A/N: I feel—I don't know—terrible, I guess. Really struggled with this next part. I almost put an extra warning in, even though there's the blanket warning earlier, because it gets so intense. And I suppose I'm gonna lose half my readers after this, but it is a Romance, and this part has to happen in a Romance, or there isn't any opportunity for the angst and awkwardness and rapturous make-up. So, please don't hate me. I promise, there will be happy ending… eventually.

And also, I have to go back to work on my serious novel for a bit, but don't worry—I've written through to Chapter Thirty, should be enough to let me finish that so I can get back to this. I'll post on my profile page if I get delayed. As always, thanks for Following/ Favoriting (maybe I should try it with two t's?)/ Reviewing and for sticking with me (and for putting up with my obscure and eclectic references). I hope you enjoy :D

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Ondolemar wanted to rock back on his heels, enjoying the uncomfortable look on his visitor's features. He knew the other Justiciar would have preferred to keep his hood up, to hide his disgraceful stump of an ear, but he outranked Norilar. Barely. And since his hood was down, relaxed as he was in his own quarters, it would have been rude for Norilar to keep his head covered. "Allow me to extend the hospitality of Understone Keep, such as it is, to you and your escort. You may have this room for your own use; I'll have a cot brought in. They may share quarters with my own warriors, that is, assuming you will be staying here for a while."

"Just for the night," he ground out between tightly clenched teeth, trying hard not to sneer. Clearly he was having trouble keeping himself under control, which only heightened Ondolemar's amusement.

"Very well. You may dismiss them." It was a bold move, ordering Norilar to order his own guards, but he had to assert his position and authority, if only to discover if he truly did outrank Elenwen's favorite pet. Everyone knew there had to be a great amount of ass-kissing going on, since Norilar hadn't been terminated after his shameful disfigurement. He had been demoted to a certain extent, working now as Elenwen's personal assistant rather than an Interrogator. But Ondolemar was still the Head Justiciar in all of Skyrim, answering only to Elenwen herself.

And apparently, Norilar agreed. He turned the unmarked side of his face to his guards and nodded curtly, dismissing them on Ondolemar's orders. Again he smiled to himself, this was going to be an extremely interesting interview.

"So," he said cheerfully, once the door closed behind the guards, "To what do I owe this honor? Oh, would you care for any refreshments?" He gestured to where a pitcher of wine sat on a side table.

"I wouldn't want to impose on your already generous hospitality," he deferred, however unwillingly. "As it is, I see I have interrupted your supper."

He waved negligently at the tray holding grilled leaks and salmon steak, forgotten on the edge of his desk. "That was delivered hours ago; I've been too focused on work to make time to eat. But I could send for something, now that you're here, if that was what you were implying."

Norilar saw where he had nearly slipped up, but refused to rise to the bait. He simply could not afford to make any more mistakes, not until he redeemed himself. "No, thank you. We ate while we traveled. If you don't mind, I would prefer to get down to business, before retiring for the night. I fear I must leave early tomorrow morning, if there's nothing to keep me here."

Ondolemar smelled blood in the water, but remained cautious. He knew that Norilar had purposefully affirmed his weaker position, and wondered if there was a trap hidden within his capitulating demeanor. He hadn't risen to the status of Head Justiciar by taking too-good-to-be-true offers at face value. Yet it was obvious Norilar was tired and upset, so he decided to be the gracious host and offer to help him in any way possible. Besides, the time might come when he'd need Norilar to return the favor. It couldn't hurt to befriend this disgraced Thalmor—in private, of course—if he still held Elenwen's ear.

Smiling to himself over his little joke, he gestured to the chair in front of his desk. "But where are my manners. Please, Norilar, sit down. You look exhausted."

"Thank you," he replied, his words automatic and his voice strained.

"So, tell me, what brings you all the way here from the Embassy?" He eased himself into his own chair, leaning back and staring down the length of his nose at his reluctant guest.

Norilar could barely look up higher than the top of the desk, fearing what he would find on the other's face. "As you know, I am no longer functioning as an Interrogator…"

"Obviously," the laconic reply was oozing with sarcasm. So much for his intention to be helpful.

"Yes, well," he coughed. He had known this wasn't going to be easy, but damn Ondolemar, he didn't have to make it worse. "I have been given the assignment of searching for one particular person."

"Oh," Ondolemar leaned forward, interested, "Who?"

"The Nord girl who escaped Helgen," he ground out between his teeth. Glancing up, he knew he had been right not to look at Ondolemar. The other Altmer was staring at his stump. Anger flared and he spoke without thought. "Yes! The little bitch who did this to me!"

Ondolemar smiled. There used to be a time when Norilar was the very embodiment of composure itself. He had fallen very far indeed. "Calm yourself, Norilar. Do not get upset with me. It was the girl who disgraced you." He waited, watching as his guest struggled to bite back any scathing comments. When he seemed calm enough, he continued, "Now, how can I help you find this girl?"

His sudden offer of assistance was not without strings, he was sure, but he no longer had a choice. Elenwen had made it quite clear that his future within the Thalmor depended upon his redeeming himself by finding and gutting the bitch. Extra points if he brought back her head on a spike for confirmation. "I don't know if you can, but I'm going around to all the holds, speaking with all our agents, to find out if anyone has seen or heard of her. She seems to have disappeared right after Helgen, or perhaps she's being careful with her identity, and knows somehow that we are still looking for her. I don't know; I only know it is my task to find her."

"And so you've come here, wondering if I've seen her?" Ondolemar pursed his lips. "Perhaps, but I don't know what she looks like, other than her race, and all Nords look the same to me. In fact, I sometimes have trouble telling Nord from Breton, there are so many of each running around Markarth. Could you give any specifics?"

"I don't have much to give you in way of a description," Norilar ground out between his teeth, his eyes returning to the desk, his lap, the tray of food, anywhere but Ondolemar's condescending leer. "She's young, about so tall, light brown hair. She didn't tell us her name—wouldn't tell us a damn thing—but she gave her name to the headsman. I wasn't there, but Elenwen was, still trying to convince Tullius not to behead Ulfric. Anyway, she said the bitch's name was Hilde, or something like that."

"Hmm," Ondolemar thought, going over all the Nord girls he knew. "What was her age?"

Norilar shrugged. "Young. Definitely of birthing age, but hardly more than that."

Again he paused to think, tapping his chin. "There is a Nord named Gerhild," he offered, "Young, but older than you describe, and taller, and her hair is lighter. I suppose she doesn't share much in common with your intended victim other than her race and a similar part of her name."

"Is she a citizen of Markarth?" Norilar pressed, desperate enough for any lead that he would eagerly pursue every dead end.

"Lady Gerhild North-Wind?" he used her full name and title, but there was nothing for Norilar to recognize. "No, not originally. Came here from somewhere else, though I don't recall if she ever mentioned where. However, she purchased a house and was made a Thane just a few months ago. She retrieved Jarl Igmund's father's shield from a Forsworn camp, or claimed to, anyway. I think the mercenary she hired did most if not all of the work. The lady is far better adept at hosting parties than hoisting steel."

"Still, it's…" he paused, hating the distraught tone creeping into his voice yet unable to stop it, "She doesn't sound spirited enough to be Hilde, but it's enough for me to want to check. Could I see this Lady Gerhild? Could you arrange an introduction?"

Ondolemar took a deep breath, preparing to deliver what was going to be a heavy blow, and trying not to overtly gloat. "Afraid not. She's not at home currently, traveling to visit a friend in another hold or something. I don't keep track of her social calendar. In fact, I hardly waste my time on her as she worships Stendarr, not Talos, and is blatantly zealous about it."

Norilar looked disappointed, but what should he have expected. He was going to get this everywhere he went, forced to beg for help from people whom he had gladly walked over earlier in his career. They were going to enjoy watching him squirm, watching him beg for every scrap, and rejoice at every one of his failures.

"You could speak with her housecarl," Ondolemar offered a crumb, just to annoy him, "But I don't think that would do you any good. From what I understand, it was that mercenary fellow she spent most of her time with, if you catch my meaning. He'd know about her and her past, if anyone would."

"Where can I find this mercenary, do you know?"

Ondolemar was truly enjoying himself, the way he had Norilar dancing at the end of a string. "Usually he stays at the Silver-Blood Inn, when he's not hired on a job that takes him out of the city. You won't find him there now, though. He left a couple of months ago, and hasn't returned. From what I understand," he leaned forward as if sharing a great confidence, "She asked after him before leaving Markarth herself, and was disappointed to find him already gone, forcing her to travel with her housecarl. Well, it wasn't long before they met him on the road, and she quickly threw off her housecarl for the mercenary. Scandalous, if you ask me, but these Nords are uncivilized."

Norilar was fisting his hands so tightly his muscles cramped. "What about his name?"

"Whose name?" he pretended not to understand at first. Seeing the other's lips press so thin that they turned white, he decided to give in. "Oh, the mercenary. Vorstag. I thought you were asking about the housecarl. Argis the Bulwark, if you're wondering."

Norilar nodded, filing the names away in his mind, always having had a good memory for names and dates. "Thank you. Are there any others you can think of who might fit the girl's description?"

He tapped his chin again, but was already growing bored with the game. "Not who hasn't lived here all her life. Lady Gerhild is the only one not from Markarth, or has spent an adequate amount of time away from the city during the correct time frame."

"Fine," he nodded, trying to relax his fists. "Well, if she returns, could you send word to me at Northwatch Keep? I would like to meet her, just to make sure."

"Of course. What about the mercenary?"

Norilar waved that aside, grateful that his hand was no longer twisted into the shape of a claw, "He's of no importance. Just contact me if she returns, or if anyone else arrives who might fit Hilde's description. Please," he added the last word, ground out between his teeth, a blatant indicator of his current state of affairs.

Ondolemar wished he could send Norilar away to stay elsewhere, the urge to laugh growing almost too hard to bear. He wanted to guffaw, but couldn't do so in front of the man. That simply wasn't done. The corner of his mouth did twitch, and he was sure it was noticed, but when he spoke his voice was calm and controlled. "As you wish."

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The night was further along in Windhelm. Gerhild stood in front of her wardrobe, holding up her dress at arm's length. The fabric was soiled, the dirt from the Aretino house staining the red silk. She sighed, knowing it couldn't be cleaned, not well enough at any rate, and set it aside. It didn't truly matter, she supposed, as helping Aventus had been more important than keeping her skirts clean, and she had plenty of other dresses to wear. But for the rest of this night, a robe would do well enough. She reached into her wardrobe and pulled out a simple white robe with dark blue trim, soft and light over her shoulders, and tied the sash at her waist as she gazed through her room, searching for a distraction.

She wasn't sure what time it was, but she knew she was too keyed up for sleep. She had been out of sorts all day, and had been unable to fathom the reason. She felt she needed something, what exactly she wasn't sure, her mind a restless tumble of thoughts: Vorstag homesick for Markarth, where Ulfric had first sent her; Aventus desperate for vengeance, after Ulfric sent him to the corrupt orphanage; her own driving hatred of the Thalmor, which Ulfric shared…

Always her mind wanted to return to Ulfric, to that night he had sent her away. They had spoken since then, of course, but the conversations had been about Markarth or the Civil War or what he wanted her to do next. They stayed away from anything intimate, Galmar's constant and looming presence a great deterrent, though whenever his back was turned Ulfric would show her a kind smile or a gentle touch. And at night she had stayed away from his chambers, timorous of going to him lest she get caught. Galmar's room was across the hall from hers, and for some reason he was always opening his door whenever she opened hers.

But Galmar had been at the Candlehearth to hear Vorstag sing, and was very likely still there. And this night she was too restless, and knew it was very likely Ulfric would be restless, too. Without stopping to think she opened her door and slipped into the hallway.

It was deserted, and Galmar's door remained blessedly closed. She told herself she would simply knock softly, and if Ulfric didn't answer then he was asleep and she would leave him to his rest. Her bare feet padded up the stairs to his bedchambers, her mind refusing to plan a course of action if he was awake. Her long fingers curled into a fist as she raised her hand and rapped gently on the door, her ears expecting silence. She was just knocking, and he wouldn't answer, and she would go back to her room.

Ulfric was tired. It was late enough that he had set aside his mantle and armor and boots for the night. All he wore now was his simple, long-sleeved tunic and dark leggings, never being comfortable with undressing any further than that. He was sitting in his favorite chair, the lamp beside him turned down low, one leg bent with the ankle resting on the other knee. In this triangular lap rested a book, but he wasn't reading so much as listlessly flipping through the pages, a ritual that some nights helped to ease his incessant urges enough to allow him to sleep.

He hadn't expected the knock, but ever the soldier his first thought was of battle. "Come," he commanded forcefully, projecting power and strength, assuming he'd see a soldier enter with news of some ambush or skirmish. When a lithe body appeared with freshly unbraided, dark gold hair, long-neglected heat burst through his chest and settled at the inside corner of his triangular lap, instantly banishing the tiredness. He watched her look through the room, unable to find him, and he had to stifle a chuckle. "I'm behind the door."

Gerhild started, her lips parting with surprise, but she turned to look towards the corner holding the chairs, one hand still on the edge of the door. She could barely discern him, sitting relaxed and casual, a book opened on his lap, and she wondered how he could read in such dim light. He was dressed in only a tunic and leggings, his bare feet white against the dark fabric. She was suddenly unsure, seeing herself as an intruder into his privacy, never having considered that she would find him at his leisure. Asleep, aye, or even wide-awake and pacing, but not so informal. Ulfric Stormcloak, the Jarl of Windhelm, would never pad around in bare feet. But then she remembered, he wasn't a Jarl in these chambers; he was simply Ulfric.

"Are you going to stand there with the door open, or finish coming in?" he challenged, intrigued and a little amused by her late night visit. He willed this to be the point where he finally possessed her, but he knew it couldn't be that simple. Vorstag was still around, perhaps even in his room just a few doors down, and she couldn't truly be his until her hireling left. Yet she was here, in his room, though standing with the door opened as if desiring an escape route, unsure of her own actions or motives. That wasn't a good sign; she had to come to him willingly, fully of her own volition, if he was to truly tame the Dragonborn.

When she still didn't move, standing like a startled doe about to bolt, he took a slow, deep breath. It seemed he'd have to lead her by the hand tonight. "Gerhild?" he motioned to the door, his hand mimicking the action of it closing shut.

"I…" she stopped, unable to speak as she didn't know what she wanted to say. She glanced over her shoulder to look down the stairs to the hallway below, but no one was there. If she left now, only Ulfric would know she had acted strangely tonight. Then again, only Ulfric would know she had been here.

"What is it?" he asked, making his voice gentle and understanding. She was obviously having trouble of some sort tonight, and if she came to him for help, he would be more than willing to give it, seeing it as an opportunity to strengthen their relationship.

She licked her lips, the tiny point of her tongue lingering in one corner before disappearing back inside. "I don't know how I got here."

He closed the book quietly without marking the page, but left it on his lap. He needed to slip one hand downwards to carefully readjust himself before things got too uncomfortable, and wanted to use the large tome for cover. Still, he distracted her with a question, knowing she could oftentimes be inconveniently observant. "You mean, you were under some sort of spell, and only now awoke to find yourself at my door?" He smiled, his goatee bending with the expression.

She dropped her gaze and allowed for the humor in the situation. After closing the door, she lifted her eyes and squared her shoulders. "That wasn't quite what I meant. But I cannot find the words to explain…" she spread the fingers of one hand, "…this."

He set his book on the table, showing her that he was giving her his complete attention. He gestured to the other chair, and watched her approach it warily. "Start with what you can explain, and we'll work our way through it all."

"I don't know, Ulfric," she sighed, taking the seat, clasping her hands in her lap to keep from wringing them. "I… I didn't mean to disturb you… you were reading…"

"I was flipping through the pages without seeing the words," he admitted since it would serve to reassure her, before finishing with a half-truth, "I found myself unable to sleep tonight."

"As am I," she eagerly agreed. "Ulfric…"

She was moving in spurts, her words and actions oddly manic and uncharacteristically uncontrolled. He began to recognize the signs, that she was avoiding something unpleasant, and tried to decipher what it was that upset her so greatly. If he could help her in this, it would only reinforce his position as a trusted confidant. "What is wrong?"

"I don't know," she shook her head, "I find my mind is restless tonight, unable to settle and… I don't know if anything is wrong." She leaned forward to set her elbows on her thighs, staring at a spot on the floor.

"Something must be wrong," he reasoned, reaching across the table to set his hand near her, the tips of his fingers brushing her upper arm, "Or you wouldn't be so troubled."

She closed her eyes and bowed her head, "That sounds logical."

He watched her, sitting there and simply breathing, her head bowed and her hands clasped before her. Suddenly he knew what was wrong, recognizing her pose as it had been the first time he saw her on the back of a wagon heading into Helgen, one year ago tomorrow—or today, considering it was after midnight. Fuck, he thought to himself, amazed she had come so far in the past twelve months. Yet it was obviously bothering her, this first anniversary of such a harrowing event, and just as obviously she was unable to understand what it was that bothered her. He'd had plenty of experience dealing with painful anniversaries—nearly thirty years worth—and felt confident he could walk her through the steps necessary to regain her sanity. He took another breath, squaring his shoulders. This was going to be even harder than he had first thought, but he would never have it said of him that he would back away from a challenge.

"Gerhild," he began, and was rewarded when she looked up at him. "Do you know what day it is?"

Her head tilted, surprised at the unusual question, unable to see how it could affect her. She tried to turn away, but his gaze held her, the steel of his eyes willing her to answer. She gave her head a tentative shake, not daring to break eye contact, and took a deep breath. Her voice came out as a small whisper, the sound akin to a bleating lamb. "I… I don't…"

"Answer me!"

She jumped at his harsh command, recognizing the authority and bowing to it. "The 16th of Last Seed."

"It's already the 17th," he said, his voice suddenly soft. It was a familiar tactic, alternating between brutality and gentleness, and it would serve to help her remember—help her face what she was suppressing. Gently his hand reached out to stroke her cheek. "We met one year ago today, do you remember?"

She pulled away.

"You woke up bound in the back of a wagon…"

She pushed herself out of the chair.

"…heading to Helgen for your execution…"

She reached for the door, her hand turning the latch, and pulled. The door opened nearly an inch before Ulfric's heavy hand slammed it shut. She flinched at the sound and fled from him again.

"…after being captured and tortured by the Thalmor."

"Stop!" she shouted, covering her ears with her hands and squeezing her eyes shut. He was suddenly before her, his more powerful body easily catching up to her. His hands grabbed her wrists and pulled them from her head, forcing her to at least hear his words if not listen to them.

"Do you remember?"

"I… I can't… I… please… stop… let me go… I don't know anything…" More words followed, but without any breath to give them voice, they were lost within the movements of her lips. She yanked and twisted in his grip a few times, trying to pull her wrists free with a strength born of mania, but he held on fast. Then just as suddenly as her fight started it stopped, and she took in a staggering breath. Her face lifted up, and a brief flash of something dark crossed her features before she could quell it and wrestle back her self-control. He recognized that look, having been its acquaintance for decades, and the last little clue fell into place. He knew if he wanted to help her, he'd have to delve deeper—into both their pasts. Gods, this was going to hurt him as much as it hurt her, before he was finished. He prayed he had the strength.

He asked quietly, "How old are you?"

She closed her eyes, but the question sounded innocent and could be easily answered, "I just turned eighteen."

"When?"

Her brow furrowed. Unable to see where this was going, she gave a wobble of her head that might have been considered a confused shake. "Two months ago, the 16th of Mid Year."

"When did your father die?"

Now she looked up at him, her lips parted, her confusion increasing. "Over a year ago." When he stood and waited for a more detailed response, she continued, "Three weeks before my seventeenth birthday."

He took a deep breath, hating himself for doing this to her, but knowing it had to be done. "What do the Thalmor do to their captives?" he asked, all gentleness gone from his voice. All gentleness was gone from his grip as well, his hands tightening like irons around her wrists. Her eyes closed tightly shut once more, her head shaking from side to side, her body again writhing in his grasp as he forced her backwards, step by step. "What's the first thing they do?" He slammed her back against the wall, the smoothly hewn stone hard and unforgiving. "After you're captured, and before they start your torture, what do they do?"

"I don't know!" she cried, opening her eyes, reveling in the anger and violence that thrummed through her body. "Why do you keep asking? I've already told you what they did to me!"

"It doesn't add up." He spoke softly, a stark contrast to his fierce grip. She struggled again but he easily held her against the wall, her arms wide. "You claim you were tortured for only three days. But three months passed from the time your father died, to when we found ourselves on our way to Helgen. It might have taken you a month, at most, to travel to the border between Cyrodiil and Skyrim, depending on where you were when he died. I might even allow a month for crossing the mountains, if you didn't use the pass, but you did because you were caught. That still leaves a month that somehow disappeared from your life. Three weeks at minimum."

"Gods…" she prayed, softly moaning. But they weren't answering her, not the way she wanted. Ulfric continued to hold her wrists against the wall, but moved them lower, spread apart, until she was forced to her knees, knowing exactly what he was mimicking.

"What do they do?" he demanded.

She had had enough. She wasn't the lost little girl she had been last summer. She was a warrior, a Thane of two holds, Dragonborn. "Fus Ro," she Shouted, flecks of foam at the corners of her mouth. She hit him squarely in the stomach, her Thu'um strong enough to push him away and finally rip her wrists from his grasp, but not to knock him off his feet. He staggered, however, his ankle catching on the bottom step of the dais leading up to his bed, and lost his balance. He spun, trying to catch himself with his hands, but banged his cheek on the foot of one of the braziers and knocked the wind out of himself on a step.

It would be easiest to give in to the ringing in his ears and pass out. Gods knew he had done so before with less incentive. But he couldn't leave Gerhild like this, only half remembering. As much as it hurt, physically and mentally, he positioned his hands beneath his body and pushed, his ribs protesting the bending movement. He tried to get his feet underneath him, but his ankle quickly made him reconsider. Giving up for now, he rolled over to sit on the bottom step and take stock of the situation, to see if there was anything he could salvage.

Warily he looked across to Gerhild. She was still kneeling in front of the wall, her arms dangling at her sides lifeless, her opened eyes blind, her lips parted in silent screams. He wanted to go to her, but the throb in his ankle and the twinge in his ribcage made him reconsider. He wasn't sure he could take her Shouting at him again, so he wrapped an arm around his chest and spoke from where he sat, halfway across the room.

"Gerhild?"

Gone was the commanding tone, gone was the cajoling, he was simply asking, in that one word, if she heard him, if she was alright. He saw her shudder, trembling as if in some sort of fit or seizure, before her eyes cleared and she focused on him.

"Stuhn's Shield," she breathed, "What have I done?" She scrambled over to him on all fours, stopping at his side. She stared at his ankle, the pale skin easily showing the darkening bruise. Raising her eyes she saw his one arm holding himself stiffly, the other braced on the steps.

"I'm alright," he spoke reassuringly to try to assuage her guilt.

She shook her head. "You're not. Your ankle is already swelling and bruised, and you're holding your ribs like they're cracked. Oh!" she stopped, biting her lip. With hesitant fingers she reached out slowly, leaning closer to him, and touched her fingertips to his cheek. The cut wasn't deep, but it left a fresh crimson line to join the older scars. She dropped her hand, "I Shouted at you. I… I could have killed you."

He shook his head, regretting it when the ringing intensified, nearly drowning out his own words. "Your Thu'um isn't quite strong enough for that, yet. Besides, I've gotten a lot worse beating while sparing with Galmar." He could tell by the look on her face that she didn't believe him. He tried to take a deep breath, immediately regretted it, and settled for a grunt. "Gerhild, don't blame yourself. I pushed you into it."

"You… you wanted me to Shout at you?" One delicate eyebrow rose above a deep violet orb.

"Not quite," he grimaced. The step was hard and uncomfortable, the edge of the next step biting into his back. "Help me up. There's a healing potion or two over in that dresser." He made to stand, but she held her hand up before him. He stopped before she could touch him, wary of her intentions.

"I… I could…" she tried to offer help, but the way he held himself back from her left her feeling unworthy, mistrusted, unwanted. She swallowed and tried again, determined to do her penance. "Let me heal you. Please."

Damn, this was costing him. But he couldn't blame her; she had no idea of the price she was making him pay, not yet anyway. Hesitantly he nodded, hating the idea, hating the memories it brought back, but knowing it might bring those same memories to her. And she needed to remember.

Gerhild relaxed a little at his nod, the tight knot of guilt untwisting slightly within her gut. She recited the spell, slowly moving her hand to hover over him, watching fascinated as the golden ribbons slipped through her fingers to suffuse his body. She saw his ankle return to normal in both size and color, and his arm relax from around his chest. She looked up at his face, the cut healed as she expected, but found something more. There was a look in his eyes, something she couldn't quite describe, but something she realized she was familiar with, something dark and hopeless and enduring and dead. And she had to look away before the same expression was mirrored in her own eyes.

She knew. The realization hit her with the force of a warhammer, reeling her mentally and breaking through a wall she didn't know existed. She knew. The spell was finished, and her empty hand now moved, almost fearful and timid, to touch the center of his chest. She knew what would be there. His tunic was dark and tightly woven to keep anyone from seeing through it, but it wasn't thick enough to hide the shape of his Amulet of Talos from her discerning fingers, or the scars that lay beneath it.

"They start by shackling you to the wall."