Two Banners have fallen, and the Eagle flies above all, the sole victor in a war protracted over seven grueling years. The first to surrender was the Covenant – breaking apart after the deaths of their kings – but the Pact proved more stubborn, refusing to surrender after the Dunmer Tribunal made truce with the Dominion, and the Argonians had retreated back to their marshes.
But now, with Jorunn the Skald King slain before his throne in Windhelm, it's time to bring the Dominion's victory to completion.
Under the lead of Queen Ayrenn, the Dominion army marches across Skyrim, in pursuit of a small but loyal Pact contingent that has retreated into the westernmost city of Markarth. They are a frustrating lot, and though the Dominion expects little problem at subduing them, they are inconvenienced by the fortress-like refuge carved into the face of a mountain. Spies have reported a literal uphill climb towards the keep, and the numerous tiers of the city provide Pact archers with enough elevation to whittle down the Dominion's numbers, before they even came face-to-face.
Given the Pact's proven tenacity in the face of overwhelming odds, they'd expected their foes to force the Dominion to pay a steep blood price for an absolute victory. Thus, it's truly a surprise to find the Pact soldiers waiting for them in the open farmlands some distance before Markarth, standing still even as the Dominion closes the distance. When Queen Ayrenn calls her army to a halt, a Nord general strides forward alone to the dead zone between their forces.
Sielaire narrows her eyes at the sight of the general. It's a familiar face – the very same warrior she had fought, and been captured by, during their lengthy campaign in Cyrodiil. She can't help but feel a lick of irritation – thousands have died, yet he still lives.
"There has been enough bloodshed in this war," he booms at them, without even a most simple greeting. "Unless you truly are bloodthirsty hounds seeking to feast upon us, you will listen to what I have to say."
Ayrenn gives a close-lipped smile in the face of his blatant disregard for her station. "Go on."
"I propose a duel – between me, and one of you. Only one life will be sacrificed to decide the fate of our people."
"A reasonable request. What are the stakes of this duel?"
"If you win, my people will bend knee to you – but you will treat them with respect, and show mercy to the civilians within Markarth."
Ayrenn nods. "And if you win?"
"My wish for the safety of Markarth still stands," the Nord says simply. "But you will let my soldiers go free."
A moment's consideration. "Very well. And what are the conditions of the duel?"
"Simple: a duel to the death. The one left standing, wins." He pauses, then adds, "And I will choose my opponent."
"Only from the ranks of our officers."
"That is what I intend."
"Then we accept your proposal." With two swift hand gestures, Ayrenn orders her commanders to move forth, standing astride the Queen's horse in a neat row. "Choose your opponent."
The Nord doesn't even pretend to consider his options. He unsheathes his battleaxe, eyes going straight to Sielaire, and he points his weapon at her.
Sielaire's lips twitch, and she shares a quick glance with Ayrenn. The Queen doesn't nod – she knows her battlereeve isn't asking for permission, merely giving an acknowledgement. I accept my fate in this duel, whatever it may be.
Sielaire dismounts smartly, a fire sparking to life deep in her gut. It's a feeling she had buried years ago, along with the shame and vulnerability tied to it. But this time, the anger rises again, without that deep-seated fear to shackle it down. And she welcomes it.
She starts to march forward to meet her opponent, but is stopped by the Queen's hand on her shoulder, when she passes by the regal, armoured horse.
"Be careful, Sielaire," Ayrenn says quietly, her expression as stoic as her wife's.
A curt nod, and the battlereeve strides out into the field.
The battle has yet to begin, and Ayrenn is already unsettled. Sielaire's eyes are dark – darker than they had been on nights when she found Sielaire beating a training dummy half to death, in the early hours of a sleepless morning. She recognises the hatred, the resentment, the need to lose control – and it scares her.
Sielaire's strength has always been control – complete, utter control of herself in the battlefield, no matter the circumstance. It allows her to evaluate and adapt at the snap of a finger, to keep from falling to her passions and losing focus in battle. It's a state of mind that bleeds into the rest of her soldiers; Ayrenn has witnessed how the Wings unconsciously mimic their commander, blood rage rising and falling in tandem with Sielaire's, and it is this synergy that has earned them so many hard-won battles, and the reputation that comes with it.
Now, though, Ayrenn worries that Sielaire might become another person entirely.
She can feel that burn deep within her chest, and she clutches it close to her beating heart, fire growing hotter as she stands before the Nord warrior. Neither give any indication of recognition, save for the edge of steel in their gaze – a resolution that only one shall walk away from this battle, finally bringing their long-lasting feud to an end.
Sielaire's blade hisses quietly against its leather sheath as she draws it, and holds it by her side, ready to fly into battle at a moment's notice. She holds the Nord's stare through his bulky, horned helmet, and they start to circle each other slowly, matching pace as they wait for either to make the first move. Sielaire takes the chance to size her opponent up – she has learnt from their past engagements that this Nord is unafraid of using his size to his advantage. He acts as a bully in combat, determined to pummel his foes into submission while taunting them into making all the wrong moves.
Despite his bulk, he handles his heavy axe deftly, even if his swings are still slower than Sielaire's lightning-quick strikes. Should he be too slow, his thick armour can pick up the slack, taking a large number of blows that would've incapacitated him. This, Sielaire decides, shall be her priority.
She counts her steps – one, two, three–
Sielaire lifts her sword high and sprints forth, inciting a similar reaction in her opponent. The Nord rushes forward with a roar, but she is ready. Sielaire sidesteps his downward strike easily, slipping past him and bringing her blade across his back. Adamantium clashes loudly against steel chainmail, and a leather strap of his chestplate is severed by her sword. Sielaire leaps backwards when the Nord swings his axe around in a wide arc, and it's obvious he didn't expect his attack to hit – he doesn't follow through, and cocks his head at her quizzically, as if puzzling out the intent of her starting move.
She doesn't give him the chance to think, leaping forward again. They meet strike for strike, but Sielaire is cautious not to take too many of his axe blows directly. Though her blade is able to withstand the impact, her arms cannot do the same indefinitely, even if she can switch sword arms at will. So she keeps her focus, dodging and blocking the axe as appropriate, dancing over withered grass as she darts at her larger opponent again and again, always aiming for the straps that hold his armour together, and daring a few attempts at his neck.
The Nord lashes out with a kick, and Sielaire evades it easily – as he intended. She notices the warrior shifting his grip on his axe, closer to the blade, and her understanding arrives at the same time his axe clashes into her sword with surprising speed. The Nord invades her space, and barely gives her time to breathe, swinging his axe at her repeatedly, until Sielaire feels herself being forced into a corner.
On his next blow, Sielaire stops the axe with her sword on its haft, and twists it around, nearly pulling the heavy weapon out of the Nord's hands. He recovers quickly and swings his axe over his head, but Sielaire is one step ahead, flinging her hand out–
Her eyes widen when she realises her arm is bereft of the familiar electric glow of magicka. Within the next second, the axe cleaves through the layered pauldrons on her left shoulder, biting through her flesh and into the bone. A pained cry is ripped from her throat as she's forced to one knee under the impact, feeling the iciness radiating from the axe's enchantment. She realises belatedly that she has brought her blade up to stop the axe from cutting through her shoulder, and she narrows her eyes through the pain, lifting her head to spot the crimson glow beneath his bracer.
That's–
The glow that haunts her nightmares.
Fury bursts in her chest, and she pushes herself to her feet with a shout, the axe blade digging deeper into her flesh, before she charges forward and slices her sword across his stomach. Before she can clear him completely, however, the Nord whirls around and forces her to meet his axe again. Her one-handed grip barely withstands the blow, and she's forced to stumble backwards, putting more ground between them.
Sielaire is perplexed when he doesn't press his advantage and attack while she's hunched over, trying to catch her breath through the pain lancing down her shoulder. She raises her gaze towards the warrior, who lifts his left arm to display the rune embedded on the underside of his bracer, emitting the very same red glow she had seen during her time in Pact captivity – the spell that had severed her magicka then, is doing the same to her now.
The Nord's mouth curls in a self-satisfied grin, when understanding dawns upon her face. He had obviously planned this, to lure Sielaire into a battle with a handicap.
Sielaire's grip on her sword tightens, turning her knuckles white. She is unaware of the growl rumbling through her bared teeth.
"Sie–," Ayrenn gasps when the axe forces Sielaire to one knee. Her hands tighten around the reins of her horse, and it takes all her willpower not to fly into the battle herself.
Why did Sie's magic not work?
Heart pounding in her chest, Ayrenn watches as Sielaire slips away from the axe, and manages to gain some distance from the Nord. Sielaire is in obvious pain, favouring her left shoulder where her pauldrons have fallen and exposed the ragged, bleeding wound beneath. A subtle golden glow slithers up her arm and winds around the wound, but the presence of mind to heal herself with their enchanted wedding band, doesn't set Ayrenn at ease.
Sielaire's countenance twists with a rage that Ayrenn has never seen in their long years of war, and fear for her partner's life makes the Queen's head feel light.
Please, love – stay your senses.
The two combatants fly towards each other again, and the Nord starts grunting under the swings of Sielaire's blade, growing wilder as she loses control of her temper. Her sword clashes into every target she can reach – his axe, his arms, his legs, his chainmail-covered chest left exposed by the chest guard, which has fallen to the ground from Sielaire's previous attempts at cutting it off. Each of her attacks strikes true – but she pays for every one by suffering a wound in return. Slashes and cuts litter her body, the ones in her sides paining her the most, and a dark bruise sits on her cheek, a gift from the Nord's elbow.
But the pain doesn't bother her. She doesn't care. She will gladly take on all the pain in the world, if only to bring the same upon the bastard she fights against.
Sielaire darts forward, sword and axe ringing out the hundredth note of their cacophonous battlesong, and she matches him blade for blade until he stomps forward and rams his helmet against her head. Sielaire's vision blacks out for a second too long, and fire spreads across her abdomen, where the axe's pointed tip has dug through the folds of her armour, and sunk into her flesh.
Anger riding atop her pain, Sielaire lashes out – driving the tip of her sword through the Nord's left forearm. The warrior howls, then kicks out at her stomach. But Sielaire keeps her grip tight on her blade, its sharp edge slicing down his arm and through the bracer, cutting it cleanly off as he staggers backwards.
The rune in the bracer still glows among the grass, and Sielaire brings her boot down on it, but fails to crush it beneath the reinforced sole. Growling, she glances back at Ayrenn, and hits the bracer with a well-aimed kick – sending it flying towards the Queen.
A beast-like roar stirs the air, and Sielaire turns back to face the Nord, who shakes off the pain in his arm and fixes her with a burning glare.
Sielaire smirks, taking pleasure in his anger – for all the rage in Tamriel and Oblivion will do him no good, after the Queen does what needs to be done.
Ayrenn frowns at the bracer that Sielaire kicks over, and summons it to her outstretched hand with a simple telekinesis spell.
She feels it immediately – a malignant energy that shrouds the armour. Turning it over, she finds the rune still embedded in the ruined bracer, and plucks it out. Her lips curl in distaste as she examines the faintly glowing rune – they hadn't even bothered to refine it into a glyph, merely carving additional inscriptions into the stone to augment its power. This must be what's severing Sielaire's connection to her magicka – a primitive, detestable attempt at gaining a foothold over the battlereeve.
Disgust burns like acid in her chest, and Ayrenn tosses the bracer away. Curling her fingers over the rune, she summons her own magicka, overwhelming the crude enchantment in the stone. She crushes the rune beneath the force of her magic, and it crumbles to dust, falling through her fingers as mere ashes.
The battlefield is under her dominion now.
Unshackled, Sielaire blasts the Nord with spell after spell, charring his armour black all over with vicious green lightning. She, who is capable of conjuring a thunderstorm to devastate an army of thousands, can very well disintegrate the Nord to ashes in a mere second – both of them know it. But a deep, dark part of Sielaire claws for vengeance, and she takes it gladly.
That the Nord gets more enraged with each lightning strike? Even better.
She revels in the hate blazing in his eyes whenever she knocks his axe away with magic, and drives her sword through him again. She leaves countless cuts on his arms and legs, sharp eyes watching him tire with each passing minute, but the indulgence proves to be a mistake when he pounces at her like a cornered bear. She steps back too late, and the flat of his axe rams under her chin, the sharpened blade's edge leaving a long but shallow cut up the length of her cheek.
Sielaire laughs aloud at the pain, even as indignation flares in the pit of her stomach. She swoops in to snatch her victory, bringing her blade through the Nord's sword arm, severing it near the elbow. His howl is cut short by sharp, airless gasps when Sielaire drives her sword into his stomach – once, twice, thrice–
She has lost count by the time she sinks the blade through his chest, twists it hard, and forces the Nord to his knees. Sielaire pants heavily, tasting copper in her mouth as she stares down into the Nord's dark eyes, finding the gleam of disdain, exhaustion, resolution, respect. It takes Sielaire by surprise, and drives her over the edge.
Ripping the sword from his chest, Sielaire lets out a ragged cry as she slices her sword through his thick neck, severing his head from his shoulders. Warm blood splatters onto her face as she watches the body fall over to the ground, its head thudding onto dry grass.
She stands there, near catatonic, as cheers erupt from the Dominion army behind her. One moment passes, then two, and she gets it in her head to move back towards her horse.
Sielaire turns around, the world moving inexplicably slow around her. She takes one step after another in a haze, dimly aware that Dominion soldiers are moving forward to secure their Pact captives, but she soon forgets about them.
Her eyes are fixed on the Queen, who has dismounted from her horse, and is walking towards Sielaire with a deep furrow between her brows. Sielaire wonders vaguely about a question she doesn't remember, and finds her answer when she presses a hand to the armour at her stomach, fingers coming away slick with blood. Numbness spreads across her abdomen, as do the tremors slowly overtaking her body, her feet growing unsteady on solid ground. Her consciousness has narrowed, focused on Ayrenn alone, wanting to ask why she looks so worried–
The sword falls from Sielaire's hand, and she sways dangerously on her next step, but Ayrenn lunges forward to catch her before she collapses. She lies limply in Ayrenn's hold, head falling onto the Queen's armoured shoulder, then lolls back when her feet leave the ground, Ayrenn carrying her in both arms. She catches a glimpse of blonde hair beneath that blue-and-gold winged crown, before her vision fades to black, a sole voice ringing in her ears.
"Healer! Get the healers, now!"
When Sielaire regains consciousness, it's with much difficulty, though her body is not hurting as much as it should be. She blinks slowly up at the thick tent canvas, through which daylight still shines, casting a comfortable glow over the enclosed space.
"Send word to Her Majesty that the Battlereeve has woken."
Sielaire turns her head towards the voice, just catching sight of the tent flaps closing behind a runner, before the camp's lead healer kneels beside her bedroll.
"Do you remember your name and rank?" the Altmer asks gently.
Gazing blearily up at the healer, she rasps, "Sielaire. Battlereeve."
"Good. Do you remember where you are?"
This, Sielaire struggles to recall. "Skyrim…Markarth."
"That's right. Now, if you don't mind, I would like to ask–" The healer pauses when the Queen enters the tent, but continues at a wave of Ayrenn's hand. "I'd like to ask just one more question. Do you remember what happened before you lost consciousness?"
"Duel." Sielaire is distracted when Ayrenn takes a seat beside her, and she raises a weak hand, which her wife grasps quickly. "I won."
"Yes, beloved. You did." Ayrenn smiles down at Sielaire, who gazes tiredly at her.
Sielaire feels the siren call of sleep tugging at her, but she resists, just to look upon her wife that much longer. In the meantime, the healer presses two fingers to her wrist, checks her eyes and mouth, then examines the bandages beneath her shirt.
"The healing has taken well, Your Majesty," the healer says. "But I recommend at least two days' rest for the battlereeve – the duel and her exertion from the past few days are taking a toll on her body. Other than that, she is fine."
"Understood. Thank you." Ayrenn returns the healer's nod, and waits for her to leave the tent before turning her attention back to Sielaire. "How are you feeling, my dear?"
Sielaire considers the question, then shakes her head. "Nothing."
"No?" Ayrenn tilts her head, stroking Sielaire's cheek. "Not even…satisfaction? Vindication?"
Again, Sielaire searches her heart, and shakes her head mutely.
"Well, I'm glad you're safe, for one. You had me worried from the start."
"Sorry…"
"No, hush." Ayrenn holds a finger to her lips. "You have nothing to apologise for." She smiles at Sielaire's nod, then presses a kiss to her knuckles. "Do you need anything, darling? Some water? Food?"
"Stay with me?" Sielaire asks softly.
"Of course – but I've to settle the camp first. I'll be back as soon as I have things in order, alright?"
Sielaire nods again, then smiles faintly when Ayrenn kisses her. Another peck on her forehead, and the Queen bustles out to the camp, leaving Sielaire alone in their tent.
She closes her eyes, feeling about the bandages wrapped around her abdomen. She must've suffered quite a number of wounds, so many that healing through magic alone couldn't suffice. Not surprising, considering how she had…
Sielaire sighs, thinking back on the battle. It's a blur now, to be honest; all she can remember clearly is the Nord's dying gaze, and herself gradually losing a temper that she'd learnt to control, years ago. It is…embarrassing, to have lost her composure in front of the army, giving into a rage not unlike that of her foe. How unbecoming of a battlereeve who has built a reputation based on her skill and poise. Still, it's lucky that she'd survived after losing her head in the duel. It would've been a waste to die in such a battle–
A waste?
She ponders the word. She'd thought she hated the Nord – she did hate him, had spent time thinking of how she'd exact her vengeance upon him when they next met. But now, after achieving the very goal she'd secretly harboured for years, it just seems…petty. A need borne of wounded pride that has been unable to heal, not with the venom she'd carried for so long.
Now, she just doesn't care anymore. Doesn't care to feel or think on it.
Sielaire flexes her fingers, feeling the ghost of Ayrenn's touch, those soft lips on her own. And she does feel something. She smiles to herself, clutching weakly at her shirt.
She has everything she needs, and that is enough.
"My champion," Ayrenn breathes into her ear, sending a deeper flush through Sielaire's cheeks.
Her back arches when Ayrenn drives her fingers in again, murmuring sweet nothings in that smooth, dulcet tone. "Renn," Sielaire gasps, clutching tighter onto Ayrenn's shoulders, wrapping a leg around her lover's hips as she rocks into Ayrenn's hand, riding her expert fingers ever closer to completion–
She forces her eyes open when Ayrenn slows down, meeting her wife's gaze through darkness illuminated by the warm electric crackle from her fingers, and her question is answered when a third digit slides into her. Ayrenn slips in slowly, catching Sielaire's lips in a soft kiss as she sinks up to the first knuckle, then plunges the rest of the way in.
"Ah–!" Sielaire's moan is sharp, her nails digging into Ayrenn's flesh. "Renn–," she whimpers, muscles trembling as Ayrenn thrusts deep and fast, wetness slicking over her fingers. Ayrenn holds her captive, pace unrelenting, subtly gathering magicka about her digits, then lets it flare in a single pulse.
"Renn!" Sielaire's head falls back, body taut as she clamps tighter around Ayrenn, reaching her peak but not quite there. She hears Ayrenn's deep, throaty chuckle, and nearly lets out another whimper in return.
"Oh, my dear hero." Ayrenn kisses slowly up the column of her exposed throat. "She who triumphs over all, but falls only to one… Or three, in this case."
Sielaire barks a breathless laugh, shooting her an incredulous look through half-lidded eyes. "You're ridiculous."
"Ridiculous?" Ayrenn scoffs. "Such disrespect for your Queen. I'll have to teach you a lesson."
Sielaire smiles into the soft kiss gifted upon her lips, and moans quietly when Ayrenn's tongue slips in, gliding over hers with tantalising pressure. She can still taste the wine they've shared, mixed with her own heady flavour, from Ayrenn's time between Sielaire's thighs. Lifting her head, Sielaire tries to follow Ayrenn when she withdraws, and is rewarded with another kiss. "Is this the lesson, Your Majesty?" Sielaire asks with a crooked smile.
Ayrenn's smirk only grows when she pulses her magic inside Sielaire, watching her lover's eyelids flutter, another breathless moan falling from her lips. "Your tongue is growing sharp, my dear consort," Ayrenn murmurs, biting Sielaire's lower lip. "You're lucky I love it so." A deep kiss. "Now, put it to use. Say my name."
"Is that–" Sielaire's breath hitches when Ayrenn starts thrusting into her again. "Is that all?"
"Say it," Ayrenn intones, closing her teeth none-too-gently on Sielaire's ear.
Groaning at the next pulse of magicka in her, keenly aware of its growing rhythm and intensity, Sielaire surrenders a quiet, "Ayrenn."
"Louder."
Sielaire lets out a soft whine as Ayrenn trails down from her ear, nipping and sucking at her skin. She knows exactly what Ayrenn wants, that she won't be denied. Another intense pulse, and Sielaire clamps around Ayrenn's fingers reflexively. "Renn."
"Louder, Sie," Ayrenn whispers into Sielaire's throat, nibbling her way down to her lover's chest, and takes a breast into her mouth.
"Renn," she says, feeling a tongue swirl around her nipple, arching her chest further into Ayrenn's mouth. "Ayrenn, please."
Ayrenn doesn't answer, moving her lips down from Sielaire's chest, kissing the new scars adorning her lover's abs, intimately aware of the flex in Sielaire's muscles as she keeps her wife teetering on the very edge.
"Ayrenn."
Despite the fingers clutching onto her head, Ayrenn clicks her tongue and straightens herself, Sielaire's hand falling to rest on her hip as she gazes down at her wife. Her movements in Sielaire have stilled, and she can see the desperation simmering just beneath Sielaire's eyes.
"Really, Sie," Ayrenn pretends to chide her. "Is it such a shame to have my name on your tongue? If so, then we shouldn't even be…"
She leaves her suggestion hanging in the air, starting to pull her fingers out with excruciating slowness. A smile curves her lips when Sielaire quickly grabs onto her wrist, staying her hand. In a flash, Sielaire reaches up to wrap both arms around Ayrenn's neck, pulling her back down into a needy kiss.
"Ayrenn," Sielaire says, breaking through the lustful haze in her voice. "Please."
"That's better." Ayrenn kisses her, Sielaire moaning against her mouth when she plunges her fingers in. "Now, louder."
Sielaire can barely think when Ayrenn's rhythm picks up, leaving her gasping for air. But she manages a weak, "We're in camp."
"I don't care," Ayrenn growls, and Sielaire shivers at her hard tone. "Louder. Everyone will know you're mine."
A pitched whine leaves her throat, her lips trembling from the pleasure coursing through her body, Ayrenn punctuating every thrust with a stroke of her clit. "Ayrenn–, Ayrenn!"
"Good, Sielaire," Ayrenn purrs into her ear. "More. Give me more."
Both legs wrapped around Ayrenn's hips now, fingers clawing helplessly at Ayrenn's back, hips rocking up to meet each hard thrust. "Renn, please!"
Ayrenn groans at Sielaire's quivering plea, and the sting on her back as green-glowing fingers rake over her flesh. She returns the favour, blue aura swirling about her fingers as she delves into Sielaire again and again, timing each pulse to flare when she thrusts knuckle-deep. "Gods, Sielaire. You're so wet," Ayrenn utters in her ear, as Sielaire clutches firmly onto blonde tresses. "So tight. You're mine, Sie. All mine."
"Fuck–" Sielaire arches her back involuntarily, muscles clenching until her climax hits. "Renn!"
Her cry is sharp and clear, ringing through the tent and surely beyond its thick canvas. But she doesn't have the presence of mind to care – Ayrenn's fingers are still moving and pulsing deep inside her, guiding her over the peak, and more.
Sielaire's lips part in a silent scream, her eyes rolling back and falling shut, arms clamping tightly around Ayrenn as her trembling body rides out the sweetest ecstasy. She remembers to breathe at Ayrenn's gentle urging, feeling soft lips caress her face, Ayrenn's fingers finally coming to a slow stop. Her muscles gradually lose grip on Ayrenn as her body grows limp under her lover, who lavishes her sweat-slicked skin with soft, indulgent kisses.
Sielaire threads her fingers through Ayrenn's hair, smiling at her wife's tender gaze, and pulls her down for a kiss. "You're horrible," she whispers when they part, and Ayrenn laughs.
"Maybe," Ayrenn croons, kissing her again. "But you love me this way."
Breathing a lengthy sigh, Sielaire shifts on their bedroll so that Ayrenn can lie comfortably beside her, their legs entwined, arms draped around each other in a loose embrace. "Does that make me a horrible person too?"
"No," Ayrenn replies, touching their foreheads together. "You're still the most perfect, most beautiful woman to exist."
"Flatterer."
"Honesty is not flattery, dearest." Ayrenn smiles softly, fingers tracing the long, reddish scar over Sielaire's shoulder.
Sielaire laughs under her breath, running her fingertips through Ayrenn's hair. "Then you are perfect as well."
Ayrenn hums a lilting tone in assent, and scoots closer to give her a peck on the lips. "I love you."
"And I love you," Sielaire whispers, awed by how three simple words still manage to take her breath away, even after all their years together. "I love you more than anything in this world."