The heavy irons are thick and tight about her wrists. Too tight. They cut and scrape and dig into her skin, drawing fresh blood from barely-formed scabs; at times they sting nearly bone-deep, at times she doesn't feel the pain at all. They pinch off blood circulation at certain angles, especially when the chains are drawn apart again, lifting her knees from the wooden platform, forcing her entire body to hang by the wrist irons and balance on her awkwardly bent legs.

She is drained. Throat parched, lips cracked. Her vision is dark, half-obscured by encroaching unconsciousness, suddenly turned sharp from steel-clad knuckles ramming into her cheek. What little breath she has is expelled in a single exhale, and she doesn't bother lifting her head. No need to waste energy that isn't there.

As always, her detachment irritates her captor, who grips her jaw between thick fingers typical for a Nord barbarian, and forces her to look at him. She does, but not fully. She sees his bushy brows and malicious glare, smells the stink of cheap ale on his stale breath, but refuses to let him etch his ugly image into her mind. His mouth twists into a grin when he recognises her ploy, and his fist crashes into her other cheek, still holding onto her jaw so she feels the full impact of the blow.

"Look at you," he rumbles, deep and patronising. "What a useless state you are in." He shakes her head in his hand, as he laughs to himself. "It's almost a disappointment, really. To find the 'superior' high elves to be…such glass cannons." He lets go of her head, and paces in a short circuit before the platform.

"From what I hear, you are a great warrior on the battlefield. About that, I do not know, and do not care. All I care to know is this: take away your magic, and all that is left of you…is but a pathetic Altmer bitch." He ends his little speech with a savage backhand, the metal of his gloves slicing deep into her cheek.

"But do not fear. I have found one last use for you, before you join the rest of your comrades in the dirt where you belong."

She gasps involuntarily at the sudden wave of agony bursting in her chest, washing over the rest of her body like a heavy tide crashing on the shore. She grits her teeth in shame and impotent anger, hating the look of victory on the Nord mage's face, illuminated by the sinister red of his own magic. The pain releases her suddenly, and she slumps from the chains, panting ragged breaths, before her chin is jerked upward again.

"On second thought, perhaps I won't kill you." He raises a fist, its crimson glow flaring to a blinding intensity. "I will let you live, but not before I take your magic away…for good."

"No," she tries to say, but nothing passes through her lips.

His fist collides into her chest, and before she can grunt from the impact, a supernova ignites in her very being, scorching her from within. Her eyes roll back, mouth falling open in a scream, soundless and breathless and useless–

–until it rips through her throat in a hoarse cry.

Her head swims from the upward motion, all that is in her vision is darkness. But something is different – she is sitting on a soft surface, legs covered in smooth fabric, instead of being suspended from thick chains. She lets her hands fall, grasping at the covers, but a movement to her right draws her full attention, and paranoia flares. She throws out a punch instinctively, electric green swirling about her fist, caught by a sturdy hand enveloped in azure blue. Attack foiled, she strikes with her free hand, caught effortlessly by the other again. Panic cascades through her, and she releases a blast of energy from her captive fists, knocking herself off the side of the bed.

Her knees hit the cold stone floor, still-glowing hands trembling as they rest on the ground, trying to support her weight. Something light brushes over her cheek, and she flinches violently away from it, shoulder knocking into the nightstand when she throws her weight to the side.

"Sielaire."

Her breath catches at the smooth intonation of her name, and she realises she'd screwed her eyes shut. Forcing herself to raise her gaze, Sielaire is rewarded with the sight of Ayrenn – her wife, her safe harbour. This time, she doesn't move away when Ayrenn strokes her cheek with gentle fingers.

"Sie. It's me," Ayrenn murmurs. "You're home. You're safe now."

Sielaire jerks her head in a nod, more out of habit than understanding, and Ayrenn knows. She runs her fingertips across Sielaire's forehead, gathering the strands of hair covering her face, and tucks them behind her ear. Then Ayrenn holds onto her arms and pulls her ever-so-gently back towards the bed. Sielaire follows, feeling the tremors in her body more acutely under Ayrenn's touch, as she climbs back in bed on her knees, shuffling forward at Ayrenn's urging before sitting down.

"Sie, darling. Focus on me."

She doesn't look up, and she doesn't have to. Keeping her gaze down, Sielaire focuses on their joined hands as instructed, staring at the steady blue magic around Ayrenn, and the unstable green of her own, flickering like a flame on a candle. Blue grows brighter and stays at a brilliance just before it hurts their eyes in the darkness, then dims slowly, turning into near-invisible wisps around Ayrenn's hands. The blue grows again, and Sielaire forces herself to join, her green flaring in erratic sparks as it accompanies blue in holding its brightest intensity, then hesitating before it fades down to the barest glow.

Ayrenn leads her in silent meditation, a patient guide marking the rhythmic rise and dip in magic, waiting for Sielaire to follow; her wavering steps grow firmer with each repetition, the slow pulse of green and blue in harmony, until she is able to let go. Sielaire's hands finally grow dark when she releases the magicka she has built inside herself, feeling empty but oddly calm. A hand cups her cheek, and she looks up at Ayrenn's soft gaze.

"Feel better?" She gives a small smile when Sielaire nods, more certain this time.

Sielaire drops her gaze as Ayrenn runs gentle fingers through her mussed hair. She stares down at her arms, her open hands free of shivers, and she is…better. Better than the times when she had destroyed furniture with a reflexive spell upon waking from her nightmares. Better than when her body was wracked with such violent tremors, that Ayrenn had to cast a spell to calm her down.

Sielaire closes her eyes; the stillness of the night, the glow of moonlight, the warmth of Ayrenn's skin on hers, settles into her mind. She feels placid, too placid, as if she has forced the memories, the source of her nightmares deep down where she cannot reach, where she doesn't want to reach, where it'll stay until she lowers her guard, and surge forth to consume her when she least expects–

"Sielaire, love." Ayrenn presses her palm to Sielaire's cheek, drawing her attention back. "Stay. Stay with me."

Breaths grown a little deeper, Sielaire nods again, feeling her throat constrict when she searches Ayrenn's eyes, finding nothing but love in her gaze. "I'm sorry," Sielaire rasps.

"Why?"

Sielaire doesn't look for the words – she already knows she can't find them. Ayrenn catches her stray tears with a thumb, and guides Sielaire's head onto her shoulder, holding her wife tight. Sielaire doesn't say more, and Ayrenn doesn't pry. She pulls Sielaire back down on mattress, arms wound firmly around her partner, stroking her back soothingly. Sielaire buries her head under Ayrenn's chin, fingers digging tight into the fabric of her partner's shirt, taking comfort in her solid presence.

But Sielaire keeps her eyes half-open, refusing to succumb to sleep even as Ayrenn's breaths grow deeper and slower. She is safe, but only like this, awake and guarded.

Sielaire throws herself into her duties in a desperate bid to drown out the shadows of the recent past, ignoring Ayrenn's warnings and pleas not to, until her condition starts bleeding over. She is more irritable, snapping at her subordinates whenever they make a mistake, surprising them with the sudden change from cool stoicism to a hot temper. Her restraint in the sparring ring deteriorates – each blow and strike carries force enough to kill, regardless of her intent. Her body runs on pure, frayed instinct, determined to cut down any potential threat before it reaches her, and she only stops in her warpath when she injures a fellow Battlereeve severely enough to keep him in the hospital for a few weeks.

Ayrenn steps in with an official order then, forbidding her involvement in military affairs, until she is judged fit for duty by a healer. Sielaire doesn't protest – she has no right to, not after the accident. But the emptiness of her days becomes near-maddening, leaving Sielaire alone with nothing to do but feel the inexorable press of memory in the back of her mind, stealing her breath and senses with its sheer proximity. She fears her sanity may be the next to go.

A habit develops in the charging of magicka in her body, an involuntary reaction when Sielaire feels threatened by the remembrance of events she wants to forget, armouring herself in the security of her magic's sharp green glow. But it starts to drain her nerves, and the sight of Sielaire with visible magicka swirling about her is not a comforting one. At Ayrenn's behest, she takes to regular meditation by herself, charging and releasing her magicka rhythmically, until she is able to let go fully.

It is slow, but Sielaire gradually finds it easier to loosen her tight grip over her magicka, until she understands that even after she sheds her armour, she is safe. She is her own person, her own master. Her magicka is hers, and hers alone. Ayrenn smiles, soft and proud, the first time Sielaire catches the green glow pulsing along her arms, and dissipates it without difficulty. She feels lighter, having lifted a considerable weight off her partner's shoulders, but Ayrenn's worry doesn't end.

"I told him that we needed a distraction so I could slip into the temple unnoticed. So Raz goes off and catches a guar from out of nowhere, rigs a makeshift harness with the belts of his armour, and starts taking off the rest of his clothes–" Ayrenn's languid laugh dies away. She stops telling her story, but her companion doesn't notice.

Sielaire's eyes are fixed in an unseeing stare at the wine glass in her hand, and she jumps when Ayrenn touches her thigh. Relaxing her tight grip on the glass, Sielaire blinks up at Ayrenn, trying and failing to feign innocence. Her gaze twitches away reflexively, looking over the Queen's private garden terrace, as she takes a long draught of wine and gulps it down with difficulty. Sielaire sets her glass on the table, pulse quickening when Ayrenn scoots over the sofa, closer to her. She keeps quiet when Ayrenn grasps her hand, fingers squeezing her lightly in the silence that follows.

"I'm sorry."

Perplexed, Sielaire looks to her wife, whose composure gives nothing away.

"I shouldn't have deployed you to Cyrodiil."

"No," Sielaire says immediately, incredulous. "I volunteered. There was…little you could do to stop me. Not in front of everyone else."

Ayrenn bites her lip, a deep frown creasing her forehead. There's little room for argument on her part – it is an indisputable fact that she can't take the blame for Sielaire's decision, not officially. Still, the desire to do so stays on Ayrenn's countenance for a few more moments, before it gives way to resignation.

Sielaire raises her hand, presses a kiss to her knuckles. "You don't have to bear the responsibility for my own actions, Renn. And…it doesn't matter to me."

Ayrenn relents with a tilt of her head, wearing a slight smile which melts away under Sielaire's lips, reciprocating her tender kisses wholeheartedly. "I'm here for you, Sie," she whispers. "I'll always be here for you."

The war in Cyrodiil escalates again after the brief, unspoken truce which followed the end of the Planemeld. Their troops become active once more, and Sielaire twists her healer's arm for permission to return to active duty. It is given with reluctance, and Ayrenn takes the news dubiously, though she isn't surprised. Sielaire has been itching to do something for a long time, and Ayrenn has no choice but to accept it – the Dominion needs its best to win this war.

Sielaire performs admirably – as expected of the Battlereeve – and she manages to keep her discomfort under a tight lid, clutching at her sword or belt when her hands start to tremble, channeling her agitation into keen bloodlust at the sight of the Ebonheart flag. She becomes a terror to the Pact soldiers in particular; the sight of the 'Altmer demoness' is a promise of misery to come, ending in a battlefield soaked with Pact blood.

The victories she wins drive her ever onward; each wound she sustains is yet another kindling which feeds her burning desire for vengeance. She doesn't stop, and picks up even more momentum when she faces the very Nord warrior who had captured her before. His rough, hardened face hidden beneath his bulky helmet irks her deeper each time she faces him, and each time she fails to take his head in battle makes her want to scream the injustice to the skies.

And now, she is given another reason to scream.

Sielaire secures her armour along the length of her arm, and has picked up her sword from the table when someone walks through her tent's entrance without ceremony.

"Put the sword down."

Gritting her teeth, Sielaire turns to face Ayrenn – Queen Ayrenn, dressed in battle armour and standing tall as she issues the order…which Sielaire disobeys. She moves to tie the sword to her belt regardless, and is forced to stop when Ayrenn marches over, clamping onto her wrist with a sturdy grip.

"You will not fight this battle," Ayrenn intones, squeezing her wrist tighter when she tries to break free. "Sielaire, listen to me. You have fought the last four battles, and the healers have told you to rest four times." She touches Sielaire's abdomen, where bandages hug her body snugly beneath her leathers. "You cannot push yourself any more–"

"I can," Sielaire growls through her teeth.

"Really." Ayrenn's voice grows colder, then a burst of light fills Sielaire's vision as the Queen releases a surge of magical energy – not to harm, but just enough to blow Sielaire off her feet.

Stumbling backwards and gripping onto the table for support, Sielaire takes a pained, ragged breath as she bends over, feeling the pull of numerous wounds on her body, threatening to reopen.

"And I wasn't even trying to kill you."

Anger surges to the surface, but her glare loses its fire when Ayrenn lifts her chin, forcing her to meet that soft gaze. Placing a hand on Sielaire's shoulder, Ayrenn guides her backwards to sit on the edge of the bed.

Kneeling before her, Ayrenn clasps Sielaire's hands together. "I know why you want to fight, Sielaire. And I understand. But please, shut out your own heart. Trust me, and stop listening to yourself, just this once. Trust me, and listen to me. You need to let this one go. There will be many more battles for you to fight after this, but only if you let this one pass. Please," she begs, and Sielaire aches at the quiver in her voice. "You cannot take any more."

Protests well up in Sielaire's throat, but the leaden weight of her muscles and the pleading expression on Ayrenn's face sways her. She swallows thickly and nods, visibly relieving much of Ayrenn's tension with the simple action. Sighing under her breath, Ayrenn tilts her head up to give Sielaire a kiss, soothing the warrior's wounded pride.

"Thank you," Ayrenn says, a warm smile on her lips. "Shall I inform your soldiers–?"

"No, I will." Sielaire stands, amused when the Queen helps her up. "I can move well enough on my own, Ayrenn."

"I know," Ayrenn croons. She slings both arms around Sielaire's neck, closing the distance for another kiss. "And soon enough, you'll be in fighting condition again, hm? Then you can have free rein to tear that bastard apart."

Sielaire can't help but snort. "You know how to charm your way into a girl's heart."

"Only yours, dearest."