Warning: Adult themes and sexual situations
There was a finality upon seeing the crown that Zahnirbildaar didn’t expect. A hard truth.
You are dead.
He didn’t feel dead, but he was and he wasn’t sure what to make of anything anymore. But he knew one thing.
He had expected himself to be angry, to rage at the injustice done to him. He was Dov, he should be angry, shouting his fury to the world. Like he had done when he first understood, when he first fought Alduin in eons. Before it had only been memories, the vivid dreams morphing into something more, fueling his bitterness, his drive for vengeance.
To see Alduin and Paarthurnax pay for their betrayal. To reclaim what he had lost. Ahzid saan. His memories saying that it would somehow give him peace if this final quest was finished. But the crown, the crown wasn’t a memory. It was tangible. He could touch it and comprehend that his old body was no more.
Yet he strangely wasn’t angry. Zahnirbildaar blinked, shaking his head, letting out a gust of smoke that followed the breeze. He snorted. Instead, he remembered the foyada. Of all things, of all the creatures he slaughtered in his existence, that felt the power of his Thu’um, he remembered old Skar, remembered laughing at that creature’s stubbornness as he fixed his tooth...
And he remembered her.
He surveyed the tundra of Whiterun from his perch, blanketed by the starry darkness, the sounds of celebration almost muffled by the sounds of the night. A short ways from the Homestead, his felt the wooden railing that was a barrier between the ledge and a sound drop to the rocks below and for a moment he swore his claws curled over its edge, felt the shudder of his grey wings with the breeze. He looked down.
And saw hands where great claws and wings used to be. Large white hands with long fingers. Strong, veined, and muscled, carrying with them the the scars and calluses of battle and craft, the runes of a prince trying to possess. He missed his wings, but there was respect to be had for these hands. They could do battle and they could create, the secret glory of the Dov, whether it was over the forge’s deep fire or through the scratching of claw upon parchment, the etching of Power upon rock.
And they could touch in a way that claws never could, the Dov thought, feeling heat flush his face, an ache build in his heart and in his cock, and he sighed. The Dov definitely didn’t have cocks, he chortled to himself, and it was a source of pleasure, pain and puzzlement for him.
The Dov should not feel these things, he had rationalized soon after Snow-Throat, when he had returned to consciousness, choosing to ignore the feelings there. They were empty to those kinds of thoughts, like the shell had been before. A virgin. And it made them nearly perfect. Zahnirbildaar remembered how he, Paarthurnax, and Alduin, how all the Dov laughed at the lir for their strange undulations, their panting and grunting like silly pigs in the night. The males with their cocks, like a pork sausage between the legs. A useless arm or leg, the Dov did not know which. You could not grab anything with it, you could not fly with it, you could not smith with it, or write. It just went inside the females or other males in various places, like how one puts a wooden peg into a hole. It was stupid. Hinzaal.
Every part of a Dov had purpose; the wings, tail, horns, legs, tooth, and claw. They watched the females then squeeze insignificant things from their bodies, the females sometimes bleeding, sometimes dying for these tiny beings. Things that a Dov could swallow whole without a second thought, not even a snack. That would then grow to become more lir. More lir to serve them, so it wasn’t all useless, Zahnirbildaar shrugged in admittance, but the Dov still thought it stupid. They scoffed as the Lir then bled for each other. The Dov laughed at such things, did not need such things. They did not breed, they simply existed, shards of Bormah, made in his image, gifted with wisdom, strength, and terrible beauty. Pride! Sky! Voice! Freedom! Dominance! That was all that was needed in their world.
Until Alduin wanted more and he himself rested his hammer upon his anvil, moved to want more too, to rebel for an entirely different reason. For Bormah, yes, that was part of it. They were blessed, though not gods, but the reason was deeper than simply putting Alduin back in his place. Like how Durnehviir would sometimes sneak into caves, only to return reeking of death. Some Dov, some Dov could not be contained within the confines of the Plan. Zahnirbildaar could still picture her beauty that day as she descended, like a stormy sky over a churning sea. Wild and lovely.
So Zahnirbildaar punished himself for his weakness when he emerged from the cloud of confusion that was Snow-Throat. He punished himself for feeling as the lir did. He punished the Other that dwelled in the Shell and he punished her. She who was so like the one from so long ago in so many ways, but so unlike her. Stormy and strong, but no breath. A creature of ice and Daedric magicks. But so like Kaan. Yes, say her name, Wuth Tu, Kaan, widow of Shor. Highest of the Hearth. The Matriarch and... the Kiss. He hated the vampire, hated that she reminded him so much of Kaan Lightning-Strike, resented her pull over the Other when all Zahnirbildaar had wanted was vengeance. As a result, he lashed out whenever he came to the surface, letting his pain become a simmering hatred for the weakness that had killed him.
He and the vampire did battle in the beginning, just as they battled when she was first found in the crypt. Violent, fierce, and hard. Tongue against Curse, fire against frost. And when she stubbornly would not die or go away, he created such turmoil inside the Shell, plaguing it with nightmares and fractured visions of Dawn Time, Convention, Future, Past, Present, and Spaces of Enveloping that he made her miserable, as the Other was often rendered too exhausted in his brain to act on his deep feelings for the vampire, act on feelings that Zahnirbildaar had once mistaken as weakness.
He had not let the Other touch her since the dragon at Raven Rock, filling him instead with the evil of Miraak, of Azhidal, and Alduin, the dread of them, and Zahnirbildaar now understood the terrible wrongness of it. He had filled the Other with notions of revenge, urging him to focus, to prepare for Alduin, to not become Miraak, to starve his body and soul, and all the while, he was denying both he and the Other life. Freedom! What the Dov craved most. Because Freedom is Life. As a result, both the Other and he grew weak. And for what purpose? Defeating Alduin would not magically grant him his wings again. There would be no going back, he knew that now. The Orcling giving him the Jagged Crown made him see that very clearly. Now, that was another lost soul being chased by the demons of the past, he nodded, but Motagiik was not so lost yet that he could not stop and make an old Dov see something within himself.
That you are indeed dead, Wuth Tu, he repeated in his mind, looking at his hands. He brought them closer, turning them slowly, seeing their pallor under the light of the twin Corpse-shells and the ge. And yet, at the same time, you live. Your heart beats, your eyes see, and you have felt her touch. Something that even flying the skies of Keizaal again could not replicate. You experience it through the Other, his memories, and you don’t hate it. You lov--He could not finish his thought, furrowing his brow. Is it really weakness then?
Or simply strength of a different kind, Zahnirbildaar wondered, resting his hands again upon the railing.
Zahnirbildaar had the answer now. The answer to the question.
And the answer was something Alduin didn’t understand.
The Dov heard something sail fast through the air and then felt a sting of pain in the back of his shoulder. He assumed it was a stone and heard it drop to the ground with a dull thud while he felt a small wetness accumulate upon the freshly cut skin.
You deserve that, he thought as a smile found his features. Pruzah, old woman, well met. For fun, he would keep looking forward, towards the tundra. Besides, it was not hard to picture her face and immediately his mind’s eye saw her beautiful pale features framed by ebony hair, her fiery eyes, that she wore indigo today. His nostrils flared, picking up her subtle scent, the frost mirriam she bathed with mixed with drink. His ears picked up on her reflexive breathing, quick from her rising ire; picturing her breasts gently pressing against the fabric of her shirt, the necklace the Other had given her with the Dwemer stone falling just where the crease of her cleavage began. She had not fed, so she would be cool to the touch. Good, because my fire feels like a very forge tonight, he thought, letting the ache build and enjoying every moment of it.
“So this is how you are going to thank the people that came to see you?” She began, not caring if the whole of Keizaal heard her, like a billowing storm cloud, like a raging bull. “Huh? By running away like a spoiled baby? By being an asshole to people who love you? Who want you to succeed? Take a piss, my arse!” With those words, she moved towards him with her great speed. Like a rough wind, her palms struck him square on the shoulder blades, making him lunge forward against the railing. The railing held his weight. Good craftmanship, you old Dov. “You are running! You are a coward! A fucking coward!” Another hard shove. There would be bruises, she did not realize her strength sometimes. “What do you have to say for yourself?”
He couldn’t not look anymore.
Zahnirbildaar whirled around to face her, only for his face to be greeting by a sound slap to his scarred cheek. Eh, you deserve that too. It was time to touch, to fly again. He felt his hands move, reaching for her, grabbing her shoulders, pulling her towards him faster than either of them could think.
“Ana…” He growled before he put his mouth on hers. Her lips cool and soft against his, tasting of a mix between sujamma and mead, of heavy drinking. He swore she would be burning into him by the time he was finished. To his not surprise, she kissed him back, just as hungry, it seemed. She instinctively pushed against him, wanting to be closer and he felt his arse hit the rail, the wood crack. That would need fixing, but not now, gods not now. She pulled him roughly away from the rail, making him break the kiss. “So you do not want to push me to my dea--” It was her turn to growl and cut him off with another deep kiss while she dragged him to the rocky tundra ground.
“No talking.” She commanded, pulling him on top of her as she spread her legs, her hands sluggishly fighting with his shirt, wanting the skin that was underneath. He wanted her skin too. He settled between her only for them to come to the conclusion between their intense panting and petting that they were still fully dressed, though he felt like he could burn a hole in his trousers with his cock at this point to give it what it wanted. What he wanted.
“Shit.” It was half cursed, half-moaned from her because he was already kissing her neck, working his way down. She brought up a leg and bent it - vampires are flexible - to reach to take off a boot.
“No talking.” He repeated her command, chuckling between kisses that were certainly not gentle, already slipping his hands under her shirt, searching for her breasts. Definitely miss those, he thought dully as he gave them attention they deserved, teasing. He felt her press upwards against his hands, responding to his touch, her lips now demanding on his bare shoulder, nibbling between kisses and he growled in response, biting back. Despite her fangs, it was he who had always been the biter. He heard the fabric rip, she was tearing at his neckline to reach his flesh while she bent her other long leg to work on her other boot. Her other hand doing the much easier job of finally freeing him from the confines of his trousers, her hand’s steady stroking making him feel like he was dying, that it would be all over far too soon.
As if reading his mind, she moved her hand from there to his stomach, her nails just grazing his skin, making the desire for release only a little more bearable. She would be more complicated, females always are, but already his hands left her breasts to work on pulling her trousers off, though he admitted, he was getting very distracted by her arse, doing just as much grabbing and groping as he was supposed to be pulling, using his hands to make her warm.
It was going to be dirty, hard, and unceremonious, on the ground like a pair of beasts, like the very lir he used to scoff at, but neither one of them cared. There would be time to lick their wounds from the scraping rocks, to hold, talk, and comfort, later. He gave her the lacing of her trousers one final tug, feeling the fabric slide over her flesh of her arse. It was enough for what they needed if he turned her around and he started moved to make that happen. With a final triumphant grunt, she managed to take off her other boot, freeing it from her foot with a strong kick, sending it flying.
Right over the railing.
They exploded in laughter, watching the boot land somewhere among the rocks below.
“I’m not looking for that boot!” He declared, now pulling her trouser completely off with a sound yank, his eyes boring lustily into hers. She was nearly naked now. He then rose to rest on his haunches and grabbed one of her feet, biting her big toe, which made her squeal in surprise and pleasure. “You can go barefoot the rest of the night.” He let her foot drop and reached for her other boot. Before she could protest, he tossed the other over the same railing. “There. No boots.” She only laughed like the tart that she was and he watched her recline back into the earth, sliding her shirt off, arching her back to give herself a good stretch and him a good view, her arms extending past her head. Then she relaxed, waiting, spread, the foot that he had bitten was now provocative, teasing him into action, making his blood feel like it would boil over.
Their breathing was heavy, nothing more in their way, the cool air incredible upon his fever. The noises of the celebration faint, but present. He eyed her in the moonlight, the cream of her skin, the shape of her body, the desire in her eyes and he couldn’t help it, his hands, the hands that were no longer wings, traced her flesh. Touching in the way only mortals could and he understood the lir then, why they did this. They did this because it felt so good. Like flying, but not alone. You are alone when you fly, only your body feeling the wind. This, this was together, with another, sharing. The Dov do not ever share, they are selfish. Maruv. And the one time he wasn’t, he died. This act was like death in a way. The little death. Faal mal dinok… He gasped, his head bending back towards the sky, his mind almost unable to comprehend what he was experiencing. It was vulnerable, but it was strength.
She moaned beneath him, moving her hands over his to guide them where she wanted them to go, lost in her own sensations.
“Ana.” Zahnirbildaar slurred again, looking down upon her, drunk on her like he used to get drunk on mead in Time’s past. He found her eyes again, two points of star-fire while smoke began to whirl from his nostrils. She will burn, he vowed as he lowered himself onto her.
Äelberon dragged Ana to him, feeling a chuckle threaten to release. The woman was a mess and about as limp as a ragdoll, barring her heavy breathing. When you climax, you do not really pay attention where you end up. She had fallen forward and he was too occupied with his own release to catch her properly, so a heavy smudge of dirt now dominated the right side of her face. He used a hand to attempt to wipe some of it off, but he was still very uncoordinated and only succeeded in spreading it and getting dirt on his hand. He gave up and his mouth found hers again, in a wet kiss that was still simmering from what was leftover, making both of them moan. He broke the kiss with a gasp, too tired to continue, his heart beating too fast, the whistle from his damaged lungs letting him know that his breathing was too labored now. So he just lay there for a spell, like a dead Mer, pressed close behind her, his arms wrapped around her, almost like he was her cocoon. She sighed, welcoming the gesture, curling up her legs and he followed suit.
The night was cool against his sweat-dampened skin and he felt the world was starting to go dim. Ana rested her head on his shoulder and aye, there was drool. She kissed his shoulder, knowing that he was still wheezing. Without words, she made him match the rhythm of her breathing and gradually the wheezing and whistling of his lungs stopped, and the dim started to clear up.
His breathing calmed and he let himself grow languid, just as she was. Two messy fools lying on the ground with not a care in the world. Sex was simply that way, a ridiculous affair really. The plays and great stories of the eras know nothing about how sex really works between two people with all their fake posing and grace, Äelberon thought with a smirk, especially the Altmeri ones.
He savored the peace, the silence while they rested. For more reasons than just the love-making. After months of near nonstop comments, criticisms, nagging, shaming, visions, nightmares, the dragon was strangely quiet. In a move that surprised Äelberon, Zahirbildaar had instigated the love-making. The Dragon had only tolerated Ana in Solstheim, knowing that he could not get rid of her. At least, that was an improvement, in the beginning, Zahnirbildaar had wanted Ana dead, trying on several occasions to kill her.
Now Äelberon knew why.
In the throes of passion, the dragon finally released secret visions, frustrations, and the guilt that had been plaguing Zahnirbildaar for centuries as a profound confession of truth. And Äelberon was present for it. For the first time in months, he felt himself again, whole. As if the spark in his soul had returned.
Yes, Zahnirbildaar had wanted to respect Bormah’s wishes not to destroy. Yes, he had become attached to the lir under his overlordship and didn’t want them to die under Alduin’s tyranny. Yes, to all those things, but… The dragon had also fallen in love with Kyne when her projection descended from her sphere to entreat for the lives of her children. A goddess no less and a very un-dragon thing to do. Well, he didn’t blame the old Dov, she was beautiful, strong, a force of nature. The breath of the mountains, the wind under his wings. Whether eagle, hawk, or dragon, wings needed wind to fly.
It explained so much, the Eldergleam sapling given so freely to him, his sacred trials under her guidance, and then the goddess’ blessing during his struggles with lycanthropy. That she did not, would not, abandon him when all the others did. The reason behind giving him the ring from her very finger becoming more clear. A token of affection between the two ancient creatures. One dying a terrible death so that the other’s children would have the hope to live, the death spurring a guilty - or perhaps frightened - Paarthurnax into action. A ‘sorry’, a ‘thank you’ and a blessing to go forward with his life while she returned to her sphere. He looked down at Ana’s hands resting over his forearms, noticing first the triskelion ruby ring he had made for her and then Kyne’s ring that was now on Ana’s right middle finger, the white pearl with its luminescence. Ana had reminded the dragon of all his pain, but at the same time, it was her face that Äelberon had seen since forever, the deep feelings never truly dying.
She was the blessing to move forward.
He tenderly kissed the top of her head, grimacing when he tasted a bit of bitter dirt. Well, she had been on her back…he chuckled silently, for some of it. Hmm, he pulled slightly away from her to have a look and sure enough, he frowned. They had picked poorly this time, the rocky outcropping just a ways left of the ‘stead facing Whiterun, beautiful for its ruggedness, but her lovely, lovely back now sported scrapes from the rocks. Love does not care where it manifests and many a time, it is where it is most uncomfortable, he thought with a smile, moving her hair aside to kiss the back of her neck. Of course, she would not feel the pain, not in the same way he felt his own bumps and bruises and there were many of those.
Magicka surged within him and he saw his hand glow a light purple. He placed his palm upon her back and began to heal, feeling her press against his touch, feeling her breasts swell against his other arm that still encircled her. Another sigh, laced with a tinge of guilt that made him lower his brow.
“Save it.” She said quietly. “They’re just scrapes.”
Of course, he didn’t listen and his hand continued to work until all the scrapes and bruises on her body were gone, and yes, there was more kissing. Not his typical protocol for healing, but for her, he made exceptions. She responded by turning her body around to face him, which moved his hand from her back to her front and he grinned a naughty grin, liking where his hand ended up.
But her face was serious, making his grin fade. He removed his hand from her breast, only for her to shake her head and put it his hand back, holding it there. “No, it’s not that.” The guilty tone had returned.
“What is it, Ana?”
“I had sex with him.” She stated, as if admitting to a crime.
That made Äelberon tilt his head to the side and then do it’s own shaking. “No, you made love to me.”
“But it was the dragon, Beron.”
“And he is me, Ana.” He explained.
“You were like two different people.” She continued. “He hated me and you loved me. But at the same time, I couldn’t resist him. I wanted him.” Her head fell, shame creeping through her features and no, he would not have that. He moved his hand to tilt her chin upwards to face him again, his fingers moving to caress the line of her jaw.
“Because he is me, Ana.” He repeated. “You wanted me. Don’t you understand? Parts of a whole. A whole that really desired to become whole again, neither working quite well until they did so.” He sighed and drew her closer to him, holding her while she rested his head on his collar bone, her eyes falling on the swirling runes on his chest and neck, the marks of Mora. “He showed me everything. All his secrets.” He continued, kissing her head again. “And there is no need for guilt.”
She raised her head and probed with her eyes. “What secrets?”
Äelberon let out a gust of air. “He was in love.”
Her star-fire eyes widened. “A dragon?” Ana raised her eyebrows. “In love?” She turned away in thought, but her hand had already snaked upwards to stroke his beard, her nails feeling very good against the hairs. “Not a very--”
“Dragon thing to do.” Äelberon completed her words. “I know and he knew.”
Ana faced him again. “Who? Was she one of the people under his rule? Is that why he defied Alduin?”
He gave her a look. “No, not quite, and it wasn’t the same kind of love. It wasn’t so base. That’s wrong, our love isn’t base. It was like… like she was on a pedestal to him. Love, yes, but, I think he knew both his limitations and hers. And it, it wasn’t returned, at least not in that way.” He rose just enough to prop his elbow on the ground and rest his forehead on his knuckles, ignoring that little pebbles and grasses that were digging into his skin, ignoring that he was pulling on his hair a little with the motion. Half undone from its braiding and probably tangled. Her hair was no better and he tried smoothing hers out with his free hand, but gave up and chose to occupy it instead with her shoulder, feeling her softness under his calloused palm, his fingertips. There were few things in Tamriel more exquisite than the texture of a woman’s skin. She looked much better after a healing, still dirty, but at least the scrapes and bruises were gone. “Did I hurt you?” He suddenly blurted out
Like it was second nature, Ana shifted position so that her head rested on his bicep. “Are you changing the subject?” she asked, putting a palm on his chest, over his heart, her nails gently raking against his sparse hairs before tracing the line of his scar from Ondolemar’s blade. He was fighting the ticklish feeling and enjoyed it when he felt the gooseflesh finally emerged.
“No, I am just very uncoordinated with my thoughts.”
“I can see that.”
“My mind is a jumble, not even trying to figure out the proper order of my questions, and it is funny that my mind feels liberated at the notion.”
“Crazy old Mer, that makes no sense at all, especially for an Altmer.”
“I know! I know, and I like it.” His hand continued moving over her shoulder and he was very tempted to bend and kiss it, but his head wasn’t leaving its position right now. “I feel free. Relieved. It is very hard to describe how I feel right now.”
Her eyes scanned his body. “Well, while you may feel great, you’ve got your fair share of bruises and cuts."
"They are healing as we speak."
"I’m sorry I shoved you-him-ah fuck it.” She groaned, rolling her eyes. He watched her shift position, bend her legs and arch her bag, as if getting the kinks out. “It didn’t help us that we did it on the ground.” With a final small grunt, she settled down again and smiled a satisfied smile, her lids half-closed, letting one hand snake downwards towards his arse. She gave it a healthy squeeze before moving her hand over skin to rest on his chest again. “Only in the beginning. It had been a long time, I wanted it very badly, and we both got carried away.” She answered his question. “I didn’t mind. I like it when we are a little wild. Makes the ‘afterwords’ that much more peaceful.”
He smiled. “‘We’, see, you said ‘we’. You understand now that it is me.”
“He told me he loved me.”
“I do.” He said quietly and she seemed to understand what he meant because her expression became moved, her features softening. “Do not ever feel shame again for loving me in return, be it the Dov or the Mer. We are the same.”
She faced him, her eyes beginning to snap with her famous temper and at that point, Äelberon could not really decide what part of Ana he loved more, the fire or the calm. “So, the visions, the nightmares, he’s going to stop that bullshit, right? He’s going to stop hurting you, starving you, driving you mad?” She grabbed the back of his head and turned it towards her, not gently either. No, she didn’t care that Zahnirbildaar had tried to kill her on several occasions. It was when the dragon changed his tactics, focusing on pushing her away by tormenting him that angered her “You hear me in there, old dragon?” She warned, smacking the back of his head. That hurt.
Äelberon, removed her hand from the back of his head with some effort. “That’s my head, woman.” He grunted.
“Sorry.” She replied, giving him a quick kiss. “That’s part of why I was so guilty, you know. He did all of that to you, the fucker, and yet, I still really wanted it.”
“Well don’t be. It is normal to be angry with the people you love when they do something stupid and yet, still love them.”
“So is it over then?”
“Yes. That is now over. I think that is why I feel the way I feel now. Drained and at the same time, my head is like a clear Skyrim day, Ana. Not a cloud, not a storm, just blue and sun against the white mountains. Sharp. Sort of feels like getting over a terrible headache. A headache that has persisted for months.”
“Who did he love?” She asked, steering him back to the subject.
His eyes found hers. “Kyne.”
Her palm hit her face. “Ah shit!”
“Aye, ‘ah shit’ is right.” Äelberon echoed. “I think he felt something the moment he saw her. You can only deny something for so long, Ana, before it eats you up inside.” He touched her cheek. “You and I both know how that feels. You reminded him so much of her. It… it…” He was hesitating, struggling, because it was so hard to find the words to articulate, to explain what the dragon had felt. “I was helpless, forced to watch him treat you poorly, to watch him lash out against you because of his pain, the reminder you gave him. All the while knowing that he needed you as badly as I do. Knowing that he loved you. No, that he loves you.” Äelberon shrugged and let out a gust of air. “Thank the gods for the Bungler.”
“Bungler?” She raised her eyebrows. “You don’t mean--”
“Exactly, Grulmar. The lad had made the connection back in Solstheim when we visited Tel Mithryn. The crown was the key. The dragon seeing it made him realize that he could no longer dwell on the past. So, Wuth Tu has chosen, instead, to move forward.” Alright, his head moved and aye, he kissed that shoulder before his eyes locked with hers. “With me…” he gave her another tender kiss. “and with you.”
“Gods help the poor old fool.” She smirked, making him throw his head back with a robust laugh.
“I know.” He agreed, joke all over his tone. She hit his chest, hard. “Oww, woman, you are stronger than me, remember?” Ana grunted in response and kissed him deeply, leaving them both breathless.
They were then quiet for a few moments, holding each other, simply enjoying the night and the after effects of their sex, while Ana resumed stroking his beard. The action was both making him very sleepy and wanting her to do the stroking lower down. He was tempted to just up and move her hand to his cock, but bah, too lazy. And his lids were so heavy...
“Don’t trim this.”
“Hmm?” His eyes snapped open and he yawned.
She chuckled. “Sleepy Mer.”
“Happy Mer…” he murmured, still drowzy.
“You dozed off. Not for long though.”
“Aye.” The word was more like breath escaping his lips. He faced her, blinking. “What did you say?”
“Don’t trim this.” She repeated, giving his beard a gentle tug. “ I like the length.”
He released a gruff chuckle. “Gah, I feel like a damn greybeard.” The beard had grown in Solstheim and he had never bothered to trim it upon his return, too busy being obsessed. Gods, being obsessed with fucking nothing. It now fell to the base of his neck. “Just makes me look old.” He grumbled.
Ana shook her head. “Oh no, doesn’t make you look old at all and it’s definitely not like a Greybeard’s beard. Bal’s Balls! ‘Greybeards’ beard’. That sounds really stupid rolling off the tongue. They have old men beards, all coarse and bristlely.
“‘Bristlely’, that is not a wor--” He instantly regretted saying that because the next tug to his beard wasn’t so gentle.
“Shut up. I’ll make up words if I want to. You make them up all the time when you write poetry.”
“Very true. Well, then, back to the subject of beards. You were at ‘coarse and…” he smirked, giving her a kiss, “bristlely’.”
She kissed him back, but she also sported a saucy smirk while she spoke, her lips against his. “You better watch yourself, old Mer,” she purred, “but I’ll be nice because I am.” She shifted her body closer to his and sighed, making his stomach go all over itself in a good way when she wrapped a bare leg over his hip, “very satisfied.” A hand resumed stroking his beard, and if the woman continued for much longer, he was going to lose it. He wasn't young anymore, sex was something to relish when his body felt the urge. “Yours is better.” Ana continued, absolutely knowing the power she had over him at that moment, “waves a bit and the hair is much softer. And no yellow stain of old age, but silver-white.”
He could feel the red heat creep upon his cheeks.
She chuckled. “Still get embarrassed, eh? Well I don’t care. It’s ready for some braids, not big ones, those are ridiculous, but hmm…” Her fingers started moving over his beard, separating some of the surface hairs into sections as if trying to figure out something. He watched her face while she worked, their bodies close together, and let himself simply enjoy the sensations, the touching was so intimate. Did his people ever touch like this, he wondered. Did they let themselves go and be free like this? His hands were unable to respond, so they just rested on her body, feeling her skin, the curve of her shoulder becoming the curve of her hip under his traveling palm, while his heart quickened despite his body’s languidness. Ana then started braiding, one small one at each corner of his mouth, not where his mustache was, a bit lower. She smiled slyly while she worked, seductively, knowing full well that it was affecting him. “Yes, here and there,” she whispered when she finished. “I like this. All the Nords will be jealous, because you will be the most handsome among them with your great dragon eyes, your braided hair and now your braided beard. Like a king of old Atmora. My Mer.”
“Yours?” He asked.
“Yes, mine.” She whispered, then she raised her eyebrows when he was silent. “Hmm, for once no ‘P’shaw’s and calling me crazy because I say you are handsome, eh? Good. You are learning.” She gave his chest a pat. “It’s settled then, tomorrow, we will go to town and get you some proper bea--” Ana suddenly stopped and her face immediately became sad, like the promise of a hope had been instantly dashed, her eyes going far away and she then looked as old as he sometimes knew he could look. “Unless you are still leaving tomorrow...”
Äelberon let his jaw drop. She knew! The whole time, she had known that that was his plan. Or rather, Zahnirbildaar’s plan. To test the trap with Durnehviir and then immediately summon Odahviing. It was why Urag came tonight with the artifacts from Winterhold. His intent was to leave while she slept during the day. To spare her? No, he frowned, because Zahnirbildaar is a selfish bastard and wanted it that way, wanted to leave, to spare himself the grief of parting. He set his jaw and made her face him. “Why didn’t you say anything?”
Ana shrugged in the way she shrugs when she is attempting to suppress tears, still uncomfortable to some extent with being anything other than a vampire. In many ways, Dov and Vampires shared a great deal in common, the deep pride, the arrogance, the heartlessness, the cruelty. Both of them worked so hard to overcome their natures, because they wanted more than just that existence.
“Because…” she hesitated, trying to explain, averted her eyes. “ I didn’t want to cross him. I didn’t want to fight with him, or with you before you left, we had been fighting so much…” Her voice faltered. “For once, I didn’t want to be selfish.”
There was nothing more to do than grab her and hold her when Ana started to cry. Vampires were terrible at it, not used to the flood of feelings and he held her, letting her snot, slobber, and shed her tears all over his chest. He understood now that he owed Grulmar a great deal more for having the sense to bring the crown with him. Did the Orc see it, the potential destruction the dragon was about to cause, the turmoil, the hurt? Äelberon had seen it, but was powerless to convince the dragon to follow a different path. He had been like the maimed witness to the rebel obsessed with trying to punish the king. He kissed her several times, trying to sooth her, feeling the dragon in him moved. “Ana, I am sorry for the pain he has caused you. And he is sorry too.”
“I just missed you so much.” She sobbed into his chest. “I missed my stupid old Mer who could always give me a ready smile, even when the world dragged him down. I felt so utterly alone after the dragon at Raven Rock. You were with me the whole time, fuck! But I was so alone. And I felt like I felt when I left you or when I thought you were dead after the Forge. I wanted what we shared after the Forge, when we traveled together, before Snow-Throat. We were so happy.” She pounded his chest with her fist. “I fucking hate crying, you asshole!”
“I know. But if it’s been building.”
“I know.” She groaned, “best to let it out.” And she did.
When she finished, Ana looked up at him, even more of a mess, her ivory cheeks now streaked with her watered down blood, smelling of sujamma and frost mirriam. “When are you leaving? How much time do we have left?” She asked, a stoic resignation in her voice.
His hand moved over her hair while he spoke. “Tomorrow.” He could feel her body sag in sorrow at his answer. No, not what you think, woman. “No, no no, Ana. Tomorrow, I will sleep in, you by my side. There will be no testing of the trap. Instead,” He gave her a big grin. It was time to make her smile. “We will go to town and you will pick out some beads for my beard from Fralia. We will go home, and I will then let you braid my beard the old Nord way, because it is what I want and what he wants. What colors are you thinking? I’ve seen blues, reds, wooden beads, ceramic beads, silver beads…”
She blinked, still processing what he was saying. “You mean you’re not leaving tomorrow?”
“Confounded, woman, I asked a very important question!” He raised the pitch of his voice. “What bead color…” He bat his eyelashes, looking up demurely and huffed like a girl gushing over a favorite dress.” Goes best with my eyes?”
She guffawed at his silliness. “Oh gods, you’re crazy.”
He laughed, his voice falling back to its normal pitch. “And you like my madness.”
“No, I don’t like it. I fucking love it.” She replied with a laugh, wiping her tears. “Hmm, carved silver, no wait.” She paused, thinking as she studied his face. “No, ebony, carved ebony, like the crown upon his tooth.”
“That’s very expensive, Ana.”
“P’shaw!” That made made him laugh, she was turning his own phrases against him. “You’re worth it, old Mer, and I can picture them already.” Her eyes shot upwards and he could see that she was thinking. “though they may have to be special made for you.”
“I can make them myself.”
“No, I want it to be a gift. Like your chain, which you wear all the time. Eorlund will do it I’m sure. Besides, I want him to check the clasp on your chain.” She continued, fiddling with the gold chain still around his neck. “You never really take it off.”
“Because I love it.” He chuckled, grabbing her hand and kissing where her rings were. “Like you never take these off.” He then lowered his head to kiss where the Aetherium shard lay. “Or this…”
“Dirty old Mer.” But she shivered with pleasure. Ana composed herself, yanking on his chain to bring his head back up, only for him to steal a quick kiss. “Well, old Mer," she continued, "it gets worn the longer you keep it on. The clasp needs to be tight so the charms you have stay on. And a goddess didn’t give it to you.” She pointed out, her fingers briefly running over the leather of Kyne’s Token.
“That is up for debate.” He smiled.
“Oh, so I’m a goddess now?” She gave him a look.
“You are my Ana.”
“Yours?”
His smile and the faint billow of smoke from his nostrils answered her question. “Ah, tomorrow is full of possibilities,” Äelberon continued, “But I will tell you what I won’t do. I won’t train like a fool, and I certainly won’t eat that bullshit vegetable broth that tastes like old bathwater--”
“But Beron, that’s from your Order.”
“Fuck my Order.” He growled like a grumpy bear, and then he grinned like a child who knew he was being naughty. “Ana, I will cram my face full of all the sweets and meats that Greir and Tilma can cook up. I will play with my new puppy and you and I shall give her a name, welcoming her into our odd little family.” He could not help himself and drew her closer to him, rolling on to his back, so they could gaze together at the stars and moons that were like jewels in the sky.
“They are so bright.” She observed after a moment.
“If I could pluck them, Ana!” He began, raising his voice and extending his arm to reach. “From the sky.” He closed his fist and then brought his arm back down, resting his fist upon her breast. “If I could capture them and make them jewels to adorn you.” He faced her, his emotion building, “I would. I would.” He repeated. “I would smith the very moons and stars, I would recreate them... for you.” He blinked several times, noticing that his vision was obscured through a film of tears and he bit his lip and swallowed hard, feeling it deep in his soul. The compulsion to speak. “Zu'u fund heimiik niin fah hi, dii umriid, my treasure.” The dragon in him rumbled. A contented sigh then escaped his lips and Äelberon could feel himself go calm. She wasn’t tense like she used to be when he became like this, when who he now knew as Zahnirbildaar would color the surface of his thoughts, when the line between them became heavily blurred. It was who he was, dragon, mer, and madness linked together forever and she still loved him. Aye, she still loved him.
He broke his gaze from the night sky, facing her, and he whispered, letting his voice go very low, his breath hot on her temple. “Speaking of fucking, we will fuck,” Äelberon watched her look at the stars, her lovely profile framed by the night, and then kissed her temple, now letting his lips move against her skin as he spoke, feeling her respond to him, “as much as we want to and I will be, in general, a lazy piece of shit until I feel like I have,” he kissed her again. “At least, lived a little.” He slowly turned her face to look at him. “Only then will I go, Ana, and you will come with me, to see me off. But I will not say goodbye, not to Skyrim, and never to you. Do you understand?”
“Yes.” She nodded, the strength clear in her face and in her voice. And there it was, her smile, both upon her lips and in her eyes.
Still another kiss, because why the fuck not? “So, there, in front of everyone in Dragonsreach, you will give me a big wet kiss and a hard slap to my arse, and you shall smile as you are smiling now. Because I will then carry that smile to Sovngarde, Ana. I will defeat Alduin, shove my arrows up the overgrown imp’s scaly backside, seeing that smile in my mind’s eye the entire time, and I will return to you. This, I swear.” His thumb traced her smile. “Not on gods, not on souls, not on blood, but on this smile, your smile, and what it means to me.” He raised his eyebrows and put a hand on his chest. “If it’ll stop your sniveling…” He added with a grin, giving her a sidelong glance and knowing what would come next.
Of course she pulled him on top of her.
Erik was observing the gathered guests, watching them eat, drink, make merry, place bets. He was helping himself to some more of Tilma’s famous boar, trying in vain to get Tavia out of his mind. One thing was for certain, he had sorely missed the old woman’s cooking since remaining at Fort Dawnguard. It was his second helping already and he knew he’d come back for thirds and fourths before the night was through.
He moved to slice a piece of tender meat, from the rump, the skin crackling with fat, only for his hand to feel the sting of a wooden spoon.
“Owwww!”
“Not from there.” She growled from the spit, threatening another blow from that infamous Magic stirring spoon of eminent humiliation. “That’s his cut.”
Erik nodded, understanding immediately that it was for Ronnie. “My apologies, Tilma.” He moved to another section of the boar and gave her a look asking permission. The old woman gave a curt nod and Erik cut himself a slice of boar. A slice turned to two.
Her scrunched up face couldn’t stay angry long, she laughed, and she basted that special section of boar again, keeping it moist. “Good to see a hearty appetite and nice to see you’ve kept the manners the old Mer’s learned you.” She smiled as she worked, her gnarled hands losing none of their deftness. Daedric Prince of cooking was right. “Was hopin’ the Goldpact didn’t take too much of that away, though I always liked the Imperial. For all his rough ways, he was a good man inside, loyal to his friends,” a flicker of old sadness in her old eyes, “much like Skjor.”
“Skjor, I’ve heard the name spoken when I was new to Jorrvaskr. Always spoken with honor.”
“A little before your time.” the Old woman explained. “The greatest of Jorrvaskr many’d say before our old Snow Bear of the Ice Flats showed up. How he would’ve enjoyed today, loved Albee like a brother. Whitemane and Vignar too. Hard to be the one that’s left behind sometimes.” She reflected. “But I’ve buried many in my day. Like the old Mer. The old Mer…”
“He’s coming back, Tilma.” Erik asserted, only to feel the whack of the spoon again. “What now?”
“Of course I know he’s coming back!” She barked. “Old Mer, deep down, knows exactly what he’s fighting for. Just needed a bit of a poke and prod to remind him.” She giggled at her last words, like she knew a secret. “A good poke does wonders and Shor knows he’s needed one…”
“And what is he fighting for?” Erik asked.
The old woman looked demurely away and her wrinkled cheeks went a faint pink. Then she rolled her eyes and gave Erik a shove on the shoulder. “Oh don’t you tell old Tilma that you don’t know what that’s all about! Seen you make enough googly eyes at that Redguard lass over there with those blue eyes. Like a kitten’s blue. She’s very, very pretty, Erik.”
Erik’s face now matched his hair and he was very grateful their conversation couldn’t be heard over the crackle of the spit’s fire and the sounds of the party.
“So what’s stopping you, boy?” she asked. Very bluntly. “Saw you talking with Serana. If she hasn’t convinced you…”
“You see everything, don’t you?”
She started cackling like a hag, but Erik knew she was funning him. She widened her eyes and waved her spoon like a warlock with his staff. “The all-knowing Tilma sees everything, hears everything…” she let her voice trail off with another cackle. “Love’s a tough thing, sometimes.” She offered, her voice giving him some sympathy.
“Well, I wouldn’t know yet. Not really anyway.”
“Ah, still trying to figure it out, eh? Aye, if you pretend to have all the answers, you’re a fool.” Tilma basted the boar again. “Be a good lad and hand me a plate, the one on the table.” Erik set his plate down immediately and reached for one. Tilma guided him with her spoon. “Over there, dearie, at his place, where that big chair is, so I can serve him properly. He’ll be hungry I suspect.” Erik did as she asked and the old woman smiled. “Good you talked to Serana. Been through her own demons.” The old woman’s eyes grew tender in the fire light. “Hopin’ she gets what she needs too.”
“Yeah.” Erik echoed.
“You’re a kind one, you know that? Hard to get her to open up. Most don’t see. Most don’t care to. Busy in their own little spheres.” Tilma nodded. “Now, that’s a skill, seeing the other side of things. Old Mer does it very well, when he’s not distracted. And you’re that way too. Just need a bit more mead in you to get your courage up.” Jorrvaskr’s captain then didn’t take the plate Erik tried to give her. “No, you hold it, dearie, need to cut.” She set the spoon down and took a knife, bringing down upon the ‘special’ cut.
“But wait, you said that’s--”
“I know.” The old woman said with a knowing smile. She pointed with her knife and Erik’s eyes followed the blade, though the laughing and cheers from the crowd drew him in first.
“Haha, look what Serana rescued from the pissin’ hole!”
“Fasendil!”
“Oh c’mon, Lecar, can see your mouth twitch.”
“Hole, what hole?”
“I’m sure there was a hole involved, Farkas.” The Legate replied. “Takin’ a piss my arse. By The Elven god’s shiny crown, did you actually lie, oh thou, most esteemed priest of Auri-el?”
“I didn’t lie, I did take a piss.” Came the straight forward reply.
“That’s a whole lot o’ piss, Cuz. You were gone a while.”
“Wasn’t all I did…”
“I bet!”
Roars of laughter from the party goers as the Dragonborn walked into Erik’s view, his lady Serana by his side, his great arm around her shoulder. Grins on their faces and Dibellan love bites on their necks and one just above her left breast at the neckline of her shirt. There were smudges of dirt on their clothes. His shirt was torn at the shoulder and his hair was disheveled. Her feet were bare! Where were her boots? Erik’s eyes widened and he looked away, chuckling and shaking his head, very well remembering the night he walked into the ‘stead with Decimus and saw the old Mer’s underbreeches hanging on the steps leading upstairs. He should be better about this, but he always thought of Ronnie differently, like a grandda or something, not so, virile. They walked right up to where Tilma and Erik were, all smiles and satisfaction.
“Great! I’m starved.” The Mer declared, a twinkle in his eye.
“I can imagine.” The vampire gave him a sidelong glance while Erik could still hear the snickers from the other guests. Grulmar was shaking his head. The Altmer in college robes’ eyes were just wide from the display. Ronnie’s cousin’s shoulders were shaking with laughter.
“You make me hungry.” The Altmer purred like a big, lusty saber cat, reaching for her and wrapping his arms around her from behind before planting a brazen kiss on her cheek. That kiss turned into them locking lips in a manner that made Erik look away yet again. Tilma’s grunt brought the Altmer’s attention back to her. “That my plate, old woman, because, like I said, I’m starved.”
.
“About time we put some meat on those bones.” Tilma looked down, which made Erik look down. At a pair of big white bare feet. The Altmer was wriggling his toes in the tundra grass, like he knew he was caught. “Where are you boots, old Mer? And your foot coverings. I just darned them for you...” The old woman asked, resuming her slicing. She briefly debated on whether to cut another slice, but decided on several more, clicking her tongue while she worked. “And where are her boots? You two get robbed by bandits while taking a piss?
The Altmer giggled like silly bastard and gave his woman another squeeze. “I really have noooo idea where I tossed them. I was, ah, occupied.”
Guffaws from the other guests.
“We should go look for them.” Serana offered, looking up at her lover and Erik saw the fire in her eyes. “Boots are expensive and we can’t waste money like that…”
“Alright.“ Äelberon readily agreed.
Shor’s Balls! They’ll make any excuse! Didn’t they just... Now that’s some stamina for a two hundred years old fart.
Tilma only smiled while she finished loading the Mer’s plate. “Eat first, ‘go searchin’ for boots’ later. I can hear your stomach from here, old Mer.”
Äelberon looked at the plate, then back at the ‘stead, then at his lover. “There are ‘boots’ in the ‘stead, you know.” He gestured with his head. “But definitely take the plate.”
Serana took the plate and nodded. “Yes, there are ‘boots’ in there. We could go ‘search’ for them...” She said, taking a hungry bite out of one of the slices of meat.
It was the Mer’s turn to nod, but not before Serana took another piece of boar meat from the plate and practically shoved it in his mouth. His eyes widened and then he savored the taste. “Mmm, mmm, Tilma, delicious.” He said as he chewed. “But yes, boots.” He smiled at the vampire. “Have I ever told you, love, how much I like your ‘boots.” Erik saw Serana release a bawdy laugh, like she was remembering something extremely funny.
“You going to sit down, old Mer?” Tillma asked.
“Nope.” Äelberon shook his head, ‘naughty’ written all over his face. “We’re going to take this plate, go in the ‘stead, and go search for some boots.”
Tilma laughed. “You old rascal!” She quickly handed Serana a bottle of milk and a tankard of sujamma, which the vampire expertly balanced in her hands, in addition to the filled plate of meat. “Here, to wash it down.”
Fasendil spit his mead, slapping Nelecar’s back so hard while he laughed that the other Altmer almost fell over.
“Now, go on, get!” Tilma, ordered, waving her spoon in a threat. “Get inside before you two start searching for boots out here.”
“Aye, captain!” Ronnie exclaimed, as he began steering Serana towards the ‘stead door. “C’mon, woman, we have our orders…” .
“Can’t ever disobey Tilma.”
“Nope, never ever...”
With that, they disappeared into the ‘stead and shut the door behind them. Erik heard the sound of a bolt latching, the door had been locked.
“But the party is here.” Nelecar observed. “Why are they going there to look for boot--” Unrestrained laughter filled the porch from all the other the party guests. The thin Altmer looked very confused for a brief spell and then complete comprehension flashed through his face. “Oh...” He nodded slowly. “They’re not going to look for boots, are they?”
“No, Nelecar, not looking for boots.” Urag grinned, flashing his tusks at Borgakh. She snorted and then smirked, shaking her head.
“He’ll be gone for a good while, I think.” the old woman said quietly when the laughter finally died down. Erik shrugged, still laughing to himself. Tilma leaned closer to him and whispered, her voice full of wisdom “And did you see it, lad?”
Erik thought for a moment, puzzled at first by Tilma’s question. He replayed Ronnie and Serana’s return to the party in his mind a few times, saw how they both smiled. They smiled. She smiled, her eyes shining, her laugh loud and purely happy. And then it dawned on him, remembering their talk before dusk, her sad resignation. “She smiled.” He answered, thoughtfully putting a hand on the old woman’s shoulder.
“And there you have the answer to the question you asked me earlier. ‘What is he fighting for?’ He’s fightin’ for that smile, Erik. And mark the words of old Tilma, youngling, no World-Eater can ever hope to win against that.” She nodded, very sure of her words, and her eyes were filled with such warmth for the Altmer. “You find that in your life, lad, and you’ll be forever blessed.” A tankard of mead was placed in his hands and she focused his attention on Tavia with a gentle turn of his body. “But you’re not ever going to know that blessin’ if you don’t go for it.” She gave his forearm a hearty slap and raised another tankard to him, filled with water, because it was Tilma and she only ever drank Tej, but she raised her tankard all the same. “To courage, Erik Talon-Hand.” She laughed and they both sipped their drinks.
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