"All right, all right here's one—" laughed a soldier clad in plated armor. He threw his head back and grinned at his own cleverness before starting his next joke, "What does a skeever and a Stormcloak have in common?"

"They both hide in caves?" his comrade guessed.

"No matter how many you eliminate, there always seem to be more."

Both young men laughed together at the punchline.

They were strolling over a hill on route to the hold of Whiterun. Nothing but a vast, grassy, tundra with foothills lay before them

The two had been members of the Imperial Legion stationed in the Reach for two years after having previously completed training in Solitude.

In truth, they had never actually fought any Stromcloaks due to being stationed so far west in Skyrim. That enemy had been driven back and contained to Eastmarch the last they heard.

However, Markarth had been a lesson well learnt. There was no city as hostile, nor so corrupt as the old Dwemer stronghold. The Reach itself was nothing but unwelcoming with every redoubt and gorge they stumbled into.

The young men, often referred to by their clan name and surname, Battle-Born and Lylvieve, were experienced soldiers now, especially having had their fair share of fighting the Forsworn. In the years that the height of the civil war had preoccupied Skyrim, the Empire had lost focus on the Forsworn threat and it wasn't until the savages had raided about every mining settlement and camp into neighboring province that the Empire was forced to take drastic action. For two years the men and their military company had sniffed out and nearly eliminated all of the lingering Forsworn strongholds and hideouts in the Reach but not without heavy loss. The Forsworn had proven to be vicious and able fighters.

Battle-Born had recently almost succumbed to death from shock inflicted by a Briarheart if it hadn't been for Lylvieve's quick and ruthless swing of a great sword. The head of the enemy had arced through the air followed by a bloody spray that Lylvieve would never shake from his memory. The damage from the Forsworn Briarheart's chain lightening decorated the other's torso in some impressive scars, still tender to the touch. Their time together—fighting side by side, sharing patrol, and exchanging humor is what that sealed the bond between Battle-Born and Lylvieve—they became brothers and unfortunately that wasn't the first time Battle-Born would suffer at the hands of the witchmen of the Reach. Fortunately, Lylvieve always had his back.

Now that the Legion had deemed the Forsworn threat under control—or at least—in the most control it ever had been in recent years, the young men were granted a leave of absence. It was well deserved to say the least considering the last day and half they'd had.

Battle-Born and his kin were descended from an ancient, elite clan of Nords based in Whiterun and he had been invited to a high-profile wedding. Because of the influence his family had, he could have the necessary strings pulled to have Lylvieve join him. Unfortunately, he didn't get the invitation in time enough to travel and arrive for the event because his company was moving around so often within the mountains that were difficult for couriers to traverse, especially with any remaining roving bands of forsworn itching to fight. However, he was still was willing to make the journey home as he hadn't seen his family since his father enlisted him in the Legion nearly four years prior.

Their laughter ebbed and it was Battle-Born's turn to think of a joke. It was what they did to pass time during travel.

He wasn't nearly as witty as Lylvieve.

"Do you know why Sanguine is such a good artist?"

Lylvieve continued to grin, this time in anticipation, but shook his head that he didn't know the answer.

"Because he's a Daedra!"

His comrade merely raised a brow of questionable humor.

"Get it? Day-draw!"

Lylvieve did belt out a laugh but Battle-Born suspected it was more at the fact it wasn't as clever as the previous joke.

He joined in the laughter as well, after all, it had been only a stupid joke he had made up on the spot.
After another hill he could see further than before. He could make out Dragonsreach, jutting from the plains and dominating the view of the tundra in the distance.

"Have you ever been to Whiterun, Clint?"

Clinton Lylvieve shook his head, "Never farther east than Morthal. I grew up in Dragon's Bridge as you know. Not much to leave home for until joining the Legion."

Battle-Born could detect a hint of bitterness or the like in his friend's response.

Sometimes, he felt a little sad for the lad. Clint had been the son of miners and didn't have anyone his own age to befriend while growing up. Although he had mentioned being fond of a pet goat he spent his play hours with.

Battle-Born had several children to interact with. Not all were charming company but one had always been there for him and was included in all his pleasant childhood memories. A great longing took to his heart suddenly at the thought of her. She was the reason he most looked forward to seeing home again.

Mila.

There were only so many jokes that could be told before thoughts of her returned to the forefront of his mind. She was kind, clever, understanding, a hard-worker and his best friend since they were young children.

"You miss it that badly, eh Lars?" Clint asked, mistaking the sigh that escaped Lars Battle-Born's lips for his home—however his sudden melancholy demeanor involved every thought and feeling he had for Mila Valentia. He had missed her, and truly loved her, but he had essentially had neglected her. It was the sour feeling of guilt that made him reply in nearly a whisper, "I do."

He wished he would have had more time to write to her in his absence from home but between training, Forsworn mission after Forsworn mission, healing, and surviving—in the end he didn't have enough focus or energy to quill words and find a courier to deliver those words that assured Mila that he still felt for her.

Maybe that made him undeserving of her affections but she would understand once he had the chance to explain. He had no doubt she would accept him with nothing less than open arms of adoration. That thought convinced him enough to shrug off some of that guilt that plagued him when he thought about her.

They stopped at a nearby spring to refill their waterskins. Lars took a few gulps and filled his skin to the brim. They had walked a straight day only to rest when they made camp at night.

Clint capped his skin and stared back the direction they had traveled from. The craggy mountains of the Reach were so far away, barely brushing the sky. "I can't believe Legate Admand let me come with you, with reports of Forsworn still coming in. Do you think the rest of the company will handle themselves all right without us?"

Lars thought of Legate Admand during the last Forsworn skirmish and nodded with assurance, "They'll manage fine enough without us if they haven't gone to Sovngarde by now."

The Legate was a sturdy fighter and had cut down three Forsworn on his own after charging in. If that man fell, then Skyrim was in a lot more trouble than Clint and Lars could help dig the province out of.

"What about the Sybil?"

"She'll be fine as well, in the care of her priestesses."

The Sybil. She had taken well to their company on the short road from the Bard's Leap Summit to the Reach's capital. She was indeed beautiful, even provocative, but Mila was the only lass in all of Tamriel that held Lars's heart.

"And your friend?"

Lars grimaced; Braith was not his friend—just one of those unpleasant children he knew growing up in Whiterun. Not a day went by in his young life that she didn't extort silver coins from him or threaten to punch him in the nose. Now that he had found out she was a Companion it made him sick to think she could do it and get away with it all the time.

"She'll manage."

"What about that odd fellow she was with, the one who was muttering about the 'fabric of time?'"

"I don't know..." Lars mused. Now that he thought about it, they hadn't even been introduced. Though, considering he seemed to be in Braith's custody, he doubted the man would be fine for long.

"How much longer do you think 'till we get there? Looks like an hour or two."

Lars held in a groan at all of Clinton's questions, but held his thumb out and covered Dragonreach fully with it, "We'd get there faster if we just cut across the plain."

They had been following the road but it skirted around the tundra before reaching the gates of Whiterun. The tundra was rocky, grassy and filled with wild things.

Clint nodded with determination, signaling they should do it.

Neither of the young men were daunted by the possible skirmishes with wild animals, they had survived countless bouts with Forsworn who were some of the toughest enemies Skyrim had ever harbored.

They left the road behind and headed into the waves of tundra cotton and amber-colored grass.

Evening would be upon them soon. The darker part of the sky was speckled with stars. It was too early to see an Aurora; the light still barely bled onto them from the direction they had traveled.

Lars couldn't help but to bristle with anticipation as he thought of what he would do once he was within Whiterun's gates. Of course, he would have to greet his family—his father, grandfather, and the rest of the clan—but Mila's home was nearest on his way in, and he didn't see why he shouldn't visit her first. A subtle shake of the ground interrupted his planning. Clinton and he both halted to consider the sudden movement. It came again, this time with an audible 'thump'. Lars twisted around to see a Mammoth not but a few feet away. Clint's jaw dropped open and he stared dumbly at the beast in awe.

The young man had never seen such a creature before whilst growing up in the mountains of Haafingar. Lars, however, he knew of the Mammoths—knew that they roamed the tundra around Whiterun, and unfortunately so did their territorial masters.

"Clint! Run!" Lars all but shouted in warning and started off in the opposite direction. He didn't bother unsheathing his weapon because it was no use against a giant. One hit from the likes of them and Lars would be fast-travelling to Sovngarde quite literally.

A quickening range of thumps erupted toward them and suddenly a grey-skinned Giant was at their heels. Clint recovered from his amazement and dodged the swing of its club, rolled and picked himself up into a sprint.

The Mammoth trumpeted in offense and the Giant made incoherent grunts of disdain at both of the soldiers, waving their club around in the air, threatening another blow.

There are always two, Lars remembered, keeping a look out around them for the second Giant. They must have been near to one of the Giant camps. Lars used to know where each was because they had been labeled in maps he had studied of Whiterun hold as a child, closed up in his room and consuming written word like it was cake. But it had been so long, Giants moved, and honestly, he didn't know the tundra as well as he thought he had.

The Giant's big, burning bonfire was to their right, if they could get past that and a little more then they would most likely be safe from any more attention from the Giants or their beasts.

The second Giant suddenly appeared before them and started toward Lars with a raised club. He reeled backwards and crashed into Clint, knocking them both to the ground. Both soldiers shouted in fear and frustration, quickly clamoring against one another to stand before either Giant caught them in range of a swing.

Lars was the first to be upright again and grabbed Clint's arm, easily throwing him on his feet but his comrade faltered as the earth shook, indicating the first Giant was approaching from behind. A cloud of dirt erupted in front of them as the second Giant came upon them and had swung their club into the earth. The dirt in the air obscured the men's view. Lars ran one way while Clint the other and it wasn't until they were out of the Giant camp and well over the next set of rocks they realized they had both been screaming the entire time.

So much for not fearing the wildlife that dwelled within the tundra.

They stared at each other a few moments, heaving in breaths of air before Clinton doubled over, and to Lars's surprise—began to laugh!

"What's so funny? We nearly died!" He tried to speak with a dry mouth, swallowing to wet it with saliva.

"We were shouting like a couple of milk-drinkers."

"Only fools are bold enough to take on two giants in melee and expect to live!"

"Well then at best we are not fools, only cowards."

Lars knew Clint was joking around again, always one to be quick to recover from a near-death experience and make light of it, but Lars was slower to let down his guard, especially when he could feel his heart raging against his ribs. He shook his head in disbelief and silently thanked Kynareth for sparing them.

They paused their journey to take long, refreshing gulps from their water skins. Thankfully, having the foresight to fill them up very recently. Delightfully, the aged, stone walls of Whiterun were much closer than before in front of them and they could soon rest for far longer.

Lars was filled with anticipation and a hint of nostalgia, as he and Clint crossed the bridge to the Whiterun gate. The familiar sights of the windmills of surrounding farms, the horse stable, and the wooden-planked lookouts made him yearn even harder to get inside—to get home.

The guards greeted them cordially and allowed them entry, as they were mostly other Legion men—now that Whiterun had chosen a side in the war. Lars was pleased the Jarl chose the right side—his whole family was, but it resulted in his father sending him off to Solitude at the age of fourteen to start training with the Legionnaires. It unfortunately meant that he'd have to be separated from Mila, just shortly after proclaiming his love for her and finding out she loved him in return. His heart always seemed to ache after that but he held hope and optimism for this day—the day he would see her again.

He turned up the path to the Wind District. Mila's home was first on the left, however, no candlelight flickered from inside despite evening being upon them. He paused in front of the door to the Valentia lodge, wondering if she should knock even if no one seemed to be there.

"Is this your home?" Clint wondered.

Lars gazed up the path to the large, two-story, wooden lodge that was the home of his clan, it was lighted, unlike the one in front of him. He shook his head, no, and pointed to where his sight had settled, "That is."

"So, who lives here?"

Lars had never spoken of Mila while he was in service, he found it was the best way to keep her off his mind when he was executing missions. Even being his closest confidant during battle, Clint had no inkling of what Lars felt and who he felt most for.

"A friend," Lars replied briskly and turned away from her home, feeling flooded with sudden disappointment, "And by the looks of it, they aren't here."

She probably was taking dinner with her mother at the Bannered Mare at this hour. He didn't want to interrupt her meal so continued forward toward his family's large lodge.

They walked the short distance across the path to the Battle-Born clan home. His uncle was the one to open the door, and it took a moment for Jon Battle-Born to realize his nephew had grown so tall.

"By the eight, nephew, you have seemed to sprouted from a sapling to a full pine!"

Lars just laughed in good nature and slapped his uncle on the shoulder in greeting while stepping into his home, and introducing Clinton as a fellow Legionnaire. Not much had changed, the hearth was still burning, there was a specific coziness in the room he'd never been able to feel anywhere else. Not at Castle Dour, not at any inns nor camps he'd slept in since he'd left.

The room was unsettlingly empty though.

"Where is everyone?"

"You know how your grandfather is always rubbing elbows with the court—he secured a dinner invitation this evening. He, your mother and father are all up at the keep in the Jarl's company tonight."

"You didn't join them?" Lars asked curiously.

"I like my solitude," Jon replied, "Gives me time to practice music."

His uncle pointed to the lute set against a chair, as if to prove that's what he'd been doing before Lars and Clinton interrupted.

"Then I would hate to keep you from your practice, uncle. I feel as though a surprise is in order for my parents and Grandfather," Lars smiled and turned to address his comrade, "Clint, what do you say we make a visit to Dragonsreach?"

Clinton's eyes brightened with eagerness, and he nodded in agreement, wholeheartedly.

"How exciting for you though? It's not every day you are able to dine with a Jarl," Lars beamed at his friend as they took the stairs up to Dragonsreach two-at-a-time. Clint looked a bit anxious as they neared but Lars had been to the Jarl's palace before—his grandfather seemed to have visited daily when Lars was a young lad and sometimes would let Lars accompany him. He could imagine the sight and smells of the delicious food already. Cheese slices, seared slaughter fish, venison, and soups. His mouth was watering unintentionally. It was just understood that anything was better than rabbit haunches for weeks on end and he hoped his family could persuade the Jarl to allow him to take part in the dinner.

The guards gave a slight acknowledgment as the two soldiers passed and entered. The sight they saw as they ascended the first set of steps was a lively dinner. His grandfather, mother, and father were seated at one of the long parallel dining tables. Across from them sat the Jarl himself, along with his son and what Lars assumed to be daughter-in-law by the way she held the former's hand above the table cloth. Next, there was the Jarl's surly daughter and no partner, despite Lars knowing of the recent wedding. Next to her sat the quiet, unpleasant, youngest son who seemed to have grown as tall as Lars had in the years their adolescence had taken hold.

But then, there was a familiar face, one he did not to expect to see in such a setting. He felt his heart skip a beat as he locked his eyes onto hers.

Mila.

Only the strictest of military training kept his tongue from shouting her name with glee, leaping over the table and kissing her ardently. He could feel his mouth from a very distinct smile as he looked at her and appraised how well she looked since the last he had seen her. She was breathtakingly beautiful—with her dark hair plaited and thrown over one shoulder. His eyes roved back to his family to give them the same smile and he and Clint bowed formally to the Jarl.

"Forgive me for interrupting your meal, my Jarl. I was told my family was dining at the keep tonight and wanted to surprise them."

Balrguuf smiled and gave a slight nod of acceptance, and Lars took to slapping his father and grandfather on the shoulder in greeting, letting his mother sneak a kiss to the side of his face and they all lamented how much they had missed him. All the while he stared at Mila across from them, she was only focused on eating her dinner.

Balgruff continued to speak, "You are well-met Lars Battle-Born, but I am afraid you have missed the wedding that was the reason for your return to the city."

Lars knew it was so and raised his brows in apology, but before he could explain, another voice cut through the cozy air like a cold slice of steel.

"There was not much of a wedding to miss," The Jarl's youngest son, Nelkir, interjected. He sat slightly slouched so he was at the same head height as his father.

"How dare you!" shrilled Dagny, the spoilt daughter, who stood with ferocity and nearly threw the knife she had been eating with at her brother before storming out of the hall and through the doorway leading to the private quarters.

Balgruuf closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose in a manner of exasperation.

To avoid the awkward silence that would ensue, Lars turned to Mila, "You look well, Mila."

"Thank you, Lars, you do as well," though her eyes hardly lingered on him before returning to her meal.

There was something about her demeanor that was different. Not what he would have expected from the woman he loved, his oldest and closest friend whom he missed so much it pained him to be so close and not hold her. He knew she had to be consumed with the same fervent desire to embrace him as he felt toward her at the moment. But Mila must have been poised enough not to embarrass herself in front of such distinguished company.

"Lars," his mother's voice caused him to rip his eyes away from Mila and back to the table where his family sat.

"Dear, who is your companion?"

Lars had all but forgotten about Clint at his side. He took a step forward and introduced the lad as his brother at arms. He made sure to praise his comrade for all the times he'd saved Lars' hide. His mother stared at the Breton with a face filled with gratitude.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, however, I'm afraid we don't have enough places to invite you to join us," Balgruuf indicated at the occupied tables, "But you may sit in the kitchen wing, I will have a servant provide additional food."

Both soldiers gave a bow to show respect and appreciation. Lars stopped briefly to give his mother a hug around her shoulders from where she sat before joining Clint in the adjoining side room where the food was prepared.

"I've never been in a Jarl's palace before, this place is amazing! That carved wood, the braziers, the huge hearth, I don't think I have ever seen hearth that big before!" Clinton nearly exploded with boyish glee. Lars had to laugh in amusement at Clint's simple joy in experiencing the surroundings Lars had been used to most of his life.

They were bombarded by so many delicious smells that it exacerbated their hunger. They'd not had a hearty meal in a long time. Only small gamey creatures and on rare occasion a stew. They were both glad to have not been seated in the main room because when two venison chops were placed before them, they ripped into the delicious meat like a pair of wolves. After downing two mugs of ale, the main course, a side of grilled leeks, and a sweet dessert of juniper berry crostatas—the lads all but leaned back and grinned in complete satiation.

"I will never have a meal as delicious as that again," Clinton sighed, as though mourning the event was at an end.

"Just think, we could have died an hour ago and have missed this entire wonder," Lars mused, causing Clint to laugh in hindsight. Still, it wasn't as amusing to Lars that they had almost nearly been launched to the moons. "I suppose I should arrange lodgings for you as my guest."

"No need to put me up, they have barracks here. Or if no room there I can always make use of my bedroll somewhere," Clint insisted, "How long do you intend to stay anyway?"

"The Legate granted us leave for a week, so I suppose a couple of days..." Lars said but trailed off his thought as he caught sight of Mila from the corner of his eye. He could see through to the main room and she was removing herself from the dining table. He saw her give a small curtsy and then she disappeared from his sight. Momentarily forgetting about Clint, he followed her—not even hearing his name being called by his father as he passed by the dining tables.

"Mila!" Lars called to catch her attention. She stopped on the wooden bridge just outside the entrance with consideration but didn't look at him. He eagerly approached her with a smile. It seemed he had waited the entire evening to get this moment alone with her.

When she didn't say anything he blurted, "I've missed you."

She finally did look up at him. By Dibella's grace, she was so beautiful. He wanted to reach out, pull her close and kiss her, but something prevented him from doing it. He could have determined it was his training, but yet he felt like his self -control was unraveling. It was the unmistakable blankness in her expression though, that caused him to take pause.

"Did you miss me as well?"

"I did," she replied curtly, removing her gaze.

"I can't help but to think..." he began to say, holding his hand under his chin in a thought, "that you're angry with me?"

"How would you feel if someone proclaimed their love and then didn't contact you for nearly five years?" she posed back to him matter-of-factly, meeting his eyes with hers which burned in scorn. His expression crashed to the guilt and shame he'd felt earlier.

"Mila, I...I apologize! I truly am sorry but there was hardly any time...couriers were scarce in the wilds of the Reach!"

"You didn't even have to write. You could have sent someone with words, something...anything...anyone...because I didn't know if you were dead or alive," her tone transformed from hostile to hopeless sorrow and made him feel even worse.

"Do you...do you still love me?" he choked out, feeling a lump form in his throat.

She seemed to take her time with the thought and the seconds passed tortuously. "I do love you—a part of me always will but I know you are here temporarily and if I let myself love you as I did before, my heart will break all over again when I watch you leave me a second time. I can't go through that again, so please—if you love me, don't say sweet words or touch me with affection because I can't bear it."

He couldn't bear the pained look that broke into her pretty features. He couldn't bear being the cause of it and just wanted to make it better. So, all he could do was honor her request. He looked at his boots to gather his crushing disappointment and nodded, "Very well, I'll be as cordial with you as I would any other woman. May I walk you home?"

"I believe I have that distinguished honor, Battle-Born," an arrogant, dry voice sounded from behind him. Lars turned around and came face to face with Nelkir. Nelkir, like he, was always on the smaller side as a child but they both had shot up like wild tundra grass whilst coming into manhood. Being Nord, they were granted a taller height than the other races of men in Tamriel, but the Legionnaire and the Thane were even taller exceptions to the average.

Nelkir brushed past him with a smug grin.

"It's true, I did grant the Thane permission to escort me home tonight. Forgive me, I had no idea you would be returning."

Lars nodded in understanding and watched, disheartened, as the woman he loved took her leave with the Hold's most notoriously unpleasant character. Since when did they share company? Nelkir was always hiding in the dark corners of Dragonsreach, and hardly ever emerged from the Cloud District. He had never responded to any other child of Whiterun with more than a sneer of contempt, including his own siblings. Mila, bless her kind soul, found good in most things but Nelkir was a lost cause.

Then Lars bristled, suspecting now of why Mila had even been dining with the Jarl. The reason had been lost on him at first but seeing how Nelkir offered his arm to her as they descended the steps of Dragon's reach made it glaringly obvious. She was being courted.

He would have never guessed in a thousand eras that the youngest son of the Jarl would be inclined to have any romantic notions. Even if that came to pass, to have them for Mila Valentia? She was undoubtedly beautiful inside and out, but a man like Barlgruuf the Greater would try to make political matches using his children and Mila had nothing to offer the Jarl's legacy except a small vegetable stand in the market. So, how could the Jarl encourage or even approve of such a match?

Even worse, if he did not approve, that probably meant she would be left in an even bigger heartbreak once she realized Nelkir was just playing with it as a sabre cat plays with its prey before killing it. A vein of rage ripped through him as he saw their figures grow smaller and smaller as they passed out of his sight and into the Wind District below.

He had to stop and remember to breathe.

He was getting ahead of himself; this was all conjecture on his part and perhaps more than a bout of jealousy thinking she could ever be taken with Nelkir in such a way. Perhaps, she was just being a good friend—after all, who else among their peerage was she to strike up a comradery with while Lars was away? He felt bad enough for breaking her heart but even worse realizing how terribly lonely she would have been to resort to befriending the Bastard of Whiterun.