"You know, part of me still can't believe it's over. We won. We actually won!"

Rostara smiled at her comrade. Candlehearth Hall was packed tonight with soldiers and joyous Stormcloak supporters. She called for another drink. It was a celebration, after all; Ulfric would soon be High King, and the drinks were free for veterans.

"Honestly, I've never stopped thinking about them though." Ralof continued softly.

"Who?"

"The men I killed. Don't get me wrong, I would gladly take up Ulfric's banner again if it was asked of me, but...I was counting, Rostara. I really was. Sixty-three of Tollius' boys died by my hand in this war; some of 'em couldn't have been older than sixteen. I just...I didn't think it'd be so hard to live with that."

She understood. The joy, at least for she and Ralof if not every soldier, was accompanied by memories of what beasts war had made of them.

"A hundred and twelve," Rostara said quietly.

"What?"

"Including Imperial camps, that courier, and soldiers on the road? I've killed a hundred and twelve."

He just stared for a moment, in awe of her. "By Talos, we need to get you another drink!"

"Thanks, but I already got one."

Silence settled between them, broken only by the bard's lute and an insistent buzz of conversation that always filled the inn. Then Ralof took it upon himself to change the subject.

"So, what has the great Dragonborn been up to since our glorious victory?" he asked, lightening the mood a bit.

"Ulfric made me his Thane, actually. I moved into a house here in Windhelm."

"Really? This I've got to see! I'm living in Riverwood now, helping out with the mill."

Rostara smiled slightly. "I bet your sister is happy to have you home, eh?"

"Of course she is. Gerdur worries about me, especially after Helgen." Ralof paused to sip his mead. "You know, after the battle for Whiterun, she came running up to the city gates demanding to see if I was alive or not. Do you have anyone like that?"

"I can't say I do." Rostara said, a touch envious.

"That's where you're wrong." he replied gently.

She looked up; he was watching her quite seriously.

)O(

A few more drinks later, and they ended up at her doorstep.

"Come on inside. Calder should be asleep."

"Calder?"

"He's my housecarl." Rostara explained, opening the door.

"Oh, of course." Ralof suddenly found himself immensely glad she did not say Calder was anything more. This feeling seemed misplaced and too strong, so he attributed it to slight inebriation.

Hjerim was spacious but warm. There were weapons displayed on wall-mounted plaques: the Axe of Eastmarch, an Imperial sword, the Dwarven sword given to her by Jarl Ulfric after the last battle. Ralof also spotted many shelves filled with books, most of which appeared to be about recent history or Nordic myths and legends.

Rostara noticed he was reading the titles. "I like to know exactly what I'm fighting for. More wine?" She smiled like a sabre cat, then poured a goblet for both of them.

An obligatory toast was proposed. They drank to Ulfric, to their brothers and sisters in arms, those alive as well as in Sovngarde. They drank to Skyrim, and to themselves.

"We made it." Rostara breathed. Her genuine smile of relief caused a strange heat to bloom in his chest. "Did you ever think, while on that prison wagon, that we would be here?"

"No," he replied. "I thought we'd be executed. Then I thought we'd be eaten by a dragon."

And because the memory hurt so much, because it brought up fear of the dragons still loose in the world and the knowledge that even defeating an army of mortal men could never compare to fighting an immortal dragon said to signify the end times, Rostara laughed. Ralof laughed, too, for he understood that everything they had done wouldn't be enough.

"Come upstairs." she commanded. Rostara was used to giving orders. "There's a blizzard out there."

"There's always a blizzard in Windhelm."

"Still, I didn't save your ass on the battlefield just so you could catch cold and die."

)O(

He awoke the following morning with a headache and her muscular arms wrapped around him. Rostara's eyes stayed closed, blond hair splayed out in a tangled mess. His own hair probably didn't look much better. What had they done last night?

Damn it. This wasn't how things were supposed to be. They were old friends, war buddies; they'd saved each other's lives dozens of times. But how could he not love someone with whom he shared that kind of history?

Ralof failed to realize it until now. This beautiful, axe-wielding force in his life. What was he to her? One of the boys? He didn't care, because he wanted her. Not only Rostara herself, but her one hundred and twelve ghosts too. Yet when she did wake up all he could say was: "Snow's stopped."

"Good," she said. "I'm sorry, Ralof. I shouldn't have asked you to stay. It's just our war's over. I feel so alone and...and..."

"Frightened?" he suggested.

Rostara nodded. Our war, she'd said, like it belonged to them rather than the other way around.

Ralof wished he could tell her how frightened he had been, and still was, that this would all turn out to be a dream but also that it might not be. He was frightened to close his eyes, frightened to sleep or wake up and hear the rain falling on Whiterun and the bombs falling on Stormcloak soldiers. She hadn't seemed afraid back then, but maybe she was. No one dared to show it.

The war felt so quick and bloody when he remembered it. During the fighting, time slowed, so the whole thing took decades. They were old now, but Skyrim still needed protecting from dragons. What kind of war heroes would they be if they didn't answer the call?