A/N: Oh my gosh you guys, so many lovely reviews, I am truly touched - thank you all from the bottom of my heart. The beauty of fanfiction is being able to write characters pretty much however you like, and I'm so pleased some of you liked my interpretation of Ulfric. I think the scary thing about him is that he thinks he's doing the right thing for his country, and that he's one of the good guys, but when you scratch the surface there's a lot of rather unpleasant things about his character. He'll tolerate a non-Nord Dragonborn, but only insofar as what they can do for him... a conclusion Myrna came to far later than she would have liked.

Ramble ramble. Got off track there! Hope you enjoy this chapter too, and remember... 36 *wink wink*

The dawn had not yet broken when the Companions left Kynesgrove, though even when it did there was not much light to see by. Eastmarch's weather had taken a bitter turn again in the night; thankfully the inn's makeshift burlap roof had frozen solidly enough to hold against the wind and the snow, but it ushered in the cold by the very nature of its existence. Vilkas was usually able to sleep anywhere if necessity demanded it, but in that tiny little bed in that tiny little room, watching the ice forming on the inside of the window pane, even he was forced to give up eventually.

He had not been surprised to find Myrna already up and dressed when he entered the common room. She sat before the glow of the firepit, a thin blanket around her shoulders, and though she smiled when she saw him her exhaustion was plain. The dancing shadows of the flames exaggerated the dark circles beneath her eyes all the more; she looked ghostly, like a spectre beneath her hood. She had not slept either. When Vilkas asked if she was ready to leave, Myrna answered with an absolute and unequivocal yes.

Heavy snowfall meant that they could not use the main road to ride west out of the village. Instead they were forced to travel south, spurring their shared horse through the drifts as well as they were able. Vilkas had suggested that he go on foot to start with, to lessen the animal's burden and to lead him forward by the nose to see if they would fare any better. Neither Myrna nor Hervir thought much of this plan. The Harbinger voiced her opinion that he was being a martyr, that the horse was more than capable of carrying them both. The horse on the other hand just simply despised him, Vilkas decided, and flatly refused to be led anywhere while he held the reigns. With no other options available Vilkas returned to the saddle where at least he could be of some sort of use, sharing his body heat with the Harbinger as she shivered beneath her cloak. There was no room for propriety when their very survival depended on such closeness. Vilkas wrapped both arms firmly about her waist, holding her to his chest until her teeth stopped chattering and her breathing slowed. As a Nord he could endure the worst of Skyrim's weather, but Bretons were certainly not built for the cold.

Hervir was handling the snow reasonably well, truth be told. With his large hooves and thick muscular legs, the great black charger had been specifically bred to cope with weather such as this. He picked out his own path and pace, since Myrna's hands were far too numb to drive him, and he was doing a fair job of it. Laden with two armoured people, their packs and their weapons, Hervir plodded steadily onwards through the snow with long purposeful strides, his head bowed low against the biting winds.

The weather eased the further south they went, and soon it had stopped snowing altogether. When the feeling returned to her fingers Myrna pulled on the reigns, gently encouraging Hervir to turn west to try their luck on the plains. The snow was wetter here, less compacted, turning to slush beneath the charger's hooves as he pressed on across the muddy lands claimed by the White River in flood. It was easier going than the road, though silt and sediment splashed up onto their legs from the ground below. They kept the horse at an even walking pace, following the meandering course of the river that would eventually lead them to the gates of their home city.

By the time they had crossed the border to Whiterun hold the weather had improved dramatically. The snow was gone, the land was dry, and the mid-morning sun was warm upon their faces. Vilkas had half expected Myrna to begin chatting once her shivering had finally ceased, and was therefore surprised when she remained oddly silent. It was then he realised he still had his arms around her, but when he loosened them she leaned back towards him, her head lolling backwards slightly before falling forwards again with a low murmur. So that was why she was so quiet... She was sleeping. Vilkas had hold back from laughing out loud, his fondness for the woman swelling in his heart as he gently closed the space between them once more, allowing her to rest her head on his shoulder as she dreamed. He took the reigns from her, hoping the horse would not notice, stealing little glances at her now and then when his eyes weren't fixed on the horizon, where the outline of the city of Whiterun was just now becoming visible.

They hit a bump and she stirred. Vilkas held his breath, fearful he would wake her and deny her the sleep she sorely needed. Carefully he arranged her hood to better cover her cheeks, tucking her cloak around her, unable to resist the mad urge to press an affectionate kiss atop her head though the fabric. If anyone were to see them now they would take them for lovers; an adventurer escorting his exhausted lady back home. Would that it were so. Even though they were heading homeward, Vilkas knew they would have precious time to rest there before setting out again.

They were approaching the Honningbrew Meadery when her peaceful sleep became a nightmare. It started slow, a whispered mutter on the Harbinger's lips, her breath quickening as peace became panic. Vilkas spoke her name into her ear, his voice gently calling her back to consciousness from the torment of her fevered dreams. Finally her eyes snapped open, her arms groping blindly forward in her disorientated state. Vilkas caught her as she almost toppled, steadying her against himself, feeling her breathing slow, the fingers gripping his wrist relax and slacken as she came back to herself.

"You saw them again?" he asked quietly, once he was sure she had recovered.

"Aye," Myrna replied, bowing her head so that her hood blocked the sun from her tired eyes. She knew it had not been real, that it was only a bad dream, but the faces of the soldiers... their screams of pain and fear had been just as real as the day she had witnessed them.

"It was not your fault, Harbinger. There was nothing more you could have done for them."

"I know," she said wearily. "But knowing that does not make it any easier when I'm seeing it through the dragon's eyes. Sahloknir wanted to kill them, and when I dream it, he makes me want to kill them too. I hate all of this. I hate it! I hate sharing my soul with these monsters. I just... want my life back."

That was something Vilkas could understand. He could still remember the wolf baying in his blood, the unnatural spirit tainting his wants and desires so that he could never be precisely sure where the beast ended and he began. With its many gifts came curses, the nightmares being but one part, violent dreams of blood and death beneath the watchful eye of Hircine's full moon. Could he even call them nightmares when they had once excited him so? It was the nature of the beast after all, as much as it shamed him to think of it now. Being two-natured had its trials, but becoming a wolf had been his choice. Myrna had not been offered any say in the matter. She was Dragonborn by the will of the Gods, for reasons only they could tell.

"The Greybeards may be able aid you yet," he said after a few moments had passed. "They asked you to retrieve Windcaller's horn. I presume they had a reason for that."

Myrna scoffed her disbelief, glaring southwards towards the looming mountain, its peak shrouded as ever by a thick blanket of white clouds despite the clear weather. For all she knew the Greybeards were sat up there laughing at her - it might be a historical artefact but the horn was, in a word, useless. She was tired of their trials and tests, climbing the steps to High Hrothgar in itself was a test. If they could not offer any practical help once she got there, then she would not be help responsible for her actions.

No sense in getting worked up about it now though. Myrna let out a long, slow breath, settling back to lean against Vilkas as he kept hold of the reins. The stillness and warmth of his body was comforting, as was the arm that was wrapped around her waist. How strange it was that Vilkas had become such a calming influence in her life, when not so long ago the mere sight of him was enough to make her temper flare. How strange that when she glanced up to meet his eye, the small sideways smile he offered made her insides jolt...

But no. She couldn't... She'd already told him, for her to get involved with someone now wasn't fair, on him or her on her. She had to take on Alduin, the World-Eater himself, who was to say she would win - or that she would even survive? It was grossly unfair, but such was life. Such was her life. She had once given her heart to Ulfric Stormcloak, hoping for something real in return, and it had only ended in disappointment. Her heart could not be free to love someone else so soon... Or could it?

The rest of the journey continued in silence. Myrna didn't dare look up at Vilkas again, instead staring resolutely ahead as they rode into the yard of the Whiterun stables. Vilkas jumped down from the horse's back, stretching his legs and offering his hand to Myrna. It was a nice gesture, if wholly unnecessary - she was perfectly capable of alighting without aid. After a moment of hesitation she reached for his hand, making to slip from the saddle and to the ground. Hervir unfortunately had other ideas. Noticing a nearby trough of water the exhausted horse moved towards it at a trot, the sudden lurch unseating Myrna so that she toppled forward and into Vilkas' waiting arms.

He didn't even stumble when he caught her, holding her steady even as she flailed in his grasp. Their eyes met. Could he have meant for this to happen? From the way his silver eyes widened in surprise Myrna thought not. Her body was flush against his, too close, and yet... He loosened his grip on her hips, letting her slide to the ground oh so slowly, never taking his eyes away from hers as her body dragged against his. Myrna felt her breath catch in her throat, and even as her boots touched the floor she still felt as if she were falling.

Oh. Oh no...

"I have to go," she blurted, not waiting for his response as she turned on her heel, taking off towards to city gates at a run.

Lydia was reading when Myrna burst through the door of Breezehome, and almost dropped her book in the fire as she leapt for her sword. Upon recognising the intruder she let her guard down at once, her face full of concern as Myrna slammed the door behind herself.

"My Thane," she began, taking in her mistress' evident state of panic. "Are you quite all right?"

Myrna leaned against the wood, still gripping the door handle as she fought to catch her breath. A strange laugh escaped her before she could halt it. She was behaving like a madwoman; almost bowling Ulfberth War-Bear clean over in her haste to reach her home. She didn't have her pack, her weapons... Anything. She'd left it all hitched to poor Hermir. Mentally she was about as far from "all right" as it was possible to be.

"I'm fine," she lied, pasting on a smile for her friend. "Just... glad to be home again." That at least was true. She took a deep breath, steadying herself, and stepped away from the door. "Everything all right here?"

"Aye," Lydia replied, looking slightly guilty. "I'm afraid you caught me taking a quick rest, I've been busy all morning..."

"Lydia, you don't have to be working every hour of the day," Myrna laughed, installing herself in the chair across from the one the housecarl had just vacated. "I don't begrudge you a little downtime, especially when I'm not around."

"I know that, my Th- ... Myrna," Lydia corrected, catching herself, "but it's true. I've been fixing the holes in the roof... borrowed a ladder from Belethor's lad, Sigurd."

"Just you mind Belethor doesn't find out, he'll want to charge us for the rental," Myrna grinned, slipping her boots off and stretching out her feet before the fire. At once Lydia retrieved the discarded footwear and arranged them neatly by the door, glad to find herself useful now that her mistress had returned.

"Can I get you anything?" she asked, trying not to sound too eager. "A drink? Some food?"

Myrna had been too preoccupied by her scattered thoughts and saddle-sore thighs to notice the growling in her stomach. Now that food was mentioned, she realised just how ravenous she actually was.

"A cup of tea wouldn't go amiss," she admitted. "And whatever you have in the larder, food-wise."

Lydia set to work happily, chattering as she hung the kettle on its hook above the fire, filling her mistress in on all the comings and goings in Whiterun over the past few days. Myrna was hardly listening, too perturbed by the incident that had occurred outside the stables. Nothing more than a clumsy fall... Under any other circumstances they might have laughed it off, but with everything that had happened, the way Vilkas had looked at her... His silver eyes intent on hers, his lips so close to her own that she could feel his breath, a whisper on her skin. Myrna's heart began fluttering, racing. She had spent so much time fretting and over-analysing the parts of her life she couldn't control, and for a moment the urge to let go of her cares, to lean in and kiss him was almost too strong to ignore.

She had caught herself at the last, but Vilkas had seen - she was sure of it. And rather than face him she had run away. Coward, she thought, and somewhere in the furthest reaches of her mind the dragons whispered their agreement.

With her gloves abandoned alongside her boots, Myrna worried at a fingernail with her teeth, scarcely noticing Lydia had brought her tea until it was right under her nose.

"Are you sure there's nothing wrong?" Lydia asked, settling back in her seat to sip from her own steaming cup.

Myrna rubbed her tired eyes with the back of her wrist, managing another watery smile. "Honestly I'm fine, Lydia. Just tired. It's been a very long journey."

The housecarl nodded knowingly, passing the plate of sliced bread and meat she had procured from the pantry. "It's a long ride from Kynesgrove, especially when the weather turns foul."

Myrna stopped mid-mouthful, staring at the woman in surprise. "How... How did you know I was in Kynesgrove?" she stammered, managing to swallow without choking. "I never told you I was headed there..."

"Ah, you didn't," Lydia replied, shifting guiltily in her chair.

"The Companions wouldn't have told you either-"

"No, though I have to admit, I did ask."

Myrna's eyebrows furrowed over her tea, waiting for a further explanation from the young housecarl. Lydia at least had the decency to look abashed, an underglow of pink appearing in her pale cheeks.

"I know, I shouldn't have pried, but - Oblivion... I was worried about you, Myrna. I'm supposed to protect you, how can I do that when I don't know where you are most of the time?"

"I appreciate your concern, but I have my Shield-siblings to protect me too," Myrna assured. "Now please tell me how you knew about Kynesgrove. Have you been spying on me?"

Lydia's eyes went wide, shocked at the suggestion. "No! No, nothing like that, I promise you..."

"Then how?"

"Well," she began, "to tell you the truth I didn't know that was where you had been. Not for sure, anyway. There was talk of a dragon in Kynesgrove, and rumours that the Dragonborn was the one that put it down. Jarl Barlgruuf believed that you were the Dragonborn, that you took the soul of the dragon at Whitewatch Tower. The court wizard seemed to believe it too, and he might be an obnoxious ass but I've never known him to be wrong about anything. They were convinced that the old legends were true, that the Dragonborn walked amongst us. I wasn't convinced, personally, but then a year ago I never would have believed that a dragon would rise to burn down Helgen, or that Vignar Greymane would ever be Whiterun's Jarl." Myrna couldn't help but smile at that, and Lydia went on. "You've been so secretive lately, away for so long without sending word... When I heard that the Dragonborn had saved Kynesgrove, I guessed that it must have been you."

Myrna took a deep draught of her tea, draining the cup. Iddra was right - she should never take up cards - twice in the space of two days she had given herself and her secret away with little prompting. Honestly it was a relief that it was out in the open. At least at Breezehome she wouldn't have to pretend any more.

"So you've always known?"

Lydia shrugged. "Sort of. Forgive me for doubting, it's just that, well, you're not a Nord..."

"Oh don't worry, I've doubted it plenty myself," said Myrna through a mouthful of bread. "It's all true though, unfortunately."

"Unfortunately?" The housecarl's eyes were shining, her expression one of awe. "But... What an honour! To be chosen by the Divines, fighting dragons... It must be amazing. Terrifying of course, but amazing all the same. What is it like?"

Myrna felt a grin spread across her cheeks despite herself. Lydia was practically at the edge of her seat, waiting for her answer. Nords and their obsession with honour and battle... She finished up the meat on her plate and handed it and the cup back to the housecarl.

"I'll tell you what, bring me another tea and I'll tell you everything you want to know."