Try to kill it all away, but I remember everything

What have I become, my sweetest friend?

Everyone I know goes away, in the end.

And you could have it all -my empire of dirt.

I will let you down.

I will make you hurt.

Trent Reznor, NIN

The familiar doors loomed before her, dark and ominous. The cold snow drifted against the stone and flakes swirled gently behind her in the chill wind. The amulet around her neck stirred against her skin. Ghosts spoke around her, shadows of the past calling her toward the future. She was afraid. A hand on her arm, strong and warm, gentle fingers lifting her chin to meet his eyes, "I am your sword and your shield. I will protect you, with my life."

She closed her eyes and inhaled softly, breathing in his strength, his warmth, his safety. She willed herself to say the words that she knew she should say, that even now she begged herself to say, "Wait here". But the words would not come. She was crippled by her fear, and in her weakness, she could only nod. She saw her hand touch the door, and then it was gone. The image rippled away from her like a stone sinking in dark water.

His red hair was plastered to his face with sweat, blood gushed from his side, his pale skin was paler than she'd ever seen it before as he struggled to breathe. She handed him potions, afraid to draw attention with her magic. She kneeled before him. "Stay down, let me draw his fire – I'll save us, I promise you." Even to her own ears her voice was panicked, desperate.

"I've failed you . . ." his voice broke.

"Never."

She turned to go, but his hand came up behind her neck and pulled her mouth to his. Tears spilled down her cheeks. She poured herself into his kiss – a silent promise – Live and I'll give you everything, all of myself. Live and I'll give you forever. All you have to do is live.

A crackle of lightning sounded and she pulled herself away. "I'll come back for you. Stay down."

She fought with everything she had. She was losing. She was losing and they would die here. Her heart dropped as her last Atronach fell, and she pulled a scroll from her bag. This was her last chance – she felt the stinging heat of fire as it rolled around her and she ripped swords from each hip slashing at the abomination that floated before her, an emotionless mockery of her pain and fear. It faltered under her rain of blows, unable to escape the cloak of fire rolling around her. If she could just stay close to it.

A jolt of shock from the creature's staff caught her unprepared. She cried out as pain tore through her, leaving her crumpled on the floor, her limbs twitching. She watched her death approach. Regret and bitter tears spilling out of her.

And then he was there, his sword and shield raised in her defense. She screamed as his shield was torn from his grasp and he fell to one knee. Their eyes locked and he knew it was the end. He smiled at her and said her name and the words he'd been longing to say for so much longer than she knew, "I love you". Then his body was flying away from her, contorting brokenly in a sickening shock of blue.

"Caldor!" Cyréne sat bolt upright, arms extended in the darkness, as his name ripped from her with a sob. Tears streamed down her face as she tried to catch her breath.

Vilkas had been watching her in concern for several minutes as - lost in her dreams - she grew more distressed. He sat up when she did, and gave her a moment to come out of it, before pulling her into his arms. Her body shook violently against him with silent sobs, and she clung to him as though she were drowning, her tears wetting his chest for a few moments before she wrapped her arms around his neck and sobbed into his shoulder. Her body pressed against him and he clenched his teeth against his growing arousal, cursing himself for his body's reaction.

She stiffened slightly and he loosened his grip so that she could turn in his arms.

Thinking only that the comfort she desperately needed was leaving her, Cyrene's mind screamed out in the darkness. No! Please, hold me! Don't let me go, please!

Vilkas was moving to get closer to her when she straddled him. He hardened instantly under her and she murmured approvingly as she scorched his chest with hot kisses. He blinked in the darkness and trailed his hands down her back, groaning and rolling his head back as her mouth found his throat and assaulted it with a barrage of gentle sucking and soft nips. She shifted against him in the darkness and the delicious friction of her hips in his lap caused him to hiss in a breath.

The wolf balked. Stop. Something is wrong.

"Cyréne," he growled softly.

When she didn't answer, he moved to see her face only to have her evade him. He leaned back, holding her away from him with one arm and lit the candle on the nightstand. Slim tan thighs peeked from the bottom of his tunic and wrapped around either side of his hips. His tunic hung loosely on her, giving no hint of her body save for one exposed shoulder. Her still damp hair hung in a golden curtain around her face.

"Look at me," he ordered gently.

Her eyes were haunted and rimmed with red, her lashes spikey with tears that still fell in a slow slide down her cheeks. His heart constricted in anger. She would let me take her like this, while she cries!

Vilkas dowsed the candle again and lifted her off of him in the darkness. He settled her beside him on the bed before opening his arms to her. She wiped her eyes and then snuggled into his side.

"Please," she whispered, "I . . ."

Vilkas tightened his embrace and pulled her closer and stared up into the darkness. "I'm here."

When her shaking subsided, he glanced down at her. "Who is Caldor?"

Her voice was faraway and sad when she spoke and Vilkas felt like he was listening to a stranger. "A good man, who died . . . because of me."

"How?"

She took a deep breath and shook her head. "I . . . can't."

"You can," he said immediately.

She choked back a sob. "We. . .I, was on a mission for the College of Winterhold. I was not prepared . . . to deal with what we were up against. They shouldn't have sent me," she said bitterly. "It was like sending a lamb to be slaughtered."

Vilkas's grip around her tightened, even as his uneasiness grew. Why would a bunch of mages send Cyréne to do anything?

"Start from the beginning, so I can understand," he said.

Cyréne laughed sadly. "Vilkas, you have no idea what you ask of me."

He didn't answer.

"You may have heard that the College was working on an excavation of Saarthal a few years ago. Do you remember hearing about that?"

"Yes."

"I'd just joined the College and—"

Vilkas pulled away from her and looked down at her in the darkness. "You? A mage?"

"Yes . . ."

"No," he said, shaking his head."I don't believe—"

His words were cut off by the sound of magic flaring and his eyes widened as a ball of light floated above their heads, dancing softly a few feet in the air. He looked back down at Cyréne in disbelief.

She smiled.

"You hid this from me!" he said accusingly. "Why?"

"I can't have secrets?"

"Continue with your story," he said, casting a wary eye at the light hovering above them.

"I'd just joined the College, and I was helping catalog items in the ruins. My very first day at the site, I was sent to find magical artifacts to study and I managed to get myself trapped in a chamber in some of the newest parts of the excavation—"

"Well, that part is believable," Vilkas muttered.

He listened in fascination as Cyrene explained about the amulet she found, the Eye of Magnus, and the Night of Tears, stopping her to ask questions every few sentences. When she told him about Quaranir and the Psijic Order and the time spell, his arms tightened around her.

"What did he say?"

"He told me that the longer the Eye remained in the College, the more dangerous the situation would become, and that I should seek out the Augur of Dunlain."

"And what is that?"

Vilkas struggled to wrap his mind around everything Cyréne was explaining to him. She answered all of his questions in a calm steady voice, that he barely recognized, but was growing accustomed and attracted to. His experience with magic was limited and unpleasant, but she was able to draw parallels from things he was familiar with, and he found himself drawn in to her tale and wishing he'd seen the things she'd seen.

Cyréne's voice was dark when she told him about the death of the Arch-mage.

"And they let the burden fall to you, a mere child?" he growled angrily. "Why?"

"I've often wondered," she said softly. "Perhaps they saw something I did not, or maybe they sent me to my death while they searched for a more suitable candidate – I know not. I wasn't a child, though, Vilkas – just a fool."

"A child!" he said harshly. "A fledgling, compared to them . . ."

Cyréne hid her face in his shoulder for a moment and let his anger die down. "This, next part is difficult for me, Vilkas. I've told only one other person about this. Even at the College, no one knows . . ." She took a deep breath to steady herself.

Cyréne struggled to keep her composure as she told him about the hell that had been Labyrinthian. Terror flooded her eyes as she recounted the hours of battle, how she was unprepared for everything, how poorly her skills served her, how she'd finally given up on anything but healing spells and forged ahead with blade and shield. She broke down when she told him what she found in the final chamber – how the Arch-mage left his friends enthralled to the Dragon Priest and sealed away.

"By the gods," Vilkas whispered hoarsely. "Cyréne, you don't have to tell me anymore, love."

"No, I need to tell you, please . . . I need to" She pleaded.

He nodded and kissed her forehead. "I want to know."

She told him about the battle, and Caldor, her voice dripping with sorrow and self-loathing. Her voice sounded hollow and dead suddenly, "I dragged Caldor's body out of there and cried like a child. I thought it was over. I was weak, and so very wrong."

The wolf growled menacingly.

Vilkas held her away from him and looked into her face, realization overtaking him. "Someone was waiting, to take the staff from you?"

She nodded and laughed bitterly, "Of course."

"Who?"

"I won't speak his name" she spat hatefully. "He was a mage – sent by Ancono to kill me. . . That fucking Thalmor bastard!" her voice broke. "He raised Caldor from my arms, Vilkas – from my very arms. I was crying over Caldor's body, kissing his face . . . he could have just killed me himself and I never would have seen it coming, but instead—" she sobbed and stopped speaking.

Vilkas's heart stopped beating for a moment. "He used necromancy?!"

Cyréne's emotions wrapped around him like the sea – terrible waves of hatred and sorrow, buffeting him from all sides.

"Yes." Her voice was barely a whisper now. "He raised Caldor against me, and asked me if I was willing to see him die twice, and . . . and, then he laughed." The magelight faded above their heads.

"This mage," Vilkas said after a moment, "is he dead?"

"You would slay him for me, Brother?" Cyrene smiled.

Vilkas nodded, "Am I to have the privilege?"

"I'm afraid not, "Cyrene said softly. "It is one I would guard jealously, had I not already sent him screaming to his death."

"Tell me what happened after that."

After Cyréne finished her story, they lie together in silence – Cyrene spent from recounting her tale and Vilkas trying to absorb it. After a while Vilkas spoke into the darkness.

"You're the Arch-mage of the College of Winterhold," he said slowly.

"I am, yes."

"I'm lying in bed with one of the most powerful mage's in Skyrim."

"Politically, the most powerful," she said, "and, magically, more powerful than most." Have I lost you?

"I see."

"Thinking about all the dirty sex spells I might know, Vilkey-Wilky?" she said slyly.

Vilkas barked out a laugh. "That actually had not crossed my mind, but now that you mention it…" He growled playfully and rolled her onto her back pressing a searing kiss onto her collarbone.

Cyréne gasped in shocked pleasure and giggled. "Forget something?"

"Don't call me that" he chuckled.

He looked down at her. "I am proud of you, Cyréne."

Her voice caught, "That's . . . not what I expected you to say."

"What did you expect?"

"I expected you to be angry with me."

"For?"

"For being a mage, and for . . . earlier."

He brushed a strand of hair out of her eyes. "His death was not your fault, Cyréne. None of your Shield-siblings would have left your side, why do you think he would have?"

"I could have forced him to," she said quietly.

"Unlikely," Vilkas said. "How?"

Cyréne swallowed. "He was my house-carl. I could have ordered him to wait for me outside. I led him to his death."

"No man with honor, would have left you to that alone, even if ordered . . . . Wait, you're a THANE?" Vilkas felt as though she'd just told him she could fly.

"Um . . . yes?"

"Of which hold?"

"Well . . ."

"More than one?!"

"Can we talk about this tomorrow?"

He stared down at her in the darkness.

"I know what you're thinking," she said ominously, and then giggled as he flinched.

"Amusing," he said dryly. "What am I thinking?"

"My little saber-kitten, all grown up . . ."

Vilkas settled behind her and pulled her against him. "Tomorrow, Saber-kitten, you have a lot of explaining to do."

"Vilkas"

"Hmm?"

"Thank you, for listening . . . and for being proud of me. No one ever said they were. They were just amazed I was still alive."

Vilkas dropped a kiss on the back of her head. "You're welcome. Now, go to sleep."