorrow."

"I'm not surly," he protested, pouting, as she got up from his bed to return to her own.

She rolled her eyes, "Of course not, Argis. Go to sleep. Good night." With a quiet huff, she blew out the last candle.

"Good night," he repeated into the soft darkness.

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Fate was a tricky bastard.

Vorstag lay on his back in a spacious bed covered with rich fabrics, the love of his life curled against his side and fast asleep. And it felt like he had been cursed to Oblivion.

It was the small hours of the morning, perhaps even moments before sunrise, but in the windowless, Dwemer-made mansion he'd never be able to tell. Gerhild had finally fallen asleep, after hours of pouring out her soul to him. And he had spent the time holding her, listening to her, whispering encouragement to her when she seemed close to that debilitating hysteria.

His mind was still reeling, trying to process all she had told him. She had mentioned once that she felt that what had happened to him in Cidhna Mine was worse than what had happened to her, because he had served a year-long sentence, where she had been in there for only a couple of weeks. When he learned what the Thalmor did to her, why she hated them with such a passion, he had to disagree. What was done to him, was done out of primal need. What was done to her, was done to intentionally inflict mental and physical damage.

And the damage to her was lasting. Perhaps she could have gotten over it, if she hadn't been sentenced to death and found herself looking to the stoic attitude of Ulfric as a guide. And if she hadn't witnessed and survived Alduin's attack on Helgen—which was ironic as he went there to kill her, but if he had waited one heartbeat more she would have died under the headsman's axe. And if she hadn't turned out to be Dragonborn and have a doom hanging over her head that would make most grown men piss themselves. Even now she might recover—he prayed to all Nine Divines that she would recover—if she only had the time and space to allow herself to feel.

That was what he promised himself, that he would be there for her, give her whatever time he could, a moment here, an evening there, so she could heal her emotional wounds. That, and if he ever found this one-eared Thalmor answering to the name Norilar, he was going to skin him. Slowly. With a very dull knife. Then he'd tell Gerhild about him, and have her heal him so he could do it again while she watched and called out suggestions. He didn't think he could let her do it; she'd probably get carried away and kill the bastard. But he would make sure Norilar suffered for a long time. A very. Long. Time.

As if she sensed his bloodthirsty thoughts, Gerhild shifted in her sleep, her hand tightening where it had bunched his tunic over his heart. He turned his head slightly and kissed her forehead, placing his hand over hers, easing her back to sleep. He held himself still, controlling his thoughts and his breathing, until he was sure she was once more deep within the dreamless restfulness that still eluded him.

Her torture at the hands of the Thalmor wasn't all she had shared with him. Gerhild had been busy this past year, far too busy in his opinion, running all over Skyrim and Solstheim, stirring up trouble with vampires and ash spawn—there was something he'd never heard of before. She would drive herself into a nervous breakdown if she kept up this pace. And he was determined to see to it that THAT didn't happen. For all her strength, for all her determination, she was still a woman, not a god.

Well, alright, so Talos—a god—had once been a man, and Dragonborn, so he supposed one could assume that someday Gerhild might…

No, that wouldn't happen. There have been other Dragonborns, and they're not all gods, like this Miraak asshole. That's what they had decided last night, the first thing they would do together, was to see to the end of Miraak. He suspected it was partly because he had mentioned he had never been outside of Skyrim and would like to see Solstheim. But mostly it was because Miraak was occasionally stealing dragon souls from her—souls which were something she dreaded yet coveted—and still sending assassins. They would deal with Miraak, finish him off once and for all, and then focus on the next problem.

Thinking of Miraak and his assassins reminded Vorstag of other assassins that Gerhild admitted had been hunting her. Apparently this past year she also found time to disguise herself and infiltrate a party at the Thalmor Embassy just outside Solitude. Having already heard of her torture, and how Elenwen had been there and even suggested the rape, he was amazed to hear how Gerhild had calmly walked into the Embassy and chatted politely with the First Emissary of the Thalmor in Skyrim. He didn't think he could have done it, not without ending the conversation by stuffing his fist into her face. That Gerhild had gotten out of there in one piece was impressive, that she had killed a score of Thalmor soldiers was amazing, that she had rescued two prisoners was miraculous.

But now the Thalmor were on to her… sort of. They were looking for a Nord woman who went by the name of Hildegard the Resolute. And she had somehow managed to change her appearance enough that their description of Hildegard didn't match Gerhild North-Wind. When he asked how, she admitted she couldn't tell him, as it would be betraying a confidence, which he reluctantly understood. But then she smiled mysteriously—a very womanly thing for her to do—and pulled the front of her dress down below her collarbone. It took him a moment to realized what was missing, and his fingers were feather light against her skin as he touched her unmarred flesh, amazed that such a large scar had been removed without a single blemish. He thought back to when she had been sick with a fever and he had nursed her, all the scars he had seen across her back, and he wondered if she had them removed, too.

His hand on her back, ever so carefully, felt through the fabric of her dress. No, those scars were still there. He supposed he shouldn't be surprised, as they had been given to her by the Thalmor. She wouldn't give those scars up, not until she was healed, not until she could give up her vengeance, not until Norilar was dead.

Aye, he'd help with that.

The stories after that had been lighter, a few errands and favors for the Companions, and helping the Blades get back on their feet. She glossed over her time in Riften, and he had a feeling—knowing Gerhild so well—that she had fallen into bed with the Thieves Guild. Well, not literally fallen into bed with, but no doubt she joined them under one of her personas and has been indulging herself on occasion. He didn't mind, not really; he understood she had a compulsion, an impulse that was hard to control, and oftentimes she acted without realizing she was doing it. He had learned a long time ago to look the other way, not because he felt it wasn't wrong—he still felt stealing was illegal—but because she didn't hurt anyone by it. If she searched a burial urn for a long-buried token, there was no one who would miss it. If she picked a lock, it was usually just to get them past a trap in some crypt. She didn't use her larcenous urges to steal from those who needed their coin, so he could turn a blind eye and allow her some pleasure.

Pleasure. That had been a particularly shocking thing to learn. She had shared her and Ulfric's relationship with him, not something he had really wanted to hear all the sordid details of—just the news that Ulfric hadn't succeeded in bedding her was enough for him. But she had insisted, and he knew she needed to talk about it, so he had listened. She had described in vivid detail what she felt each time, the pain and the panic, and how it began to happened at just the thought of seeing Ulfric. And Ulfric was insistent that they keep trying, that she not give up on herself, even though he was married—Ulfric married?! Gods, that had been a shock!—but she was starting to feel bitter and angry over her failures and had been avoiding Windhelm because of it.

He had listened to her, because she needed him to listen, though what it cost him was indescribable. He had to lie there, his love in his arms, and hear how she continued to try to sleep with another man, how she continued to fail, how she was close to swearing off men for the rest of her life. He wouldn't let her do that; he couldn't let her do that. But, Merciful Mara, he couldn't encourage her to go to Ulfric to try again. And she wasn't ready to try with him. Maybe, after they had been traveling together for awhile, and she was used to him, and comfortable again, maybe then he would broach the subject.

As things stood now, he had to stop her several times during this part, not because he couldn't listen to any more, but because the hysteria kept trying to return. He'd hear her words start to run together, her hands would begin to twist or grip his clothing, and he would stop her with a touch, rub soothing circles on her back and kiss her hair and tell her to breathe, just breathe, don't speak, take your time, it's alright you're safe here, you don't have to say everything at once. Yet she would force herself to continue onwards, to make sure he knew and understood everything about her. She was driven in this, as she was driven in everything she set out to do, and as soon as she could she pushed herself to plow onward until the last ugly, black, slimy, cancerous memory was excised.

And he listened, though it drove him to heights of anger and broke his heart with deepest despair, because he felt it was his penance.

Because he had realized, though she didn't admit it or give any indication that she noticed it, that he had hurt her the most.

Because he had left her, one year to the day after she had nearly lost her life in Helgen.

He saw now how much she had needed him then, how much she still needed him, how on that day last year she had been drowning. She had been reeling from one emotion to the next, from astronomical highs to ocean abyssal lows. She had been swamped by the emotions she had denied, unable to cope, unable to keep them at bay, and the one person she could trust unerringly had left her. He thought back in his memories and could easily pick out the signs; why hadn't he seen them then he couldn't say. Hindsight is funny that way…

Why she came here to see him, why she forgave him, remained a mystery to him. But he thanked and blessed whatever or whoever it was that encouraged Gerhild to give him this second chance. He wouldn't blow it this time. Nothing would take him from her side. Nothing would make him give up on her, on his love for her, on her still-denied love for him. And even if it took the rest of their lives, he would patiently help her, show her step-by-step, day-by-day, little-by-little, that she could love, too.

He hadn't noticed when he finally succumbed to sleep's blissful embrace, but it was the lack of warmth that woke him. He opened his eyes, sandy and red after the restless night, to find Gerhild had just pulled away from him. "Oh, sorry, I was trying not to wake you."

" 's fine…" he mumbled, rubbing the sharp grains from his eyelashes. "What time is it?"

"No idea," she answered, already turning away and shrugging out of her dress. The velvet was wrinkled after having been slept in; it would take all day to get the creases out, if they ever came out at all. Gerhild felt a little guilt for what Rhiada faced, but it was immensely easier than cleaning dragon blood and gore from armor—which she still had to finish. It would be so much more convenient if she could have Argis do that for her, but that would mean revealing she was the Dragonborn, which she was loathe to do. Maybe she could get Vorstag to do it, since he already knew. She glanced over her shoulder, but he had resolutely turned his back to her.

"Something wrong?" she asked. He looked at her briefly before he looked away again. It had been long enough, however, for her to see the bright red of his blush. "Oh, come on, you know I don't wear small clothes. And it's not like you haven't seen me before. What about that time you took care of me because I was out of my mind with fever from a fear poisoned arrow? You saw my body then."

"Aye, well," he coughed, running his fingers through his shoulder-length hair, "That was different."

"Are you really embarrassed by this?" she asked, gesturing to her body even though he couldn't see it.

He nodded, squeezing his eyes shut, not willing to trust himself.

"You shouldn't be. After all, it's not like you're interested in it. You're just one of the guys. I'm just one of the guys. Right?"

Ah, gods, if she only knew… "But it's… ah… ya know," he finished with a shrug.

There was a soft noise behind him—something like laughter?—but he didn't dare look. Not even after he heard the rustling of fabric, or the soft patter of her bare feet on the stone floor. He felt her standing before him, the warmth from her body or some extra perception tingling his senses. He didn't flinch when she took his hand and placed it on her waist; in fact he looked up sheepishly, but only after he felt the silken fabric beneath his hand.

She thought she understood; it embarrassed him, because it was something that didn't excite him in the least, and he wasn't ready to admit such a thing to her, but he had to keep up the pretense of their being lovers. Stuhn's Shield, but this was getting complicated. The sooner they got away from Markarth, the sooner they could go back to the way things were between them. "I'm sorry, Vorstag, for teasing you. Come on, let's go get some breakfast. Then we'll make plans for Solstheim."

"Windhelm first," he reminded her, allowing her to pull him to his feet.

He watched her brow furrow ever so slightly, but felt better when her bottom lip remained away from her teeth. "Aye," she sighed, letting go of his hand to scoop up her soft boots, "Windhelm first. Then Solstheim." She paused at the door, bending over to put on one boot then the other, presenting a very shapely buttocks to him. He was glad his tunic was belted outside of his leggings, the hem low enough to hide the very obvious evidence that he was interested in her body. He knew he should have worn his modified codpiece…

Argis and Rhiada were already in the private dining room, clearing away an untouched breakfast and setting out a light lunch. "Oh, excuse us, milady," she curtsied. "We didn't mean to wake you…"

"It's alright; you didn't wake us," Gerhild brushed the apology aside. "Besides, it looks like we had slept long enough." She gestured at the cold breakfast in Argis' arms.

"Ah, well, we left it just in case, well, after last night, we didn't know when you'd be up, you'd both need your rest after, well, last night seemed rather, oh, I shouldn't say, I'm not judging…"

Argis cleared his throat, "Rhiada, I think I hear Maniel fussing."

She gave him a quick look, and seemed about to say something, but then changed her mind and took up the tray he was holding. "I should check on him. Excuse me."

Argis waited until the door closed before he turned back to them. He walked straight up to Vorstag, who was still disheveled and staring longingly at the lunch spread over the table. Finding Argis suddenly filling his vision made him take an involuntary step back. He glared at Vorstag with his one good eye and growled, "If you break her heart, I'll break your legs."

"Argis!"

"No, it's alright," Vorstag held out a hand to her. "Listen, Argis, I know how this looks, but nothing…"

"Don't try lying to me," he continued in his deep gravely voice, "I know. We both heard the chair get knocked over last night, and I came in here to make sure that Lady Gerhild was alright, and I heard the two of you, in there, slamming the bed against the wall…" He broke off, took a pace away, and then wheeled around to step back into Vorstag's face. "I'm not happy about this, but it's not up to me, is it. It's up to Lady Gerhild. But I mean it; break her heart, and I'll break your legs." He turned and muttered something meant to be polite to Gerhild before leaving the room, closing the door a little firmer than necessary behind him.

"What the fuck…?" he stared, dumbfounded, at the closed door.

"What chair? I don't remember a chair falling over last night…"

"You were pacing," he filled in for her, having remembered that part, and getting his brain back into gear, "It was just as you were going into your hysterics. I tried to stop you, to keep you quiet, because I figured you wouldn't want Argis and Rhiada to see you like that. You struggled with me, before I could get the bedchamber door opened, and knocked a chair over. But the bed? I know I threw you kinda harshly on the bed, I was in a bit of a hurry, but I don't remember it hitting the wall…"

"That was later," she answered, coming out of her own shock now that she had something to offer to clarify matters. "After I, er, Shouted down your throat, and I thought I'd killed you, I finally remembered that I knew Restoration Magic. Anyway, I healed you, and you went into convulsions when you started breathing. I'm pretty sure you rocked the bed with enough force to bang it against the wall."

"By the Nine!" he swore, sitting harshly down on the chair and nearly missing it, "So they hear the chair, Argis comes in here just to make sure you're alright, but by then we've moved into the bedroom, where you've just healed me, and he hears the bed hitting the wall…"

"And thinks we're having sex," she finished. "Aye, I can easily see where he'd get that impression." She studied Vorstag's shocked expression for a moment, and then her laughter filled the small room, clear and light like sunshine.

"What's so funny?" he asked, changing from shock to hurt.

"The face you're making," she managed between bursts. "Oh, Vorstag, don't look so hurt." She finally managed to get herself under control. "Don't be upset. If anything, it reinforces your cover, that we're lovers, remember? By tomorrow afternoon, you're going to be known as a stallion."

"You're not upset by this?" he asked, incredulously.

She shook her head. "No, it doesn't matter to me in the slightest." Ouch, those words hurt him, but he bore it bravely. "And it shouldn't upset you, either!" She stuffed a chunk of Eidar cheese in his mouth.

He had to chew and swallow before he could voice his concern, "But I don't want to break your heart."

She was sitting across from him, demurely stuffing butter inside a baked potato. She smiled warmly and looked up at him, and for a moment he could almost convince himself her eyes were as warm as her smile. "You could never break my heart, Vorstag. Now, how long, do you think, should we stay here in Markarth before leaving for Windhelm? I wouldn't want to appear unseemly, rushing off too hastily after my arrival, or there'll be rumors of our elopement."

He groaned, easily imagining the stories, no doubt spread mostly by his friend, Ogmund. Maybe they wouldn't come back to Markarth ever again.

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"And then she Shouted. It was really loud. We could hear it and we were miles away."

"Huh, is that so?" Moth gro-Bagol, Jarl Igmund's personal blacksmith, was absently listening to the story as he examined the iron boot. Truly he didn't much care where the boot had come from, but he had voiced a comment about his concern over a pair of children finding such an unusual item. It was in good condition, and he would give them a fair price, but his comment had started the twins on telling the story of how they found it.

"Yes, it's true," Faric nodded emphatically, his eyes wide and filled with images of the warrior in steel plate armor racing to their rescue. "We heard the Shout, and knew it was the Dragonborn we'd seen running down the road. So Fasett and I, we followed, because the Dragonborn can easily defeat a dragon, so we knew we would be safe."

"And Uncle Vorstag," piped in Fasett, her eyes shining with memories, highly edited and retouched memories that painted Vorstag as the one who slew the dragon. "He fought the dragon first. She only came along at the very end to help him kill it."

"So, you two and Vorstag met the Dragonborn?" Moth asked, curious despite himself. One didn't hear of the Dragonborn in the Reach all that often, though she did get around quite a bit, but if these children could be believed…

"We did," Faric continued to nod, making the Orc think his head was about to wobble off.

"But Uncle Vorstag knew her already," Fasett added, her tone a little too boastful when it came to her chosen knight. "After they killed the dragon, he was talking with her like they'd known each other for years."

"Huh, alright. So, where does the boot come into the story?" Moth gestured with the piece of armor.

"Well, after the dragon was killed…"

"By Uncle Vorstag!"

Faric ignored his sister, other than an elaborate eyeroll that only Moth saw, "…and Uncle Vorstag introduced the Dragonborn to us, she said she had to leave. There were soldiers coming from Markarth, and she saw them, so she told us to wait for them. She only left us because she knew we'd be safe with those soldiers coming. Anyway, after she'd gone, I saw something shiny in between the dragon bones. It was a septim. Then I found another, and that boot, and I asked Uncle Vorstag if I could keep them, and he said sure, and suggested I sell the boot to you for some money for me and my sister."

"This was underneath the dragon when it died?"

Faric shook his head and smirked, "No, silly, it was in the dragon's belly. After it died, its body sort of," he made some complicated weaving patterns with his hands, "And burned away until all that was left was bones and some scales, and the stuff that couldn't be digested in its stomach."

"Ah, now I see," Moth nodded sagely, pretending to play along. "Well, it seems to be in very good shape," he tapped his knuckle against the shin guard, "Even after being in the belly of a dragon. I won't lie to you; it'd be worth more if you had found its partner, but for one iron boot I could give you…" he gave it a moment's thought, "Ten septims."

Both twins eyes widened even further at the sum. "Deal!" Faric held his hand out, and Moth grabbed it and shook it. Then he walked over to a chest to retrieve his coin purse.

"You children, there," a haughty voice called from the doorway.

Moth felt his hackles rise at the sound of Ondolemar's condescending voice, but he gave no other sign of hostility. He turned back, thinking he'd have to protect the children from a new foe, and address the Thalmor himself. "Master Ondolemar, what brings you to my smithy today? Does your mace need sharpening?"

Like I'd let your tainted hands anywhere near my mace, Ondolemar thought to himself. "No, no, I was walking past when I heard these children talking. Tell me truthfully," he looked sternly at the two, who had instinctively shifted until their shoulders were touching for comfort. "Did you really see this self-proclaimed Dragonborn?"

"She's not self-proclaimed," Faric rose to her defense, "Uncle Vorstag called her Dragonborn."

"And something else," Fasett added, before she could think about it. Seeing Ondolemar's glaring golden gaze focus solely on her, she gripped her brother's hand tight.

"Did he now?" he almost purred, leaning over her, "And what did he call her?"

She tried to back away, but there was a chair behind her. "He… I think… he said her name… maybe… we weren't close enough to hear it," she quickly tried to deny.

Ondolemar leaned back, only slightly, to try to ease their nervous stances. "Excuse me, children, for my rudeness. You said you saw the Dragonborn, and I foolishly thought you liars. I humbly apologize, and hope you will forget my indiscretion."

"Ah, sure…" Faric answered for himself and his sister, who was now wrapping both hands around his arm.

Ondolemar nodded to them, "If I heard correctly, this is the boot that you found within the belly of the dragon?"

"Yes, sir. Moth was gonna buy it from us."

"I'll buy it," he quickly offered, "For fifteen septims."

Moth knew that a single iron boot wouldn't be worth that much, but he could find no reason to advise the children against it. When Faric looked to him, he nodded, "Go ahead. That's a better price than I can offer." Though he suspected there might be a reason for the Thalmor's unusual generosity, he couldn't for the life of him fathom it, and he knew the children and their aunt could benefit from the extra coin.

"Well, then," Ondolemar passed over the coins. Faric handed them to his sister while he handed the boot to Ondolemar. The Justiciar barely kept the look of disgust off his face as he handed the boot to one of his escorting guards. "It's been a pleasure doing business with you. Good day."

The twins watched him leave, still nervous. They were so nervous, that when Moth came up behind them and set his hands on their shoulders, they nearly jumped. "You should head back to the kitchen now," he advised, "Your aunt will be looking for you."

"Yes, right, we'll go right away," Faric promised. With Fasett still clinging tightly to his arm, they raced out of the Keep's smithy.

And right into Ondolemar's waiting arms. "Whoa, slow down, there's no need to rush off, is there?" his voice oozed like grease into their ears. He knelt down until he was below their eye level, hating the necessity, but knowing it would be quicker to flatter the children than it would be to threaten them. Besides, this way he would look friendlier and less suspicious. "I merely wanted to make sure there were no hard feelings between us. As I understand it, you're going to be working here at the Keep, so we will undoubtedly run into each other quite often. Wouldn't want there to be any difficulties or awkwardness, would we?"

Faric swallowed audibly, "No, sir."

"Good, good," he purred again. In the palm of his gloved hand were several more septims, shining golden in the torchlight. "You know, I am ashamed to admit it, but I find myself curious about the Dragonborn. To have found someone who has met her, well, that's quite a stroke of luck. I'm positively dying to know anything you can tell me about her, like her real name. You said this Uncle Vorstag called her something…" He picked up a coin and pretended to inspect it, reflecting the light across their faces. Thinking of the talk he had with Norilar regarding Elenwen's party, he had a sudden inspiration, "Could it have been Hildegarde."

"It was something-hilly," Faric nodded, eyeing the gold greedily.

Fasett's eyes were also glued to the septims flashing in his palm. "No, it was Hilde, with a 'd', and short, like a nickname for something longer," she argued out of habit. "Uncle Vorstag said something else after it, but I don't remember what it was."

"Hm, interesting. You also said you saw her. Did you get a good look at her? For instance, do you remember the color of her hair?"

"She had her helmet on, at least where we could see. Maybe Uncle…" Fasett stopped abruptly when Faric's arm gave a twitch.

"Ah, yes," Ondolemar purred, thinking of their quaint affectation of the sellsword. "Well," he stood up abruptly, changing the tone of his voice, "I shouldn't keep you from your chores. Oh, here, why don't you two take these coins, but let's keep this between us, alright? I would be greatly embarrassed it if got out that I, a Thalmor, was a fan of the Dragonborn."

"Oh, of course, good sir," Faric readily agreed, snatching the septims from his offered palm before he could change his mind. Then the two were off, racing through the Keep to the safety of the kitchens.

Ondolemar turned to watch them go, but his thoughts were elsewhere. It would be easy for him to jump to the conclusion that Vorstag the Mercenary knew Hildegarde the Resolute, and that Hildegarde was the Dragonborn, but that would be an absurdity. And unlike a certain disgraced Thalmor, he wouldn't take the word of two half-starved children. He didn't entirely trust the waifs not to agree to what he said, just because they were so intent on getting those coins.

Still, it wouldn't hurt to throw a bone to Norilar. Not that he expected it to pan out, but it would give Norilar something to do, and make it seem like he was truly trying to offer help. He'd write to him later today, perhaps tomorrow, and mention something vague about Vorstag meeting the Dragonborn, and how he may have called her Hildegarde—what a preposterous notion, Dragonborn and Hildegarde being one and the same. Then he'd sit back and watch Norilar race about Markarth, hunting down Vorstag, and these children, and any guards who might have even caught a glimpse of the Dragonborn from a distance.

He rubbed his gloved hands together slowly; oh, this was going to be entertaining.

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This is going to be entertaining, was precisely the thought running through Norilar's mind when he finally received Ondolemar's errant letter. The timing could have been sooner, say, before this Vorstag left Markarth in the company of that elusive Lady Gerhild, which Ondolemar gleefully added to his script. But it didn't matter, not yet. Norilar would have time to put a plan in place, should he find himself needing to question this Vorstag. Finding someone who knew the Dragonborn would be advantageous, but finding Hildegarde was personal, and therefore more important. And as for Ondolemar's theory that Hildegarde was the Dragonborn… Well, the idea had merit, even if he knew Ondolemar only mentioned it as a laugh.

It shouldn't be too hard to either prove or disprove the notion, considering the man waiting in his office. The Nord Legionnaire stood before him, back straight and chest puffed out, all hard lines and efficiency and duty. The uniform was freshly cleaned, the leather oiled and the buckles polished to a mirror-like shine. Even the man himself had taken the time to bathe, his brown hair parted neatly down the middle. He stood before the desk in the typical stance and attitude Norilar had come to expect from the Empire's soldiers. They were so dull, in a battle they would undoubtedly march in a straight line, shoulder to shoulder with their fellows, and wait to be plowed under by their enemies.

Norilar looked back down to the letter in his hands, pretending it was more important than the man standing before him. Truthfully it was the other way around, but this was part of the entertainment, the part when the torture truly began. And the poor fool didn't see it coming. He had arrived at least three hours ago, and been made to wait in the hallway outside his office. It was a barren area, no benches or the like for resting, and the walls held racks filled with implements which were stained with evidence of recent use.

Also, there could be heard the faint murmurs of pain and pleading coming from the various prisoners, either from the cells just around the corner, or further down from the torture chamber. It all was staged to paint a very grim picture in the mind of anyone waiting out there, that Norilar held absolute power within this place. And in the more imaginative of his guests, they began to picture themselves as a prisoner, being tortured for days, weeks, months on end. All this staging was meant to soften them up for his entertainment.

After leaving the Legionnaire cooling his heels for quite some time, he had his assistant unexpectedly open the door, hoping to catch him napping, but the Nord was waiting patiently, his back ramrod straight, his arms clasped behind him, his eyes gazing forwards at nothing in particular. All this was relayed to Norilar through a series of subtle hand movements, which the soldier couldn't see much less decipher. Then the assistant ushered the soldier into the office and closed the door as he left, leaving him standing before Norilar's desk, again without a chair to sit upon.

Norilar at last set the letter aside—the pompous ass Ondolemar!—and lifted his face to the Legionnaire. He didn't speak, but simply looked at him with hooded eyes, as if only vaguely interested in the man. After several moments, during which the soldier didn't do anything more than blink, Norilar at last stood to face him. This man was so well disciplined, so strong willed, so healthy, it was going to be an absolute pleasure to break him.

"You arrived here when?"

"This morning, Your Honor, about three hours ago."

"And no one saw you leave Solitude?"

"Aye, sir, just as I was instructed. No one even knows I was coming here. I destroyed your message in a fire, and made sure of the ashes. As far as anyone can tell, I'm a deserter." He said it with the merest hint of trepidation; deserting his post was a serious crime, but he was trusting Norilar to provide him with an alibi. After all, the Thalmor had singled him out specifically for a special assignment, or so the letter claimed.

Norilar walked around his desk to stand behind the soldier. He could smell it faintly in the air, fear… Man feared the Aldmeri, as they should, even this man here before him, though he fought hard to control his fear. He resisted the urge to rub his hands together with anticipation, but he did allow himself several minutes to enjoy the scent of fear.

He took the time to go over in his mind once more just how he happened to stumble across this Nord. He had sent his guards out to track down any word or rumor of all those who had escaped Helgen. One of his men had found a Bosmer in Riverwood, who remembered a Legionnaire—a former resident of Riverwood—had come through around the right time. It wasn't hard to press the Bosmer for the name, calling upon his race and loyalty to the Aldmeri Dominion, or at least his fear of defying it. It was then a simple matter to track down this Legionnaire, slip him a clandestine message, and wait for him to do the rest.

"Very good. I have a special task for you, my friend, a very important task. Come, walk with me while we talk. I need to check on something in one of the chambers."

"Of course, Your Honor, allow me to get the door."

Norilar allowed a brief smile while the soldier's back was turned. This was almost too easy, luring him into the last room he would ever see. "Oh, one more thing; your name," he asked as he crossed the threshold, trusting the Nord to follow, "Just for clarification, you understand. I must keep my paperwork detailed and current."

"Hadvar of Riverwood."

The door closed behind him with the heaviness of the headsman's axe.