Flames flickered as if dancing; the log underneath them crackled. A few ashes spilled outward. Nearby, a young woman avoided the cinders and leveled her gaze at the fire, it was a suitable place to focus her eyes on while her real focus was in her thoughts. Her fingers were clenched around the handle of a rough mug only half-full of ale.

He had not returned.

She had waited.

She refused to cry about it. Too many of her tears had been spilled for him already.

There were not many people at the Bannered Mare after the drinking hour, so she could have let a few tears fall but even then she refused.

She was fourteen when he had proclaimed his love.

She was fifteen when he was sent off to join the Imperial Legion.

She was nineteen now.

Not one letter had he sent in those four years. She knew that he had to be alive because she would have heard otherwise. She was thankful he was, but he should have returned by now. If not for her—at least the high-to-do wedding of the Jarl's daughter. His family would have made sure to notify him of the event.

But he hadn't even returned for that.

"Why such the melancholy, my dear Mila?"

Her expression must have betrayed her thoughts. She stared blankly at the flames before transferring her gaze to the bard who had posed the question.

"Not now, Mikael."

He merely grinned at her brush-off and plucked a few strings on his lute whilst leaning against one of the wooden pillars of the inn, "I'm sure I could cheer you up with a song."

She doubted a song could mend a broken heart but judging by his cocky tone and posture, he wouldn't be dissuaded of his claim.

Mikael had always been nice to Mila when she was a child—she suspected later that it was to get on her mother's good side. However, after his years of trying to romance Carlotta Valentia to no avail, his demeanor cooled and he became less friendly. She figured that was because he had finally understood Mila was the only obstacle in the way of him winning her mother's love and resented her for it. In recent years, however, his disposition toward her had turned exceedingly kind once more, despite her mother's ongoing disinterest in the man.

He played a lovely intro and started singing, keeping his eyes and smile focused on her. She shifted in her sitting position uncomfortably and didn't meet his eyes.

Mikael did have the voice of an Aureal—it was deep, rich and pleasant on the ears—whether or not she approved of the fact, the sound of it made her perk up just a bit. She took another swig of her ale.

A traveler staying at the inn was the only other patron still in the main room at the late hour. He stood and swung his ale cup back and forth merrily along with Mikael's song. Mila absently tapped her foot to the beat and when he was done, Mikael smiled with satisfaction. He took a seat next to her on the bench and leaned closer to speak than what was necessary.

"Does your mother know you are out?"

Instead of moving away, she instead leaned forward with a frown, proving to him she wasn't intimidated—"It's none of her business how late I stay out—I'm a grown woman."

"That you are," Mikael agreed and his eyes dropped below her face, and back as quick as they left, but not without Mila noticing.

"It's none of your business either," she snapped as a deep blush appeared on her cheeks and she scooted away, leaving another whole seat between them.

"There's only one reason a beautiful lass would be drinking alone long after the sun has set," the bard went on with an assured tone. She only could raise her brow with doubt.

A look took to the Nord's eyes she wasn't used to seeing.

Sadness.

He gave a forlorn look before saying, "Love-scorned."

She opened her mouth with surprise, "How would you kn—?"

"Your mother put me through a heartache so deep I couldn't bring myself to sing for a whole month."

The words were hyperbolic, sad and poetic—the kind of smooth-talking she had come to expect from the bard in her years knowing him. She remembered her mother's point of view of the past—one where a young, single widow tried to provide for her family but kept on being harassed by men. Her mother had claimed Mikael was the most bothersome of lot. He even went as so far to publish a book about all the eligible women of Whiterun, which only brought more pestering suitors from across Skyrim and even as far as Hammerfell.

Men thought her mother was beautiful, a trait to which many in Whiterun said Mila had inherited as she grew. Her Imperial Blood gave her skin more color than the pale Nords of Skyrim. Working outside added even more color—a layer of pale pink that was quite charming. She had her mother's luscious dark-oak colored locks and matching wide eyes.

She didn't know how to respond to Mikael; she had never considered his feelings on the matter before but didn't necessarily feel bad for him either—she was somewhat aware of his reputation and figured he could have moved on quicker than most men that her mother had rejected.

She took another swig of her drink and looked away, not bearing to see the forlorn expression that mirrored her own feelings—no matter if it was only a ruse to have her feel sorry for him and let her guard down.

"That Battle-Born lad you were always running about with—was he not supposed to return for Lady Dagnessa's wedding?"

Mila went rigid at the mention of Lars and then shrugged without returning her gaze to the bard, "He did not, but it would have been for nothing—it was called off until further notice. The lady was abandoned at the altar."

She caught a sigh in her throat, "Besides, I doubt Lars has much time to attend weddings or see dear friends while he is in the Imperial Legion."

She didn't mean to sound bitter on the last part, but it was evident. She was done talking about Lars and his failure to return to Whiterun, however thoughts about the subject had and would continue to plague her thoughts.

"My dear, you're mug is nearly empty—allow me to buy you another fill," the bard held out his hand in offer.

She should have started to head back home—she knew her mother would chide her for staying out so late and worry that the lass wouldn't wake in time to mind the vegetable stand, but Mila wasn't ready to go just yet.

After a moment, she acquiesced and let the bard take her mug and give it to the proprietor to fill again.

"BARD!"

They both looked to see the other patron raise his cup, "How about another song?"

Mikael nodded and gestured he'd be just a few moments.

A song would be more welcome than the current silence but for the buckling noise of the logs underneath the fire. She rather did like music and always had. If she wasn't needed to help her mother with the business, she would have considered joining the Bard's College.

It had been a long day—selling to the many travelers in town for the wedding, anticipating seeing Lars in the crowd, watching in wry glee as the guests left the city gates and mumbling about a 'waste of time' when it was discovered that brat, Dagny, was left standing under the Gildergreen without her groom. Then there was the terrible disappointment of learning Lars wasn't there after all.

"Here you are m'lady," Mikael handed her the mug that was heavy and damp with more drink.

She thanked him as she should. Just because she didn't care for the man didn't mean she had to be rude.

"And now for Ragnar the Red..." Mikael adjusted his lute and began to play. She had heard this song a hundred times and let her mind enjoy the tune without paying mind to the words—as the lyrics were of an unpleasant nature.

She lifted the mug to her lips and noticed straight away it wasn't ale, but mead—which was a bit more costly than she could afford. She had it before, for her eighteenth birthday, when it was the first time she had tried it. It was sweeter than she remembered—but then again, there were many types of mead, and all were sweeter than ales. She was far from a connoisseur and decided to just enjoy the sweet taste as she rarely got to have it.

After taking another sip, she laid her chin in her hand and studied the singing bard. It was rather kind of Mikael to buy her mead, the drink was pricy and she figured he didn't make much coin working as a bard. He was a sweet man under all his strut and slyness, and though he was many years her senior, she could understand why women thought him attractive. He was tall, with blue eyes and fair hair as most Nords, but he was also talented.

Mila's eyes fluttered a bit, hit with sudden lethargy. She hadn't felt so tired a moment before, but the late hour combined with the drink, music, and cozy heat of the fire must have started to make her drowsy.

Mikael's song ended and the patron clapped, tossing a gold coin to the bard before departing up the stairs for the night.

Perhaps it was time for her to go to bed too. Her head lolled out of her hand and she barely caught herself from tipping forward. She saw a blurry form approach her, "You don't look too well."

What did they mean by that? She noticed the singing had stopped and knew it was Mikael who had said it. She wasn't feeling sick at all, in fact, she had started to feel very pleasant.

She only smiled, "I'm perf—perfectly fine, Mikael." Something felt so good in her, the alcohol certainly helped but she could handle a cup of ale without feeling so giddy—she felt light-of-heart despite the sadness she had been feeling only moments before.

"Thank you again for the mead," she stood and used the wooden pillar to balance herself. The world was suddenly a-whirl with color—orange and yellow from the glow of the fire casting off every object in the room, off Mikael even, giving him an ethereal glow. The floor seemed to be made of liquid wood, casting waves that lapped against the stone base of the hearth. She had never felt like this before, she had never seen the world like this before.

Her vision straightened out long enough to see Mikael grinning with amusement at her bemused wonder in her surroundings.

"What are you smiling about?" she returned the grin and kept a hold on the pillar as she leaned outward to steal a pluck on his lute. She saw the elk head mounted on the wall behind him give her a wink and pantomime a kiss which sent her into a fit of giggling.

As she was asking, the door of the entrance to the Bannered Mare had opened to another late-night visitor.

The wind was bit chilly, and it swirled inside—clashing against the heat. It had somewhat of a sobering effect and so did the person who had joined them, "He's smiling like a fox about to take a hen."

The comment was stated as a cold, amused, fact. Mikael immediately stepped away from Mila and gave a shallow bow.

Mila's attention on the elk wavered and her hold on the pillar slipped. She tripped forward and was caught in one arm of the newcomer and then put back to balance. Though she didn't let go, and continued holding firmly to the arm for further stability, fearing she would fall into the deep end of the liquid wooden floor if she did relinquish grip.

His form wasn't entirely discernible. It was a fact he was much, much taller then she. He was also slimmer than the average grown man, she could tell by the lack of brawn in his upper arm that she was holding to so tightly. His clothes—a dark fur-lined cloak—were clean and so was he. No stench of staleness like most of those in who lived and spent time in the Plains District.

"What do you mean?" she frowned and was hit with the same wave of lethargy from before. She sunk further into him without meaning to. She gave small groan at the way the room spun around her, the walls expanding and then contracting as if aiming to consume her.

"You are just prey to him, a plaything for him to amuse himself with," her anchor answered and leaned in closer—for a brief second—his face became clear. He had dark auburn hair, high cheekbones, and eyes the color of a storm with the same temperament raging in them. He took a deep breath through his nose, then retreated from his position of study and turned an eye to the bard, "Moon sugar?"

"It's harmless, my thane," Mikael said in a casual tone as if the man should have understood.

Thane? The word kept her from nearly passing out as the walls sank into the ocean of floor.

"Get out of my sight, Bard, before I tell the guard you've been contaminating drinks with filthy Khajiit intoxicants."

She didn't get to see if Mikael obeyed this order. She was concerned with walls closing in around her like a giant jaw.

But her head was still spinning too—with anger, fear, and embarrassment. How could Mikael be so disgusting? How long did the effects of moon sugar last? She tried to ask, but a slurred sound came out—incoherent to anyone listening. The Thane tried to pry her off but all that dissolved moon sugar that had made the mead taste so sweet, and which had made her feel so good—finally gave the signal for walls to close in and all that remained was blackness.