Author's Note: Ahh! I'm so sorry for the delay, it was unintentional. I moved and received a promotion at work, and so have been incredibly busy as of late. I barely have any free time now, but I'm working on building some sort of suitable balance. In any event, here is a brand new chapter! This is not a rework of a previous chapter, but entirely new, so I hope you enjoy. This was originally only going to be a few paragraphs placed at the beginning of the original chapter four, but it quickly evolved into this monstrosity here. Since it's already posted, it's not much of a surprise to say that Gwynayne and Mordistair will be separated shortly, and I really enjoy writing scenes between the two of them, so this is more of a fond farewell to the mishaps and banter they share before (finally) moving on with the plot. As always, let me know what you think, both good and bad, and I hope you enjoy!

Chapter Four

A Compromise of Sorts

"It will not do, Mordistair, make the fire bigger."

The beleaguered knight sighed.

"My lady, we cannot afford to attract undue attention with a large fire," he explained wearily, prodding the last of the tinder towards the base of the flames, impatient and perturbed with the seemingly endless clarifications and justifications required by his charge, an unworldly youth with little care for the caution demanded of her, "We are no longer in High Rock, and we are too far from the nearest settlement to make any attempt at travel. I apologize for the discomfort and inconvenience, but we have no choice but to make due with our camp as it stands."

He turned to rummage through one of the leather sacks by his side, shuffling tiredly through their belongings as he returned the small pouch of flint and steel to its proper place. "I find no pleasure in camping on this god forsaken mountain side, but I will not risk stumbling about in the dark only to be beset by bears or Forsworn."

Gwynayne pouted, turning her gaze halfheartedly to watch the nearby horses as they snorted and grazed at the sparse vegetation they had been tethered near. With a shiver, she clutched at her crimson cloak, nuzzling against the thick fur lining at the collar as a faint but chill breeze passed.

"I don't mind the mountain and I don't mind the camp," she explained crossly, "I'm just cold."

She gazed expectantly towards the Rose Knight as he rose to his feet, his momentary surprise at her simple statement prompting a sheepish, wayward glance. In his increasing exasperation he let slip his frustration with his charge and their predicament more readily then he had intended.

"I apologize, my lady, but I've made the fire as large as I dare," he gently resolved.

His voice was genuine with regret, though drifting and distant. Anxiety forever mounting, his thoughts were ridden with visions of barbaric reachmen adorned with tattered pelts and skulls. Though the Breton map he carried was woefully deficient in markings and locations for the majority of Skyrim's holds, he knew Forsworn plagued the lands, that their encampments dotted the Druadach Mountains. It was only a mere hour earlier, as the evening light settled across the great peaks of the Reach and the westerly tributary of the Karth River that the knight and his lady had first passed into Skyrim. Their first sight of the foreign land was the ancient Dwemer bridge of Deep Folk Crossing, the great stone pillars and golden detail easily captivating his lady, so endlessly amused was she by Dwemer structures, appreciating their strength and longstanding beauty, enthralled with the mystery of the long lost creators. Not minutes after passing the Dwemer bridge, amidst her wayward meandering along the riverbank, did his lady stumble upon the corpse of a traveler, body bloated and dank, freshly washed upon the muddy bank, a damp book still in their clutches. Though initially frightened, reigning her horse away from the body and calling out for the knight, her curiosity demanded her to dismount and timidly nip the beaten book from the clutches of the corpse, despite his outrage and reprimands at her crassness. Intrigued by the title, "The Aetherium Wars", she ignored his pleas for respect and began immediately to pour over the text, her fright over the body quickly forgotten, much less her understanding of the dangers of the land made so evident by the unfortunate traveler's current state.

Still lost in thought, debating potential routes through the treacherous hold, but without pause, he quickly removed his own crimson cloak and draped it across Gwynayne's frame, tucking the edges into her lap as if tucking her into bed.

"There may be a spare blanket in one of the packs – "

"No, it's – this will do, Mordistair," Gwynayne quickly interrupted, clutching the familiar cloak close, eager for the warmth. "Thank you," she quietly whispered after some pause, looking almost bashful as she turned away from the knight, fiddling with the edges of the fabric as she stared awkwardly at the ground before her.

For a moment neither of the travelers spoke, and with nothing further to add, the knight resumed his former position, rustling through packs for various supplies in his effort to make the simple camp livable.

"Would you like something to eat?" Mordistair inquired encouragingly, smiling as he withdrew a small wrapped package from the satchel, expression hopeful and eager, for his charge had lost much of her appetite since their travels had begun.

"Ah…mhm," Gwynayne answered shyly, nodding her head, perking at the thought of dinner. His smile grew at her acceptance and he began to unwrap the soft cloth as he took a seat beside her on his bedroll.

"No sense in saving the biscuits much longer, they'll grow stale as rocks soon," he quipped lightly, chuckling at his struggle to break the wafers in his hands to make them more manageable.

Biting his lip, a slight blush crossing his cheeks from embarrassment, he eventually pressed the biscuit against his knee until finally it snapped in half. Without thought, he handed the larger portion to his charge. His brows raised in growing confusion as she glanced from his offering to him, shaking her head.

"You can have the larger piece," she whispered, nearly timid, as she lightly plucked the smaller portion from his hand, slipping it into her cocoon of cloaks. Staring dully at the fire before them, she rested the biscuit upon her forth drawn knees, bending her head to suck at the hard tack, running her tongue over the edges to soften it in what little attempt she could design to make her dinner edible.

The Rose Knight stared, perplexed for a moment at his charge's sudden charitable nature, and otherwise infantile table manners, but with little to argue over, began to mindlessly nibble at the biscuit left in his outstretched hand.

"Mordistair," she asked hesitantly, a sense of long deliberation behind her tone, playing with the biscuit and nervously twisting strands of her hair as her eyes darted everywhere her knight wasn't before continuing, "may we…well, must we travel straight for Winterhold?"

She nervously hunched closer to the fire, expecting a tirade of chastisement from the anxiety ridden knight. But with no response, she dared to glance aside at her confounded companion.

"You…you wish to travel elsewhere?," Mordistair questioned, sincerely astounded at the thought, letting his hand fall to let the biscuit rest in his lap as he pondered the request.

"Well, I wish to return home – "

"My lady," the knight was quick to interrupt with morose by firm warning, giving a sidelong glance of impatience at the reoccurring notion.

"I know, Mordistair, I know," Gwynayne grudgingly accepted, dismissing her knight's warning with a contemptuous wave of her hand, "I am to consent to my kidnapping with unquestioning poise."

The Rose Knight grimaced at his charge's attempt to make him feel further guilty for her state and his head lagged to the side as he sighed, for her attempts at wounding him succeeded.

"If we are to truly leave High Rock," she continued, turning to stare at the stars above, taking a deep lungful of the juniper smoke, "then I wish to see more than a few snow covered mountain trails. If I am to be made miserable with your company then I must compensate with some local frivolities, surely these Nords must have endless streams of festivals to pass the time in this inhospitable wilderness."

Unamused, Mordistair scowled at her insults, irritation growing within for continuously being portrayed as the source of his charge's woes. For a moment he thought even to say as much, to remind his charge that he was but her father's instrument, a tool to keep her from harm, an implement with singular purpose entirely separate from a personal desire to needlessly torment her. But as he opened his mouth to form defense he was quickly intercepted.

"Please Mordistair. If only for a few days…I want to pretend I can make decisions for myself. I want to wake to a day where I will not wonder where father will send me, where you will take me, keep me. I want to forget that those I trust most of all are the ones keeping secrets from me. And…" she grew even quieter, and for a moment, Mordistair believed she had begun to cry, "please, Mordistair, if only for a moment…I…"

She winced, clutching her cloak close as she brought her forehead to her knees, the remains of the biscuit tumbling of its precarious setting to the ground and her hair falling around her frame like a second cloak.

"Those bells have tormented me since we left that night," she whispered, her tone slowly growing harsh as she continued, turning to stare though fallen pale tresses at the knight, "I must have a singular moment where I am not haunted by his face. Allow me frivolous distraction or I shall die from this pain."

Though his charge was quick to assert brutal honesty when in regards to her loathing and disappointment in all that surrounded her, her biting words eager to pierce those who displeased her, rarely did she reveal weakness and desire, or seek solace and comfort in another. As prone as the young Breton was to melodramatics, especially when in the throes of manipulating others to obtain her own desires, the Rose Knight did not doubt her declaration as manipulation.

"Lady Gwynayne," Mordistair started, taking pause to formulate his thoughts, as the subject was difficult for not only his charge, "I cannot blame you for thinking ill of me, I know you shall for ever think of me as the one who barred you from attending his funeral," here he sighed with longing, "had I my way, we both would have been present to see him off…"

The Rose Knight glanced despondently into the fire, wincing as the memories of the young prince surfaced, not only of his short life: of his weak but everlasting smile and fondness for baked apples, his childish fascination with Mordistair's knightly armament and encyclopedic knowledge of insects, but of his death. The cries of servants and court gossips were still fresh in his mind as he remembered the night of the boy's passing. He could recall few moments when his heart had felt pulled in so many directions, for while he desired peace and solitude to grieve, he sought to satisfy his blood thirst and exact vengeance, a nearly consuming rage cooled only by his desire to keep such tragedy from befalling his charge. And so he obeyed his orders and fled with Gwynayne in the night. Still he could recall the agonized shrieks and keens of his lady as he absconded with her on horseback from the castle, fighting every moment to break free from his hold and fling herself from the horse. She relented only when her strength was exhausted, weeping ceaselessly until finally falling asleep in his arms.

Though his charge mourned the loss of a brother, he too mourned the loss of a dear companion, a child whom he held no duty to lay guardianship towards, no obligation to mind or engage with, and yet regarded with a degree of fondness reserved for few. The manner and untimeliness of the young prince's death left Mordistair nearly intoxicated with an unbearable sense of guilt. Though his charge was left only with half-truths concerning the nature of the prince's passing, he had not been spared, and what was not explicitly stated was easily speculated. And so he had been left to cruelly ruminate over potential scenarios in which he could have changed the boy's fate.

"Will such diversions make you happy?" he inquired in earnest, his voice wistful, as if to ask not only his charge, but himself as well.

Expressionless, she nodded her head, lost in thought, eyes glazed as she stared into the fire, following the crackling embers that floated on the rising smoke.

"I…I cannot approve," the young knight decided, reluctantly, sighing and shaking his head, aware of the disappointment he was sure to cause, "Skyrim is far too wild for such frivolous meandering." Though initially hesitant, he proclaimed his decision boldly, but a quick glance to his charge, now mournfully gazing into the quivering flames, her expectations met and too despondent even to challenge him, gave him pause. With a final sigh that grew into a lingering groan, Mordistair turned to face Gwynayne, drawing a hand down his face in mild exasperation.

"We cannot stray, my lady, there are endless terrors in these lands, men, mer, and beast alike," he struggled to explain, wild hand gestures emphasizing the perils his listed, "I cannot in good faith claim to obey your father's orders by so needlessly risking your life with mere sightseeing. It shall be difficult enough simply making our way directly to Winterhold."

His charge simply nodded, continuing to stare dully ahead.

"I know Mordistair. We shall go to the college. Where I shall be kept."

"Lady Gwynayne," Mordistair pleaded, hands raised cautiously, as if attempting to soothe a wild animal, "please try to understand. This trip will only be made more uncomfortable for you – for the both of us, should you mistake me for the lead conspirator in your misery. I insist only to – "

"Keep me safe," she finished dryly, "I understand."

The Rose Knight was quickly losing his will to uphold his former decision to increasing guilt, his charge's manipulative nature emerging with increasing bite and coldness the longer he attempted to cleanse his own guilty conscious with rational explanation.

With a casual but calculated glance, Gwynayne gazed sidelong towards the knight, and in a detached voice, coolly postulated, appearing only half interested in carrying on the conversation, "I'm sure my father will reward you handsomely for delivering me safely, have you negotiated for a barony of your own?"

Mordistair nearly shouted in immediate retaliation, his face reddening and fists tightening as he readied a passionate defense, oblivious to his charge's machinations so wounded was his sense of honor at the notion she proposed so casually, as if it would not be out of character for him to negotiate as such.

"How can you possibly believe I would seek to profit from this venture?" he demanded, seething, eyes wide with disbelief.

With the slightest of a satisfied smirk, Gwynayne could not help but beam at the speed at which her seed had sprout forth, for her otherwise austere knight had at last been sufficiently perturbed. As soon as she had spoken, the knight turned to gaze at her with indignation, his face pulled in outrage and disgust at the very notion she had so calmly put forth, nearly jumping out of his skin to defend his honor.

"I understand your frustration and pain, my lady," he muttered through grit teeth, attempting to quickly collect himself, "I –"

"Do you?"

He paused at Gwynayne's sudden interruption.

"Who have you been stolen from, Mordistair? Who keeps you from home? What lies and conspiracies have been spun to keep you forever obtuse and confused?"

"I have not stolen you, do not be childish," he impatiently rebuked, quickly growing agitated once more.

"Then I shall travel where I please."

"We are not in Wayrest anymore!" Mordistair shouted, at last relenting to his mounting ire at his charge's naiveté and immaturity, "Your father has no power in these lands and your status will no longer protect you, but endanger you, should it be discovered! If insulting me and falsely determining me as your warden will bring you some peace, then seek solace in your vitriol, my lady, for I rather you displeased with me than dead."

"If my father truly has no power here, then his orders cease at the border. You are dismissed, Mordistair," Gwynayne hissed in contempt, "do not burden me with your presence if you are so truly incapable as to guard a single charge for a mere bit of travel. If such simple duties are outside of your capabilities, then I shall go home and leave you free to play nursemaid to someone else, then you shall not have to embarrass your order with such unknightly cowardice."

Mordistair was truly and wholly irate now. He could not recall a moment in which he wanted to slap his charge as he now did. She was employing every technique at her disposal, tormenting his natural sympathy for her plight by toying with his guilt, his desire to act with honor and obey his orders. Though he often mocked his charge to tease, rarely did he seek to insult and humiliate, but with no other means to quell his outrage and exasperation, he stood, towering over Gwynayne's still sitting frame, hands clenching and unclenching with raw fury as he spat forth his contempt.

"You are an ungrateful and insufferable wretch," he muttered venomously, staring down at his now visibly nervous charge, "If you want to believe I am a coward, then call out for the reachmen that rape and pillage these lands, discover how little your sharp tongue will wound them. If you want to believe I am a kidnapping villain, then do so with clarity. I have stolen you. I've stolen you from an early death. Were it not for me you would now lay in the very crypt you seek so desperately to run back to. Though it is more than you deserve, I will carry out my duties and deliver you safely to Winterhold, in the exact manner I see fit to do so."

Taken aback by her knight's sudden burst of verbal defense and parrying insults, Gwynayne shrunk from his furious shouts, unaccustomed to the tenacity in which he spoke to her. It was only when he snarled his final intention, did she narrow her eyes in contempt. Nose wrinkled in frustration and building ire of her own, she jumped from her spot by the crackling fire to stare indignantly up at the fuming knight.

"Deliver this," she spat simply, and for a moment he thought she meant to punch him, for she balled her fist and raised her arm. But too late he realized what she intended, and with a small cry of exertion she produced a blinding magelight, shoving it directly into his face.

Mordistair roared in pain, wishing Gwynayne had indeed simply punched him. The light blinded him, a searing pain piercing his eyes as he cried out. Instinctively, he swatted the ethereal light, desperately clawing at his eyes and cheeks to try and block the pounding rays that spewed from the spell. Tears began to stream down his face, as he was unable to close his eyes and he felt nearly nauseous from the continuous and disorientating light. So overcome with pain, the Rose Knight was unable to hear the faint footfalls of his fleeing charge, scrambling over the rough scrub and rocky terrain of the mountainside.

Doubling over in agony, in his last fitful attempts to free himself from the searing magelight, the knight stumbled, unable to see anything but the pure white of the spell and fell gracelessly to the ground, scrapping his limbs and bruising his back on rocks and tough clumps of dead scrub. Writhing in continued pain, he clutched his face, rolling from side to side as he waited desperately for the spell to dissipate. Though it lasted only a minute, it felt like a century to the desperate knight. Another minute of excruciating pain had nearly passed before Mordistair had even realized the magelight had vanished, for a fierce afterglow still plagued his sight, blinding him. After a further minute had passed, he remained curled on the ground with bated breath, terrified he had lost his sight, for he still could only see a white glow before him. But at long last the pain began to dull, his eyes no longer watering, and the harsh white light was slowly eclipsed by the faint warm glow of the struggling fire before him.

His vision slowly returned to him and he groaned as he turned on his side to pick himself up off the chilled ground, pulse racing and breathe haggard from the terror of the moment and the following fear of permanent damage. Fearing what he would say and what actions he would take if he begun to immediately seek out his charge, he took a moment to collect himself, blinking repeatedly as he attempted to focus his sight on the finer details of the ground before him. But despite his intentions to attain a degree of composure he soon took note of the silence that surrounded him, only the faint crackle of the timid fire present, and with alarm he glanced nervously about the campsite as he sought out his recalcitrant charge.

His anxiety mounting, his eyes darted about the mountainside, still sore and sensitive from the attack, his sight additionally hampered by the dark of the long since fallen night. But nowhere was his now wayward charge to be found, for even despite the cloaking shadows of the night, her form would not be hidden by such a barren land.

Mordistair rose to his feet with a start, no longer consumed with a primeval rage, but with mounting fear, for even as he began to pace the edges of the camp, he caught no sight of his lady. A mild terror rose within him, and he rushed desperately to the horses, their remaining presence his only solace, as his charge could only hide herself from him as far as her feet could carry her. He quickly stripped his saddle of their only lantern and, rushing back to the campfire, lit the candle within. With a last desperate circling gaze across the land, he spun about in place, imagining what craggy footpath Gwynayne had disappeared down.

Fearing to draw attention to his current plight, should any reachmen truly be near, he bit his lip, until finally relenting to call out for his charge seeing no other suitable options before him.

"Lady Gwynayne!"

With no response, he dropped the lantern at his feet, brought cupped hands to his mouth and shouted urgently once more into the cold night.

"LADY GWYNAYNE!"

The Rose Knight stirred in his sleep, an uncomfortable grimace blossoming as he dreamed. It was only as he settled further next to his sleeping charge, still curled against his side that he began to calm, returning to what degree of comfortable sleep he had managed earlier in the night.

Gwynayne spun about, her hair trailing in a wide arc until it settled like a pale curtain against her frame, startled by the sudden cry of her abandoned knight. For a moment she feared he was crying out not merely to locate her, but for aid. Her hands twisted the fabric of her dress as she nervously pondered the damage a magelight could cause. But her fears were quickly consumed by the terror of being discovered as she noticed a bobbing lantern light descending from the camp. Her delicate shoes did not allow for her to trek very far down the mountainside, and she spent most of her time fumbling about in the dark, feeling out for the sharp edges of large rocks and reliable footfalls. She quickly determined there was little chance to outpace the knight, both light and attire were in his favor, and so with desperate whimpers she gazed about the craggy land for a suitable hiding spot.

It took little time for the young Breton to determine there was nowhere to hide. The few juniper trees that dotted the steep mountainside were small and shriveled, with only thin needles dispersed scarcely amongst the crooked boughs. As she turned frantically about in place to seek shelter, she lost her footing and slipped, struggling to stifle a shriek as she was caught up in a momentary rockslide. Nearly losing her balance, she flung herself to the ground, panting with relief as she managed to grip clumps of dried grass and shrub to steady herself on all fours. She cringed as rocks and pebbles continued to slide down the mountain, ricocheting off boulders and rough terrain, the commotion immediately drawing a further thundering bellow from her knight. She could not help but notice his voice was clearer, closer, and she feared she had only a moment to find something to conceal her presence.

Trembling with dread, able to now hear the knight's footsteps as he neared her, she tried to focus her efforts on crudely casting a spell to muffle her movements, desperate for any means of concealment. She began to grow tired by her third attempt, a sickening nervousness mounting at the thought of being found, until finally the familiar blue glow surrounded her, seeping into her skin as it worked to obscure what sounds she was sure to make as she crawled to the nearest boulder.

"Lady Gwynayne!" Mordistair again shouted into the night, swinging the lantern high above his head to spread the faint light before him.

Gwynayne whimpered again in fright, as he was nearly upon her and she could see the lantern held high above his armored frame. With a few steadying breaths, she mustered the fortitude to shuffle across the craggy ground, desperately reaching out for footfalls and grips as she made her way to a small boulder. It was truly no more than a large rock, but with no other salvation in sight, it was her only goal.

At long last, the Rose Knight was but only a few feet from her position, on a raised goat path above her where she herself once stood. She held her breath, fearing even her racing pulse would give away her location as she clutched the ground. She pressed her cheek uncomfortably against the rough pebbles beneath her, eager to sink into the very earth itself as she tried to avoid the wild swings of the lantern light. She could only surmise that Mordistair had noticed the earthen scar of freshly turned dirt from the rockslide, for he did not continue on, but stayed to investigate, again calling out for her.

Beginning to sweat despite the chill of the night, her fear only building, Gwynayne could no longer stomach the thought of discovery, of wasting what little time remained for her spell, and with a strained swallow continued to awkwardly shuffle across the rough terrain.

She had nearly made it to the boulder when her last footstep loosened the ground beneath her, sending a further frenzy of small rocks and pebbles cascading down the mountain side in an unstoppable stream. She cried out in despair as the Rose Knight, drawn immediately to the commotion, snapped his head to the side, the lantern light soon following, eyes wide in shock as he finally lay them upon his charge. Without pause he began to close the few paces that separated them, demanding her not to move as he shuffled his way down the peak.

With a great wail of frustration, Gwynayne pushed off the ground and made attempt to bolt and flee the ever nearing knight. Turning on her ankle, the ground again loosened beneath her and she flailed her arms, squeaking in fright as she lost her balance, threatening to topple head over heels down the mountain.

Rushing to slide and hop down the last few feet that separated them, Mordistair growled, straining to keep his own balance whilst stretching forth his hand to catch the falling girl, gripping her firmly in his gloved hand as he pulled her to him. Breathing heavily from the sudden exertion, he pressed Gwynayne against him, holding her shoulder tightly as he found assured footing. She could feel him trembling, whether from the sudden rush of adrenaline or anger, she did not know. She dared not to speak or struggle against him, but only closed her eyes as she rested her cheek against his breastplate, her body tense as she cringed at the sound of further tumbling rocks and loosened dirt that slid down the mountainside.

His breathing ragged, Mordistair clutched her shoulder even tighter, despite the passing danger. Gwynayne feared looking up to discover whether he was tired or enraged, and with a nervous flinch, she dared to sneak a glance at the knight's face.

It was rage.

Even in the dimming candle light, now held at the knight's side, Gwynayne recoiled at the sight of her keeper's expression. He stared down at her, brows furled and eyes piercing, unblinking. His teeth were clenched and he breathed heavily thorough flared nostrils, like a bull about to stampede. His fingers dug into her shoulder, his arm pressing her against his armor firmly, and though she felt the increasing burn of fresh bruises form, she dared not try to shrink away.

"What in Oblivion do you think you are doing?" Mordistair seethed, his question barley above a whisper, fierce and intimidating.

Gwynayne only began to realize the full consequences of her actions, and upon comprehending his fury, began to tremble, struggling to think of a suitable remark, a statement of defense.

"I…I only – I didn't – " she stumbled, shaking her head in fright as tears started to form.

"Think?" Mordistair growled, finishing her statement for her, "Care? Dain to act even remotely your age?"

"I – "

Mordistair gave her no time fumble with excuses, and quickly switched his grip on the lantern so as to lift his charge from the ground. She squeaked again in surprise at the sudden ascension, her knight's arms now holding her legs and back securely to him as he turned to ascend the few feet back to the goat trail.

"Attack me with magelight again and we both shall die tumbling down this mountainside, do you understand?" he warned harshly through grit teeth.

She nodded timidly.

It was only when they began to near the campsite that she noticed Mordistair's bloodshot eyes, deep red with obvious pain. She flinched at the sight, hand instinctively shooting out for a moment as if to caress his cheek, a motion of comfort and apology. But with a wince, she merely drew back her hand, looking away in shame at her handiwork.

"I'm sorry," she finally whispered, barely audible.

For a moment, Mordistair said nothing, but only continued to make his way to the fire.

"No you're not," he morosely opposed, setting his charge down unto the ground, blowing out the lantern light with a tired puff of breath, "You've never been sorry for anything. You're only sorry you've been caught, that I didn't relent to your foolish, reckless immaturity. You'd attack and run off again given even the faintest chance of success."

Gwynayne's shoulders began to tremble as her tears increased, cheeks flush with shame, continuing to realize just how incorrigible she had acted, how cruel she had been to the Rose Knight.

"I – I – I am sorry, Mordistair!" she cried, turning to face him, cheeks dripping with tears as she blubbered out her simple apology, "I – I know it's n-n-not your fault, I j-j-just want t-to go," she paused, trying to catch her breath as she became overcome with emotion and grief at the string of miseries that plagued her the past few days, before finally, with a great cry wailed, "home!"

She was bawling now, her hands weakly trying to divert the tears that continued to stream down her face, no longer able to speak, overcome with desperate gasps for breath and hiccups.

Mordistair stared on, his anger dissipating at the miserable sight before him. Nearly a week's worth of pent up frustration and confusion, anger and longing was being released. With a weary sigh, he pulled his cloak from the ground, wrapped a corner about his hand and kneeled next to his charge. Delicately, he pulled back her now tangled tresses, tucking them behind her ear as she continued to sob. With a faint pat on her head, he coaxed her hands away from her eyes and lifted her chin to face him so as to begin patting away her tears.

"Your father is going to owe me numerous baronies when all of this madness is said and done," he lightly sighed, shaking his head with a faint smile.

Gwynayne, startled at his admission, unable to note the obvious teasing in his tone, began to further cry, staring mournfully at the knight.

Groaning at the ridiculousness of it all, struggling to keep pace with her fresh tears, Mordistair continued to wipe her cheeks, sweeping stray locks of hair from her face.

"Oh, Lady Gwynayne," he repined, further shaking his head at the sight before him. A final sigh grew into a chuckle as he continued, "I cannot take you home, but perhaps I can recreate a sense of home for you here?"

Intrigued, her tears began to slow and her breathing began to return to its normal pace, interrupted only infrequently by hiccups.

With another chuckle, he stared down tenderly at his charge, "Just as we have in High Rock, we must make each other suitably miserable here in Skyrim."

Gwynayne cocked her head, lifting her own hands to wipe away the last of her tears, confused at the knight's sudden glee and perplexing solution.

"A…compromise of sorts," he continued, methodically unwrapping the cloak from his hand, "an arrangement that gives neither of us what we truly want and makes us bitter enemies, resentful of what little joy the other manages to syphon from the situation that we find ourselves in."

Though he continued to smile softly, his eyes glanced wayward, a momentary pause that reflected, true to his declaration, an inner resentment to the proposition he had yet to reveal. But he continued.

"We shall make me miserable by traipsing across Skyrim, chasing what silly pleasures will distract you, spending both coin and time foolishly."

At this, Gwynayne began to beam, only to recoil as Mordistair raised a finger in warning, for he had not finished.

"And to make you sufficiently miserable, I will demand whatever scrap of obedience you are capable of providing. You won't run off or attack me, and if I deem a locale too dangerous we will not argue the matter, we will simply leave for the next, understood?"

Gwynayne simply nodded, a smile returned to her face, content.

The Rose Knight shook his head, bemused, running a tired hand through his hair, disheveled from his earlier writhing.

"I do not understand you, my lady. You, a burgeoning mage, long for what the college can offer you, yet you seek to avoid it. You nearly blind me in order to return home this very night, yet you beam at the thought of elongating our trip to sightsee in this barbaric wasteland."

"It is a promise, though, you are not simply teasing me?" Gwynayne asked, straightening the mussed layers of her dress, the knight's confusion entirely ignored and his remarks left unanswered.

With a weary groan, the Rose Knight nodded his head.

"Unfortunately."

His lady appeared her normal self, as if her sudden and violent burst of emotion had not just taken place, and she settled down onto her bed roll, nestling comfortably against the simple makeshift pillow.

"Then let us try and sleep, Mordistair, so we are well rested to travel tomorrow," she proposed with a satisfied smile, "though the fire looks terribly weak, do try to toss a bit of fresh kindling upon it."

For a sickening moment, the knight dared ponder the notion that the entirety of the night's events had been planned in some manner, or at least calculated and manipulated carefully. He stared on nervously with a deepening frown as Gwynayne drifted off to sleep, her small hands clutching his cloak as a blanket, and could not help but wonder if he had been taken successfully for a fool.

Gwynayne sought out the warmth of her retainer, blissfully settling further into the nook of his shoulder as she fell deeper into sleep, her dreams allowing her to momentarily forget the pain of her binds and dangers of the frozen night. Her nose twitched as the Rose Knight's warm breath tickled her, and with a soft sigh, she mumbled incomprehensibly in her sleep, her dreams shifting and shaping to recall warmer days and kinder times in Wayrest, the frozen, Nordic wastes nearly forgotten.