Chapter Twenty-One

"Fuck!" Vorstag ducked behind the boulder, feeling the biting cold as a chilly blast of… something… issued from the dragon's mouth and grazed his scalp. "Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!" He could imagine Gerhild's scolding tone, admonishing him to remain close to cover. But like an idiot, the first time he had seen her face the full force of the dragon's breath, he had run out to try to protect her. She had remained unscathed through the beast's onslaught, but then it had seen him and turned its head to Shout a breath of icy power at him. And he was too far from cover.

At least he learned his shield could protect him, somewhat, from the frost breath. Long enough, at least, for him to have survived the first blast so he could run for cover while the dragon took a breath.

He risked a peek to see her, striding forward once more, war axe in one hand and a purloined shield in the other. The dragon ignored her for the time being, deciding a nearby Imperial soldier would make a tastier snack. It snapped its jaws down on the unfortunate soul, nearly swallowing him whole, only leaving behind what small amount couldn't fit in its mouth—the legs from the shins down. Vorstag swallowed, trying to ignore the gruesome sight, and fitted another arrow to his bow.

The fight hadn't been going on for long, at least not for him and Gerhild. They found the dragon fighting an Imperial patrol, the three soldiers overwhelmed and outmatched by the demonic beast. There was only one soldier left now, and she was wisely finding cover like Vorstag had, a nice large boulder. She looked over at him, saw him aiming an arrow, and decided to follow suit. After all, what she did care if some crazy adventurer in steel plate armor was attacking the beast head on? She didn't have thick enough armor to combat it. But she did have arrows, and plenty of them.

Vorstag shot another arrow through the thin membranes of one of the wings, remembering Gerhild's advice to keep the dragon on the ground. He didn't know how many arrows it would take to damage the wings enough so it wouldn't fly, he only prayed he had enough.

The battle seemed to go on for hours, but he supposed it really hadn't been more than half of one before the dragon finally reared on its hind legs and flailed one wing uselessly. He cheered, unable to help himself, as he realized his hard work had paid off. The dragon heard him, however, and spotted his head and shoulder poking around from behind the boulder. Another blast of icy breath whipped towards him, and he only ducked back just in time.

He had caught a glimpse of Gerhild while he cheered. She hadn't been idle this whole time, her war axe dripping with dragon blood as she had chipped away at the beast little by little. He didn't know what she was doing, thinking such a small weapon was no match for something the size of a farmhouse, but apparently it was working. After Shouting at him, the dragon turned back only to find her at its tail; one strong swing and the appendage was severed.

The roar was as chilling as its breath. He almost felt sorry for it… but not quite. Sensing that the end was near, he ran out from behind his boulder, desperate again to keep its attention off of Gerhild as she worked to bring it down. Taking a deep lungful of air, he roared his own challenge at the beast. "You'll die this day, dragon!"

Predictably, a blast of icy wind bore down on him. He raised his shield, but the force knocked him down on one knee. Though this spared him any further damage, outside his little circle of protection the ground around him turned white with frost.

His ears were ringing with the force of the dragon's Shout, but through his knee on the ground he felt the trembling of approaching feet. He risked a glance around the edge of his shield, but couldn't see who it was coming to his aid. When another voice roared, echoing with a powerful Thu'um, he knew it was Gerhild.

"Faas!"

He was thankful that Shout hadn't been directed at him, as even being caught at the edge of it he felt a little fearful. He didn't run, despite the impulse, and instead raised his head to look up at the dragon. It had swallowed its own Shout, blinking at the small figure before it like a mammoth at a skeever, before shaking its head and gathering its courage. Gerhild didn't let it recover, however, and stepped forward to deliver another Thu'um. "Fus Ro!"

Amazingly he watched as the dragon was thrown off balance, staggering back, one good wing flailing to try to keep itself on its feet. She pursued, throwing away the shield and racing towards its snout, leaping at the last moment to land on its skull.

"Holy f…!" Vorstag stood in awe, his shield dropping to his feet as he watched the end of the battle, realizing on some level that his efforts were no longer required. Gerhild was on top of the dragon's head, one hand holding onto a horny projection, the other pulling her war axe behind her for a powerful blow. She leaned back a little, too, and when she swung forward she brought the full force of her body with the blow. The blade, dulled a little by the fight, still had enough bite left in it to slice cleanly through scale and bone. Blood and brain matter and other gore flew through the air, pumping out with the beast's last heartbeats, as it screamed and tossed its head. She jumped clear, taking her war axe with her, and landed just in front of its snout. Another blow, an uppercut this time, and the fight was over as its jaw was split nearly in two. The dragon's eyes rolled back into its head as it collapsed at her feet. Its death throes still horrific due to its size, but already weakening down to mild thrashing and a few twitches.

Yet this wasn't the most remarkable part of the battle. After the final blow, after dragon died, the strangest scene played out before Vorstag's eyes. The body of the dragon began to shudder and tremble, as if the corpse rested on a serving platter that someone was shaking. Like a hollowed out husk, the body collapsed in on itself, crumbling to dust and ashes in a fire that didn't burn, leaving behind only its boney infrastructure. Then a softly roaring wind ripped from within and around it, pulling away from the remains as if torn by some invisible hand. Glowing like a halo the wind twisted and tore through the air, seeking to find purchase on something solid—something living. The wind turned from the skeleton to enter Gerhild, whipping around and through her without a physical force, until it was at last fully absorbed into her body. She stood calmly in front of it the whole time, not even so much as flinching when the wind entered her, showing neither discomfort nor elation, but a sort of resigned acceptance.

Vorstag swallowed; he had just seen Gerhild absorb a dragon's soul.

"You… you… it's true… isn't it?"

He was startled from his own shock, having forgotten completely about the last surviving Imperial soldier. She was walking towards Gerhild, hesitant and in awe. "You are real, aren't you, warrior?"

Gerhild turned to her, but didn't answer.

"I never believed it," the woman was saying, shaking her head. "Andvar did. He was a Nord. He believed the stories were true, about the dragons returning. I… I didn't share his belief." She turned her head to glance where Andvar had been standing, only his leather boots and whatever part of him was inside them remaining. She swallowed and pulled her eyes away, but the sight of the skeletal dragon offered little comfort. She looked back at Gerhild, still searching for something that would make sense of the horrific nightmare she had just lived through.

"Ever since those rumors about Helgen, he said the Dragonborn would come, the one who could devour a dragon's soul, the one who could speak the Thu'um of dragons as natural as his own. It's you, isn't it? You're Dragonborn?"

Gerhild inclined her head.

"By the Eight! No one's going to believe this." She lifted beseeching hands to Gerhild and pleaded, "What do I tell my Captain? How do I explain this? The dragon? You?"

Gerhild sighed, but slung her war axe back onto her belt. Then she stepped forward, putting one comforting hand on the other woman's shoulder. "Tell them the truth, simply and plainly, with no embellishments."

"Oh, and a woman," she groaned, and Vorstag heard a tinge of hysteria in her voice. "Perfect. Let me guess; you're a Nord, aren't you?"

"Aye," she nodded.

The Imperial looked at her another moment longer, before swallowing again. "Ah, shit! I won't be believed." She looked a little flirtatiously from beneath her lashes as she asked, "So, what name do you go by?"

"Dragonborn."

She pursed her lips, nodding with a small amount of resentment. "I suppose I should have expected that." She glanced at the dragon's remains before turning back to her. "Fine. Keep your identity a secret. I'll even cover for you; I owe you at least that much. But this is still going to cause a lot of… I don't know… jeering and teasing. I don't know how to make it all believable."

Gerhild took a deep breath, squared her shoulders, and then unsheathed her war axe again. She strode over to the dragon's skeleton and swung her axe once, severing the skull still bearing marks from the battle. The bone was two-thirds as large as the soldier, and at least half as heavy, but she picked it up, understanding Gerhild's intent. "I get it. They'll have to believe me, if I bring back a trophy." She sighed, "But I didn't earn this; you did. All I did was sit behind a boulder and piss myself. Even this one did more than me, firing arrows and charging out to distract it. If anyone deserves the skull, other than you, Dragonborn, it's him."

"Oh, I don't keep souvenirs," Vorstag declined, holding his hands up and taking half a step back. "At least, nothing that I can't use. And a dragon's skull, that's gonna help you a lot more than it'll help me."

The Imperial looked shrewdly at him. "You're traveling with her?"

"Aye," he answered, but followed Gerhild's lead and continued with a lie. "Ah, we met at the tavern in Rorikstead. I was looking for an adventure, like fighting a dragon. She said she could probably find one for me."

"You… wanted to fight a dragon? Gods, you must be a Nord. Your whole race is crazy." She looked at the skull nearly as tall as her chest, and changed her mind. "No, the world is going crazy. You Nords have the right idea. Fine!" She looked back up and squared her shoulders, "I'll return to my Captain and report. Whether he believes me or not, he cannot deny this. Dragonborn," she nodded to Gerhild, "And you, Adventurer, may the Wind guide you."

The two of them stood for a time, watching the soldier walk away awkwardly with her prize. The skull was large and cumbersome, and was heavier than that amount of bone should weigh. Vorstag saw her struggle with it before finally finding a way to balance it across her shoulders and down her back. "I hope they believe her."

"If they don't now, they soon will," Gerhild answered him. "The dragons are returning; even the Thalmor can't deny this fact. If her Captain is smart, he'll not only believe her, he'll promote her. And if she's smart, she'll remember how this dragon was defeated, and develop tactics to fight other dragons." She turned her expressionless helmet towards him. "Speaking of smart, you were pretty quick to pick up on the fact that I'm not giving out my name when I do…" she gestured at what was left of the dragon, "That stuff."

He gave a huffed sort of laugh. "That stuff, eh? I suppose, if you're going around as one person, a normal person with a life and dreams and plans and such, but there's this other 'stuff' that keeps cropping up, 'stuff' that can get inconvenient, and maybe 'stuff' you don't want to be known for, at least not yet…" his voice trailed away as he stared at the headless skeleton. "Aye, I can understand. The Dragonborn," his voice only faltered a little at the title, "And Lady Gerhild North-Wind are two different people."

She was quiet, and for a moment he wondered if he had insulted her somehow, or perhaps misread her intent. He looked at her, concern written on his face, and debated whether or not he should ask what he had said wrong. Then miraculously she took off her helmet, pulled back the hood concealing her head, and planted a kiss on his cheek. "Thank you."

He swallowed, imagining he could feel the imprint of her lips on his stubbled skin. He would have to shave if she was going to make a habit of that. "You're welcome."

She turned away, walking back towards the thicket that held their packs. "Gods, but I need a bath."

He almost laughed, such a common statement flooding his soul with relief and familiarity after all the strangeness of the afternoon. "If you're desperate, there's always the river the road's been following," he pointed off to the side. "But it'll be cold."

She narrowed her eyes as she considered her options. "I reek of dragon blood. A cold stream won't deter me from smelling, and feeling better." She rummaged in her pack for a moment, making sure everything was secure that she hadn't had time for before. "What about you?"

He shook his head before giving it any thought. Here he had just been handed the perfect opportunity to bathe with Gerhild, and he had unthinkingly turned down the offer. Then again, she wasn't at a place where she would welcome his company, at least in the manner he was currently entertaining. "No, thank you, I'm fine. Wasn't close enough to get any blood or gore on me, just frost. And that's mostly melted away." He flicked his fingers through his lanky hair, showering his shoulder with a few flakes of frost.

She nodded, accepting his explanation at face value. She looked up at the sky and did some quick calculations in her head. "Alright. It's late enough in the day, and I don't know about you, but I'm tired. Why don't we travel a little further on, put some distance between us and that," she nodded at the skeleton just visible over a small rise, "And then make camp for the night."

"Sure. I'll even cook supper while you bathe. It's my turn, anyway."

She gave him a small nod, replaced her hood and helmet, and shouldered her pack. "Then let's go. I'd like as much distance as possible between us and those remains before the daylight is gone."

He fell into step beside her, but his curiosity got the better of him and he found himself asking before he could stop himself, "Does it bother you?"

She nearly stumbled, but her reactions were so quick he couldn't be sure. "Does what bother me?" she asked, her voice dangerous and growling, "Speaking a dead language I've never learned? Fighting mythical beasts turned real? Devouring their souls? Feeling them inside me, stirring, but never quite awake, dreaming of an afterlife they'll never know?"

Yup, he should have kept his mouth shut. "I'm sorry, Dragonborn. I spoke without thinking. I didn't realize, but of course you wouldn't want to stay near that thing. I'm sorry."

His voice was so contrite and his use of her title was so formal, that again the image of a kicked puppy appeared in her mind, making her clench her jaw in an effort to keep from looking at him. Yet she couldn't answer until they had passed the remains of the battle. "I'm sorry, too, Vorstag," she finally sighed, "For biting your head off. Aye, it's hard, trying to understand everything that's happening to me. Growing up I had no idea, ever, that this was something I could do. I was always just Gerhild, a poor, half-orphaned waif barely surviving, but no one extraordinary. Since coming to Skyrim, my life has turned upside-down…"

He didn't speak, wishing she would continue, but her words faded away into silence.

They stopped a couple of miles further on, far enough that the sight and memories of the battle were a little faded. Gerhild dropped her pack to the ground, bending down on one knee to rummage for a towel and a bar of soap. "Last chance," she waved the rough block of light purple soap in the air.

He smiled, but he already knew his answer. She wasn't ready for him, and he wouldn't be able to trust himself in such a situation. "No, no, you go ahead. I'll fix supper and pitch the tents."

He grimaced at the slip of his tongue, but she seemed oblivious to the innuendo. "Don't you like bathing? Smelling clean? Getting the dirt and grime off your body?"

He shrugged, trying to find his tent pegs in his pack, anything to avoid looking at her. "It rained on us the other day. Oh, if there's something obvious on me, aye, I'll want to wash it off. But otherwise, why take the chance?"

"Take the chance?" she repeated, bewildered.

"Aye, didn't you know? Frequent bathing is hazardous to your health. It allows all the bad humors to enter through your skin."

She thought she should be expected to laugh, thinking he was teasing her, but his expression was so serious, and she was sure she would be able to tell if he was joking, which he wasn't…

Shaking her head, she turned from him and retreated to the stream.

Vorstag worked on setting up their camp, and tried to ignore the visions that kept creeping into his head. Visions of her standing in waist-deep water, the sun sparkling on the drops beading down her back, the ripples as she leaned backwards into the water with arms spread, her blonde hair loose and drifting outward like the petals of a flower. He had seen her body before, but at that time she was suffering from poison and sick with a fever so he didn't really pay much attention. Yet he must have noticed quite a lot, at least if his fantasy was anything to go by. Knowing now a little more of her past, he saw in his mind's eye the crisscrossing lines marring her back and knew the Thalmor had caused them. He wanted to touch them, to run his fingers over them and erase them from her skin, erasing the memories of them with his touch…

"No fire yet?"

Her words crashed through his fantasy, sending it flying away into the evening shadows. "Ah, no, not yet," he gestured with the flint in one hand at the small pile of dried grass and twigs. "You were quicker than I expected."

She shrugged in an unconcerned manner, dropping her armor to the ground and plunking herself cross-legged beside it. "You were right; the water's cold."

He turned his face away from her to hide the 'I-told-you-so' smile.

"Besides, most of the gore was on my armor, not me. Gonna take me half the night to clean it," she sighed. Disgruntled, she settled her chest piece across her lap and began to scrub at it with a rag.

Vorstag began furiously striking the flint against a stone, trying to focus on starting a fire and not the way her breasts bobbed as she scrubbed. She had stripped down once more to that thin, sleeveless tunic and those far-too-tight leggings. She must have at least washed her face as the neck of her tunic was damp. One rather inconvenient—or convenient—drip had fallen just off-center from the tip of one mound, and he could easily tell the water had indeed been cold.

"Are you trying to start a fire, or kill the flint?"

"What?" he asked, jerking his head up. He immediately wanted to jerk away again, seeing her watching him so intently, but his eyes were glued to her. She lifted one hand, and the space around her armpit showed a glimpse of her pale, smooth skin.

"Do you mind?" she gestured, her fingers waving in the air. "I know, it's cheating, but you'll never get a spark the way you're going, and I'm gonna need the light, if not the warmth."

"Oh," he said, finally wrenching his eyes away before she could see his cheeks flush. "Sure. I don't mind. I'll… um… just get some more firewood." He leaned away from the pit as she cast a flame spell without hardly looking. Immediately the twigs caught fire, the flames bright and cheery and eager to devour the dry and brittle branches. He quickly added a few of the larger pieces to the fire, before standing up to brush off his knees. "I'll… right… I'll be right back."

Gerhild watched him all but run off towards a small copse of trees. She sighed; she knew she shouldn't have used magic in front of him, especially for something so trivial as starting a fire. She knew he'd be uncomfortable, and sure enough he had raced to get away from her and her unorthodox methods. But it wasn't like she wanted to be good at magic, or show off or anything; it was just that he had been taking so damn long to get a stupid spark! He was just being prejudiced and superstitious running off like that. She might have scrubbed a little harder than necessary at the gore marring her armor, but at least she had her frustrations under control by the time he returned.

Vorstag carried an oversized armload of wood back to their camp, having taken longer than anticipated for him to get his libido under control. Damn, but she was beautiful, and intelligent, and talented, and… taxing! She definitely taxed his self-control, and so much of it seemed like she didn't even know that she was doing it. Luckily by the time he returned, the situation had improved somewhat. She was still sitting there, calmly cleaning her gauntlets, her movements a little less bobby. Her tunic had dried, too, and the fire made enough warmth to finish taking away the last of the chill from her bath.

"Are we staying for one night, or a week?" she asked, a smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth. She gestured at the overabundant supply of firewood in his arms. Seeing his face redden, she knew she was getting the hang of teasing. It was something she could practice on Vorstag, since she couldn't practice seduction. And being able to tease someone and recognize when she was being teased was also valuable.

"I… guess I didn't realize how much I had picked up. Besides, we'll need a bigger fire if you need the light."

"Not that big," she declined, and shuddered before she could stop herself, her mood changing mercurially.

Vorstag's brow wrinkled, "Are you finished already with your armor?"

"No, but…" she stopped, her bottom lip working its way between her teeth. Damn, but she was about to lose control around him again. She never—never!—wanted to tell anyone how much she feared fire, how it made her skin crawl every time she cast a flame spell, how the smell of burning wood brought back visions of the night her mother died. Those emotions—the fear—were dead and gone and she was never going to feel them again. She forcefully removed her lip and bent her head back to her work, scrubbing furiously at a bit of brain or something caught in a finger joint of her gauntlet.

Damn, he didn't know what he said or did wrong, but she was bobbing again. Sometime while he had been away, her amulet had worked its way free and now hung outside her tunic, bouncing against her breasts. He pulled his gaze away from the movement, the horn appearing extremely phallus-shaped and standing up proud and erect between the tantalizing orbs, and stoked the fire.

Sparks shot up into the air, and she flinched. He might have missed the movement, so intent on ignoring her, but he had turned just far enough to rummage in his pack for something to cook. Out of one side he saw the sparks, and the other he saw her react, and he knew—he just knew she feared fire. The thought seemed incongruous, as she had not that long ago used a flame spell, but he knew he was right. She hid it well, but then again, she was a consummate actress.

He'd never mention it, though. Not unless she told him, first. If she didn't want to share it, then he wouldn't consider it. But now that he knew, he could see the tense set to her shoulders, the way her eyes flickered away from any reflection of flame on her armor, the slightly further than necessary distance she kept from the fire pit. She was afraid of fire.

He should say something to ease the situation, maybe tell her something that put him at a disadvantage, so she wouldn't feel so weakened by her fear. She had shared with him yesterday about the Thalmor and Helgen and Ralof; he should share with her something equally personal. "I didn't tell you the truth about my tattoo."

Gerhild paused in her work, lifting her eyes up to him and wondering where the sudden conversation had come from. He was studiously avoiding her eyes, his focus on pulling food out of his pack for their supper. "I know," she answered softly. Her words caused him to look up sharply at her, and she offered a small smile with her explanation. "You can't dissemble worth a damn, ya know."

"Diss-what-now?"

"Dissemble," she repeated, going back to cleaning her gauntlet. "Lying to mislead people into thinking you're something you're not. You're a terrible liar. I'm surprised Ondolemar even believed you were drunk the night of my party." She set aside the gauntlet to pick up a boot. "I could tell you and Argis were lying about the tattoos, the way you kept passing the subject back and forth, hoping the other would think of a convincing lie first."

He dropped his gaze, never realizing he had been so transparent. "I suppose you would be able to tell, wouldn't you, being so good at it yourself?" She couldn't tell if she was being insulted or not, and neither could he. He pulled a loaf of bread out and used his dagger to slice it in half lengthwise. "Like your story about the noblewoman."

Her hands paused in their movements, not long but long enough to let him know he had touched a nerve. "I didn't lie about that." He heard the softness in her voice, but glancing at her she didn't lift her face up from her work. He turned back to cooking supper, setting two chunks of dried venison in a bowl beside the fire and pouring a little mead in with it.

"It was just after my release from prison," he started, unable to look at her while he spoke. It would be easier that way, to just speak to the fire and let her hear if she wanted. "I… after Hamming's death… and getting out… I wanted to get away from Markarth for a time. Let things settle down and get my head cleared. Argis had just found employment protecting a Khajiit merchantwoman on her way to Riften. He heard I wanted to get away, so he convinced his employer to hire me, too. Didn't have much experience then as a sellsword, but figured it'd be as good a job as any. There were four of us then, for one merchant, but she did have a lot of goods to protect.

"We got to Riften alright, no more trouble than the usual odd bandit raid, nothing we couldn't handle. Made such good time she gave us all a bonus." He rummaged in his pack for some cheese, sliced it thin, and set it off to the side. "The other two sellswords, they found employment right away and left. But Argis and I decided to stay in Riften awhile. Though it's a cesspool of a city, infested with thieves and cheats, it was not Markarth, and I didn't want to go home yet. Had more coin in my purse than I'd ever seen in my entire life. Spent it on drink and food and music and… well, ya know."

He checked the meat, and finding it had softened enough he began pulling it apart into bite-sized pieces. "It was kinda fun. Got drunk nearly every night, got into fistfights and the guards never gave a damn. Blew off a lot of steam, ya know. We'd been there about a month, and spent half our coin. Came back from fishing in the lake one afternoon, and an Argonian offered us some skooma. I was stupid enough to think I could handle it, and Argis was always willing to try anything once." He paused to lick his fingers, cooling them after handling the heated meat. "Don't remember much else after that. There was something to do with a dare, and we staggered through some tunnels until we found this woman who said she'd change our appearances for a price. Argis said he wanted a tattoo, something detailed that looked like it hurt like hell to get it done. I patted his cheek and said I wanted the same thing." He scooped the meat out of the sauce and onto the bread, laying the cheese slices over the top. Then he picked up a twig burning on one end and held the flames over the cheese, melting it until it turned slightly brown.

"Next thing I remember clearly, was waking up in an alley with Argis on top of me. We'd been roughed up, our money gone, and these damned matching tattoos. Argis had to sneak into the inn to get our things, and sold his sword so he could pay our outstanding bill. Had just enough left over to get me back to Markarth. And he went to join the Legion."

Gerhild didn't speak the whole time. In fact, her movements had ceased entirely shortly after he started his story. When he passed her the bread with a bottle of mead, she started like she hadn't been paying attention and quickly shoved her boot aside to take the food. "So," she began, not making eye contact with him so she didn't see he wasn't making eye contact with her, "Basically, you sampled an illegal—and highly addictive—substance, dared each other to get a tattoo, got rolled by thieves, and woke up with probably the worst hangovers of your lives."

"Aye."

She nodded. "Now that, Vorstag, is one helluva story!"

He looked up at her, not sure what to make of it. She looked up at him, too, and saw the lost expression on his face. The hint of a smile tugged at her mouth, though she couldn't say why, and an answering hint played on his lips. Then he smiled, she smiled, and he laughed. "I suppose it isn't all that bad, after all."

"Oh, don't kid yourself," she shook her head, not laughing but feeling the tension of the day slipping away. "It is that bad. But funny as hell!"

He grimaced, which was quite an accomplishment with his shoulders still shaking with mirth, "Thanks."

She inclined her head, "You're welcome." She gestured with the bottle of mead and said, "To Riften: the only city in Skyrim that encourages miscreants."

"To Riften," he answered, "May I never see it again!"

She laughed, but he could tell it wasn't genuine. Still, it wasn't inappropriate and she meant it kindly, so he joined in. "Don't feel too bad," she offered, "It could have been a lot worse."

"Oh?" he asked before taking a large bite and trying to speak around it, "How?"

She had also taken a bite, and the flavorful morsel distracted her. "This is delicious. I've never seen anyone cook like this before. What do you call it?"

"I call it a 'cheese and meat boat'." He washed another mouthful down with a swig of mead.

She looked closer at what essentially was a bread trencher with stew and melted cheese, and shook her head. "The name needs work. No, it could have been worse. You and Argis could have woken up naked, the thieves having taken everything."

Vorstag sputtered, choking on his food and nearly spilling his mead over his lap. Quickly she set aside her supper to pat him forcefully on the back, trying to keep him from choking, but only making matters worse. He threw up a hand to deflect her blows, almost lost his 'cheese and meat boat,' and had to set his mead aside to save his supper. When he finally regained his composure, he managed a weak response, "Ah, right, that would have been worse."

She saw the blush again, not entirely from his choking fit, and knew she had somehow stumbled across the truth. Wondering if that was when they discovered they both preferred men, or if it had already happened, she wisely kept her suspicions to herself. It didn't matter, anyway, and Vorstag had suffered quite enough for one night. She moved back to her seat and picked up her supper. "Ya know, maybe 'cheese and meat boat' doesn't sound so bad after all."

He stifled a groan, not sure if she was teasing him again or offering a balm, and focused on finishing his supper.

A/N: okay, so was I the only one who wondered if there was a story behind Argis and Vorstag both being from the same city and having the same tattoo? Oh, I was? 0_0 Well, I hope you enjoyed my story behind it anyway :P As always, thanks for Following/ Favoriting/ Reviewing.