Vilkas set Cyrene back on her feet once they reached the training yard and the two of them began tidying up the area and putting away their discarded practice weapons. He watched her casual movements in the late afternoon sunlight. She was tall, for an Imperial, but the top of her head barely cleared his shoulder. He suspected her honey-blonde hair fell in messy waves halfway to her waist when unbound. Although, she mostly kept it pulled back in some sort of braid, strands were always escaping. Her braid had hit him in the face enough times during their sparring for him to notice that it was actually multiple shades of blonde.

She had a habit of absentmindedly twirling a lock or two through her fingers when she was reading or daydreaming. He found it both annoying and distracting. He'd spent the better part of a rainy afternoon trying to get through a copy of "Dwemer History and Culture", only to find himself mentally labeling and cataloging the different shades of her hair from "Honningbrew Mead" to "Sweet Roll Icing".

Aggravated with himself, but still unable to concentrate on his book, he'd switched to compiling a mental list of all the ways she irritated him. It was long.

The light leather armor she wore to train with him hugged her body only loosely. She never wore anything formfitting. Instead, she slouched around in baggy men's' trousers and multiple layers of tunics and shirts, griping to herself about her intense hatred of the "damn Nordic climate" and its "constant state of frigid."

She picked up the last of their mess and turned toward him. For a moment the glow of the fading sunset landed on her and the world seemed to slow. Storm-cloud blue eyes flickered beneath sooty lashes, unsettlingly hypnotic against the golden tan of her skin. A slight breeze lifted golden locks away from her neck. Pouty coral lips parted into a white smile. His heart hammered in his chest and his mouth felt suddenly dry. The wolf inside snapped to attention. Realization began to work its way into his mind.

It had been a long time since he allowed a woman to be more than a shield-sister or bed-warmer, but something about Cyrene was drawing him forward, out of the shadows and into the light of her dumb jokes and warm smile and easy affection. She was cold at first, but after they'd been paired as shield-siblings, his sharp insults and vocal disapproval of her presence had been met with only gentle teasing and correction of whatever he was complaining about. She took his advice to heart, and his insults with a grain of salt. He'd pulled back for months, waiting for her to prove dishonorable or untrustworthy, waiting for her to lose interest and move on, waiting for a betrayal that had never come.

He'd paced the hall during one of the last full moons, restless, furious, and frustrated – the wolf throwing himself at the bars of his human cage, howling to be released. He'd been particularly brutal with his blows in their training that day, so he was surprised to see her appear from the whelp room and approach him. Before he could bark an insult at her, she'd stood on her tiptoes, wrapped her arms around his neck and brushed a soft kiss across his cheek. Her fingers stroked soothingly through his hair and he found himself embracing her as she quietly assured him that no matter what the problem was, she was there for him, always, and it was going to be alright.

Shocked, the wolf had quieted and Cyrene had led them both down the hall to his room. She left, but appeared again moments later with a rare book, he'd never seen. Handing it to him, she'd smiled and made herself comfortable on his bed, patting the spot beside her with a smirk. They'd spent the rest of the night reading and discussing the contents, him stretched out with his head in her lap, reading aloud, with her fingers brushing gently through his hair, occasionally making a comment so insightful that he'd been forced to reevaluate his entire opinion of her.

As the golden light glinted off her hair he allowed himself to wonder for the first time, if there was more to be had than what he'd allowed himself.

Cyrene stepped out of the sunlight and bumped him with her hip. "Hey! Snap out of it Vilkas!"

Time sped back up. He gave himself a mental shake and frowned down at her.

Ignoring his scowl, she leaned against him and slid an arm around his waist. "Shield-Brother, your training has worn me out, as always. Thank you for your help, but now – I'm famished." As if on cue, her stomach growled loudly.

Smirking, Vilkas slung an arm over her shoulders and steered her towards the porch. "You're welcome, of course. I too, am famished. Let's go get something to eat."

Cyréne snagged an apple off the main table as they walked across the porch, only to have Vilkas snatch it away from her and take a bite.

"Hey, that's mine!"

He dangled it above her head.

"HEY!" she snapped again, "Give that back!"

They were still scuffling for it when they entered Jorrvaskr. Cyréne was trying to climb Vilkas like a tree, to retrieve her snack, but his heavy arm across her shoulders was severely hindering her progress. Meanwhile, he'd taken another bite and was describing its delicious taste to her.

"I already told you, you're not welcome here! Now get out!"

Cyréne couldn't help but flinch at the tone of Farkas's voice. She became suddenly very aware of the tension in the room. Her slender blonde eyebrows knit together in concern. Vilkas dropped the apple in her still-open hand and started toward the front doors. Farkas's large form blocked whoever he was talking to from view.

"Leave!" Farkas repeated, "No one wants you here!"

A woman's voice, silky and seductive, answered him. "Your brother might disagree, Farkas."

Vilkas froze mid-stride, and felt his blood run cold. Curious and concerned, Cyréne slid back under his arm, and wrapped her arm around his waist again, supporting him as he seemed to stumble.

"You, stay away from him!" Farkas growled.

Cyréne wondered briefly who was stupid enough not to realize they were about to get pounded by a large Farkas-fist, when she accidently bumped into the side-table by the door causing a bowl to clatter loudly to the floor. She closed her eyes and cursed under her breath. She started to bend and retrieve the bowl, but Vilkas's grip on her shoulder tightened.

"What?!" she said, a little louder than she meant to. She glanced up at him, expecting to see him glowering down at her. Instead, he was staring dazedly into space. Cyréne's stomach growled urgently. The heated exchange continued endlessly across the room and she let out an impatient sigh.

"Vilkas," she whispered.

He didn't respond.

"Vilkas"

Nothing.

"Vilkas!"

Finally she stomped on his foot and he looked down at her. "Look," she whispered, "I don't know what's wrong, but I'm tired and I'm hungry and I don't feel like waiting around all night."

A hurt look flickered across his face and she continued quickly, "No Dummy! I'm not leaving you. I just mean make a decision – push forward or fall back."