AUTHOR'S NOTE: The original version of this short story was written quite a while ago during last year's AMOSS. a time when I was not nearly as familiar with the site's text editor, and did not come out the way I wanted it to. The images were too poorly integrated and what I tried to do with paragraph alignment was... basically completely pointless. I've since written more and accumulated more experience in using said editor, and now that I've gotten used to this ruddy thing's quirks (grumble grumble grumble) I went and revisited the story, reworking it into a format easier for readers to follow.
The blizzard swirled around them, an all too temporary reprieve. A grey, bony hand pressed against it for a brief instant. Then the magic forced it back. A few seconds later, the entire length of one of their masks broke through, peering inside. It shattered soon after as a barrage of hailstones hammered it from the side, the shade wearing it shrieking as it turned into ash, whipping out of existence in the enchanted wind.
The Nord and the Altmer huddling in the centre paid the apparitions no mind. They pressed their foreheads together as a white glow flared between them, sending a few shafts of light through the Nord’s body. He had at least half a dozen jagged wounds in his torso and limbs, the icy spears that made them having melted away, allowing him to bleed out. Somehow he found enough strength to choke out his last Shout.
‘Zul… Mey… Gut.’
The Altmer took her hands off their hearts and wrapped her arms around his broad chest, ever so gently. He coughed weakly, wincing, then raised his good arm and placed it lightly on her silken black hair.
‘Ready?’ Her voice was soft, and might have gone unheard if it wasn’t so eerily quiet in the eye of the storm.
‘Let us be off.’ His tone made it sound as if they were going on a morning hike.
And then the silence faded along with the blizzard. Their unnatural pursuers rushed in to fill the gap. Their quarry was on their knees, defenceless, but the white nimbus whirling around them gave them pause.
The glow became a burst, then an all-encompassing surge. The Nord and the Altmer tried to blink, to move, to hold each other tighter, but they no longer had bodies to move with. There was no pain, only the comforting warmth of each other’s presence. They were truly one now, their essence entwined on such a deep level that one could no longer be distinguished from the other.
Their interwoven thoughts made them smile – if they could smile. And here they thought they knew each other well.
So you like dogs more than cats. Who knew? Poor Jorra would be heartbroken.
You scent your hair with magic in the morning? How frivolous of you. Too embarrassed to tell me?
With the thoughts came memories – so many memories.
Some were dark, moments of sorrow and grief, other bubbled maliciously beneath the surface, strong undertows of anger and fear. Still others shone, radiating heat, beacons of hope and joy. And the last eleven years... those burned brightest of all.
Clouds brimming with flashing images, rivers and streams of sound and touch, mountains upon mountains of tastes and smells, an entire universe of emotions. They flowed together irregularly, haphazardly, and what remained of their minds organised them into a coherent length.
They reached for it, stretching with invisible tendrils.
They brushed against the current.
And they felt.
The blades of grass pricking her soles as she ran barefoot over the fields. An echoing voice, half amused, half annoyed, calling her back. The giggle building between her lips as she sped in the opposite direction, into Ata’s waiting arms.
The groan of the bed as the man he called father forced himself on top of Ma, thrusting in his drunken fury. Her tired whimper as he struck her across the head, spreading her legs. His black eye throbbing as he glared sullenly, his tears long since dried.
'Lesse! You know keeping your Lenya waiting is bad. So is wasting food. Now come. Dinner is served.'
'What are you looking at, brat? You want a woman, wait your turn. Now refill the damn tankard.'
His strong back warming her face as he carried her home.
The yellow phlegm tickling his throat as he spat into the mead.
The tinge on her fingers as the flames guttered atop her bare flesh. Lenya’s delighted clapping, Ata’s thoughtful gaze. The excitement turning sour as she realised she would spend the next few decades locked away in that dusty library.
The thrill running through him as he held a sword for the first time. Ma’s murmured encouragement, the other one’s disdainful snort. His surprise at the lightness of the blade. The anticipation building as he dreamt of a day he could use it.
The letter sliding from her hands as she stood, numb. The wetness flowing down her cheeks as she wept, throwing herself face-first into her pillow.
The fire searing his face as he ran sobbing from Ma’s unmoving body. The curse he flung at the brute they lived with as he ran, leaving him buried under the debris to burn.
The papers scattering over her desk as she threw herself into her studies; the work helped her forget. The growing piles of tomes as she mastered spell after spell, her teachers’ raised eyebrows as they discussed her potential. Her self-satisfied smirk disappearing as she remembered them.
The rags billowing around his legs as he wrapped himself in the filthy sheets; all he could scrounge up after the looters were done. The disgust he felt as he stared at the able-bodied beggars in the gutters. His malnourished body standing straight for the first time as he walked on.
The awe she felt at the tourney as she watched from the front row, a special treat from her instructor. Her disbelief when the Thalmor knight in gilded golden armour unhorsed twelve mer one after the other. The blush spreading over her face as he rode up to her, planting a rose on her ear and asking for a lock of her hair in return.
The desperation eating at him as he trudged through the snow with an empty belly, his torch dead and some beast lurking in the shadows. His shock as the bear rushed him, only to get a mouthful of gleaming steel. The breath escaping from his lungs as the Centurion hacked the beast’s head clean off, then shared the meat with him over a roaring fire.
The thud of the boots as the Dominion forward guard marched, perfectly in sync. The graceful battlemages gliding behind them, proud and majestic. Her neck aching as she craned at them from the back of the knight’s destrier. Her imagination running wild as she pictured herself in those flowing robes.
The ring of steel as the Legionnaires trained, setting their shields in a phalanx. The Centurion fighting one on three in the centre of the camp. His jaw dropping as the Imperial swept all three to the ground. His admiration welling up within him as he saw the sunlight glance off the Septim dragon crest.
Her barely contained joy as the head-hunter marked her name down in the recruitment page, promising that a spot would always be open once her training was complete. Her giddy pirouettes as she danced back to her room in the dormitory, laughing like she was ten again.
His overwhelming disappointment when the Cohort pulled up camp and left Skyrim to join up with the rest of their Legion, the Centurion patting him on the head as they did. His heavy steps as he made his way once more into the tundra, a pouch of coin clutched in his hands.
The rumble of the tower as it collapsed, along with her hopes and dreams. Her bright future as a Thalmor mage, all her tomes and books, the last reminder of her Ata, blown to bits by a couple of foolhardy students and their reckless experiments. The future that she pieced back together as she got on the ship to Solstheim with the last of her savings.
The hubbub of the crowds as he shouted, waving the basket he had bought with the Centurion’s gold at anyone who stopped, selling everything from eggs to trinkets. His childhood vision of himself in gleaming armour, blade high in the air and foes under his feet, replaced with this meagre existence. The vision that he restored as he made his first visit to the blacksmith’s with the money he earned.
The bite of ash from the Red Mountain as it clung to her lungs. The black coughs racking her body. The distrustful stares of the locals, Dunmer and Nord alike. The pitying gesture of the Redoran guardsmer as he handed her a kerchief to cover her mouth and nose. She must have been a sorry sight.
The cold touch of the iron doors as he pushed inside the tomb. The short blade trembling in his hand. The surprised shout the lookouts gave as he stumbled into their camp. The jeers of the slavers as they carelessly disarmed him and tore his piecemeal leather armour off. He must have looked ridiculous.
The darkened snow crunching under her boots as she made her way to the other side of the island. A long journey by foot. Tel Mithryn rising in the distance after a week of walking and hiking. Her sense of wonder as she saw that it was indeed a giant mushroom. The ageless mer in his robes of red and gold, his arms crossed. Power so great that even she, with her limited training, could sense it as a tangible presence.
The muffled warnings of the gagged slaves as he struggled in his bonds. He was swiftly punished. The Orc’s fist stopping in mid-air as a shadow fell across him and his fellows drew their weapons. His ears ringing as the Word echoed over the slavers’ dying screams. The old man with his unruly white beard, standing in their place. Eyes blazing with such fury that even he, after all he knew of the harsh world, turned away cowering.
'I am indeed Neloth of House Telvanni. Even a simpleton should be able to see that. What exactly are you doing here?'
'My name is Raeg Nar’ook. Do not be afraid, my child, you are safe from my Thu’um. Are you hurt?'
'Training? Preposterous. I don’t take apprentices. Especially not Thalmor.'
'Follow me? My path is not an easy one, child, but if you are willing…'
'No. Away with you.'
'Then thanks be to Dibella, for she has delivered to me a son.'
The whole year she spent outside Tel Mithryn, asking him every time he stepped outside the door. Rain. Sleet. Wind. Ash. None of it mattered, she stayed there constantly. The times that he got irritated and shifted, even blasted her away with magic, only for her to collapse at his doorway weeks later. The scraps that the cook had the kindness to toss her way, and she made sure to always bow in thanks.
The weeks turning into months, the months into years as he tagged behind on the old man’s wanderings. Cyrodiil. Hammerfell. High Rock. Elsweyr. They never stayed in the same province for long. The bandits that they drove from villages together, the gangs that they kept off the smallfolk’s backs. Raeg’s lessons beginning to move from swordplay to the Voice, but only theories so far.
That day when the steward was returning late from an errand, the scowl on his face as he stormed out of the tower.
That night when they were camping in Black Marsh, the growl in his throat as he heard the word ‘Greybeard’.
'Blasted woman, where is she? You! I don’t suppose you know how to make canis root tea?'
'Listen well, boy. You will never liken me to those doddering old fools again, understand?'
The sweat on her brow as she tried her best to remember her old tea brewing lessons. The rich tang of the root as she cut the thorns off, then ground it with a pestle. Her hands shaking as she steeped the mixture in hot water.
The calluses on his palm splitting open as old man Raeg explained during their spar. The bitterness in his voice as he spoke of his disagreements with his former brothers, then his eventual exile. His sword arm slowing as he knew sympathy.
Her apprehension as Neloth choked on his first sip. The wizard’s eyes watering as he coughed. His unusually quiet voice as he told her to leave him be. The glance she stole back at him as he wiped his eyes furiously with a sleeve, gazing deep into the teacup. 'Alma...'
His pain as Raeg jabbed him in the arm. The old man’s sudden roar as he sent him flying with his shield. His angry blows pummelling him into the mud. The shocked stare he must have worn as the old man calmed down, laughing apologetically and helping him up. 'Sorry about that, child. Are you all right?'
The creak of the door as he opened it the next day, telling her in his usual gruff tones to hurry inside and get out of the rain. Well, come on then. 'Unless you want to catch cold and die.'
The crackle of the fire as the old man put it out the following morning, marking a spot on his map and telling him to set off. 'Your true education in the Voice begins today, my boy.'
The books that ended up mysteriously displaced near her, scribbled notes conveniently tucked between the pages. The snakes of Magicka twisting from her arm as she followed the instructions to the letter. The clink of spoon on porcelain as Neloth stirred the tea, stubbornly insisting that he didn’t know what she was talking about as she tried to thank him.
The faint thrum of power he could now sense in the letters, gouged deep into the Wall by what seemed to be claws. The charcoal sticking to his fingers as they rubbed the Words down onto rolls of paper. The bellow of mirth that Raeg released into the clearing, clapping him on the back as he tried to Shout and managed to produce a pathetic croak.
The years flying by as Neloth warmed to his role, even agreeing to hold practice sessions with her after a decade of instructing her with books and notes. Her expertise growing as she learned spell after spell, the enchantments she wove growing complex and subtle. The plan she laid out delayed month by month as she grew to care for the eccentric Dunmer, until she suddenly realised that a full forty winters had passed.
The passage of time becoming meaningless as Raeg did things with the Voice he never thought possible, pulling them into a little bubble of eternity to hone his skills undisturbed. His form filling out as he ate and trained like a starved madman, the air beginning to shift as he uttered the Words of Power. The bouts he had with the elder Nord becoming less and less one-sided, until one morning he woke to find himself a man grown.
The experiments she ran with Neloth as they explored the power of the soul, the little insects they caught and turned into bright white orbs of destruction as their full essence was released. The unhealthy interest they both took in the subject, until she tried to release the soul of a small, innocuous rabbit. The acrid smell of the burning fungus tower as the east side was reduced to a charred ruin, Neloth’s quick ward having saved them both. The rueful laughter that followed as ash blew in from the hole, both swearing never to try it again.
The thick metal of the nomad’s gates folding under the combined might of his Voice and Raeg’s, the marauders rushing out to face them only to meet a swift death at their blades. The enormous boy they found shackled to the wall in the dungeons, skin almost the same shade of black as his clothes, incapable of even remembering his own name. The confused stare he gave them as they released him, Raeg’s Shout freezing and shattering the heavy chains. The quiet discussion they had as the boy lumbered around, finally deciding to bring him along.
The two dozen orbs of magelight spent writing down their findings, locking them safely away for future reference as the last of it winked out. Tel Mithryn groaning as it regrew. Neloth returning to his calculations as he noted how experiments on sentient souls would likely be too dangerous. The nagging voice of curiosity persisting in the back of her head as she agreed.
The hours of gentle coaxing spent on the hulking youth, rewarded with nothing. The cruel numbers burned into his forearm drawing a wince from both of them. Raeg’s wild guess that it was his birthdate. The eyebrow he raised at the supposedly twelve-year-old Redguard, who towered two feet over him and could crush steel helmets with his bare grip.
The words on the public announcement echoing across her mind as she re-read it for the umpteenth time. The crestfallen sigh of Master Neloth as he helped her pack.
The speech of the town crier reverberating through his skull as he realised the Empire was going to war. The understanding nod of Raeg Nar’ook as he laid a wizened hand on his shoulder.
'Now who’s going to brew my tea? Varona? Nerevar forbid.'
'Do what you must, child. Drive them back.'
'"The Dominion needs me?" Still so innocent. Very well, off with you. I’ll give you a half-second’s head start if the Thalmor ever send you back spells blazing.'
'Me? I am old now, my boy. Feeble. I have had my fill of blood and glory. And I suspect that teaching our gentle giant here will take up most of my time.'
Her eyes growing moist as she gave the wizard a most improper hug. Laughing through her tears as she reminded him to get the next month’s supplies. The sea breeze tousling her hair as she boarded a ship once more.
His ribs cracking as the Redguard boy embraced him. Gasping for breath as he told him to look after the old man and keep practicing his letters. The dry desert wind on his face as he rode off for Cyrodiil.
The perfect fit of the dark taupe robes as she shrugged them on, the extra lining of her new boots just flexible enough to be comfortable. Her pleasure at being able to apply the Dreamcloth enchanting techniques so soon as she crafted her own pair of gloves.
The smoothness of the Legion plate as he slipped the cuirass over his head, the hardened leather and steel of his greaves and boots not giving an inch as he pressed. His pride at seeing the Imperial crest gleam on his armour, just like the Centurion so long ago.
The first troubling signs that she may have made the wrong decision, the sneer of the lieutenant as he took her down to the prisoner cells. The defiant glare of the Imperial they had captured. The screams he made as the other battlemages set to work with glee, mutilating him with fire and ice.
The slight twinge of unease as he formed a shield wall with his new brothers, the cry of the enemy as they charged. The momentary lull he created as he drew in breath and Shouted, sending the wedge of Altmer flying. The opportunity that their commander needed to organise a counterattack.
The cold misery as they marched on in the mud and rain. The stabs of regret at never listening to Ata’s stories about the horrors of war. The whistle of arrows as the Legion sprang their ambush. Her bile rising in her throat as she struck down man after man, sending a cold spike through one’s chest before broiling another alive in his armour.
The sapping heat of the sand as they were deployed to the Alik’r. The sense of dark purpose as they finally came across a Dominion troop just as tired as they were. The roar of men and mer as they rushed each other. His sword arm growing numb as he slashed and stabbed, the fight devolving into a skirmish that was more of a brawl than a battle.
Her nausea as the mages began burning down the taken city, with families still in their homes. The wail of a baby as his burning, flailing mother crushed him under her foot. The sick grin plastered on Officer Tanmereluar’s lips as he peeled the scalp from a screaming girl with his medic’s tweezers, ‘to keep her sweet, wonderful hair as a trophy’.
His anguish as the captain’s head was shorn off by a daedra’s claws, a familiar summoned by one of their battlemages. The hiss it made as he assumed command of the remaining half-dozen men and made them circle it, piercing it with pikes and riddling it with arrows. The relief on the men’s faces as the Black Riders of Hammerfell rode over the dunes.
The blood always sticking to her hands, red and foul, refusing to come off no matter how hard she scrubbed. The beginnings of fear as she noticed Tanmereluar paying her extra attention, sometimes scribbling footnotes in his reports after staring at her. The different plans she came up with before finally deserting, slipping away in the dead of night.
The burden of the Legate’s band pressing around his arm, weighing his shield arm down. The burden of responsibility as he looked at the Cohort he now commanded, men both young and old looking to him for guidance. The private thoughts he began to harbour about leaving it all behind. The message he gladly agreed to deliver himself, to escape from it all.
Her limbs losing their fire as exhaustion set in. The sight of the ruins spurring her onwards, just a couple dozen more feet. The sky lightening as she collapsed inside, falling asleep.
His horse buckling as it caught a scent on the way back. The plume of smoke rising into the clouds, about a mile away. The sun rising as he turned the reins, heading to investigate.
The distant sound of hooves rousing her. Her sorrow as she realised she was standing in the ruins of a temple, the distinct blackening of Altmer magic still fresh on what remained of the walls. The shock as a voice rang out from behind, low and menacing.
The sight of a figure giving him pause as he approached. His rage as he saw that they had burned down a shrine to Talos, the she-elf in Thalmor robes having the nerve to strut about in the rubble. The growing hate as he drew his sword, levelling the tip at her.
'You did this.'
'I assure you, I-'
'Shut up.'
'There’s no need for us to shed any more blood.'
'Oh, but there is. Yours.'
'No, you don’t understand-'
Three harsh words that rang in her ears, an inferno exploding from the Nord’s mouth. A roar she could only compare to a dragon’s, and she had never even heard a dragon roar.
Two simultaneous wards, curving his flames to the side. A crystalline sound that reminded him of the ice wraiths back home, and a stream of translucent bolts thudding into his shield.
The glint of polished steel as the Nord charged her, not fazed even a moment by the bolts. The Oakflesh sapping her strength as she blocked his slash with her arm.
A turquoise glow spreading over the Altmer’s body as she braced herself, staring him in the face. The sword twisting as it bounced harmlessly off her magic.
The sadness that filled her as she realised she had no choice. Her frustration as she kept trying and failing to reason with him.
The doubt that picked at him as he saw the melancholy in her eyes. His chance to speak cut off as she intensified her assault.
The sun and moons cycling each other for at least three times as she pressed him and he her, each trying to outlast the other. The numbness as Magicka exhaustion set in.
The progress of time becoming meaningless as they strove at one another, sagging by the end of it all. The burning in his arm as he repelled countless spells.
The last drop of magic sputtering from her system as she dropped to her knees. The small comfort she took in knowing that she would not feel her death.
The tip of his shield drooping too much to the bottom as he raised it to block. The pain as the fireball splattered on his shoulder and knocked him down.
The desire to laugh as she saw the unit of Dominion footmer march into the temple, checking her pulse and carrying her limp body to one of their horses. The cold order to find a tree and strong rope sending a chill down her spine.
The groan dying as he forced it back into his gut, listening as the elves left him for dead and went over to the mage instead. The phrase ‘hang the deserter’ thundering in his mind as he realised just how great of a fool he had been.
Her morbid amusement as her former comrades bound her hands and feet. As if she had enough strength to struggle. The hempen rope tickling her chin as they lowered the noose around her neck. Then the Shout.
His lungs almost imploding as he forced out the one Word he had breath for. The three Altmer stumbling as their weapons sprang from their hands. Then the gurgle as he disembowelled one of them, the neighing as the horse trampled the other two.
'Are you… all right?'
'Oh! You should talk! Sit down before you faint, moron.'
His guilty, downcast eyes as he squatted next to her, looking like he was about to drop dead any second himself.
Her sharp, biting tones contrasting her battered frame as she snapped at him, her wit clearly unaffected by her ordeal.
The standard-issue rations she knew were in their bags as she crawled to the corpses, pulling the sealed packets from the mess. Her deadened fingers straining just to tear the wrapping open.
The hunk of dried jerky and bread she dropped soundlessly in his lap, the heavy smell of smoked beef wafting into his nose. His exhausted wrists shaking as he tried to lift the meat to his mouth.
'I don’t suppose you have any mead?' Perhaps the singularly most ridiculous thing she had ever heard anyone say in her entire life, and she told him as much.
'You’re starving, you’ve been beaten half to death, you just rode for upwards of thirty miles non-stop, you haven’t slept for three days, and the first thing you ask for is a drink? Typical Nord.'
'So do you have any?' Sweet Mara, was he persistent!
'No! Alcoholic imbecile'. By Shor, she was a grumpy one.
The disappointed sigh as he shrugged.
The irritated tut as she relented.
'Just thought I’d ask…'
'Try their packs, you might find a bottle or two.'
His childlike joy as he found a decanter, still half-full. Her exasperated snort turning into an exclamation of horror as she realised he was drinking disinfectant.
Her rolled eyes as she looked away from the bottle, the clear liquor sloshing inside. His distrustful squint turning into a gasp of delight as he smelled how unexpectedly strong it was.
'Wow. Good stuff, for Altmer brew. What’s this fermented from? Got a nice tang to it.'
'You complete nitwit! That’s rubbing ethanol for our bandages!'
The hiccups that racked his torso as he leant on the tree and passed out. Her right eye twitching as she glared at him.
The world swimming as he got hammered faster than he thought he would. His throat burning as his stomach protested.
His slow and steady breathing, only the occasional snore. Her amazement at seeing a drunken Nord sleep so quietly.
His surprise as he found her still next to him as he woke. Her keen eyes studying him as she played with her glove.
The miles they traversed together through the wilderness. Her repeated glances at his Legate’s band as she surreptitiously gathered Magicka, waiting for him to turn on her. Her brow furrowing as she wondered why he hadn’t thrown her to the wolves yet.
The stretches of barren land they passed through. His fingers closing around the hilt of his sword as he pretended to sleep, waiting for her to turn on him. His inner debates of what he was doing staying with her, an Old Mary, still in her Dominion uniform, no less.
The Legion deserters they came across, eyeing their horse’s plump legs and full saddlebags. Her dismay as the men drew weapons and attacked them, inadvertently pitching a hatchet into the horse’s neck.
The bay of the horse as it died, an axe-bit buried behind its head. Her hair flying as she bathed the fools in flames before he could even unsheathe his sword, the heat stinging his eyes and making them water.
His grunts as he hacked off one leg of the horse, slinging it over his shoulder and carrying it to their camp.
Her stomach letting out a loud growl as she roasted the leg over a fire, drawing a reluctant laugh from both of them.
'So much for riding. At least we got halfway around the province. You know, now that I think about it, you still haven’t told me why you’re following me.'
'Following you? I almost thought it was the other way around. You’ve gotten lost at least five times in the last two weeks. I thought you knew these wilds?'
'Don’t avoid the question.' He was frowning at her.
'Safety in numbers'. She was avoiding his gaze.
'I can’t take you back to the fort. The men would tear you apart.'
'Where else can I go? They’d just try to hang me again if I return.'
Her lips pressing together as she realised she could never go home again.
His words sticking in his throat as he tried in vain to think of a way to comfort her.
'I could try listing you as a defector.'
'I have no intention of helping you win this war.'
'Your people did start it.'
'So did your Tiber Septim when he "unified" your Empire.'
'That was then, this is now. The Aldmeri Dominion are the aggressors here, not us.'
'And if you were born in the end of the Second Era, would you have opposed your great Talos?'
'Perhaps. Perhaps not. At any rate, this argument is pointless.'
'Just when I was starting to enjoy our discussion. So what now?'
His scruffy beard rumpling as he huffed, standing up. 'Let’s save that for until we reach the border.'
Her cupid lips curving as she inclined her head, teasing him. 'Can’t stand the thought of leaving me?'
The awkward silence that followed as he looked back at her, some inscrutable emotion in his eyes. That clear shade of blue that she found herself staring into.
The sarcastic smile slowly fading as she returned his gaze, looking suddenly uncomfortable. Those vibrant green pupils that danced lightly as they reflected the fire.
That roguish grin he wore whenever she tried to be smart, like the time she motioned at a blackberry bush and told him they were a very deadly variant of purple chokeberries, only for him to point out the lack of thorns on the leaves.
That infectious giggle of hers whenever he did something stupid, like the time he decided his beard was far too long and tried shaving with his sword, only for her to hold up a small razor as he skinned the entire right side of his chin.
The sudden downpour that gushed down from overhead as the sky tore. The sweat and dirt washing off as she let the rain cleanse her body, her undervest clinging tightly to her form. The choking noise he emitted as he looked away pointedly.
The birch tree they took shelter under swaying with the wind as the storm broke. The glare of the sun warming his skin as the clouds passed, baking their clothes dry. The girlish squeak she made as she clapped her arms over her chest.
'I didn’t see anything.'
'Not if you want to keep your eyes, no.'
His straw hair spraying her with flecks of water as he took off his helmet and shook it like a mane. Her playful thump on his shoulder for getting her robes wet again.
Her black tresses cascading over one shoulder as she wrung it dry and tucked it behind her ear. His little joke about her posing for a portrait drawing a blush instead of a laugh.
The stories he spun for her over their campfire. Her breath leaving her as he told her of his childhood, his adventures as a boy, Raeg Nar’ook the Tongue, and his tours with the Legion in the Alik’r wasteland.
The tales she shared with him as they travelled. His calm acceptance as she spoke of her naïve fanaticism, her studies in the magical arts, Neloth of House Telvanni, and the atrocities she bore witness to.
The glowing trail of the shooting star as it streaked across the inky night sky. The heat of his palm as she slipped her hand into his.
The clouds lighting red as dawn came with them still seated there. The softness of her skin as he interlaced his fingers with hers.
The peace as she finally fell asleep on his shoulder. His neck cradling her head as she closed her eyes.
The contentedness as he draped his cloak over her slumped form. Her pinewood scent clinging to the underside of his jaw.
The hush that fell over both of them as they woke up. The burning that suffused her cheeks as individual details began to leap out at her. That constant twinkle in his gaze. The lock of hair that fell over his forehead. The muscles in his arm rippling as he practiced his swordsmanship. How he scratched his stubble with his thumb when he was deep in thought.
The day they spent trying not to talk to each other. The twinge that ran through his heart as he started to notice the little things. That enigmatic light in her eyes. The wave of black silk that ran down to her narrow waist. The feline grace in her stride as she glided rather than walked. How she brushed her hair with her ring finger when she was feeling restless.
The heartache etched onto her face as they finally parted at the Skyrim-Cyrodiil border. The solemn promise to remember each other always. The lingering farewell that she gave him as his warm mouth parted in surprise.
The phantom of the kiss still tingling on his lips as he marched back to the fort. The Proconsul agreeing readily to give him five months’ leave. The boyish excitement mounting in his chest as he rode down the border path.
The weight of her steps lifting immediately as she heard his voice behind her. His toothy grin visible even behind his helmet as he approached on the chestnut.
The wrinkle in his brow smoothing out entirely as he extended his hand downwards. Her tinkling laugh washing over him as she hauled herself onto the saddle without his help.
'It seems I’ve forgotten how well you ride already.'
'I’m not surprised, oaf that you are. Ride where, though?'
'Does it matter? I can bear the furthest reaches of Nirn and the darkest depths of Oblivion, as long as it’s with you…'
'That’s a line straight out of the disgusting smut I used to read. Come on, you can do better.'
'So much for a Nord for trying to be romantic. How does Whiterun sound?'
'Well now. I’ll admit I’m feeling slightly curious about the city you grew up in.'
The openness of the city surprising her, along with the constant chatter of hawkers peddling their wares. The suspicious stares and muttered curses of passers-by that she shrugged off with equanimity; she was used to far worse.
The familiarity of the Plains District bringing a smile to his face as they stepped inside, the hustle and bustle of the markets unchanged after all those years. His eyes straying to the row of new houses; some were for sale.
The chuckle they shared at the fancy name of 'Breezehome'. The Jarl’s poorly concealed surprise as he glanced at the unlikely pair they made.
The clink of gold sealing the deal as he paid the steward. The creak of the wooden door as they unlocked and pushed it open together.
The short week they took to furnish the house, pulling in a bed, a dining table, several chairs, rugs and candles. The dust running up her nostrils as they cleaned out the loft.
The transformation from dim and messy shack into snug homestead by the time they were done with the place. The night they spent celebrating and his hangover afterwards.
Five of the happiest months of her life as they spent every waking moment together, walking the Districts, mingling with the crowds and just sitting together on the benches beside the Gildergreen, hands entwined. Her darkened mood as she thought about him leaving again.
Almost half a year spent in his blissful bubble with her, the nightmare of blood and death far away and inconsequential. The unwelcome flashes of reality intruding as more and more of the guardsmen were deployed to the Legion. His misery as he realised their time was growing short.
Her arms clutching tightly at him the night before he was redeployed. Her wild, improbable fantasies of knocking him out or keeping him imprisoned.
His helmet so much heavier than before as he jammed it over his head. His last-minute, treasonous thoughts of leaving the Empire to fend for itself.
'I promise I’ll write.'
'Once every week at the least.'
'Twice, and you had better reply.'
'Just try and stop me. I want to go with you so badly, but…'
'I know. They were your people once. Perhaps they still are.'
'Come back to me safe, or I…'
Her rare stammer as she entertained the notion of losing him, and found it too terrifying to endure.
His vision blurring as they bade each other farewell as they had on the border, and he nudged the horse forward with his spurs.
Breezehome becoming dark and cold without his presence, the courier’s deliveries the only thing sustaining her. Her panic as the letters stopped for two months, her massive relief when they resumed. The three long years of agony slowly crawling by as she felt herself go mad.
Beginning to practice dirty tactics and brutal strategies as the Great War raged on, for now he had something to return to. The few bright spots he treasured amidst all the darkness. His memories of old man Raeg, his new Shadeclaw friends, and of course, her.
Her sheer exultation as she heard of the Concordat; he was coming home. Her slight unease as she wondered what kind of man she would be greeting when he returned. Her carefree laugh as she reminded herself of his fortitude.
His disbelief as he read the words to his men; they were being sent back. His anger at settling for an unsteady peace after all they had sacrificed to reclaim the Imperial City. Jorra’s stern chiding as he reminded him that there had been enough death.
His pupils expanding in the dim light as she flung the door open, her heart pounding. The new lines on his face and the battered armour. Then he grinned and all was well again.
An unkempt mop of hair flaring from the side of her head as she gazed at him. The sparkle in her eyes now tinged with red. Then she smiled and nothing else in the world mattered.
'I’m back.'
'You certainly took your blasted time.'
'You should see the celebration they have planned for the safe return of the Jarl’s son. Apparently his Dunmer bodyguard had a lot to do with it.'
'To Oblivion with the Jarl’s son! Take that ruined armour off, it’s damn near useless. And go bathe, you smell like a wet dog. After that it’s off to bed with you.'
The sheets tearing with their fury as they made up for three years of lost time in one night. Her pure happiness as she went to sleep in his arms, complete once more.
The cupboards and shelves kept exactly the same as when he had left. His slight pang of guilt as he slipped out from under her and headed out, looking for a priest.
Her confusion as she woke and found him standing downstairs, an amulet of Mara around his neck. Her elation when she remembered what it meant in Nordic culture.
His jubilation when she said yes immediately, flinging her arms around him. His astonishment when the Jarl actually invited them to hold the wedding in Dragonsreach.
The absolute debauchery they both fell into; they had burned up his Legate’s pension in barely a year. The alarm she felt as she reached for their coffers to find it empty.
The couple of stinging slaps she gave him to snap him out of his lethargy; she had always been the one to sober up first. The sense of resignation as he picked up his sword again.
'Well, this iron armour will serve in a pinch, I suppose. The old shield should hold for a few more… what are you doing?'
'Isn’t it obvious? I’m putting my gloves on. What? You think I’m going to let you run off alone this time?'
'Wha - are you insane? Have you ever tried mercenary work?'
'Who knows, it might suit me. And four hands are better than two.'
'I don’t want to see you hurt.'
'What makes you think I feel any different?'
The full morning it took to convince him to bring her along, immediately making her point as she took out three-fourths of the raider camp herself.
The groan he uttered as he reluctantly agreed, two pools of magic swirling around her hands as she smirked up at him from the bandits’ corpses smugly.
The fierce passion of youth settling down into quiet companionship as they took almost every job together, hunting for treasure, exterminating wild beasts, clearing out criminal dens.
The memories of his old adventuring days springing back to life, this time with his beloved next to him instead of the old man. The slow march of time no longer grating at him as they braved it together, hand in hand.
Collapsing in a cave infested with frost trolls, her ankle broken and bent at an odd angle. The beasts howling in pain as he slashed through time itself, severing all eight of their arms seemingly at once. His breath fanning out in white clouds as he carried her all the way to the nearest hold.
Falling to a volley of arrows fired from nowhere, the shafts sticking out of several chinks in his armour. The invisible archers screaming as she located them with her own spells, dragging them out of their illusion. Her pants of exertion as she sent golden Restoration magic flowing into his flesh.
The little upstart Bosmer challenging her to a duel, giving her half a day to prepare. His pleas for her to just forget the whole business, claiming that it wasn’t worth it. Standing over the unconscious Wood Elf with her arms crossed, listening to the funny noises he made when he was both relieved and annoyed.
The towering Orc spitting on the ground as he scrutinised him, rubbing bear fat onto his shoulders. Her yells that he was being a complete idiot, wrestling a chieftain in his own stronghold. Slamming him into the ground and holding him in place with his leg, grinning at her as she shook her head in frustration.
The tell-tale dizziness and spasms of Rattles wracking her body as she laid in bed, trying not to vomit. The gruel that he fed her spoonful by spoonful as he sat next to her, mopping the sweat off her forehead. How he stayed by her bedside until she recovered.
The raised voices outside of his room as the priestesses argued with her, telling her not to interfere with his healing. The doors banging open as she burst in anyway, forcing a foul-smelling potion down his throat. How her concoction cured him of the poison overnight.
The series of excavations they began to help Tharstan with, charting out ruins in Skyrim. Her lament at seeing the energetic young boy she once knew grow old and wrinkled.
The draugr and Frostbite Spiders presenting no great challenge, their bodies piling up as they cleared catacomb after catacomb. His disquiet at seeing the first few streaks of grey in his hair.
His face lighting up with glee as she told him the news. The heaps of swaddling blankets and clothes she went out to buy, her inexperience as a mother dawning on her.
Her belly starting to bulge as they stopped taking jobs and began to prepare. The furnishings for the new room and the cradle coming along nicely, until he ran out of gold.
Their old debate rearing its head again as he decided to go out on one more job for Tharstan, retrieving an Akaviri figurine. His maddening insistence that she stay behind.
The fact that he could never win an argument against her driving him insane. Her infuriating air of satisfaction as she followed him along to Solstheim anyway.
Memories of her old teacher bubbling to the surface as she wondered if she would have time to visit Master Neloth.
The Northern Maiden heaving under his feet as he fussed over her changing appetite, worrying like a mother hen.
Her worry as the raiders swarmed out of the barrow, brandishing crude but effective weapons. Her distress as the bandit chief shattered his shield and sent him flying backwards.
His boot smashing between the chief’s legs, the Orc’s whine of pain cut off along with his head. His rage given form in the shape of a Shout as she stumbled, bleeding from the daggers.
The baby growing cumbersome on the way back as she thought of a good name, smiling as she remembered an old Dunmeri folk hero in Neloth’s books.
The unusual silence of Windhelm eating at him as he led the way into the city, slowing his pace as he let her lean on his arm for support.
Her shock at seeing Tanmereluar swinging by his neck from the signpost, her nerves as she hid her elven features and went inside the bar.
His berserk fury as the peasant ran her through the shoulder with his pitchfork, the scrambled yells of the cowards as they fled.
Her wound healing quickly under his care and her magic. Whiterun growing closer day by day as they trekked through the plains.
His gut instinct prickling as he sensed whoever it was following them. The quiet discussion they had to turn the tables the next day.
Her incredulity as the wraiths lived through the Shout, not appearing to have been injured at all. The latent Magicka gathering around her arms as she prepared to expel it.
His dread as his blade seemed to do nothing, the Dragon Priests actually stopping to laugh at him. The White River swallowing him as he took cover from her Firestorm.
Her interest piqued as he told her of the village of Tsukikage, where she was to give birth. The questions she bombarded him with on the way to the Jeralls.
His growing desperation as the child in her belly grew day by day, slowing both of them down. The times he cursed the shinobi for building their fortress in those high mountains.
Her loss for words as the Shadeclaws dispatched four men in less than five seconds, not a single one knowing how they died. The sudden pop in her abdomen as she tried to bow, and the warm fluid soaking her thighs.
His pleasure at seeing Gingaki and Kenshiki again flung out of his mind as her water broke, the liquid pooling between her legs. The desperation reaching a peak as he begged the shinobi for help, and the relief when they agreed.
The Po’ Tun midwives using magic of the sort she had never seen before, mixing it with some form of alchemy. The smoothness of the entire process as the baby seemingly slid out of his own accord.
The sight of Jorra doing nothing to sooth his anxiety, his voice cracking as he snapped at him. The guilt he felt immediately afterwards, the laughter bursting from his lips as the midwives announced they were both all right.
Her love swelling as she gazed at her sleeping baby boy, brow and cheekbones just like his. Silver eyes, bright, beautiful.
His silly grin as he lightly brushed that shock of silky, black hair, her nose and chin all replicated perfectly. Stubby fingers, reaching, wriggling.
The healers urging her to sleep; she needed to get her strength back. Her eyelids drooping as they cast another spell on her. Stealing another tender glance at her son before the room went dark.
The advisor commanding him to leave; he was putting the whole village in danger. His grimace as he realised he was right. Silently collecting all his gear as he ventured out into the Jeralls once more.
Her terror as she realised he was going off to face the Priests alone. The manic energy filling her limbs as she rushed out to track him, giving the baby a hurried kiss on the forehead.
His fright as she caught up with him, murder in her eyes. The noises of the port drowned out completely by her ranting, his hurried apologies for being so selfish and short-sighted.
The sense of foreboding as they rowed out to the little island, the crows flying away from them like an ill omen.
The Thu’um erupting once more as he stood on the solid rock, drawing the Dragon Priests to them.
The initial ease with which they destroyed the first eight, their plan working perfectly.
The hopeless despair filling him as the rest of the Priests arrived, a full eighty surrounding them from all sides.
The surge of determination as she learned they were hunting her son. The full power of her magic brought to bear against the apparitions.
The willpower boiling in his blood as he roared a fierce battle cry. The force of his breath and arm scattering their foes in the initial charge.
The numbness of Magicka exhaustion running up her body as they were forced into the defensive, the incoming spells unceasing.
The familiar drain of fatigue sapping his strength as they stood back to back, their spectral opponents implacable and unrelenting.
Her wards breaking as she fell to her knees. The hands and staves of the Dragon Priests crackling as they prepared to strike her down.
His entire world slowing as the icy spears materialised. The weariness leaving his limbs as he leapt forward, arms outstretched.
Her heart stopping as the projectiles impaled him. His sad little smile as he toppled backwards. His final jest about his cheap armour.
His vision turning upside down as he fell. Her scream of grief as she used the last of her magic to conjure a blizzard. Her tears dripping onto his cheeks as she held him.
Her heart breaking as she finally told him their son’s name. The sixty-odd Priests still hovering outside, waiting patiently for her magic to fade.
His vision darkening as she placed a hand on his chest. The feeling of his very essence being shifted as she reached out and touched him at the very core.
The wind slowing. The ghostly figures chuckling, closing in. Her body slumping and dying as she released their souls from their bindings of flesh.
The sun rising. The shadows stretching, claiming them. His lungs growing cold and immobile as he passed his last words to his old friend.
The last ray of light in his eyes dimming as he closed them, pressing her head gently against his.
The scent of soft pinewood unchanged after all those years, tickling his nostrils as she relaxed against him.
Their thoughts mingling as the magic took effect, her only regret being that they would never see their son again.
Their minds colliding as their consciousness expanded, his last wish for just a few more seconds of time.
That rainy day they spent below the birch tree, shining bright in her river of memories.
That quiet night they shared under the shooting star, sweetest of all his cherished moments.
The brightness spilling out, filling them, shining through them.
The last notions of self burning away, leaving only errant images to cling to.
The crease in his brow.
The twinkle in her eyes.
The line of his jaw.
The softness of her lips.
His laugh.
Her smile.
Nirn faded.
The void beckoned.
Her last thought was of him. His last thought was of her.
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