Ah, yet another story that sat on my computer, lacking an ending for several years. A recent adventure back into the world of Skyrim rekindled my inspiration and I finally spat something out! I thought I had some great dialogue in this one.

The war is over, Ulfric is dead. She's exhausted and she's proud, but she's tired and relieved and ready to go to bed and wake up to a peaceful country. It feels good, she thinks, having had a part in this, having defended what was now her home, stopping the bloodshed. The cost was high, the guilt will probably never fade, but she falls asleep with a smile on her face, because all she can see in her mind's eye is the image of General Tullius, standing before his men, delivering a speech he just wants over with, looking as blank-faced as ever, but his back is strait and tall.

When she wakes, the awareness that there are no more true battles to fight has her staring at her ceiling, a relaxed stupor taking over. What will she do now? She doesn't know. The Legion has been her life. Even now, she feels the pull of the training yard, the briefing room, the low lights above the parchment map, and the drone of the voices of her commanding officers.

She doesn't have to go. She goes anyway.

Her General's greeting is as terse as ever, his eyes flicking to her once before returning to his work. "Legate."

"General." She wonders what he's doing, staring down at that drawing of Skyrim. It's covered in red flags, nothing more.

"I've got no orders for you, Legate. See Rikke, she might have some backwater camp somewhere for you to take out."

She lets a moment pass in silence, debating. Action sounds wonderful. Peace is wonderful, too, but she's confused herself, trying to understand her place in a world that wasn't fighting itself anymore. She'd been important before; what was she now?

She wonders if he feels the same, staring down at that map like he sees it, eyes still and unfocused like he doesn't.

"What now, sir?" She asks finally, quietly.

He glances up. "Clean up, mostly. Leftover camps, like I said."

"For us?"

He stares for an instant, and she wonders what gives him pause, thinks about her words. But before she's sorted herself out, he's already moving on, 'us' being the Legion. "New assignments, mostly guard duties till the transitions can be made from Stormcloak loyals to Imperial supporters. Peaceful days."

The last part trails off, like he finds it boring. A half smile finds it's way onto her face.

"And you, sir?"

"Me?"

"Heading . . . home?" She'd meant that sentence to be longer, but she couldn't get the words out. He seems satisfied, but her mind races, wondering what has gotten into her, what is going on inside.

"I fear Skyrim will be my home for many more years to come." He sighs, obviously displeased, but then he stands, and he's as tall as she remembered, not in stature, but in presence, shoulders thrown back, pure male. "I suppose the idea isn't as unappealing as it once was. I could use a decent bed, though. Everything in this castle is as cold as the stone its made from."

She smiles for real then, and his expression tells her he caught the relief in it, the relief she herself wasn't expecting, doesn't know what to do with. Instead, she asks, "Drinks tonight at the Winking Skeever? To celebrate? On me."

"I don't celebrate."

She laughs. "I don't doubt it. But we just ended a war, General. Take a night off. You need the down time, even if only for one evening."

"I have to agree with Gwynyvra on this one, sir." Both look to the door, finding Rikke has joined them. The two women nod to each other, polite smiles in greeting.

Tullius scowls, peering back over his map for no real reason. "Anything to report, Legate?"

"Which Legate?" Gwynyvra smirks, and Rikke stifles the tiniest of laughs.

Tullius groans. "Don't make me reassign you somewhere, Gwynyvra. Winterhold's sounding very tempting right now."

"Then you wouldn't have any friends, sir," Rikke comments lightly.

"I'll have the darn drink, alright?" He finally growls. "Stop ganging up on."

Rikke nods, satisfied, and Gwynyvra pats her on the shoulder in thanks. She leans over to the room's other silent occupant, their ever present watchdog. "You too, Adventus."

He grins, nodding. "If I can escape this hole, I'll be there."

"Think we should invite Aldis?"

"And pull him from his beloved training exercises? Curse the thought."

Rolling his eyes at their companionship, Tullius resumes his earlier thread of conversation. "Now, do you have anything to report, Legate Rikke?"

Rikke nods, growing serious. "Camp along the mountain ridges in Eastmarch. Rumors out near Dawnstar, nothing solid."

"Clear out Eastmarch and check Dawnstar. I want these Stormcloaks rounded up as quickly as possible."

"Sir."

"Take the Legate-"

"Gwynyvra."

"Take the smart-alek with you. She apparently doesn't have enough work to do."

"Then we'll leave in the morning." Rikke replies easily.

Gwynyvra is just as smooth. "Since we'll being having those drinks tonight."

Tullius only shakes his head. "Leave me in peace, women."

The conspirators exit together, as ordered. And later that evening when he finally brings himself to enter the Winking Skeever, they are seated together at a table near the back, drinks already waiting. Gwynyvra laughs at the look on his face, pulling out the seat beside her.

"It's not that bad," she reassures him. "We sat away from other people and everything."

Her argument is almost convincing until Lisette pulls out her lute and a particularly appreciative drunk gives a riotous cheer. Tullius looks pained, then grabs the nearest drink and downs it. Both women chuckle.

"I hate both of you."

"Relax, General." Rikke tips her mug to him, as cool as ever. "Enjoy the mead."

He shots his drink a dark look. "Is that what this is?"

Grynyvra is laughing, and she gets the feeling she'll never stop. Tullius is so obviously out of his element, she can't help but enjoy the ludicrous situation. "You're just as surly drunk as you are sober, aren't you?"

He only grunts in response, lowering his head like the physical act will somehow make the room quieter, dimmer, and less populated. She can almost see the headache beginning in his temples.

She looks to Rikke, head shaking. "Do either of you ever wear anything except your armor?"

"When I'm off duty." She gives a small smile. "Which is practically never. I don't know about him."

Tullius is studiously ignoring them.

"Somehow, I can't picture you in anything but your armor," she comments, but they are again met with silence.

Gwynyvra gives his arm a playful shove. "You call this celebrating?"

"No, I call this a waste of time at best, torture at worst."

"You exaggerate. Why are you so grumpy? I bought you alcohol."

"Am I getting some of that?"

All three look up to find Adventus has joined them. Tullius is nonplussed, but Rikke stands to great their new addition. Gwynyvra smiles up at him from the table. "You bet, soldier."

She calls to the innkeeper over the space of the room. "Corpulus, more mead!"

Her grin is spread across her face, colored by beverage intake, as she looks to each of her companions. "So, three Legates and a General step into a bar-"

"Oh, don't start." Rikke laughs, making room on their small table for the incoming drinks.

Gwynyvra scoops up the nearest Honningbrew and a tall bottle of Argonian Bloodwine, which Adventus had his hand halfway towards. He opts for the Spiced Wine instead, toasting her good-naturedly. "Just to warn you, I might have went ahead and mentioned to Aldis there was a party going on and he was invited. Drinks on you."

He smirks, and Gwynyvra groans while Rikke chuckles. "You trying to spend all my gold?"

"You did say drinks on you."

"I said the General's drinks were on me," she corrects. "To coax him out of his hiding hole. You guys are on your own from here on out."

"You still owe Aldis a round when he gets here."

"You're the one who promised him free drinks; you supply."

"You're the one with all the money, miss 'Adventurer.' Half the time no one can even find you for assignments because you're out plundering some crypt or something."

"Plundering? Hardly! I exterminate Draugr sometimes. I happen to be a bounty hunter-"

"And whatever else any stranger passing in the streets asks you to be," Rikke adds from over the top of her drink.

Gwynyvra leans back, pouting. "I like to help people."

Adventus shakes his head. "You like to get in trouble. Ever think about getting yourself a man and settling down?"

Now she's grinning again, motioning with her drink around the table. "What're you talking about? I've got three men, a woman, and a bottle of wine. I'm perfectly settled."

Adventus is laughing, but Rikke glances around curiously. "Three?"

And there is Aldis, pulling up a chair between Tullius and Adventus, forcing the two to make more room. Tullius brushes up beside Gwynyvra, who smacks him on the back. "Go on and say hi, General. You're being awful quiet."

"Just trying to enjoy my drink." His voice says he doesn't think it's possible. "Can hardly stand this Nord Mead."

"There was wine, but Gwynyvra took it all," Adventus comments, conspicuously pushing his empty bottle to Gwynyvra's side of the table. "Have her get you some when she gets Aldis his drinks."

Even Tullius manages to look amused by Gwynyvra's scowl, but the expression slips away quickly. "Still, I'm not used to the Skyrim brands. I enjoyed a good bottle of Surilie Brothers back in Cyrodiil every now and again."

"They don't sell that in here," Gwynyvra joins in, piking up. "But I've got some back at the house, picked up from around. You want a bottle?"

He's pushing away from the table and standing as quickly as she's ever seen him move outside of battle. "Gods, yes."

Gwynyvra stands up too, following his retreat. "Hey! I meant later! Come back here-"

She's after him with an apologetic look to her company, tossing down a bag of septims before racing from the tavern. He's marching down the street with his usual strides, stiff and tired, silver hair glinting in the glow of the evening moon. She catches up, falls in naturally beside him, miffed but aware that the night feels good and the sky is beautiful up above and that she likes the musk coming off him in the cool air that the stuffy bar had masked. Her indignation is all but gone by the time she starts her argument.

"That was a friendly offer for some other day, not an excuse for you to pick up and leave."

"Can't stand it in there."

"So you can handle a bloody battlefield but not a night drinking with friends?"

He's slowing, glances at her and sighs. "Exactly. I'm a warrior, Legate, not a politician."

"This isn't political, it's friendly."

"Don't see a difference."

"You're impossible."

"Then go drinking with someone else. I doubt you're lacking for friends."

"Hm." Gwynyvra sidles up close for a second, laying her head against his arm. "Maybe I like you better."

"Hmph."

He doesn't seem to care she's there, and they continue to walk like that, Gwynyvra staring up at him with a smile that says she knows she's being annoying, and his face as blank as ever.

He always looks tired, she thinks. From living too long, through too much. She wonders what his smile would look like, then finds herself laughing because she just can't imagine it. It's too awkward, too surreal; It's not him, not her General. Perpetually annoyed, surly and exhausted and funny without meaning to be, a stone wall standing against age and change and anything against the Empire that is his to protect, to defend. Complete stability in the chaotic life she lives, running around from task to task, cave to cave, battle to battle. A pillar to return to. Her commander, the only reason she keeps returning, the only reason she makes Solitude her home, graces the doors of Proudspire when she could be anywhere and everywhere. He, more than the looming tower they are approaching, is home.

The thought's an odd one, and she slips from his arm, lost in the jumble of her mind. He waits patiently, appearing mildly curious, as they stand in silence in front of her door. Eventually, his voice breaks in.

"Legate?"

"Gwynyvra," is her immediate response, a reflex. As proud as she is of having earned that title in his eyes, Rikke is still the one who comes to mind when she hears "Legate." And up till now, she realizes, her title has defined her to him. He doesn't use her name, and now that both she and Rikke are at his side so often, both Legates, she finally has an excuse to make him call her by name. She likes hearing him say it, acknowledge her and not just her skills, her accomplishments.

When did I start thinking of him so much? She groans, stepping forward to open the door. She's confusing herself, hurting her own head with all this thinking. She's not used to analyzing herself, her actions. She just does, acts however comes naturally; she's a creature of impulse, something that got her in trouble a few times while she was making her way up in the Legion. She has enjoyed working under Tullius, however, and that admiration of him has kept her in line and following orders even when the whim of adventure would have scattered her across the region.

She realizes she's doing it again, thinking too much. It's the alcohol, she knows, remembering too late why she doesn't drink that often.

They're inside, and Gwynyvra waves him over to the kitchen table while she heads downstairs to fetch the wine. She retrieves her oldest bottle of Surilie Brothers Vintage, slightly dusty and chilled to perfection in the small stone room. Her brain starts to whir again, telling her she was saving this bottle, but the cold is starting to sober her and she shakes off the thinking she detests and goes with the feeling that she wants to use this bottle, and that's good enough for her.

Back upstairs, Tullius seems to have settled himself in the seat closest to the fire.

"Why," he asks gruffly, shifting uncomfortably in his seat, "are these darn chairs so low to the ground?"

She's laughing again; he makes her laugh without trying. "No clue, honestly. Got your wine."

She dangles the bottle in front of him before unstopping the cork. On another whim, she sets out two silver goblets and pours, sitting beside him and sliding the drink his way. They pick them up together, and she taps his cup in a small toast. "To home."

He watches her, eyes a bit softer than usual, expression relaxing. "To home."

He's thinking of Cyrodiil. She's not thinking a single thing; she's only watching him as she sips, enjoying the wine, enjoying the quiet, enjoying the company.

Tullius sinks back into his chair, no longer concerned with how short it is, goblet still in hand. "That's better."

She smiles, pleased with pleasing him. "How about something to eat while your here, General?"

"Sounds good." His voice is drowsy, but this time is different from his usual dreary tone. He's content almost, she'd say, a sight she doubts many have ever seen, a tone few have heard.

She downs the rest of her drink and rises, heading for her storage of cooking ingredients. Gwynyvra decides on her recipe and retrieves some salt, potatos, leeks, and venison. Cooking is something she's learned to do a lot of while traveling alone, bending over the firepots in eradicated bandit camps and desecrated ruins. Why spend her hard earned septims on tavern food when cheap ingredients abound and it only took a little practice to have her own taste better than what's sold in the inns? Being friends with Castle Dour's own talented chef helps.

She makes conversation while she begins the soup base. "So, what do you normally do with your free time?"

"What free time?" He swigs another drink, shaking his head. "I was sent to Skyrim to do a job, so I do it. Nothing else."

"Really? You never have any down time?"

"There was a war going on, Leg-"

"Gwynyvra."

"Gwynyvra, which didn't put itself on hold while I took naps. Free time went to the war."

"And now?"

"What about now?"

"There's no war now, Tullius. What will you do with your new free time?"

He sighs, and she lets her stirring stop so she can turn to him, watch him mull it over with his wine. "Apparently, be forced to visit inns and drink."

She laughs, resuming her cooking. "Nobody's forcing you to do anything. You don't like inns, fine. But you're always welcome over here for a drink and a meal."

He glances her way, cool gaze watching, then nods slowly, thanking her in a way he won't with words. Instead, he eyes the cooking pot. ". . . Smells good."

"Venison stew," she replies proudly. "Something that transcends borders, thankfully."

"Sounds good, Gwynyvra."

The unprompted, casual use of her name, as though it's normal and common and something he does all the time, gives her mind a stutter, and her hands slow again as her head works to catch up. She's all smiles, warm inside and becoming aware that this night is important to her, though she can't pin down why. But the two of them, holed up in her house, talking over drinks, about to share a hot meal and calling each other by name; it feels as foreign as the snowy mountains did when she left the Gold Coast for adventure and as comfortable as the Legion steel that has become her second skin. She feels like she's home, she's really living, more than any of those blood-pumping caverns, adrenalin-inducing dragon attacks, or life-threatening battles.

It's a little scary, and a lot exciting.

And it's only this man who's made her feel like this. On his orders she's traversed a strange and new wasteland of perpetual autumn and snow; she's faced down a rebel army with a righteous but misguided cause, friends on the opposing side; she's trained herself, worked to be better, fought to impress and rose in the ranks for his praise. She still remembers facing the executioner's block, seeing him stare down Ulfric Stormcloak, that tall back she's grown to admire so much turned to her, ignorant of her plight, her very existence. It hadn't mattered then; he was a stranger. It matters now, just a bit; it's painful. Standing by his side, the feel of his rough hand in hers for only a moment as he passed her his sword to deliver the final blow to his enemy, is a treasure that makes it painful for her, she thinks. Gods, why does she think like this?

And she freezes, caught in the web her thoughts have woven, hit by the abrupt realization that has revealed itself to her. "By the Nine."

Tullius gives an exasperated scowl (just how many of his subordinates invoke the name of the Nine illegally?). "Legate-"

"I'm in love with you." She stares at him, and both are momentarily stunned into silence. Her gaze trails off, looking at nothing, eyes wide. Abruptly, she drops her laddle and snatches up her bottle. It shakes in her hand, but doesn't slosh; empty. "I need more alcohol."

She makes for the stairs. Behind her, Tullius recovers stutteringly, hand to his head in confusion. When she returns, bottle to her lips, he's back to his surly frown. "Legate, I don't know if I should be offended or not that the idea of being in love with me makes you want to get drunk."

"S'not that, sir," she replies, shaking her head, and slumps down into the chair beside him. She still looks in shock, disbelief and wonder on her features. "Alcohol helps me think."

"Then you'd be one of the lucky few, and the only one I've ever had the pleasure of meeting." He shakes his head, refilling his goblet. "Frankly, I just think you've had one too many."

"I won't argue." But she takes another swig, swallows roughly. "Thinking too much. Thinking too much about you, Mara help me."

"Do us both a favor and think more about the stew."

She laughs, but it comes out more like a bark than anything, and she sets down her drink to stand and circle the table to the cooking pot. The stew sticks a bit as she begins to stir, but it hasn't burned.

They sit in silence for a several minutes, the bubbling of dinner the only sound between them, before Tullius finally sighs again. "Should I even ask what in Oblivion caused that little outburst?"

"Told you," she replies, eyes on the boiling broth and thus studiously not on him. "Thinkin' too much. I do that when I drink."

He can obviously tell she doesn't want to talk about this anymore, but he can't let it go just yet. "And what were you thinking that made you think you were in love with me?"

She sighs, cringing, and reaches for the alcohol again. He sits patiently while she chugs, not satisfied with one gulp, needing the liquid that gives others courage and only seems to confuse her. She hopes this time'll be different as she drops the bottle from her lips and takes a deep, steadying breath. "I like the way you say my name."

She glances at him, and he seems nonplussed. Somehow his lack of shock, his non-judgment, gives her the courage the wine failed to. "I think of you when I think of home. I fought more for your approval during the war than because I cared about the cause. Your sword is my most treasured possession. When I think of the Legion's victory, of how you've grown since coming here, accepting and respecting the Nords, I'm more proud of you than I am of myself, and I'm the Dragonborn. I worry about how you seem tired all the time. I'm always trying to get you to talk with me. Now that the war's over I'm scared you'll go back to Cyrodiil, because I have no idea what I'd do with myself if you were gone. Divines, I'd probably follow you."

She takes another drink, more because she's ashamed of herself than because she wants it. She swallows too much, chokes, and holds her wrist to her mouth while she coughs. "Can I stop embarrassing myself now?"

He picks up his own drink, raises it to his mouth. ". . . soup's burning."

"Stendarr's mercy!" She half drops the bottle as she whirls around to the cooking pot and begins to stir the boiling contents again. It looks done and, thankfully, not burnt, so she removes it from the fire and sets it to cool on the stone floor, heading to the cabinets for bowls and silverware. And, somehow, she manages to get dinner on the table within the next few minutes, and finds herself sitting beside him again, both eating silently. It's awkward, but not strained, and she still finds that she enjoys his company, is glad that it's just the two of them, together. She wouldn't mind more nights like this; maybe a lifetime.

Is she thinking about marriage? She takes another bite of the venison, chewing slowly. By Skyrim's standards, she's not moving too fast, but he's not from Skyrim. Would he even know what she was trying to say if she went upstairs at that moment and came back down with an Amulet of Mara on? She doubted it. But if he did . . . the idea is appealing to her, a life together with him.

If he's interested in her.

She's off to a good start, she supposes. Legate of the Legion, fought at his side during the war, a breadwinner, adventurer, the famed Dragonborn, and a good cook to boot. Staring at her reflection in the dark stew, she notes with a bit of pleasure that she's pretty; dark brown hair, thick, wild, the paler complexion of a Skyrim-dweller and dungeon-delver, and murky green eyes that hide hauntingly beneath dark lashes. She's much younger than he is, but that's hardly an issue.

Aware she's bordering on vanity, she notes she's more than just a good prospect; any man in Skyrim would be lucky to have her. But none of that matters if the one man she wants doesn't want her.

They've finished their soup. As she takes up their bowls she debates on her earlier thought, of going up to get her Amulet. She'll start wearing it in the morning, she decides. No need to rush. Besides, he might decide to draw a line between Superior and Subordinate before he leaves, and it'll be a moot point. Or maybe he just doesn't like her; she knows she annoys him, she does it on purpose because he's fun to aggravate. She's suddenly aware that that's how she flirts with him.

She's put up the dishes, and he hasn't rose from the table, so she sits back down and takes another drink. Drinking too much, thinking too much, she chides herself, but she takes another sip.

Tullius sets his goblet down after a while of their silent companionship and turns his eyes to her. "How well do you hold your drink?"

She meets his gaze over the top of yet another bottle (she's going to have to restock while she and Rikke are out). "Except the thinking too much, I can usually handle my alcohol. I'll be okay to head out in the morning, if that's what you're worried about."

"Just wondering if you're going to remember any of this."

She smiles, setting the bottle down. "Yes, sir. You?"

"Yeah."

"Can't escape me, then."

"Doesn't mean you won't regret this. Doesn't mean you'll still feel the way you think you feel."

"I'm not drunk, General. The only thing that'll be different tomorrow is I'll have a headache and probably be a lot more blunt."

"That last part should scare me, shouldn't it?"

She grins. "I find you attractive; I'm not shy."

He cocks his eyebrow, and she laughs.

"You just think about that while I'm gone, alright?"

"I doubt I'll be able to think about much else."

She shoots him a sly smile. "Why, General."

He groans, leaning back in his chair. After a moment his rolls his shoulder, appearing uncomfortable, and takes hold of it, stretching and flexing.

Eying him, she raises up. "Muscle ache?"

"Feels tight, knotted."

"Here, let me." She rounds behind him, and his hand falls away as hers settle into place and begin a slow, deep kneading into his skin, between the cloth of his shirt and his stiff armor. It's hard to work in such a confined space, and after a few moments she gives him a nudge. "Any chance I can get you out of your clothes?"

"Legate."

"I guarantee the best massage you've ever had," she tempts him, twisting her hand as best she can to loosen a tight spot in his muscle, as though to give him a taste of what she could do with more room. "Just your armor, General, and no funny business, I promise."

He grunts his displeasure, but starts to unfasten the torso piece. Gwynyvra revels in a double triumph; seeing Tullius out of his armor, and being able to touch him as she pleases. She helps him pull it off, set it aside, then he relaxes under her hands, her soothing motions untying every knot beneath his skin through the thick red fabric that keeps her from him. She rubs his shoulders, pushes her palms into his back, works out every kink in the chiseled mass of his body (or at least the part she is allowed near). And she is rewarded for her efforts when a pleasured groan is pulled from him, unintentional and rough. A thrill runs through her, hitching her breath, and she makes it her goal to gain more, continuing with fervor, using every technique she knows (which, sadly, isn't much, as what little she does know came from an alchemist who insisted her special potions were the perfect match for such rubdowns). After a few minutes of hard work, she thinks she's finally found a spot he especially appreciates.

Which is about the same moment Gwynyvra's housecarl enters the room.

All movement ceases as the two women stare at each other, surprised and speechless.

"Gods," Gwynyvra finally exclaims. "Jordis! I forgot you lived here."

"Hm?" Tullius looks up, seemingly unconcerned with the interruption, and nods to the new arrival. "You look familiar. Don't you work at the Palace?"

"I was awarded to Gwynyvra when she was made Thane." The blond regains her composure slightly, and turns to her master. "How could you forget I live here?"

Gwynyvra shrugs, growing annoyed. "You sleep in the basement. And I don't stay here much."

"You've been getting wine bottles out of my room all night."

"Didn't see you."

"I was laying on the floor."

"Where you should apparently still be. I have company."

"I'm hungry. I had assumed . . . from the noises I'd heard," the woman falters, glancing at the decorated officer sitting at the kitchen table, "that you and your company had moved upstairs."

Tullius' response is immediate. "I should go."

He slides out from under her hands and reaches for his armor, and Gwynyvra curses the loss of him, his body and his company, and curses her housecarl, who she wonders if she can fire or somehow return to Elisef without offending her. But neither will undo the damage done, and Tullius is redressed and thanking her for dinner and drinks in moments, heading out the door soon after. Gwynyvra is left standing in her kitchen, a dull ache in her chest, and the most despised housecarl waiting for the reprimand she knows is coming.

"Jordis."

"Yes, my Thane?"

"I hear the Blades are recruiting. Doesn't that sound nice?"

The next morning is spent much like the last; she wakes slowly, staring at the ceiling, feeling lost and alone. She suits up, pulling on her Imperial Light Armor, strapping on her sword, the treasure he gave her, and slipping an Amulet of Mara over her head, letting it rest on her chest where her Amulet of Stendarr normally sits. She doesn't feel like cooking, settles for grabbing a loaf of bread and slice of cheese on her way out the door.

She enters Castle Dour as she always has, with the confidence of knowing she belongs, and joins the ever-present group gathered around the table, even this early in the morning.

"Gwynyvra." Rikke greets her, and they are as casual as ever, natural friends and easy comrades.

"Rikke," she returns, smiling. "Hope you guys didn't stay up to late."

She shoots Adventus a grin as well, and he smiles back, in his semi-permanent spot against the wall. "Without you to pay for drinks? We all had to go home early."

"I wouldn't call midnight early," Rikke shakes her head.

Pleased, Gwynyvra pats Rikke on the shoulder. "Glad you guys had fun."

"What about you? General kill the party?"

Gwynyvra finally brings herself to look at the man in question, who's studiously ignoring her in favor of that map, which he probably knows by heart already. She feels laughter bubbling up, and perches herself on the edge of the table. "General."

He pretends not to hear her at first, but they are all staring at him, and he must eventually give in. He sighs, and looks up at her, grumpy as ever. "Legate."

"Gwynyvra."

"Gwynyvra."

They are back to business, Rikke briefing Gwynyvra on their schedules, plans, and she's half listening, half reliving the night before, the things she said. And as Rikke says her quick goodbyes and heads out the door, Gwynyvra lingers on the edge of that table, conscious of Adventus' presence but too aware she needs to do this before she leaves.

She smiles slyly, meeting her General's waiting gaze. "Sober and still in love with you."

He grunts. "Was afraid of that."

Adventus cocks his brows, watching them silently, lip twitching in a slow smile.

"Just . . . think about it while I'm gone, alright?" She winks, hops down, and makes her exit, knowing it'll do no good to look back now.

The jobs are easy, routine. They set up a small camp, Rikke sends her out tromping through the wilderness, looking for Stormcloaks in hidey-holes, and sending a small band in to take out an already confirmed group (which Gwynyvra not only heads, but practically leaves behind in her thirst for adventure, battle, and adrenaline). Their mission takes little over a week, and then new information has them detouring south for a few more days. She's caught up in it, in a constant state of euphoria, adoring the work and all that comes with it. When she falls asleep at night, it's still his face she sees, and when Solitude is finally in sight again, job done, she feels the pride of coming home, the skip in her pulse at the thought of him.

Rikke had asked, while they were out, about the necklace. She'd noticed the absence of Stendarr's horn at her breast, the odd sight of Mara's light taking it's place. Gwynyvra's reply hadn't been specific, but then, Rikke wasn't overly prying. They'd talk about it, maybe, once things were settled and there was something to talk about; as it was, there was only the wait.

"Legates," is the usual terse greeting as they step into the Dour, Tullius and Aventus gathered around the center table, as always.

Gwynyvra pulls the gifts she's prepared from her bag and plants the bottle of Sirilie Brothers right in the middle of that map of his. "We have names, Tullius."

He raises his eyebrows. "Gwynyvra."

"I will never tire of hearing you say that."

"And I will never tire of this beauty." He picks up the bottle, eying the year, smiling that tiny smile that barely passes for happiness, but is about as good as it gets with him.

Gwynyvra tsks, crossing her arms and nudging Rikke. "We rid three Holds of Stormcloak stragglers, and he compliments the bottle."

He sets the bottle back down, as calm as ever. "You making dinner to go with this?"

She's thrown for a moment, then quickly brings herself back to the conversation, delighted. "Yes, sir. Venison again, or something else? Beef or Horker maybe?"

"Do you cook anything without hunks of meat?"

"For you? Darling, whatever you like."

"Wasn't a complaint, Gwynyvra."

"Offer still stands." She's grinning ear to ear, tickled pink by how easy the conversation is, how the thoughts she left him with don't seem to be hurting them. He's too professional to have let it interfere with their working relationship, yes, but this is casual.

He's thinking about it, and she's thrilled. "Horker. Never had it before . . ."

"Horker it is."

"Report?" And just like that, it's back to business. Rikke rattles off the details, only shooting Gwynyvra one curious look during her monologue. Adventus is less subtle, smiling away and avoiding Tullius' periodic glares. There's something there, she doesn't miss that, and though she's not sure what the two have talked about in her absence, she's amused by it.

She spends the day running errands, something the Hold is accustomed to when Gwynyvra doesn't have a specific mission to trek out upon. She's keeping busy, helping out, but staying close, and when dusk rolls around she's back at Proudspire, Horker stew on the fire, wine poured, and fresh fruit set out. It's late when Tullius knocks, but everything's ready. When she opens the door to reveal him, she finds herself struck dumb.

The General shifts in discomfort, glaring her down as though to dare her to comment. She can't look away from him, his clothes.

He's not wearing his armor.

"Gwynyvra."

She pulls her eyes away from the rough cotton, simple and casual, and tries her best to form words. "General of the Imperial Army, representative of the Empire's presence in Skyrim, war hero – and you walk around wearing that?"

All of two seconds click past before he turns to leave, and she reaches out to grab him, laughing. "No no no, I'm kidding, come back here."

"I don't like all the Nord clothing," he sighs, rubbing his neck. "This was the simplest thing I could find."

She practically pushes him into the house, then shuts the door behind him, cutting off retreat. "Somehow it doesn't surprise me you'd take the old, frayed worker's clothes over anything nicer. Let me guess; you didn't like all the layers?"

He pulls out the same chair as last time at the head of the table and settles in, giving a meager grunt.

She circles around to sit beside him. "You'd be warmer."

"Putting on my armor is effort enough. If I'm going to wear something else, it can't be more work than pulling it on."

"Then why wear something different?"

It's a simple question, but it hangs in the air, and she juggles probable answers in her head that turn themselves into romanticized ones; her comment about never seeing him wear anything else, taking off his armor to rub his shoulders. She tries to wave them off before her hopes rise too high.

He sighs, staring down, and finally reaches for his glass. As he downs his first gulp, she passes him a loaf of bread.

"Enjoy the stew."

Dinner begins; so does a new tradition. This dinner becomes one of many, as most nights after find the General seated at Gwynyvra's table, dressed informally, sipping wine and sampling her newest recipe. Even long work days spent over paperwork and battle strategies end in the Legate's cooking, as Gwynyvra becomes known for busting into the Castle Dour carrying her culinary creations should her dinner guest not show.

The High Queen herself has a food invasion in her castle for keeping Tullius too long in a meeting one evening. Tullius, obviously used to her behavior, merely shakes his head and sighs while Jarl Elisef peers curiously at the Legate currently laying out a spread at the small table where her court is convening. Everyone is staring; she doesn't appear to care.

Gwynyvra gives up her personal time with the man she loves for no one.

She's more than willing to share, however, and has made plenty to go around. The court continues its discussions between savory bites of thick potato stew and tender roasted rabbit haunches. Gwynyvra sits, quietly and proudly, beside her General.

They are courting. It was never discussed, never made official, but after a while it becomes a widely acknowledged fact and even Tullius himself doesn't dispute it. They are each other's home, the refuge they return to at the end of the day, constant.

She's gotten into the habit of calling him pet names and pecking him on the cheek when she feels like it (neither of which even phase him anymore) wearing dresses instead of her armor (she especially enjoys that blue one with the bodice that shows off her neckline and hangs on her shoulders. Sometimes she thinks she catches him staring), and coming back to visit after every adventure, no matter how far away her restlessness takes her or how out of the way seeing him may be between her tasks. When she's gone longer than usual, he has this way of looking at her when she walks in, and she knows she was missed even if he won't say so. It always makes her smile.

Still, the weight of her necklace sits heavy against her chest. Every day she wears it, and every day it goes unnoticed – or ignored. She's happy, she really is, but unease grows at the lack of true claim she has over him. He could up and return to Cyrodiil any day, and what could she do? She isn't his wife, he hasn't asked her to be with him with any permanence.

It's a blue dress kind of day when her dreams come true. She leans over like she does, hoping maybe someday he might act on what she's offering, as she spreads the food, and her heart almost stops when his hand reaches out. He takes her amulet amulet in his hand, letting both continue to dangle in the air between them, and runs a rough finger of the carved surface. Gwynyvra has kept it sparkling clean, acknowledging that she's being silly and if she wants him this much she ought to just say so, and yet she'd like, for once, for him to make a move.

"Isn't this Mara's?" Tullius grunts.

"Yes." She's practically holding her breath.

"I thought you wore an amulet of Stendarr?"

After all this time, he hadn't noticed the amulet switch? Mara help her.

"I did." She replies easily, though still unmoving.

"Never took you for a Mara devotee." He eyes the metal disapprovingly. "Why the switch?"

She stares at him. "You don't know?"

His eyes flick to hers, then narrow in confusion. "Know what?"

"It's a Nord tradition here in Skyrim." She smiles, trying to hold down a laugh. She'd wondered if he knew, but she'd always been afraid to ask. What if he had known, and was just not interested? But he didn't. He just didn't. She giggles. "An amulet of Mara is basically a declaration that you're looking for marriage."

Tullius' fingers stop their absentminded rubbing. It's several silent seconds later before she can see him make himself consciously move. He lets the necklace slip from his hand. "How long have you been wearing this?"

Gwynyvra answers softly, pointedly, holding his gaze. "Since the day after you had dinner with me that first night."

He runs his hand through his hair and curses, cringing. "Gwynyvra, I . . . "

She's stopped breathing again. He looks so tired when he looks at her.

"I owe you a great apology."

Did she make a mistake? She couldn't have misunderstood, not this, she couldn't have-

"I've made you wait a long time."

She feels the first tear fall as he lays his hand on hers. They become streams when she breaks into a smile, and he cups her cheek while her sobbing laughter shakes through her whole body.

Gwynyvra thinks she's finally got control of herself after a few deep breathes, but she falls to pieces all over again when he comes around the table and takes her in his arms.