Chapter Pairing: Jarl Balgruuf the Greater x Irileth

Angsty angst! Hurt/Comfort. Mutal Pining, Forbidden Love, Duty Over Love, Unspoken Feelings. First Kiss. Premium Pain! You've been warned. NSFW.

Irileth has always put her duty above her personal needs – and so has the friend and Jarl that she serves. But how long can two people listen to the crowds around them, instead of their hearts? What happens when that line is finally, undeniably crossed? Sometimes, love wins out. And sometimes, it's the price we have to pay.

The Price of Duty

'Yes, Hulda, I'm sure. He's had more than enough for the night.'

'Gods dammit, woman! I am the Jarl! I can go among my – hic! – people if I please! And drink what I want!'

Balgruuf was looking belligerent, and she bit back an impatient growl. The Bannered Mare had gone quiet around them when she'd stormed in, watching to see what would happen. Most looked to Hulda now, behind the bar.

The Nord woman nodded without missing a beat. She'd been around long enough to know that even the Jarl couldn't win a spat with his housecarl.

'Alright, Irileth. Need any help to get him home?'

The red-headed Dunmer grimaced.

'No, thanks. I've got him.'

'This is outrageous,' Balgruuf grunted. But he didn't resist her, and she just shook her head and tightened her grip on his arm as she started for the door.

'It's you who's outrageous,' she muttered. She bumped the door open with her free shoulder, and plunged into the night beyond. Next to her, Balgruuf staggered on the threshold, and she cursed under her breath as she threw his arm over her shoulders. A few chuckles hit her ears from behind as the door slapped shut after them.

And who could blame them? He'd snuck out plenty of times before – but this was ridiculous. He'd actually gone as far as to wear some kind of disguise. A bad one. A tatty grey cloak with the hood pulled low, worn leather boots, a walking stick, and some gods-awful beard made of scraggly brown hair. Where had he even gotten these things? Azura, help her...

'You're being too uptight, Irileth,' Balgruuf sighed beside her, and her shoulders tensed at the amusement in his tone.

'I'm fine! You worry too much – and you walk too fast.'

'You don't worry enough,' she hissed. But she slowed down, the slightest bit. Her red eyes darted all around them, hyper-aware and on the lookout.

'What happened to Proventus? He was supposed to be with you tonight.'

'Proventus?' He smiled as he waved a hand in front of them, and then stumbled. 'Bah. I sent him on some errands.'

'I'm going to smite him,' Irileth muttered through gritted teeth. 'Errands, my arse. What could be more important than keeping you secure?' She scowled at herself, and shook her head, disgusted.

'I never should've accepted the night off.'

'Irileth.' There was a long-suffering fondness in his voice, and her heart twinged in her chest in spite of herself.

'I'm fine. Really. 'Sides,' he chuckled. 'You can't watch me every minute.'

'That doesn't mean I can't try,' she shot back, and grunted as she rearranged the bigger man to walk them around the Gildergreen.

'And you give me no reason not to. Why do you keep sneaking out like this? You could get hurt or worse!'

'A man needs his freedom,' he said wistfully, and she felt him give a languid shrug. 'Even when he's a Jarl.'

'Men who are Jarls attract assassins,' she said tartly. 'And you're no exception. A busy tavern's an easy place to slip a poisoned knife home.'

'I took precautions,' he protested. It ripped a snort from her chest.

'A dilapidated beggar costume is hardly enough to deter a professional killer. Speaking of, watch your cloak. We're at the stairs.'

'I can see where we are, Irileth.' But his legs were unsteady all the same, as they started to climb.

'You see killers – around every corner,' he sighed, and shook his head. She couldn't help but look over at him and glare.

'It's warranted! What about last spring? If I had been any slower, you wouldn't be here right now!' An image of the 'traveling dignitary' dying on the tip of her sword not two feet from Balgruuf flashed through her mind, and she fought down a shiver. His answer did nothing to soothe her.

'But you weren't slower. That's why I don't worry, Iril – you're the best at what you do.'

She felt a little thrill in her stomach at the nickname, and the praise – then resolutely squashed it.

'Don't think flattery is going to – get you out of this,' she huffed.

He grumbled beside her, a musing sound.

'I'm the Jarl of Whiterun, and you scold me like a child. Tell me, woman, what other housecarl takes such liberties?'

'Any other housecarl with a Jarl like mine,' she snapped, and wasn't surprised when she felt him ghost a laugh. It'd always been so between them. They'd climbed high enough now that the first set of guards could see them emerging on the stairs – when they made to hurry toward them from the Keep's front doors, she waved them away.

'Irileth! Is that the Jarl? Is he alright? Do you need—'

'We're fine,' she barked curtly. 'No need for help. Just go on and open the door.'

The guards didn't make another peep, as she hustled him over the threshold; experience had taught them. It wasn't until she heard the sound of heavy bars sliding home that she let herself relax a little bit. No more external threats, at least. Not tonight.

He made an effort to straighten up some, as they climbed the stairs to the greatroom. He was mostly unsuccessful, and she thought fiercely that it served him right. But it was no wonder why he was trying.

'Don't they have anything else to do?' He griped.

'Not at this hour. Besides, you know how it stirs the place up, when you disappear.' With the barest of glances, she took in the sight of the servants gathered in doorways, gripping candles and staring as they neared. The staring served him right, as well. But she hated a crowd even more than he did, and jerked her chin to the side.

'Move along, please,' she called, loud and firm. 'The Jarl wants for some privacy. You're all dismissed.'

A bare flutter of whispers and a single snicker marked the dispersal, and Balgruuf squeezed her leather-clad shoulder as they neared yet another staircase.

'Thanks. I hate when they do that.'

'Nothing more interesting on a boring Middas night than a pickled Jarl,' she said dryly.

'And you clearly overdid it, this time. You're lucky the children are in bed already.'

'Agneta does a good job with them,' he said, sounding unconcerned. 'She's the best governess so far.'

'Dagny was asking after you. Again. You were nowhere to be found.'

That made him frown, and he slowly shook his head.

'...Damn.'

She nodded briskly at the guard holding up the door to Balgruuf's chambers, and it was hastily opened ahead of them; a look from the Dunmer as they passed had it closing just as quickly behind. She steered him over the landing, past the study and toward his bedroom, and as soon as they cleared the threshold she bumped the door closed with her hip. The sconces and his hearth were already lit, and thank the gods for that. She sighed.

'Have a potion in the morning. And a bath. Then go to see her before her sewing lesson.'

'I will,' he sighed. 'You're a gem, Irileth.'

'I've just had practice.'

Just gently enough that it couldn't be called dumping, she deposited him on the armchair next to his bed. Then she wasted no time in getting to work. She pulled the hood back from his head, exposing the golden mane she knew so well – then tsked when she saw that the heinous beard actually had a strap that secured at the back of his head. Nimble fingers whisked it off, revealing the fair goatee beneath. It was absolutely rumpled, sticking out in every direction, and if she wasn't so unimpressed with him she would've laughed. Instead she shook her head, and tossed the ratty disguise unceremoniously into a corner as he chuckled.

She looked at the face she'd restored to itself, and planted hands on hips as he smiled unrepentantly up at her.

'You looked absolutely ridiculous. Where did you find all this?'

Blue eyes twinkled as he took in her expression, brighter than normal in his state.

'A magician never reveals his secrets.'

'Oh, right,' she quipped.

'Keep your secrets then, magician. And fix your beard.'

She couldn't stop her eyes from rolling – but a part of her was tempted to smile, and she hid it by ducking to yank off his shoddy boots. He'd managed to hang onto the walking stick on their trek, and she held out a hand for it now. He offered it up – then yanked it back at the last second, and laughed in earnest when she snarled at him and snatched it.

'I should leave you to fend for yourself,' she snapped. 'Drink brings out the fool in you.'

'He needs time out of his cage,' Balgruuf grinned, and again she felt the urge to smile back at him. Ass. Then he reached up to comb his goatee down, and shook his head.

'I'm sorry, Irileth. You're too good to me. Truly.'

She gusted a sigh as she grabbed the edges of his cloak, and helped him free. Scoffed, when she saw the single piddly dagger he'd tucked into his belt.

'What was that supposed to do?' She asked, pointing.

'Any number of traditional things,' he drawled.

She pursed her lips and straightened, feeling terribly torn. Torn between the two halves of herself, the two halves of her relationship to Balgruuf. Carefree, and vigilant. Friend, and housecarl. At length she crossed her arms, and stared at him as silence fell around them.

'Why do you keep taking off, Balgruuf? Really. Tell me the truth.'

Blue eyes took on a sad, earnest quality in his handsome weathered face, and he pulled the dagger from his belt with a little sigh before he dropped it into one of the boots.

'I wanted a break from being the Jarl, Iril. I just wanted a chance to sit by the fire, and tell some of my stories. Our stories.'

That had her softening, some. She couldn't help it. Becoming Jarl had been his duty, not his choice. And he did always have the best stories...

'Do you remember?' He asked, eyes intent on hers. She nodded.

'Of course I do,' she answered, barely louder than the fire behind them. 'I couldn't forget.'

His smile came back, crooked and boyish, and he tilted his head at her.

'Then how about a trip down memory lane? Stay and talk with me. I have a good vintage, on the breakfront. Grab a couple glasses for us, will you?'

'I will not,' she said firmly, and raised her brows at his crestfallen face. 'I'll get you some water. That's what you need.'

'What I need,' he grumbled, settling back in the chair. Then muttered it again, even quieter, more to himself.

'...What I need. What would I ever do without you, Irileth?'

The first heady pang of a shift in the air hit her at those words, and she stilled for the briefest moment with the water-jug in one hand. Memories buried deep inside went stirring, at the feeling. Surely not?

Then she clamped down on them, and poured the water. Surely. Her face was a bit more guarded than before when she turned to hand him his glass, and she crossed her arms tightly over her chest when he took it.

'Probably fall down a well. Now drink up. You'll thank me, come morning.'

'Spoil-sport.' But he tossed his head back with the glass to his lips, and drained it in a go. He surfaced with a panting breath, and wiped his mouth with a smile.

'Thank you.'

'It's nothing,' she murmured.

'Not to me, it isn't.' Something flashed in those dark blue eyes of his, reflected in the firelight, and a feeling that was close to panic unfurled its first tender shoots in her chest. Firmly, she shook her head, and got back to work on his gear.

She moved quick and silent, without meeting his eyes, and didn't back up until he was down to just tunic and trousers.

'Come on, then,' she said dryly, eyes flicking from the gold-threaded carpet to his. 'Let's get you into bed.'

A silence that felt loaded was settling around them, and as he took her hand and hauled himself upright, the loudest sound in the room was the crackling fire. It was only a single clumsy stride from the chair to his bed, with its sprawling mattress and velvet green covers, and he flopped more or less into the centre with a groan.

'Alright, alright. That's me planted and watered,' he said wryly, eyes heavy-lidded and warm.

'Now it's your turn.'

A fluttering clutch in Irileth's belly had her glancing down at him sharply.

'What?'

'Your armor. You should take it off.'

A tiny thrill of relief went through her, at the same time as a prick of embarrassment...and disappointment. Jerkily, she shook her head and frowned.

'Don't worry. It can wait.'

'Why should it, though?' He smiled at her from the bed, and the cajoling lift to it reminded her of a much younger man.

'You dragged me all the way back to the Keep. We're safe and sound, in here.'

She stared hard at him from where she stood, and as silence fell between them again, her pulse picked up a bit. She felt jumpy, restless, anxious – and then foolish, for feeling any of those things. She was making something out of nothing. It was nothing but armor. How many times had they seen each other taking that off? Finally, she relented on a snort.

'Alright. Fine.'

But as much as she told herself resolutely that she was being foolish, imagining things...she still turned her back to him and faced the fire instead, to strip her armor. Something small and insistent was tingling at the back of her neck, telling her it wasn't nothing – making it so she couldn't bear to face him as she did this. It didn't feel safe.

The sound of leather whispering apart and buckles being undone joined the sounds of the fire, and as the silence grew heavier on Irileth's nape, she found herself moving slower. There was no hiding it from herself, at this point – she was stalling having to turn back around. As she bent at the waist to peel off her chausses, she had to quell a shuddering breath. Nerves were balling low in her belly, and heat was gathering in her cheeks. She shoved harshly against it, but to little avail.

When she finally had to turn around, she was unconsciously holding her breath.

And seeing the look on his face, she knew she was right. It wasn't nothing.

Oh, gods. The heat in her stomach balled even tighter, and the fluttering panic grew. She swallowed.

He'd propped himself up on one elbow in the bed, watching her intently; now he gestured with his free hand.

'Sit with me, Iril. Keep me company, awhile.'

'You should rest.' She sounded strange to her own ears. Tight. Stilted. His blue eyes flickered as they held hers in place.

'Just for a while. Please?'

His voice had gone soft, and before she knew it, her feet were crossing the distance. She was sitting on the edge of the bed. And he smiled at her, before she dropped her gaze to the bedspread.

The air was so heavy around them now it was thick, and as she perched on the edge of the mattress as taut as a wire, she could all but taste it on her tongue. A buzzing silence was cloaking them, and her exposed skin tingled as if she'd conjured lightning.

She knew what she should do – get up and walk away. She knew. But she didn't. And didn't try.

Because the feeling thrilled her from head to toe, even as panic thudded in her chest, in her mouth. Instead she slowly moved her eyes from the green velvet spread to his hand, atop it. Staring closely at the weathered skin – the many small scars of different ages, the tan lines left by missing rings. The fingers spread on the mattress, flexing cords traveling up the wrist. Her garnet eyes traveled with them up his bare forearm, scanning slowly. She took in the graceful lines of muscle, and the freckles he'd gained with sun and age. The pale blonde hairs that glinted in the light.

Going any higher felt reckless, foolhardy, and for a moment her eyes fluttered closed. Then she forced herself to inhale, and opened them to stare at his face.

Her heart skipped a beat when she saw him staring at her much the same way. His eyes were dark and hooded, and she watched as they moved slowly from her face to her neck, down and over her collarbones, to linger on her dark red blouse. The charge came swelling to a crescendo, and she opened her mouth to speak.

'Balgruuf – I –'

It was both shock and confirmation, when he opened his mouth and spoke in a voice gone low and husky.

'Take it off for me.'

Her whole body tensed, and her voice fled as a wave of desire and longing swept through her. His eyes rose to catch hers in that silence, and there he saw the truth. As if she could hide it. He made a soft sound in the back of his throat, and her heart throbbed against her ribcage in answer.

Balgruuf pushed himself to sitting in the bed. Reached out for her, and made it as far as starting to softly, clumsily untie the laces of the blouse before she caught his hands.

'We can't. You know we can't,' she said, barely a whisper. Her hands were claws gripping his, and her eyes spoke urgently to him. There was memory in them, and she knew he saw it.

This had happened four other times, in their decades together; or something very like it. The first when they were soldiers, still – the others after he'd taken his court. Always when they were alone. And each time harder to resist than the last. Now it was going to happen again. Her heart wrenched in her chest to think of it, and her lower lip started to tremble.

'You know,' she repeated, and dropped his hands, leaning away from him. She knew she should stand, but couldn't seem to make herself.

Balgruuf shook his head, and those deep blue eyes held her fast as they pled with her own.

'But I want you,' he whispered huskily. 'I've always wanted you.'

Stop it. Please stop it.

'You're drunk, Balgruuf.' She had to force the words out, and then he just shook his head once.

'That doesn't change the truth,' he answered simply. As if it had ever been simple!

The words were a knife twisting deep in her chest, and her face screwed into a pained expression as she snapped back.

'The truth is that we can't ever do this!'

'Why not?' He shot back.

'Because you are a Jarl,' she cried, voice raising.

'The Jarl of Whiterun, and I am your housecarl! And an elf,' she tacked on bitterly. 'You were never in my reach, and no court would ever accept us. And when you have your head screwed on straight, you know it as well as I do. That's why, gods-dammit!' She sat back breathing fast and shallow, and shook her head hard.

'It's never going to change. We can't.'

He was staring at her with a stricken expression – as if she'd hauled off and slapped him. A sheen was glossing over his eyes, and she felt sick when she realized it was tears. A pregnant silence rushed in between them, and for an endless moment they just stared at one another, barely breathing.

Then he slowly,slowly reached out, and she didn't back away. Carefully he grasped her arms, and she could tell he felt them trembling beneath his calloused hands. Then he ran them smoothly up over her skin, warm and firm, and her breath caught altogether as her flesh erupted into goosebumps.

'Balgruuf—'

'You make it so hard to keep my head on straight, Iril. Impossible, sometimes.' His voice was raw with emotion, and hearing it made her ache.

'I can't bear for you to turn me away.'

'You need to be sensible,' she choked.

That was the wrong thing to say; a fire lit in his anguished blue eyes, and he seized her by the shoulders.

'I don't want to be sensible! I'm tired of always doing what's proper!'

Quick as a flash, he was pulling the both of them backwards onto the mattress. And gods help her – even as the dutiful part of her railed against it, the rest of her thrilled as they fell. They landed with Balgruuf flat on his back, and her pressed flush against the long line of his side. He wrapped an arm around her waist to hold her fast. But she made no move to flee. Neither noticed that their breath had gone ragged, and his voice was torn with passion as his eyes pled with hers.

'How long have we been at each other's side? I can see it in your eyes, Irileth! Please, tell me that you feel it, too,' he begged.

Their faces were a mere breath apart – it had been years since she'd seen him look so tormented. His pleading pulled at the deepest part of her, and for the first time in a very long time, Irileth had to quell the urge to sob. Her thundering heartbeat was in her mouth as it trembled open, and she nodded down at him.

'Of course,' she admitted in a shaky whisper.

'Always. Since I left the Tong, and met you on the battlefield.' And she watched as his pupils blew wide.

'Then be with me,' he pleaded, and reached up to thread a hand into her hair.

'Let me be yours! Be my w—'

'Don't.' She clapped a hand over his mouth in the space between them, silencing him, and hitched back a sob.

'Don't say it. Please.' She felt her face crumple, and her throat ached bitterly with unshed tears.

This part was new. And she didn't think she'd be able to stand it. He'd been about to say wife; the idea was as painful as it was sweet, and it sent her spinning. How many years had it been, since she'd sworn herself to him in service? How long had she stood by his side, at his throne, and watched him rule? Knowing full well that she'd never be his equal in anyone's eyes but their own?

Long enough to watch him take over from his father, before him. Long enough to watch him marry the Jarlessa, Deowyn – knowing full well there was no love between them. Long enough for him to give her children. Long enough to see him widowed.

And now she had to hear him ask her those words, knowing they were pried loose with drink, and would never hold beyond the walls of this room. A shudder wracked her frame, and she pulled away.

'Don't offer me that. I can't bear it. This is why you shouldn't drink.' The pain in his eyes staggered her, and she looked away miserably.

'How can you say that to me?' He whispered. His voice was ragged and raw, and it made her blanch.

'You admit you want me, but won't have me? Why, Iril? I would give you anything! Everything!'

'Because that isn't true,' she ground out. 'All we could give each other are hearts and bodies, and ruined reputations. We shouldn't even be speaking of this, let alone you making me promises! I know it can never happen – in the light of day, so do you.'

It had never gone this far, before. None of these thoughts should've ever left their heads – and now, they were all tumbling out. She felt the rough pads of his fingers as they gripped her chin, and turned her face back to his. His eyes were smouldering as they burned into hers.

'Damn reputation,' he growled. 'What has it bought me? Damn all of the wagging tongues, and damn the sun with its light of day! I wish it would never rise again! What I know is what's in my heart.'

The words had her entire body pulsing, running hot with desire and cold with fear, wracked with longing and pain side by side. Balgruuf was looking at her with a tender fierceness that made her feel as if she would unravel at the joints. And then as she watched, he hoisted himself onto an elbow in the bed, and moved to close the gap between their faces.

And for once in her life, she let herself be weak. She didn't pull away like she knew she should.

She met him in the middle.

His warm breath ghosted over her lips, and then his mouth instead. It was hot, and sweet like the wine he'd been drinking, and so fucking heady that it swept her away like a current. She answered him hungrily in turn, and he made a muffled noise that broke her heart, even as it spurred her on. Long dark fingers crept into his hair and balled there, and when she felt the eager sweep of his tongue, she moaned.

With strong arms he pulled her to roll so that she was atop him, in the bed. The feeling of their heaving chests pushed flush together went spearing straight to her core, and she panted and cursed in a daze.

It was the sweetest, most mindless oblivion she'd ever known – and she happily would've stayed there forever. He said her name on a ragged groan, raining fevered kisses down her face, her jaw, her neck, and it felt like paradise. Like a dream she'd hardly dared to dream, come true. She wanted this so fucking much.

It wasn't until one of those warm, gripping hands slid down her arching back and dipped past her shirt to caress the skin beneath, that she was wrenched back to reality.

This felt so real – but it never would be. Warm hands, hot kisses, frenzied promises in a locked bedroom – that was all they could ever have. They'd never have respect, or a full life together, and as much as she yearned for him body and soul, all she would bring him in the end was ruin.

He was a ruler, first and foremost, and they'd both always known it.

It was crushing, and Irileth wheezed as all the breath left her body, as surely as if she'd been gut-punched. Hey eyes had fluttered closed as they'd writhed on the bed, but now they came flying open again, and she tore herself away from him on a dry gasping sob, curling inward as if to shield herself. Shield them both.

'I-Irileth?' Balgruuf's chest was heaving, as he pulled himself back up to look at her. His eyes were dark with drink and hazy desire; his expression was wild and confused – concerned. His mouth was wet and glistening, in the firelight.

'What—'

'I can't,' she gasped, and the look on her face filled him with alarm.

'We can't. I can't do this Balgruuf, please. I just can't. We have to stop this.' Feeling like she was made of glass and might break, she raised shaking hands up between them. She'd rocked back onto her knees to gain some distance, and thank all the gods for it, because the look that was coming into his face was already tearing her to shreds. A sound of pure distress left her throat, and her cheeks burned with miserable shame.

He could've done anything, in the swallowing silence that devoured the room around them. Anything but keep going, and she probably would've accepted it.

What he did do shook her near as badly as the kisses.

His weathered face had crumpled as he'd taken her in, breathing shallow and shaking. He looked as broken as she felt, and two tears came sliding from the corners of his eyes to trail down his cheeks as he reached for her like one would a frightened animal.

'Irileth, I'm so sorry. Please, forgive me.'

Hearing him apologize hurt in a different way, and she stared at his face with naked misery on her own.

'What is it you're sorry for, Balgruuf?'

'For pushing. For taking more than you want to give.' He cursed beneath his breath, and shook his head.

'I got carried away. That's no excuse. Please, don't cringe away from me! You have nothing to fear. It would kill me if you thought you did.'

He didn't understand. Not at all. Frustration clawed at her insides like a wild thing, but she was powerless to voice it, now.

'I'm not – afraid of you,' she managed, and the spark of relief she saw light his face wrenched a knife into her heart.

'I can't bear to leave it like this,' he begged. 'Please, give me another chance. I – understand we can't do more. Just let me – hold you, for a while. Please.'

He reached out two open, trembling hands, and there was nothing else she could do. Nothing else, except crawl toward him in the bed, and let him wrap her in his arms. The woman, the friend, the housecarl, the elf – they all agreed. None could refuse him. Not this. As he settled back against the pillows and nestled her into the crook of his arm, she felt every inch of the gaping heartache she'd been spending years shoving down with all the will she possessed. And still – still! – there was nowhere else on Nirn she'd rather be.

He started stroking her back – short, soothing little strokes – and while she didn't know how, they eventually helped her shuddering breaths to abate. Silence eventually fell between them, and when it did he stopped his careful stroking to wrap her in an embrace.

When he spoke, his voice sounded hollow.

'I'm sorry. Truly. Did I...did I hurt you?'

'No.' It was the truth, in the sense that he was asking it.

Balgruuf gave a tiny sigh of relief. 'Good. That's good. I couldn't live with myself, if I had. I just...'

A deeper, more gut-wrenching sigh.

'I just want you so gods-damned much.'

The traitorous words felt like poison to say – but they wriggled free of her, regardless.

'I want you the same.'

He shifted to look down at her then, and she forced herself to look back – was she a woman, or a scared little girl? The hurt and confusion on his face speared at her, but she didn't shy away. The drink still had him in its grip, and it had the effect of making every move looser – every expression more open. Gods, it stung.

'Then why won't you have me? Is it really the court? The city?' His brows knit together, and his voice was full of naked longing.

'Your blood? Katariah married Pelagius, and no one dared to speak against them. She was Empress of all the Empire! I could make you my queen, if you'd only let me. My beautiful queen Iril.'

Irileth couldn't help it; she twisted her face into the crook of his neck, and buried it there, giving in to a shudder. Why did he have to say such things? And why now?

'I...I'm sorry, Irileth. Really. I don't mean to hurt you more.' His voice was so tired and sad, it made her chest ache to hear it, and he held her tighter against him.

'You're right. I know these things have been sitting between us...a long, long time. And we never spoke of it. Not like this. I shouldn't have...put this on you, tonight. It isn't fair.'

She longed like she'd never longed for anything in all her sixty years, to turn and start kissing him again; to pour all of the incontrovertible proof of how she felt for him straight into his mouth, his lungs, his soul, so there would be no misunderstanding. But that wouldn't be fair, either. No matter how much she wanted it.

And so when he asked the next question of her, she nodded straightaway.

'Will you just lay with me here, tonight? Stay with me, til I sleep?'

I want to know what it's like, to sleep beside you. Even if it's the only night I ever do.

It was late, and they were both worn bare. He was drunk. She wasn't sure how long she laid there brimming with emotion and things she wouldn't let herself say, before his grip started to loosen – but it wasn't terribly long. She was silently watching his chest rise and fall and steeping in the bittersweet ache, when he surprised her by speaking up.

'Iril?'

'Yes?' She fought to keep her voice as even as she could; somewhere in the silence, the protective instinct she was known for had kicked in. Now she was determined to give him what he needed, in this bizarre and painful twilight. She'd do that, before she looked to herself.

'Can we...do one thing?'

She tried hard not to tense up, and failed.

'What thing?'

'Two questions and a favor? Nothing outrageous, I promise.'

The breath hitched in her chest – this was a game they'd played back in their soldiering days. One of many. Two questions each, and swapping a favor. She thought about it, feeling nervous...but only for a second, and then she nodded.

How could this night get any more insane? And besides – an insistent part of her whispered that tonight might be the last chance they had, to speak of this at all.

That stung. But what didn't, right now?

'Alright. You go first.'

He made a sound of relief, and then seemed to think about it seriously; shifting to stare up at the ceiling, and humming low in his chest. When he spoke, his voice was husky again.

'Would...would you have ever told me, if things didn't happen like they did tonight?'

The question tied a painful knot in her stomach, and she winced. She didn't want to hurt him with the truth – but respected him too much to give him less. The irony.

'I don't know,' she admitted. 'I suppose I never saw the point. It's hopeless, so why complicate things?'

He swallowed hard, and was quiet for a long beat. Two. Three. Then slowly he nodded.

'...Your turn.'

It was barbed – it was in bad faith. And she knew it. But she asked the most prodding question, anyway.

'Why won't you listen to reason? Why won't you accept that being with me would tarnish everything you've worked for?'

It was his turn to tense.

'I resent that,' he replied roughly. 'I've held my tongue, for—well, for a long time. How long can a man want for someone right in front of him, and tell himself the same lines he...doesn't believe?'

'I'm not willing to risk you being wrong. I'm not worth that,' she protested fiercely.

'For such a smart woman, you sell yourself short. You're worth more to me than I think you want to hear,' he said quietly. It prodded sharply at the broken mess that was her heart, and Irileth huffed in response.

'Do you honestly think that this city would take a Dunmer spinster as a Jarlessa, after Deowyn?'

It was a bit of a low blow, and they both knew it; he shifted to look at her, and when she met his gaze there was a look there that spoke volumes.

'I think our city loves you, for what you've done for them. I think any hold would be lucky to have you for a queen.' He was so plainly sincere when he said it – so clearly meant every word. All she could do was bite her lip, and turn her face away.

'What about your children? They would never accept it, and you know it.'

'That's more than two questions,' he protested weakly.

'You'll get another to make it even,' she said brusquely. 'Now stop hiding.'

'...Their mother has been dead five years now,' he said softly.

But that wasn't an answer, and they both knew it.

'Ask your last two questions,' she whispered.

Again, he thought about it. Then at length, he sighed.

'Have you really felt more than friendship for me since the war?'

The question felt like a lance through the chest, and she choked.

'You aren't fair,' she murmured, and there was such raw sorrow in her voice that he winced.

'I'm sorry. You're right, that's a selfish question,' he muttered. 'You don't have to answer if you don't want to.'

Her heart was fluttering like a bird in her chest, fast and in distress, and her features twisted as she looked into his eyes and shook her head. She felt like she needed to, now. He had to know.

'Ever since Leyawiin,' she sighed. 'Since 172.'

Balgruuf's brow crumpled. His lower lip trembled, and he swore as he tore his eyes away from hers and looked back to the ceiling. They were shining with tears, and Irileth could barely stand the sight. She didn't need to read his mind, to know what was going on – it was happening for her, too. A flood of memories spanning years of time, all dragged through the murky taint of what if?

He cursed on a shaky exhale, and then took a big breath in. Another.

'What – what would it take, for you to reconsider? And please don't say there's nothing, Irileth. I'm begging you. Lie, if you have to.' He sounded raw and broken, and it tortured her.

'I wouldn't lie,' she shot back, voice thick with emotion and unshed tears.

'But I can't tell you that, because I don't know. I've never thought about it. I never had a reason to. It feels impossible.'

He tightened his grip around her then, so tight it was almost painful, and dropped his face into her hair. He nuzzled the red locks, breathing in deep, and then let out what she recognized with horror as a dry, hitching sob. Reflexively her fingers dug into his shirt, and her eyes slammed shut as her insides roiled.

Maybe it had been a mistake, to agree to this. Maybe they'd just made things worse.

But try as she might, she couldn't make those words come out. She had only just managed to open her mouth where it was muffled against his collarbone, when he spoke raggedly in her ear.

'Alright. You've been more than fair. It's time you ask for a favor...anything you want.'

Kiss me. Take me. Let this end. See that it's hopeless. Stop making me want you. Never let me go! Gods, it was too much. The urge to break down sobbing, fall apart...it tore at her worse than she could even remember. But she couldn't let herself do that, and she she couldn't make herself ask him for any of those things. For long moments, she was quiet, barely breathing. Then she asked for the only thing she could settle on.

'Just...lay here and hold me. No words for a while. Just hold me like none of this was happening, and we could be somebody else.'

She felt him swallow hard, against her – felt a shudder wrack his frame. Then he nodded, and whispered his answer.

'Alright.'

Time went fuzzy and muddled again, as they fell into silence once more. The embrace shifted, going loose and tender, and even as it broke her heart anew, she answered in kind. His hands were so soft, as they traced her body; warm, and lingering. Reverent.

Never in her life had she ever been touched this way. It spoke of desire, yes...but even moreso of things beyond desire, things it simply hurt too much to arched her back against his hands, and bit her lip to stifle tears.

Eventually her hands started to move, snaking out of their own accord, and joined his in their wandering. If this was to be her one chance to feel him, she'd be gods-damned before she let it slip away. He groaned as she trailed a hand down his back, to his hip. Sighed, when she rested a palm on the side of his neck. She could feel his pulse there, beating strong, and it perfectly matched her own.

She had no idea how long they laid there like that, speaking without words. But eventually, the caresses slowed, going more and more languid, and then they stilled. He wrapped her in his arms, close to his heart, and tucked the top of her head beneath his chin. Irileth listened to his breath and heartbeat, the crackling of the fire slowly dying in the hearth, and tried her very best not to think.

The light in the room was going dim and the arm beneath her had fallen asleep, when he broke the silence.

'Iril?' His voice was a soft, cracking whisper, and she could hear the sleep in it.

'What?' She whispered back.

'I'm...falling asleep,' he murmured. 'M'sorry. The wine. I need – my favor.'

Her poor heart skipped a beat at the words, but she nodded nonetheless.

'Okay, Balgruuf. Ask.'

'Only if it's true...' he breathed, and reached down slowly to grab her hand in one of his, giving it a squeeze.

'Just if it's really true...tell me that you love me.'

And she'd thought the pain couldn't get any worse. Her breath hitched as her eyes squeezed shut, and she clamped down on the sob that tried to tear its way free from her mouth. Oh, beautiful man. Awful man. What a thing to ask of her! She felt like laughing, crying and screaming, all at once.

The war going on inside of her was a silent one, though. She trembled ever so slightly in his arms, and that was the only tell. And even though the words were springing up like water from a geyser, she couldn't manage to work them up past her throat.

A sliver of wild panic stabbed her, at the thought that he'd take her silence for another meaning.

But of all the many things she worried about, that one wasn't needed. Balgruuf was a lot more exhausted than he'd let on, and the drink was having its say. The hand squeezing hers started going slack, and he sighed deep in his chest, like an innocent child.

'...Love you, Iril.' No sooner had he mumbled the last then his whole body relaxed against her, and his breath went long and steady as it fluttered at her ear.

He'd fallen asleep.

She waited, hardly daring to breathe, until she was sure he'd stay under; both hands clutching his much larger one to her chest. Only then did she finally allow the tears to come. Thick and fast, dripping from her eyes and down the bridge of her nose, trailing into her hair, her ear. Blurring her vision and making her throat ache. Only then did she take a shuddering breath as broken as she felt.

Only then did she whisper raggedly into the dimly lit room, knowing if he heard her at all, it would only be in his dreams.

'I—love you, Balgruuf. Always h-have...always will.'

It was the throbbing pain behind his eyes that woke him.

Moaning, feeling a decade older than he was, Balgruuf rolled slowly onto his back in the four-poster bed – wincing at the traces of sunlight filtering through his curtains before he scrubbed a hand into his eyes. His head felt like it weighed more than a cauldron!

Fuck. He had to stop drinking like that. What in the hells had he been thinking? He was still fully dressed in wrinkled clothes, lying on top of a tousled bedspread. He cursed beneath his breath, and frowned.

What had he done last night? He wasn't that drunk...

It was pure chance that he turned his head to the side, and his blurry eyes landed on his little bedside table. On the empty water glass sitting there. And a little green bottle, he didn't remember being there before. A potion?...

It was those two little things that had it all rushing back, and he gasped.

Oh, gods...oh gods! Jerkily, Balgruuf scrambled upright in the bed, raking both hands through his tousled hair, eyes wide and blood-shot as they flicked unseeing to the cold hearth. His heart had started to pound, and his breath was coming hard and fast.

He and Irileth – they had – and he had – and now...

Now she was gone. The pain in his head felt like it would split his skull, and he groaned as he reached for the little green bottle that he knew now she had left him. He tossed it back with eyes screwed shut, and downed it in a go. It was sour and bitter, and he nearly choked. Immediately, the pounding in his head start dulling, and for a second he was grateful.

But that just meant more room in his head for painful thoughts.

Merciful Mara, what had he done? Memories crowded one after the other, so fast and insistent it made his head spin, and he clutched his stomach with the hand that wasn't clutching the bottle. Both were starting to shake.

He'd gone too far. Much too far! Said things to her it wasn't fair to say. He'd tossed her down onto his bed, for fucks' sake! As if she was standing right in front of him, Balgruuf saw it all over again; the look in her eyes as she'd turned around. The way the fire had played on her flawless dark skin. He tasted her mouth, and felt her curves in his hands. He heard her moan, and nearly moaned aloud now, in response.

And then the bad – hitting him like an actual blow. The unspeakable longing, plain on her face. Her refusal, as he'd laid his heart bare. The sheer depth of pain he had seen in those eyes, as they tumbled further into torturous games...

He had tortured her. He could see it plain as day, now – the raw hurt and yearning, the sorrow. The restraint. The bitter regret. Fuck. Fuck!

Balgruuf's ears were starting to ring, where he sat on the bed; his hands were badly shaking. He stared at the empty bottle he held as the panic that had gripped him was overshadowed by...despair. Pain. A jagged, impotent rage. He got a flashing image of Irileth, tearing herself out of his arms. Her slim hands shaking as she held them up between them – the devastated look on the face that was usually so stoic and strong.

He had done this to them.

Something snapped in him, then. And from the source came flashing a white-hot rage, that took him over in the blink of an eye.

A furious, unintelligible yell came tearing from his throat, and he hauled back and pitched the empty bottle at the stone wall, watching as it shattered. With his other hand he smacked the water-glass off the end-table; it made it half-way to the hearth, and then smashed against the floor.

It wasn't enough – not nearly. Gritting his teeth, Balgruuf grunted as he jumped up from the bed and upended the entire nightstand with a crash, and then kicked over his armchair. With nothing else in easy reach, he looked wild-eyed around the room for something more to smash. The bottles of whiskey on the breakfront caught his eye, and without thought he went storming over.

It was the furthest thing from his mind then, but he was a fright to behold; face contorted in an animal snarl, with a crazed fury plain in his eyes. The pain had built to crescendo, and now he couldn't bear it. Grabbing a bottle in each hand, he pitched one and then the other across the room, where they shattered with an awful sound. Then he grabbed another two, without even taking a breath. He started letting out sounds of raw, furious anguish with each pitching heave, and didn't even notice. There were no more bottles to throw after that, so he kicked the door of the cabinet with all his strength, and shouted a curse when he felt a toe probably break. He raked both hands through his hair as he stumbled backwards, toward the bed – and then just like that, the physical pain burnt up the rage, and he was swallowed by grief instead.

A hair-raising wail came tearing from Balgruuf, as he spun around and collapsed on the bed. He ground his face into the covers and curled into a ball, as wracking sobs like he'd never known took him as fast as the rage had.

He was helpless in this storm – couldn't have fought it if he tried. It was so powerful it scared him, and that just made him cry harder. He wailed and sobbed and choked in the bed, like he hadn't done since he was a boy wanting for his mother.

But it wasn't his mother he wanted for, now. He could barely think as he howled, but he could feel too well.

He wanted Irileth – there to hold him and sooth him and kiss away his tears! He wanted the years back! To use them as he should've done, and not as he'd relented to. To marry who he should've married, build the life they could've had! He started beating the mattress with a shaking fist, screaming himself hoarse as he did so; the pain, regret, shame were too much to bear. Her heartbroken face flooded the front of his mind, and he collapsed into moaning sobs with no shred of dignity or poise.

He was totally undone. All these years, he'd convinced himself that she couldn't possibly want the same things he did, and therefore neither should he. Smart, beautiful Irileth Nethri wanted nothing more than to be his friend and comrade – that was why it had never gone anywhere, those times over the years when he got the better of himself.

But know he knew the truth. He'd tasted her mouth – felt her heart pounding over his – seen the love in her eyes, and the lie was destroyed. It was ash in the wind, and now his heart was gone with it. Gone, gone. All his faith in all his choices. All the strength to shoulder his duties. His chains.

He should've never taken the throne! Hrongar could've done the job, and damn their father's opinion! He could've been a normal noble, merely sitting the court, and had no care for prying eyes! But he'd been a fool, the worst of fools, and it had cost him his chance at real happiness. Cost him a life with his dearest friend, the only woman he'd ever loved!

Time lost all meaning as he laid in that bed, sobbing and thrashing and making alien, heartbroken sounds. Nobody made a move to intrude on his quarters, despite the noise – nobody dared. The same hateful thoughts swirled around in his head as he broke down, the same snatches of memory new and old, and he cried until he thought he'd be sick. Never in his fifty-two years had he ever come apart like this.

Eventually, the wracking sobs started to slow – then to ease, and taper off into whimpers. His burning eyes started drying up, and his gasping breaths leveled out. His shaking hands unclenched from their white-knuckled fists, and his aching body stilled. And after gods-knew how long, Balgruuf fell silent and lapsed into staring numbly at the wall, utterly spent.

It was a while more, before he found the strength to move. But move he did, pulling himself up to sit and then to stand, and survey the damage he'd done. He hissed at the throbbing pain in his foot. And then grimaced in dismay.

Broken glass littered the floor, and two of the legs on his nightstand had snapped when he toppled it. The carpet that had been part of Deowyn's dowry was soaked in whiskey, and the entire room reeked of it so badly he didn't see how it would ever come out.

He couldn't worry about it now – or feel embarrassed. His heart was a bloody bag in his chest, not much different than the glass on the floor. But Irileth had been right about one thing.

He couldn't hide from the light of day. Never for long. As much as he wished it were different, he was the Jarl of this city. And his duties wouldn't wait.

Shoving down the bitter fog that threatened to consume him, Balgruuf slipped on some shoes and crunched over the bits of glass to scrub his face in his washbasin. He spared a glance in the mirror above, and frowned as he looked away. Then he gulped some water straight from the jug, and grabbed his heavy hairbrush with a sigh.

Twenty minutes later, Jarl Balgruuf the Greater of Whiterun stood by the door to his room. Dressed impeccably in spotless navy, with a matching sapphire circlet on his braided blonde head. The rings he'd abandoned to go to the tavern were back on his fingers now, and his mantle draped over the shoulders that he forced to be straight. Tired, guarded eyes swept back to look once more at the damage behind him, knowing full well it would be mostly cleaned by the time he returned tonight. And knowing that the rumors would already be in full swing. He gritted his teeth, and then forced himself to relax, turning to the table by the entryway. On it was a porcelain jug of dainty blue flowers, and he pulled one free with ginger fingers – to give to Dagny, who he was going to see first and foremost. He may have regretted his being a Jarl, but never his being a father.

For the briefest of moments, he stared at the jug and considered pulling free a second flower, for a very different recipient. His heart lurched and his mouth gave a twist, as he realized that Irileth might not want to see him.

What would I ever do without you? Tell me that you love me—

The pain that realization delivered made him want to shove the whole jug off the table – he took a stumbling step back, instead.

Burying the man who'd just unraveled in the bed as far down as he would go, the Jarl took a deep breath, and opened the door in front of him.

Are you now in Supreme Pain? Do you feel like you've been through a blender? Yell at me in a review!