Chapter Twelve

Vorstag stood on a small ledge facing a bridge, two crumbling towers framing a perfect sunset on the water. Beside him stood Gerhild, her expressionless helmet turning minimally as she took in the view. Behind him was the nightmare that had been an abandoned ebony mine leading to a seemingly inescapable pit, then the crypt of a Dragon Priest, a Black Book, and finally a small den of Reavers. Before him was air and daylight and freedom, things he had feared he would never own again. He couldn't stop himself, the chuckle welling up within his chest and tumbling down the mountainside. The sound was loud, carried by the wind and the slope—to the waiting ears of more Reavers camping in the towers.

"Shit," he breathed in the next moment, realizing what he had done. Gerhild didn't bother admonishing him, thinking the two of them were more than a match for a band of Reavers, and he really had needed to let loose some of the tension and frustration building up over the past couple of days—or for however long they were trapped down there. Instead she drew her war axe in one hand and slipped her shield around her other forearm. Then she was racing across the narrow bridge to the first tower, thinking only of engaging the enemy before they realized what was upon them.

Or who.

Vorstag hung back a moment, spying a Reaver in the other tower who had taken notice of Gerhild and was stringing his bow. Vorstag had his still strung and in his hands, and a moment later a Nordic arrow arced through the air to penetrate through the Reaver's eye socket and into his brain. He died without a sound, leaving Vorstag to focus on helping Gerhild.

She was already across the bridge and heading down the ramp to the lower floor, battling one Reaver before her. With practiced ease she backhanded her shield across his face to stun him, tilted her arm to drive the rim of the shield into his throat to silence him, and finished with a powerful swing of her war axe into the corner of his neck. He was dead before he hit the ramp.

She didn't see the Reaver approaching from the upper landing. Vorstag let out a shout of warning, but he was too far away to engage, and the arches of the bridge were in the way for him to shoot. He began running, drawing his dwarven sword as he raced, knowing he'd be too late. He saw Gerhild hear his warning, and turn swinging, but the Reaver was already on her and shoving with her shield, sending Gerhild over the side of the ramp to the shoreline below.

There was no more time for thought, no more room for it either, as a roaring filled his brain. The sound came from his chest, tearing through his mouth and helmet in an ancient Nordic battle-cry, born from his very blood, but he couldn't be bothered to notice. The Reaver looked up at him—a towering man in stalhrim armor and a golden sword that reflected the light of the setting sun barreling down on her with a battle-cry loud enough to stir the blood of Draugr—and pissed herself. He didn't notice the smell or dampened wooden planks beneath their feet, but battered at her hastily raised shield, driving her further down the ramp. She managed to turn the corner and enter the tower, but it did her no good; in fact, it sealed her doom. She had to angle around the corner, giving him an opening between her and her shield. He kicked the inside of her shield, flinging it and her arm away from her. He rammed his shoulder into her chest, snapping her head against the stonework, at the same time his sword arm braced her shield arm away. He stepped back to punch his free hand into her arm, breaking her elbow and making her cry out in pain.

It didn't matter to him that her weapon was still sheathed. It didn't matter to him that she was in no condition to continue the fight. He ignored her pleas for mercy and grabbed hold of her shoulder in a cold, vice-like grip, his fingers digging through her thin armor and into her flesh. His lips compressed into even thinner lines as he pushed suggestively downwards, and she fell to her knees, her tears smearing her warpaint down her cheeks. He spun his sword in his other hand, reversing his grip, and in his only merciful act he ended her life quickly and cleanly, driving the point down through her neck and into her chest, bursting her heart. The blow was so powerful, he had to brace his foot against her to pull his weapon free.

The next moment he was running, running through the towers, desperate to find a way down to the shore. He finally made it, disappointed he hadn't found any other Reavers to kill, but also thankful because he couldn't take the time to indulge in his anger. He'd come back later and desecrate their corpses, if he needed to. Right then, he had to find Gerhild, had to see if—ah, gods, all the shit they'd just gone through, if she'd died falling off a tower…

There she lay on the rocky shoreline, her steel plate armored body half in, half out of the water. Her limbs were splayed, her legs unmoving beneath the water and her arms limply trying to reach for something around her shoulders. He cried out, his tears unnoticed by himself, as he reached her side.

"Gerhild!"

He dropped down into the surf beside her, unintentionally spraying her with water. She coughed, and he thought it was due to the water splashing over her helmeted face. He muttered some sort of apology, grabbing her flailing hands and holding them to his chest. "Gerhild!"

"…Vorstag…" her voice sounded weak and thick with liquid. Afraid she was choking on the water he had splashed on her, he let go of her hands and began removing her helmet and hood. Once he got her face in view, he saw the lines of pain marring her perfect features, and a bubble of blood that she was trying to spit out of her mouth. Her lips moved, the blood finally escaping, as she tried to speak, "Don't… don't… move…"

He didn't bother to listen to her, so relieved to find her alive and coherent. It meant she would be able to heal herself, and then everything would be alright—his lapse in attention wouldn't matter, wouldn't have nearly caused her death. He grabbed hold of her shoulders and lifted her up into his embrace, intending to confess how sorry he was he had let her down, that he hadn't watched her back as closely as he should, that someone had gotten past him and…

Instead his ears filled with her scream, her voice strangled on a bloody cough. At the same moment his hands found the wound in her back, and his eyes saw the rock she had been bent backwards over. Her blood covered the stone, spreading out like frosting on a sweet roll to reach the sand beneath and be lapped away by the waves. He cursed himself and his hasty actions, but it was too late now to put her back. Carefully he lifted her in his arms and carried her to a smooth and sandy stretch of shore away from any immediate danger of the tide, just in case it was coming in. He set her down on her front, mindful of keeping the sand out of the wound on her back, and turned her face to the side so she could breathe.

"Gerhild? Gerhild, can you hear me? Are you awake? Can you heal yourself?" He brushed a few wayward strands of hair back from her face, knocking some sand away as he did so, and was rewarded when one deep violet eye fluttered open.

"I… I think so…" she moaned softly, and had to pause to spit out more blood. "But my armor… it's broken… my back… I can't feel my legs…"

He looked at the wound, the one thing he had hoped to avoid doing, the guilt threatening to bow him down. He was supposed to be watching her back, keeping her safe, and he had let someone get past him and hurt her. He was responsible for the wound, for her near death. He forced himself to look and gasped at the sight.

"That… that bad…?"

He closed his eyes, cursing himself this time for letting her see his reaction. When he opened them again, he tried to make his soft brown eyes calm and unconcerned. "You've scratched your armor," he began, trying to force some lightness into the situation, but as soon as the words were out, he realized such a thing was tactless. The one cool violet eye held his gaze unblinkingly, and he knew he'd have to be honest with her. "I… The steel has broken and is bent inwards from your impact on the rocks, leaving a… hole… about the size of an apple." He couldn't look at her face while he talked, the guilt cutting him as deeply as her wound cut her.

"Aye."

"I… I suppose… I'll have to take the cuirass off… cut it free… can't just unbuckle it… pull the armor out of the wound… then you can heal yourself," he reasoned it through out loud, not sure if it was any easier looking at the oozing wound.

"Aye."

"It's gonna hurt…" he paused to swallow, not looking forward to what he had to do.

"Aye."

"Can't you say anything else!" he demanded, his emotions welling out of control.

The deep violet eye looked at him, the answer obvious, but she was in too much pain to tease him. "Just give me something to bite down on. Then take it off. Hurry, Vorstag, I'm trying to hold on, but I'm getting weaker…"

He didn't answer her, turning to pull his pack off his back. Her pack had fallen somewhere; he'd find it later, after she had healed herself. He took out a small dagger he used for slicing meat, the thin leather-wrapped handle perfect for biting. First, though, he used the blade to cut away the straps that held the front of the armor to the back, so he would be able to lift the two pieces apart. She flinched and tensed at every little jerk, the edges of the hole biting deep. Then he put the handle between her teeth, and she nodded at him, letting him know she was ready.

She didn't wait for him, closing her eyes and focusing on the healing spell. He grimaced, but there was nothing else for it but to lift as quickly and cleanly as he could. His fingers slipped under the edge of the ruined armor and he tore it off her back.

Gerhild nearly bit through the handle, her spell almost faltering. Then the magic she had already cast began its work, refreshing and strengthening her, and the deepest part of the wound began to heal. Strengthened and encouraged by this, she reinforced the spell, sending more of the metaphysical ribbons into her body. Vorstag tore at the hole in her padded underclothing, widening it so he could watch the wound heal and make sure every last mark was erased. Hesitantly his fingers touched her skin, but the only scars on her back were the ones that had been there before. He took a deep breath, and looked back at her face, catching her eye. "It's done. Can you feel your legs?"

She spit out the handle of the dagger, and a bit of blood after it, before she nodded weakly. For proof, she kicked both toes into the sand a few times. He gave a relieved sort of snort, and looked up in time to see her eye roll up into the back of her head. "Aye, get some rest," he said to her, brushing a little more sand off her cheek before giving it a tender kiss. "I've got this. You got us out of that tomb; I'll get us back to Raven Rock."

He pulled a blanket out of his pack and wrapped it around her shoulders, making sure she would stay warm and dry while he was away. He retraced their steps, having to go all the way back to the ledge leading into the mountain before he found all their discarded equipment and packs. From up there he spied a boat a little ways further up the coast. Though he felt guilty even thinking about stealing it, he knew he didn't have a choice. They needed to get back to the city and out of the elements.

Once he reached the boat, he realized it wouldn't be missed. There were signs of a struggle—blood and footprints and a discarded iron dagger. He reasoned it probably belonged those two ill-fated travelers, killed by Reavers, whose bodies he had seen back in the den. No one who would mind if he stole the boat, as it was no longer owned. Having eased that part of his conscience, he put their equipment in the bottom and rowed the boat back to where he had left Gerhild.

She was sitting up by the time he returned, dark circles under her eyes and a weary slump to her shoulders, but she seemed whole. She had even made a small fire, off to the side, and removed the rest of her armor and clothing to let it dry. She sat completely enveloped within the blanket, her head slowly turning and scanning, her eyes glowing with that strange light blue. He knew she had used the whispered Shout that showed her where people and animals were, even when out of direct line of sight, so she would already know he was coming. He got out of the boat and pulled it far enough up so the waves wouldn't wash it out to sea, then approached the fire.

"It wasn't your fault."

Her words were soft, as gentle as the night breeze, but they did nothing for the guilt tearing through his chest. "Am I that obvious?"

"Aye," she answered simply, "But perhaps only to me. I read it in your expressions and your body language earlier, heard it in the tone of your voice. Even now you came straight up to the fire and didn't look at me once. You're blaming yourself for my falling off the ramp, when truthfully it was my own damn fault."

He shook his head, unwilling to have his culpability mitigated so easily. "I was distracted by…" he stopped, hating himself for having done it, but he had to say it. "I should have known better, should have suspected there were more Reavers, especially seeing the towers as soon as we came outside. But I was so damn relieved to get out of there…" He threw a small, broken shell at the unoffending fire. "I alerted them to our presence! I got distracted, taking out the archer in the other tower, I didn't see the more immediate threat…"

The sound of her hand smacking the back of his helmet was loud on the empty beach, louder within the stalhrim armor. His words were broken by a wince, and he found himself turning his head towards her.

"At last, you look at me. Do you see me, Vorstag? I'm whole. I'm alive. And I didn't fall because you were distracted by another archer. I didn't fall because you weren't at my back. I fell because I sneezed."

There was silence for all of three seconds before he exclaimed, "What?!"

"I sneezed," she admitted, feeling her cheeks redden just a little, hoping it was due to the heat of the fire. She had moved closer after Vorstag arrived, mostly to head off his guilty rambling before he let it eat himself to death. Now she settled down next to him crossed-legged on the sand, the blanket still wrapped warmly around her lithe frame. Taking a deep breath, she told him what he had been too full of self-incrimination before to hear.

"When we first reached the outside, I Shouted, to see who was nearby. There were only three Reavers, so I wasn't too concerned when I heard you laugh, and I knew you needed the release after all that," she lifted her chin at the mountain beside them. "Anyway, you had seen the one in the other tower, so I decided to take on the two in the closer tower. I killed the one heading down the ramp, and would've turned sooner to take on the one coming behind me, but I sneezed. Twice, actually. Messed up the inside of my hood. By the time I could turn around, the last Reaver was already pushing me off the ramp." One hand snaked out of the top of the blanket to rub at the side of her nose. "So you see, it wasn't your fault. If I hadn't sneezed, I would've been able to take that last Reaver in time. Besides, you had to perform a fairly amazing shot to have hit that other archer from that distance. So, there's nothing for you to feel ashamed of, right?"

He was quiet, and she could tell he didn't want to believe her. "Honestly, a sneeze?"

"Two," she wiggled the same number of fingers at him, looking sheepishly at his face.

Half his face formed a smile, the other a grimace. "By the Nine, woman, you are going to be the death of me!"

It was muttered under his breath, but she heard it. She decided to drop the subject, pointing over her shoulder and asking, "Did you steal a boat?"

"I… no, I… it wasn't…" he flustered, having to press his lips closed and get a hold of himself before he could explain. "I found it a little ways along the shore. I think it belonged to those two dead travelers we saw inside the Reavers' den. There were signs of a struggle around it, I mean, so I don't think the boat belongs to anyone anymore."

She nodded before leaning away from the fire. She began struggling to her feet, Vorstag immediately there and offering her a steadying hand. "Well, then, let's go home. I'd rather row back to Raven Rock in the dark than spend the night on this beach."

"Nuh-uh," he said, shaking his head, "I'll row. You rest and stay warm."

Outwardly she huffed and rolled her eyes, but inwardly she smiled. She wasn't happy about lying to him, but at least she had gotten Vorstag over his guilt. And making up a story about a sneeze or two was a helluva lot less embarrassing than admitting the truth, that she took too long and used extra moves on the first Reaver, so that the second had the time to get the drop on her. If she had just killed him cleanly, she could have turned and killed the second one before Vorstag had finished taking out the archer. But she had let her arrogance get the better of her, and not only did it nearly cost her life, but it made Vorstag feel guilty. Well, one little lie and all was well again.

She looked up and caught him watching her, so she rubbed at her nose, pretending she still might want to sneeze.

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"Aye, but can you repair it?"

Gerhild and Glover stood toe-to-toe, wearing matching expressions of determination. "It's not a matter of repair," the Raven Rock blacksmith was trying to explain for the fourth time, "It's a matter of replace. I'm not trying to force you to buy anything; because of our mutual business partners, I'd give you another cuirass for free." He said this last softly, with a wary look towards where a stranger was standing in the middle of the marketplace, next to the city's well, talking with the Redguard sorceress, also a newcomer to Raven Rock. He was fairly sure the mercenary was the one who had been running around with the Dragonborn lately; there weren't a whole lot of strangers in Raven Rock these days.

Gerhild knew he was looking at Vorstag, who as far as anyone knew, had come to Solstheim in the company of the Dragonborn, not Lady Gerhild. It was a necessary lie, though damned inconvenient; she would have liked nothing more than to stroll everywhere with him at her side. Even more, she knew that Vorstag was trustworthy, and that he had learned to look the other way on certain occasions where the law might have been bent just a little. But she also knew that he was not one to be introduced to her Thieves Guild friends, like Glover. So she had gone to speak with Glover alone, and told Vorstag to meet her in the tavern where she'd pretend to hire him. Yet for some reason he was loitering by the well, talking with the woman they had rescued from Highpoint Tower. A tiny wrinkle appeared on her brow for a moment before she regained control and decidedly brushed Vorstag from her mind.

"Aye, and I appreciate that," she responded to whatever Glover had said, "But I need this piece of armor for… a job."

"Business related?" he asked, turning the cuirass over in his hands. The hole in the back was still stained with her blood. Considering where it was located, he was amazed she was up and walking already. Either she had a large supply of very powerful healing potions, or she knew Restoration Magic. Unusual for a Nord, but not impossible. He had heard stories of one Nord woman in particular who was very adept at it.

"My business," she admitted, "Nothing relevant to our… partners," she referred to the Thieves Guild.

Glover looked at her closely, having noted how she kept watching the mercenary, before he sighed and shook his head. "You know, there've been rumors going around that the Dragonborn has been seen recently in Solstheim…"

"Listening to rumors can be dangerous."

"…She wears armor like this, and knows magic and…"

"And repeating them even more dangerous."

He stopped and looked at her. She returned his stare, her cold, dead violet eyes more than a match for him. He had to blink and look away. "Understood. I'm sorry, Lady Gerhild, but I cannot repair this. I don't think anyone can. I've got a bonemold piece that you could have. It wouldn't match, and it's a little weaker than steel plate, but it'll be better than nothing."

She thought about it for a moment, her vanity warring with her reason. She didn't have to wear a matching set of armor, not where she was going. The only one who'd see it would be Miraak, and the people of the Skaal Village, and Vorstag. Involuntarily her eyes swept across the marketplace. Vorstag and the Redguard were walking into the Retching Netch. She was practically hanging on his arm, laughing and smiling. He was smiling back, almost looking like the might be enjoying himself. Maybe he was just being polite with her? Gerhild wasn't sure, but she did feel the urge to conclude her business with Glover as quickly as possible.

Just to make sure Vorstag didn't get himself into any trouble.

"It's alright, Glover," she said, "I'll wear my other armor."

"You brought an extra set of heavy armor?" he asked, setting the destroyed cuirass aside. He might be able to beat it into a plow or shovel blade.

"No, the armor you gave me," she admitted, referring to the sleeveless leather armor stowed in the bottom of her pack. She remembered the latest Shout she had learned, the one that fortified her Shouts, and gave her the aspects of a dragon. It wouldn't matter what armor she wore—she could stand nude in front of Miraak—as long as she used that Shout, it would take a very strong spell or a very sharp blade to harm her. Besides, she wasn't going to rely on strength, but on cunning. "I think I can make do with it."

Glover didn't feel as confident. "Listen, if you're doing something dangerous," he'd heard about Miraak, like everyone else in Solstheim, but after her warning earlier he wasn't about to come out and say it, "You need as much protection as possible."

She shook her head. "Comfort and ease of movement are just as important, and I don't have the time to break in any new pieces of armor." She pulled her gaze away from the doorway of the tavern; had she been staring at it? "Don't worry, Glover. I'll be back here before the week is out, without a scratch."

"See to it that you are, or Brynjolf will have my head. And that'll be after my brother, Delvin, gets through with me."

She laughed, the sound joyous though the emotion was false, and kissed the Breton on his cheek. "Thank you for your concern, even if it was self-motivated. Good day, Glover."

"Good day, Lady Gerhild," he replied to her back. He watched her walk quickly across the marketplace and into the Retching Netch, smiling at her the whole time. "Nords are such a stubborn race of men."

She didn't hear his comment, more intent on reaching the tavern and making sure Vorstag hadn't gotten himself embroiled in another fistfight. They didn't have time for it, not if she wanted to get to and from Skaal Village and defeat Miraak before the Northern Maiden returned. There had been too many delays already. First Neloth, the Telvanni wizard, had asked her to track down and assassinate his former apprentice in Highpoint Tower—where she and Vorstag had rescued Niyya, the Redguard sorceress who was now hanging on his every word.

Then there was the disastrous adventure in Raven Rock Mine, all because—she could admit it—she wanted ebony ore. She was still a few ingots short of her goal for the full kit of ebony armor and weapons Eorlund was making for her. Crescius had promised her several ingots, in return for her help with the mine. It had seemed easy enough at the time, just explore the mine to make sure it was safe so it could be reopened. Yet it had nearly cost them their lives, several times over, something neither she nor Vorstag had felt comfortable talking about. Crescius, at least, had been pleased to learn the fate of his great-grandfather, and promised to have the ingots delivered to her before the week was out.

But she needed to keep going, keep driving towards her goals, or she'd never get anything done.

She stumbled down the last few steps, wondering why the Dunmer loved to construct all their buildings underground, and stopped to admonish herself to keep her mind on what she was doing. Luckily the only person who saw her misstep was, of course, Vorstag. He was at a corner table, Niyya beside him and leaning a little too close into his personal space. He was talking with an easy air about him, probably telling her some story; and she was laughing and gasping and clapping her hands at all the appropriate times. Gerhild rolled her eyes; she knew acting when she saw it, and Niyya was acting, badly, like Lydia had, trying to catch Vorstag's interest. She headed for the counter, figuring to let him finish telling his tale and enjoying his spotlight, however insincere, before she broke up the happy little scene and pretended to hire him.

"Ah, Lady Gerhild, what can I interest you in today?" Geldis Sadri leaned across the counter. "A bottle of my finest sujamma, perhaps?"

"I'm afraid I only have time for one glass," she smiled, her dimples deepening on her cheeks.

Geldis clicked his tongue at her, even as he poured the goblet to the rim. "You should take the time, young lady. Or you'll reach my age and wonder where the time has gone."

"What?" she asked, pulling her gaze away from Vorstag again. "Oh, here," she set some coins on the countertop.

"On the house," he replied, pushing the coins back to her. "I still owe you for getting the residents of this city interested in my special brew."

Her dimples grew even deeper, "My pleasure, Geldis. It really is quite good." She took a sip, half in his honor, half so that she could carry it over to Vorstag's table without spilling it down the front of her dress.

Vorstag had noticed the moment she came into the cornerclub, chewing her lower lip, and wasn't at all surprised when she tripped. He saw the guilty expression as she glanced around to see if anyone had noticed, and found his gaze on her. He didn't miss a beat as he continued telling Niyya about his fight with an Elder dragon, even while watching Gerhild out of the corner of his eye. It was awkward, as Niyya had met Vorstag while within the company of the Dragonborn, and Gerhild currently wasn't in her armor so no one knew she was the Dragonborn, so he had to pretend not to know her as Vorstag and the Lady Gerhild of Raven Rock hadn't been introduced yet…

A tiny spot of pressure began building up behind his temples; he didn't know how Gerhild managed to keep these things straight. Gods, this was confusing.

Gerhild had been heading his way, thinking to tell him they would leave immediately as they were no longer going to wait for her armor to get fixed. Then she remembered she was Gerhild, not the Dragonborn, and belatedly veered towards the table nearby. She sat with her back to them, sipping on her drink, listening in to his story and trying hard not to scoff.

"And you delivered the final blow?" Niyya breathed, suitably impressed. She leaned forward to take his hand, the shadow of her cleavage angled perfectly. She had found employ with the Councilor of Raven Rock, and had been able to afford a new dress—a dress that displayed her ample bosom to its finest.

"Ah, well, that's hard to say," he admitted sheepishly, taking a hasty swallow of his mead. "The Dragonborn struck from below at the same time I struck from above. Either one of us, or both, killed the dragon."

"And so you started traveling with her," she sighed, her chest heaving.

Gerhild didn't have to look to picture what she was doing, hearing it in her breath and the rustle of her gown.

"It must be so dangerous, fighting dragons and exploring ancient tombs," she paused, and Gerhild could imagine her leaning in even closer, her lips turned upwards invitingly, "Rescuing damsels in distress. Do you ever fear for your life? Do you ever find yourself thinking, you might not survive this?"

Was it getting hot in here? He took another swallow of mead, but the drink was tepid and did nothing to cool his cheeks. "Aye, ah, well," he gave a small cough, extremely conscious of Gerhild sitting right behind Niyya. "I do feel fear, felt it lots of times, not just while adventuring with the Dragonborn. The trick is controlling your fear. If you can do that, you can handle anything."

"And do you?" she had to be sitting in his lap by now, Gerhild imagined, "Control your fear? I know I was afraid, locked in that cell, watching everyone else being taken away to be experimented upon, killed, knowing my death was so close…" her voice trailed away, and Gerhild could imagine her face turning slightly away. She predicted a shudder would be next, something strong so he would feel the vibrations through the table. Then he was supposed to put his arm around her, calm her, kiss her hair and tell her everyone fears death.

"Actually, I don't fear death, not when I'm with her." The admission was soft, and Gerhild almost didn't catch herself before turning around to look at him. "That's not to say that I'm foolish enough to think I couldn't die while she's around; traveling with her is the most dangerous thing a person can do. But I don't fear death, because that death would undoubtedly be for something worthwhile, something important, something worthy of Sovngarde. No, there are other things worse than death; that's what I fear."

"What could be worse than death?" Niyya asked, bewildered. Gerhild almost answered, his darkest fear exposed to her while they had been trapped within the mine, but again remembered in time that she wasn't supposed to know Vorstag. Or be listening in on their conversation. She sighed into her goblet, think of how noble Vorstag was, how willing to sacrifice his life for a greater cause. He was such a large-hearted, puppy-eyed, strong yet gentle Nord…

Vorstag had been willing to talk with Niyya. He'd been willing to let her buy him a drink. He supposed on some level he'd been thinking of trying to make Gerhild feel jealous, or at least get her thinking that other women might find him interesting so she better hurry up and figure out her own feelings for him before it was too late! But he saw now that it wouldn't work. Gerhild was a special case, and sitting there literally behind her back, trying to lean away from Niyya without appearing rude, was making him feel like a heel.

Especially after all they'd been through recently.

"Excuse me, Niyya, but like I said, I only had time for one drink. I've gotta go meet someone… someplace."

"The Dragonborn," she pouted. Again Gerhild rolled her eyes.

"Aye," he said, the sound of his chair scraping the floor as he stood up quickly following. "There's an item or something she needs to get out of another tomb or someplace. I'm sorry, but I've gotta… well… go."

He bumped Gerhild's chair in his haste to leave, uttering a brief, "Excuse me," as he passed. She looked up to follow him ascend the stairs out of sight, but couldn't understand why he had suddenly raced off, as that wasn't part of their plan. Deciding to ask him later, if she bothered to remember, she turned back and took another sip. The sooner she finished her drink, the sooner she could change into armor and track him down…

"Allow me to introduce myself, I'm Niyya."

Gerhild almost spit out her drink, startled to see the woman inviting herself to her table. She also almost forgot that Niyya only knew the Dragonborn, not her, and had to wonder why her composure kept slipping. "Gerhild," she answered, pleased despite herself when Niyya offered her forearm in the Nordic fashion.

"Oh, I know who you are," Niyya admitted, "Everyone in Raven Rock knows about Lady Gerhild North-Wind, how you saved Councilor Morvayn from assassination. I just wanted the chance to meet such a renowned woman as yourself."

"Oh, well, thank you, I guess." It felt strange sitting there, listening first to Niyya trying to seduce Vorstag, and now buttering up to her. That damned indigestion was back, making her itch to run away. She needed to meet up with Vorstag, anyway, and let him know their plans had changed. "It really wasn't so great a feat. I'm sure Captain Veleth would have caught them, it's just that I happened to have stumbled over their plot."

Niyya nodded, setting the matter aside. "So, tell me, what brings you to Solstheim, and how long are you staying?"

"Oh, I'm here on business. I do a bit of trading; I'm a merchant. Mostly though I just like traveling and meeting new people."

Niyya sighed and finished her drink, waving to Geldis to order another one. "He's gorgeous, isn't he?" she asked, and with a start Gerhild realized she was talking about Vorstag.

"What? Oh, that mercenary?" she stammered.

"Yes, but he prefers the term sellsword," she set her chin on her hand, staring vacantly at the stairs. "Or even freelance adventurer for hire. He's such a gentleman, strong, kind, intelligent, faithful. I can't believe he's not married already. Either he's in love with someone, or he's gay. I can't figure out which."

Gerhild knew, but she didn't answer, figuring to leave Niyya in ambiguous conjecture. Once she defeated Miraak, she'd never have to come back here, never have to bring Vorstag back here, and Niyya could just sit and sigh and wonder for the rest of her life…

"Excuse me," Gerhild said, standing up after finishing her drink, "But I have some business to conduct yet today. It was a pleasure meeting you, Niyya."

"The pleasure was all mine, Lady Gerhild," she stood to give a curtsy as Gerhild left. Before she sat back down, her eyes were glazed over again as she fantasized about the adventurous Nord brave enough to travel with the Dragonborn.

Gerhild practically raced from the tavern for her manor, the urge to leave Raven Rock stronger than ever.

A/N: I would just like to say—I wrote this flirting scene with Niyya in the Retching Netch, because I felt guilty skipping the one earlier with Lydia, and the timing was better here, anyway ;)