#Skyrim dragonborn fanfic

[vodkassassin]

rfhoiregheroibgoaerigvb i just read shakespeare in the park for the second time holy shit im shaking in my boots how is it so good

omf thank you!! Coincidence; you were rereading it the same time I was LOL 🤣

Hopefully Dominic will have more for us soon!

[elderscrollsconfessions]

Confession: I once read a Dragonborn x Alduin fanfic. I thought I was going to laugh thinking how ridiculous it would be to read it, but I admit I was wrong, it was so well written that I can't look at Alduin the same way as I used to. But I did. more incredible is that I do not regret

[coffee-at-daybreak]

a fate with you | miraak x reader

"I had forgotten what it looked like."

Your cheek rests against his shoulder as you turn your head towards him. "What?"

"The sky." Miraak pauses to take a deep breath, and you can hear the inhale near your ear. "The stars, the moons."

Your head shifts as you follow his gaze up. A fortunate night for there to be no clouds, so you can see it all. And being out in the plains of Whiterun, without a tree or mountain nearby to block your view, the sky stretches beautifully all around you.

"The sky in Apocrypha always remained the same." Miraak's voice is soft but somber. "For so long, it was the only one I knew - the only one I could recall."

Sympathy squeezes at your heart. You press closer to him, your side curled against his own and your head brushing his shoulder. You're lying flat on your backs, barely fitting on the single bedroll you'd situated on a small clearing. Not that you minded a reason to be this close, where you can feel his warmth seeping into you.

A few moons had passed and there is still stark reminders of his time in Apocrypha. He seems to be learning - and relearning - rather well from your travels together, but there are still shadows of his past looming relentlessly. And in the case of restless, anxious nights, much like tonight, you do your best to stay up with him, hoping your companionship will triumph over that of his haunted memories.

"It makes you feel small, does it not?" You ask, reaching a hand out and stretching your fingers. "Puny, like ants on a log."

He huffs. A brief chuckle, but a chuckle all the same. "Indeed."

You start to slowly move your hand, fingers tracing the stars. You squint as you try to visualize the connections between them. The constellations merely twinkle back at you.

"You are anything but puny, Dovahkiin." Miraak announces gently into the silence. "A hero known amongst men and mer. Your power and influence reach beyond this plane."

A weight forms in your belly, a small stone of uneasiness. "I know," you murmur. "But sometimes I welcome feeling small, and feeling ... insignifcant."

Your hand drops, limply lying at your side. Miraak's arm shifts slightly, his hand seeking yours. Rough, warm fingers glide over your own.

"Why?" He questions.

You look at all the stars again. If you had no responsibilities, perhaps you could lie here forever, until you'd counted every star and speckle, until you could recognize every constellation.

"I can envision a life where I am just ... me. Not the Dragonborn, not any other fancy title. Just another simple soul, without any power or destiny to my name." An emotional tendril wraps around your heart but you keep going anyway. "It seems so quiet. So peaceful."

Silence stretches on for a moment. Miraak's fingers still from their lazy strokes along the back of your palm. He tenses ever so slightly against you.

"Do you long for such a life?"

He tries to deliver it as an innocent question and nothing more, but you hear the tension behind his tone. The worry.

You hum. "Sometimes." The pause that follows is brief, but you still feel the weight of his anticipation.

Your hand stretches, twining your fingers with his own. It feels like a perfect fit, and no matter what, it fills you with a sense of comfort and ease.

"But then I realize I would have never crossed paths with you, and I long for this life more."

He breathes a silent sigh of relief at your words, and a smile graces your lips. You lean your head further against his shoulder, feeling the rise and fall of his chest beneath your ear.

"Perhaps in this life, we were fated to meet because of your power - our power." He gives your hand a squeeze, the pad of his thumb brushing your own. "But I wish to believe than in any life, in every life, we are fated to meet anyway."

There is a skip in your heart rate, and a warmth blooming in your chest. "You do?"

"Yes." Miraak's voice is so low and soft that were he not right up against you, it might be drowned out by the distant sounds of the plains. But despite its hushed volume, you can make out the sincerity behind his words. Like he is drawing them out from somewhere deep inside him, like his very heart is bringing them to the surface. "I would find my way to you in any plane of existence. Were we mere crop farmers on Skyrim, or grains of sand on the shores of a sea, or stars out in the endless sky. I would find you, and we would be two halves of a whole, much as we are now."

His body shifts, turning a little as he brings his free hand up to your head. He brushes away any hair that had fallen onto your forehead, placing a feather light kiss there instead. "My fate is you. It has always been, it always will be."

Tears prick at your eyes, and you wish to say something back, but you’re unsure how the words will come out past the lump in your throat. Instead you grasp at the shoulder fabric of his robes and lean your head up to find his lips with your own.

He returns the kiss like it is the most natural thing in the world. It is easy to believe his words about you two being the halves of a whole when his lips slot so perfectly against your own, or when your bodies seem to piece together as you lean in to each other. You break apart for only a second to catch air, drawing in the same unsteady breaths before you are colliding again, the familiarity of his taste and touch conquering your own consciousness.

[metize]

Mate (AFAB!Dragonborn x Farkas

Rating: Explicit

Additional Tags: PWP, In Heat/Mating Cycles, Werewolf Mates, Companions Questline, PIV

Summary:

You were already pent up as it was, but seeing Farkas in nothing but his breeches almost sent you in a frenzy. As you walked into the room, it took everything in you not to bury your face on his pillow, instead you tried arranging his bed while he closed the door to his bed. You could almost see the gears turning inside Farkas’ head, you gathered he was probably smelling your pheromones and trying to understand why you were there. You tried not to stare at his bare chest and how good it would feel to run your hands through his abdomen. “I… I thought I had more time to prepare. Aela told me this would happen, but I…” You sighed, fidgeting with his pillows as you tried to adjust the bedding.

“Are you… nesting on my bed?”

You dropped his pillow. Right, that was what you were doing.

A/N: I didn't find A SINGLE Heat Fic pwp with Farkas. They're werewolves! That's the whole point of being a werewolf: feral sex. Anyways, hope you enjoy it.

Jorrvaskr was asleep. The night had draped its serene embrace over Whiterun, as the weary warriors found solace within their familiar haven. Farkas himself was deep in the realm of dreams, enjoying the peace of his unassuming chamber. Yet, the tranquility was abruptly shattered by a sudden and insistent pounding on his bedroom door. Startled from his slumber, Farkas jolted awake, heart racing in surprise with the sound of pounding on his bedroom’s door.

He was ready to assume the worst, a strategy that worked just fine for Farkas over the years; strike first, think later. He grabbed the greatsword at the end of his bed and readied his stance until he heard your voice from behind the door.

“Farkas, are you up?" Your voice was breathy, a hint of urgency in your tone.

He put his guard down, it was just you, the dragonborn. He respected and greatly admired you as his shield-sister, appreciating your company whenever you came back from your adventures. He trusted you with his life. He stored his sword away before opening the door.

Sure enough he was met to the sight of you as he opened the door. He was always happy to see you, almost forgetting for a second it was the middle of the night and you woke him up because you probably needed something. You weren’t wearing your full armor, instead you sported a more casual outfit that you used to sleep in, the sight was welcome to Farkas. Seeing you in a more vulnerable position was different, he was much more used seeing you armored from head to toe. It brought back memories from the first time you arrived in Jorrvaskr, full of questions, wanderlust and with a very unusual story to tell. Vulnerable in your nightclothes, yes, maybe that was why he was feeling a sudden overprotective urge.

“Shield-sister, it’s late. Did something happen?” He asked, his eyes darting around the hallway to check for any danger. That was when it hit him. The scent.

Your scent.

Farkas and the other Companions had a very strong sense of smell, it was normal for Farkas to recognize someone solely by their scent, but this wasn’t just your usual scent, this was stronger. Sweeter. And way more distracting.

“Close the door, I don't want to wake the others,” you said, making your way past him and sitting on his bed. You were already pent up as it was, but seeing Farkas in nothing but his breeches almost sent you in a frenzy. As you walked into the room, it took everything in you not to bury your face on his pillow, instead you tried arranging his bed while he closed the door to his bed. You could almost see the gears turning inside Farkas’ head, you gathered he was probably smelling your pheromones and trying to understand why you were there. You tried not to stare at his bare chest and how good it would feel to run your hands through his abdomen. “I… I thought I had more time to prepare. Aela told me this would happen, but I…” You sighed, fidgeting with his pillows as you tried to adjust the bedding.

“Are you… nesting on my bed?”

You dropped his pillow. Right, that was what you were doing. You blushed hard, caught off guard. This was your first heat, Aela had warned you about heats and how they worked after you had been turned. You had simply completely forgotten. You couldn’t be blamed, you had a lot to do as Dragonborn and your first heat was supposed to happen later, you were sure you had more time to prepare. You were always planning on talking to Farkas about it.

“I… guess I am,” you admit defeated “Farkas, I’m… going into heat.”

“Then you really,” his breath hitched, a low growl in his voice “really, shouldn’t be in here.” His hand gripped the door handle to ground himself, his knuckles turning white with the strength of his grip.

“I’m here for a reason, Farkas,” you said solemnly, you got up and walked towards him. He shot you a glare.

“Don’t come any closer,” his voice was raspy and his commanding tone made you stop in your tracks. “I don’t know how much longer I can control myself with you in this state.” His breath was labored and his gaze was intense.

“Farkas I don’t want you to control yourself,” you looked at him through half-lidded eyes, regaining courage to walk closer and reach for his hand. “I want you to help me…”

As soon as your fingers touched his hand it sent a spark of electricity through you’ve been hit by a Chain Lightning spell. You didn’t even get to hold his hand, he grabbed your wrist and pulled your body flush against his. He leaned down burying his nose in the crook of your neck, taking in as much of your scent as he could. You couldn’t help but sigh in relief at his proximity, at the sheer intimacy. You grabbed onto him like a lifeline, your instincts slowly taking over your mind, the wolf inside you screaming for more.

“Please… Farkas…” You muttered under your breath.

Farkas pulled you up by your thighs and you wrapped your arms around his neck. He dropped you on the bed, oddly enough the little organizing you managed to do added so much to your comfort level. Farkas was on top of you, his mouth was hungry for yours and you were all too happy to oblige, you kissed him back, running your fingers through his long hair.

“I don’t know if I can be gentle,” he admitted through gritted teeth, his hands undoing your blouse and groping your breasts.

“You don’t have to be…” You reassured him, his mouth was on your neck now marking you with his teeth as he pinched your nipples. You moaned in pleasure but with a hint of impatience, you squirmed under him pushing your hips up to feel some friction. “Please, please, I need you inside.”

He grunted before gripping your waist and forcing your hips down.

“It’s your first heat. I don’t wish to hurt you.” “I can take it, Farkas, please, my mate, I need you, need your cock,” you begged, your instincts completely overwhelming you with need. Farkas froze at your words before eagerly undressing the both of you in a rush.

You whined each time his hands left your skin, you felt feverish and aching with need. You were already soaked when Farkas pressed the tip of his cock against your entrance, he looked down at you, his eyes dark with lust. You didn’t trust your voice to beg him again, so you tried to give him a pleading look hoping to get him to have mercy on you and give you what you were craving.

A broken moan left your mouth as he entered you with his length, Farkas seemed to be losing control, as you hoped, his patience and kindness giving place to his feral instincts to take and breed. He was fully in, save for his knot, when he started moving his hips fast and deep.

Your whines and moans were loud, you couldn’t help it, his tip was hitting deep into you and your body programmed itself to feel nothing but pleasure at this time. Your mind was completely gone, solely focusing on Farkas’ cock slamming into you with force and speed.

“Mine, mine, mine…” Farkas kept repeating and his words only brought you closer to climax, giving yourself completely to your mate to be owned and used to his content was embarrassingly arousing. “My mate… You look so beautiful, so needy for me, for my knot, you want me to stuff you full, hm?” You nodded rapidly, trying to let him know how eager you were without depending on your words, since you weren’t sure you could even string a sentence together. But that wasn’t enough for him, he pulled at your hair and growled into your ear. “Say it, say what you want.”

You whined, the sting in your scalp only fueling your pleasure, you looked up at him with an imploring look. “Farkas please, I want y-you to breed me please…”

He grunted, his pace steady as he looked into your eyes. “Do you? Then why did you wait so long to seek me?” He punctuated his phrases with deeper thrusts, making you cry out as he hit your deepest and sweetest spot. “Why parade around Jorrvaskr smelling this sweet and ripe for the taking? Were you hoping just any Companion would take you out in the hallway?” His voice was aggressive, possessive and it turned you on so much. “Skjor? My brother?”

You shook your head. “N-Never! Just you, I’m yours Farkas… Please!”

“Cum for me.” He growled and picked up the pace. You do. You saw stars when he reached deep inside you, the warmth of his body against yours and his teeth biting down your neck. Farkas wasn’t too far behind himself, his pace getting erratic and you could feel yourself yearn for his knot. “I’ll cum deep inside of you, my mate. Is that what you want?”

“Please… I need it, please, please…” You begged pulling him into another kiss.

His mouth devoured yours as he pounded you into the mattress, his own beast ordering him to breed you, to take you, to claim you. He thrust one last time into you, his knot plopping into you, locking you together as he buried his seed deep inside your pussy. He moaned against your ear, tugging your hair as you felt his breath on your skin.

You held each other for a second, catching your breath and letting the afterglow warm your heart. Farkas placed a kiss on your forehead and stroked your hair.

“I’ll take care of you, however many times you may need it, my mate,” he said, voice low and earnest. You hummed contently and nodded.

“Can we go once more?” You said and he chuckled.

“However many times you need it.” He repeated.

[thedaikidevil]

I couldn’t resist drawing @99corentine ‘s depiction of miraak and LDB Chrysanthe.

I’ve completely read this fic four times now and every time is a good time. It’s one of my comfort fics and I am so grateful to have found it.

(I am at chapter 29 of my 5th re-read at this moment)

I read this fic for the first time a good year or two ago, and I had waited for updates and was always impressed every time. The way you successfully portrayed Miraak and all his flaws was brilliant and Chry’s character as a whole is just great writing. I absolutely loved the implementation of Lucien and Teldryn, they gave the story its much needed comic relief at times and balance the dynamic between them all very nicely.

Also- I looked forward to the end notes of every chapter, they were sometimes my favourite parts XD

Also- don’t mind the messy colours- I got a little lazy after the sketch/ lineart XD

If I could wipe my memory of this fic just so I could experience the same wonderful moments for the first time again, I would in a heart beat. The chapters while Chry was on that island and Mirrak was looking for him had me pulling my hair (from suspense) the first time.

Your work is amazing, please accept this gift of artwork.

[ladytanithia]

WIP whenever tf

I've had practically nothing in progress writing-wise in ages. Lost my mojo. But I'm trying to get back into a groove. Not happy with how I've done BLP so far, so I'm rewriting it, from the beginning, and incorporating Miranja's journal into it.

However, this scene from Out of the Ashes came up in a conversation the other day, and OotA technically still counts as a WIP, since it's not finished (dammit - NONE of the parts of Miranja's story is truly finished!). So I figured what the hell. It's been a long time since I had any writing to share, and this is one of the best scenes to really show how Miranja's mind works. Not even any sex here. <gasp!>

Tagging friends whose writing I've been enjoying whilst not producing anything myself. @dirty-bosmer @lillxart @mareenavee @skyrim-forever @thequeenofthewinter @theoneandonlysemla I hope you enjoy it.

It was just about eight o’clock in the evening when they arrived back in Solitude. Before doing anything else, Miranja went directly to Castle Dour.

Tullius was sitting on the bench in the corner by the enchanting table in the foyer. Miranja had gone straight to the war room looking for him, hadn’t found him, had checked his bedroom, still hadn’t found him, and had backtracked to the front door before he finally spoke to her and drew her attention.

“Looking for me, Auxiliary?”

Surprised, Miranja turned toward the sound of his voice and approached him.

“Yes, sir. Here’s the Jagged Crown. Legate Rikke sent me to deliver it to you.” She handed over the Crown, and Tullius took it and turned it in his hands, examining it with interest as he replied.

“Excellent work, soldier. I have to admit, I had my doubts it even existed. Did you run into any trouble?”

Tears filled Miranja’s eyes, but she kept a stiff upper lip. Teldryn’s hand in the middle of her back certainly helped give her fortitude.

“We lost a lot of good men. I hope it was worth it.” Tullius didn’t need to know that she was also talking about the Stormcloaks who died.

“That’s not for you to decide, soldier. I wouldn’t have sent you in the first place if it wasn’t going to be worth it.”

Miranja’s pride stung at those words, while at the same time, her sense of justice was offended. She was the gods-damned Dragonborn, as well as a Thane in this hold, and she had become largely unaccustomed to people talking down to her. And in her opinion, this stupid war wasn’t worth the loss of ANY people, if you got right down to brass tacks. No one should be dying over what she felt was a deeply personal religious issue. It was tantamount in her mind to killing people for what they did in their own bedrooms.

“You seem to forget who you’re speaking to, General. May I be candid with you, sir?”

“By all means, Auxiliary. Let’s hear it.” There was a challenge in his voice and in the way he jutted out his chin.

“With all due respect, sir, I don’t like you very much.”

“Well, that’s fine,” Tullius replied indifferently. He rose and brushed past her to carry the crown into the war room. “I’m not here to win popularity contests. I’m here to keep the Dominion out of Skyrim, and to quell this dissention.”

Miranja followed him, and Teldryn tagged along quietly behind her. “The Dominion is already in Skyrim, whether you want to admit it or not. I pass Thalmor on the road every day taking Stormcloak prisoners to gods-know-where to do gods-know-what to them. The only reason I don’t kill them is that I don’t want a bounty on my own head.”

“Wise choice,” Tullius acknowledged briefly, but added, “Think what you want, Auxiliary. It could be much worse.”

“I’m sure it could. I just want you to know that I think you’re a cold, insensitive…” She hesitated for a moment, searching for a milder word than ‘asshole.’ “…jerk. I wonder if you have a compassionate bone in your body, and if you really care about the people of Skyrim at all.”

Tullius’ face darkened with anger. “Listen up, Auxiliary. I’m here to do a job. Not that it’s any of your damned business, but I have family back in Cyrodiil who I love and miss terribly. I’ve been in Skyrim longer than I ever wanted to be. I’m doing what I’m paid to do, what I believe is for the greater good in the long run. I hope that’s also what you’re doing, why you joined the Legion in the first place.”

“Of course it is,” Miranja glowered back. “But I’d like to think I’m going about it in a more personal, compassionate way. I’m not sitting in a fancy castle ordering everyone else around. I’m on the ground, learning about the people and helping them in more ways than just killing Stormcloaks and getting Imperial soldiers killed.”

“Well, good for you,” Tullius replied with overt sarcasm. “Imperial Generals don’t have that luxury. I didn’t get to my station in life by being compassionate.”

“That may be so, General, but it’s obvious you’re not particularly happy. And there’s no reason to take it out on others. You chose your path.”

“And you chose yours when you joined the Legion, Auxiliary. You can either follow orders or take up residence in the Solitude prison. Which will it be?”

She was sick of being addressed as a title. “My name is Miranja. Miranja Laurentius. And I will follow orders, but that doesn’t mean I have to like it.”

“You’re absolutely right, Miranja. We all have to do things we don’t like to bring about things we do like.” He stopped and regarded her with a scrutinizing look, as Miranja stared back with some surprise at his unknowing echoing of her father’s words.

“You said your name was Laurentius?”

“Yes.” She didn’t bother with the ‘sir.’

“Your father was in the Legion, wasn’t he?”

“Yes… sir.” Where was he going with this?

“Ah, yes, I see the resemblance now. I worked with your father briefly in Hammerfell some twenty-five years or more ago. I remember him because he had the same bleeding heart and lack of respect that you do.”

“I’m proud of my father and his work for the underprivileged,” Miranja said, jutting out her chin as Tullius had earlier. “And both my father and I give respect where it’s due. We just feel morally compelled to point out injustice regardless of who’s perpetrating it, and that includes the Empire.”

“Well, his soft heart is what kept him from advancing past Captain. He could have been a general himself, if he’d been tougher.”

“My father and I don’t measure success by titles and wealth. We measure our riches and our station in life by the happiness we create and the love we give and receive. My father retired a happy, peaceful man, and he’s still bringing joy to those around him and earning respect for his deeds.”

“Well, that’s a heartwarming story, Auxiliary, and your opinions are duly noted, but it’s time we got back to business.”

Miranja heaved a resigned sigh and closed her eyes for a moment, then spoke tiredly. “Very well, sir. What’s next?”

“I need someone I can trust to deliver a message of great import to Jarl Balgruuf of Whiterun.”

“Yes, sir.”

“We have it on good authority that Ulfric has raised enough men to attack the city of Whiterun. The Jarl, however, refuses the Legion’s support. This missive should convince him. Be aware, soldier, these documents contain sensitive intelligence for the Jarl’s eyes only.”

Yes, yes, she’d overheard the conversation between Rikke and Tullius when she’d first walked into Castle Dour yesterday. “Of course, General. We may not see eye-to-eye, but we are on the same side, and you can trust me. Balgruuf was one of my first friends when I came to Skyrim. I’ll see this gets delivered.”

“You do that,” Tullius replied, eyeing her thoughtfully. “You’re dismissed.”

Once they were outside, Tel whistled – or tried to, and only partially succeeded with the scarf over his face – and shook his head. “Damn, woman, I can’t believe you spoke to a General like that and didn’t end up in the stockade.”

“Speaking your mind isn’t a crime, Tel, and I didn’t disobey any orders. I asked him for permission to be candid, and I also made sure to include ‘with all due respect.’ My father taught me that. I know when I’m within my rights.”

Teldryn chuckled. “I like a woman with cast iron balls. I bet your dick is bigger than his.”

Miranja grinned and blushed with a mixture of amusement and embarrassment. They were still standing between the door guards, and there was no way the guards hadn’t heard the whole conversation, but they were wisely keeping their mouths shut. She knew the barracks would be abuzz later, though.

“So, what are we going to do with the rest of the evening, boss?”

[ryuzakemo128]

The Last Dragonborn

Pairings: Freyja Raengyreon x female reader / Aegon Targaryen x female reader x Aemond Targaryen

Content Warning: implication of foul play

Words: 664

Masterlist

Credit for Dividers: @cafekitsune + @strangergraphics

Summary: “Is this some kind of joke?” You questioned your older brothers Aegon and Aemond. “If it is, it’s not funny. You know how much this means to me, and you threw this in my face?”

You couldn’t believe your eyes, the beast. It was no beast at all. But a woman of immense, significant height. Eyes piercing the darkness like a knife through butter. You were the one to find this large, unsightly ‘beast.’ You were promised a dragon of immense power. Yet the snickering from behind the ladies fan felt more like a joke you weren’t aware of.

“Is this some kind of joke?” You questioned your older brothers Aegon and Aemond. “If it is, it’s not funny. You know how much this means to me, and you threw this in my face?”

You flattened out the wrinkles in your dress, fiddling with the sleeves of your dress, and your excitement met with a bottle of disappointment. Gods know whose judgement made this act possible. Not that it mattered now. Faced with the outcome of their meddling and your obvious disappointment.

“Did you know of this?” You questioned.

“Know of what?” Freyja answered puzzled.

‘Thank the seven, you weren't part of this mess.’ You thought a weight drifted from your shoulders, easing them slightly. “I accept.” You said at this point what they wanted was far away from your mind you couldn’t see it anymore. “I will take her as my dragon.” You continued with a layer of finality.

Aegon piped up to say something, you were sure of it, yet it was Aemond’s glare that silenced the words in his throat. “Surely, sister, you jest.” Aemond muttered into your ear.

“Surely, you remember it was you that gave her to me and not the other way around.” You countered, stepping away from him. “Surely. You understand the implications of this gift, brother.” Your lips formed a thin line on your face.

“The last dragonborn is indeed mine.” You commented, a slow smirk spreads across your face. Determined to have them see the foolishness of giving you something so rare, so precious as this.

You have chosen this path, and you were more than dead set on following through with it. They have given you something most would have killed for, died for, and clambered for the hope of ever having this chance to begin with.

“To take a mother’s child from this world is a most dangerous thing.” Freyja reminded them. “Taking more life do you no good. Gloat all you like. You are no different from the beasts of old. You are no different from the people of old Valyria. Refined you say? Civilised? Is that what you call this kind of slaughter. Stepping upon the bodies you have killed to make your own side seem worthier. A repulsive desire. More beast than human in its nature. I am twenty years older than you. I have seen more, done more, and felt more in that lifetime than you have in your miniscule length called a life.”

“Silence beast.” Aegon demanded.

“Let her speak.” You countered, throwing a glare at your inconsiderate brother of yours. You won’t allow them to take more from you than they had already. This would be the one chance you have to finally claim something as yours and yours alone.

“I will not beg for you to open your ears and eyes. As far as I am aware, those of privilege will rarely listen. If at all. You decide whether you want to go through with this on your own terms.” Freyja remarked.

“I have.” You said firmly. “You will be by my side until either your death or mine.”

“Then its settled.” Freyja whispered. “A deal set in stone.”

A large weight lifted from you, as if you were holding it all this time. An indescribable amount of relief came from it. Your brothers scowled as they walked out of the room. Their plan backfiring on them so spectacularly it was little to no avail of wonder why you felt like gloating about it. Not like they knew you were going to be so accepting of their ‘gift’ after all.

[transmascdagothur]

HELLO MORTALS. WHAT I BRING IS LIGHT, WHAT I BRING IS A STAR, WHAT I BRING... IS AN ORC WEREWOLF???

Yea i've been gone for ages but I made a new skyrim oc and. I think I'm gonna write a shitty fanfic or sumn idk. I wanna get back on the Elder Scrolls grind

About Moz, she's the dragonborn and the epitome of female rage but she also has a sense of humor and is POSIC (specifically about weapons) and is a ladies woman. She likes snakes and has a snake tattoo that she loves to show off. Also her werewolf form is featured on the right.

[orfeoarte]

Tower of Three

—-· Saathel Broken-brow is content in the company of songbirds and fir saplings, but the skies darkening over Helgen herald times of change. Something bigger than herself threatens to end a life of doing little more than subsisting. The easiest decision was never harder to make, with braided threads undermining the accord of a single soul. A woman sets on a journey, but to return she must be split in three. ·-—

Chapter index

- 1 - 2 - 3 -

[skyrim-forever]

Fanfic idea

[nerevar-quote-and-star]

This crackship was supposed to be FUNNY but then it got really serious instead?

At least it's sweet. Or at least @elder-dragon-reposes thinks so!

Yo @incorrectskyrimquotes do you want some Leara/Ralof romance/pining?

ao3 | masterlist

She's curled in the corner of the wagon when he first notices her. Dark red hair falls in a curtain over her face, but Ralof thinks he sees the tip of a leaflet ear poking between the fallen strands. An elf, then. He doesn't remember seeing her during the ambush and the skirmish that followed. He wonders how she got there. He wonders why. Was she at the border?

When she wakes, it's signaled by strained shoulders and a near-visible shrinking in on herself. Then Ralof is met with the most startling blue eyes he's ever seen, bright and cold and thick with ice. They sweep his face, then turn to the other occupants of their carriage. At the moment, Ralof swears those eyes hesitate and widen when the elf woman spots Jarl Ulfric, but later, he isn't sure.

"Hey, you. You're finally awake. You were trying to cross the border, right? Walked right into that Imperial ambush, same as us, and that thief over there."

She stares at him again and is quiet.

She is quiet when the Imperials corral them from the carriages to hear General Tullius's damning talk-down to Jarl Ulfric.

Then, they're in line for the chopping block. Hadvar, damn traitor that he is, is standing there prim as a princess with his quill and parchment, ready to take down the names of the convicted.

Ralof wants to curse him. He cannot.

Then the elf woman is in front of Hadvar..

"Who . . . are you?" "Leara Ormand. I, I'm from Daggerfall." "I'm sorry, miss. We'll make sure your remains are returned to High Rock."

She hangs her head.

This was Imperial justice, Ralof thought. The innocent were condemned just as easily as those who fought for others' freedom. Anything that was inconvenient for the Empire must go.

They execute Snorri first, Talos guard him. Then they call the elf woman, Leara, forward. Her head no longer hangs. She walks forward with the same cool face and straight spine he's seen in other high elves.

Thunder rumbles, not for the first time since this circus began.

She kneels at the block.

All Oblivion breaks loose.

Smoke and screams resonate through the air as fire splits the skies. Visibility is lost. Ralof stumbles to the ground.

Amid the screaming, he hears a word echoing above the den and so penetrating that it chilled his soul.

Dragon.

He stumbles over something—someone. The woman, Leara.

Her hand snatches at his arm, shockingly cold amid the blistering heat.

They drag each other to the tower, making it just before Jarl Ulfric and the others close and bar the door. He turns to ask Jarl Ulfric—Could the legends be true?—and then she is gone like a dart up the stairs.

Ralof doesn't see Leara again until he stumbles into the Keep. She's on the floor, propped against the wall with her face flushed and her hands encrusted in frost. In her hands, she's clutching the hilt of a katana, but where she got it, Ralof doesn't know. Her eyes are closed, and she looks desperately like she's trying to catch her breath. But Ralof knows that soon this room will be swarming with Imperials fleeing the firestorm outside. They needed to go.

Their trip through the keep and its cave network is a blur of exhaustion and bloodshed. Her hands leave a trail of black frosted blood pools in their wake. The katana sings like hissing ice in her hands when they face the Torturer and sleeps just as easily when they agree to sneak past the bear.

He takes Leara to Gerdur. He needs to return to Windhelm as soon as possible, but it is clear as sunlight that Leara has been caught in a bad spot. When Gerdur hears about their escape from Helgen, she is only too willing to help out Ralof's new "friend."

Ralof waves Leara goodbye the morning after they stumble into Gerdur's yard. She is sitting on the porch, her katana beside her, but her face is clean from the ash of their near-death.

"Be well, Ralof!"

She says in farewell.

Ralof grins at her, not quite full, and leaves. And his mind wanders down other paths, away from his harried flight with Leara Ormand.

But he thinks of her again when he's faced with the white-blue ice of the White River biting at the ancient stones of Windhelm. When he returns to the field, he halfway remembers the song of her katana in the whistling of the wind through the pines.

But it is the dragon attack on Whiterun that eventually brings her back to the forefront of his mind. The attack is months after Helgen, but not long enough for the people of Skyrim to forget that a dragon leveled an entire village and stirred the embers of the Civil War into a full blaze with Ulfric Stormcloak's escape from the Imperials. The fighting has just picked up again after the winter lull when the news of the attack spreads like wild . . . dragon fire.

And with that news comes the murmur of Dragonborn. The Greybeards called her.

"Her?" "Some pointy ear. Not a Nord."

It is only when someone mentions that the Dragonborn carries a katana that Ralof knows that she and Leara are the same. It makes for a good story around the campfire when Ralof tells how he and the Dragonborn escaped that first dragon attack. Most don't believe him. Some do.

Then there are those who scoff at the idea of an elf woman being the Nords' hero. It's not long before Ralof finds himself in front of Commander Gonnar for brawling over it.

Commander Gonnar is . . . not impressed.

"Do you think we're out here to brawl like barflies?" "No sir." "No, because we have a job to do, leiutenant, and you can't perform your job when you're out there rolling in the dirt because someone insulted an elf to your face." "She's the Dragonborn, sir." "Well, then, she doesn't need you taking up for her, does she?" "Yes, sir."

Commander Gonnar sends him back to Windhelm soon after that. Less trouble in the camp.

Even in Windhelm, support for the Dragonborn is mixed, especially when Ralof hears about her plans to hold a peace talk at High Hrothgar. He volunteers for Ulfric Stormcloak's guard. The Jarl, at least, doesn't seem to care about What the Dragonborn is, so long as she takes care of Skyrim. That's fair enough, all things considered.

At High Hrothgar, Leara is happy to see him. Ralof is surprised when she catches his hand up in hers, a grin curving her white gold face. She seems happy . . . for someone who then proceeds to manipulate an entire table to agree to her terms while holding everyone else at their starting positions.

Yes, Leara is perfectly fine. Or so Ralof convinces himself, until he finds her in an alcove, sometime after dinner, with her katana in her hands and her face too pale. Her breathing is shallow and she's not seeing.

Ralof is crouched beside her in a moment.

"Leara—" "Elenwen. Elenwen."

Her skin is clammy. Oh.

Ralof holds Leara's hand through the panic attack beating on her. The best he can do is talk to her and rub her shoulder. Eventually, he manages to pry the katana from her death grip. Her hands soon fist in his hauberk. She falls asleep not long after that.

She is apologetic but still thankful afterward. For the first time, Ralof sees the layer of ice in her eyes give way to glimpses of spring waters.

Ralof might not know what happened to Leara, but he knows being a hero hasn't suddenly made her invincible. If anything, it's exacerbated a deeper problem. Problems he doesn't dare to tease out when General Stone-Fist sits down to talk about the Dragonborn as the Stormcloaks make their descent from the Throat of the World.

Months pass before he sees her again, and then it's on the wings of her victory over the World-Eater. She sweeps into WIndhelm and soon Ralof finds himself at the bar with her at Candlehearth Hall. He looks forward to speaking to her again but is nonetheless surprised by her turn in conversation.

"What do you know about the Butcher murders?" "Well . . ."

Ralof can't say he's kept up with the whole drawn-out tragedy, but Leara seems intent on investigating, and he commits to helping her—as much as his duties allow, that is. Later, when she brings the amulet to him with whispered descriptions of a room bathed in sinew and blood, he suggests the court wizard. Ulfric trusts the man, and from what Ralof has heard, Wuunferth seems pretty knowledgeable.

Directing Leara to speak to Wuunferth does not prevent her from being stabbed by the Butcher days later. She takes Calivto Corrium out with her own bloodied ice before collapsing in a shivering heap. She is taken to her room at Candlehearth before Ralof can check in on her. Before he can see that she's okay.

Leara will be okay. Ralof will not.

When Ralof accompanies the guards to clear out the House of Curiosities, he finds the Dibella statue modeled in Leara's likeness: White gold, small, naked, and frigid.

Rage bursts in his chest. He throws it into the wall. On impact, it shatters in a rain of pottery shards, painted and false.

From there, Ralof hurries to Candlehearth. There, he finds Leara propped in a chair; when he enters, she's half-heartedly nibbling an apple tart but, at the sight of him, sets it aside.

"Ralof! Would you like some pastry?"

Her smile is bright, if strained by the lingering pain. She half-raises the plate toward him.

Ralof takes it from her, and setting it on the table, kneels beside her chair. As he does so, he takes the cold hand in his, clasping it between both palms. He bows over her hand in his, his forearms braced against the chair arms.

"Ralof? Are you okay? What's happened?"

But Ralof can't speak. How can he? How can he speak into existence the truth his spirit has been seeking this whole time? He must tell her. He's not a coward, but a brave son of Skyrim! But the words stick in Ralof's throat, even when Leara's other hand comes to card through his hair.

When he leaves, the words are still lodged in his throat. The whole time he doesn't speak, Leara simply strokes his hair, and when he leaves, she offers another smile. Confused, certainly, but soft. Kind.

Ralof is tempted to ask Generals Stone-Fist or Thrice-Pierced to deploy him to a camp in Hjaalmarch or the Reach, but every time, he's driven to stay. All the while, Leara is recovering. Soon, she's back on her feet, and when she mentions leaving Windhelm, Ralof feels as if he'll be sick.

What will she do once she's out there, alone?

She's capable, he reminds himself. Yes, she defeated the World Eater. But then she was nearly murdered by a serial killer. All it took was one mistake. One. And Leara would be, Leara . . .

Leara would be dead.

t's that thought that drives him to Candlehearth again. He's hurrying down the hall toward Leara's room before he realizes Elda is calling him.

"She's gone." "What?" "The Dragonborn, she checked out this morning."

Bile churns in Ralof's gut. She's gone.

Again the Palace of the Kings, Ralof seeks the training yard. Hack. Slash. Stab. Leara left. Slash. Hack. Stab. Leara was alone. Slash. Swipe. Turn. Leara might not come back. Stab. Hack. What if she . . .

No. He was being dramatic.

Ralof is not given long to wallow. General Stone-Fist promotes him to captain and deploys him to the Reach, clear across Skyrim. In the Reach, there's more to worry about than the abstract until proven idea of Leara's present safety. Ralof's, for one thing, and the state of the Stormcloaks campaign in the region, for the greater.

He is in the Reach a month before reports filter out of Markarth about heightened Forsworn activity in the city. The Forsworn were already a pain in the rear out in the hills and crags. Ralof did not look forward to weeding out a potential secondary force when the Stormcloaks marched on Markarth.

Then, a report comes saying there's been a breakout from Cidhna Mine. And that Madanach is alive. Ralof has a bad feeling about this. He's pretty sure Jarl Ulfric will have plenty to say about the situation.

Whatever Ulfric would say is driven from Ralof's mind when a thin figure stumbles into camp. Her hair is wild, her eyes are wild, and in her hands is that same katana.

Ralof is running to Leara to catch her in his arms before her knees even threaten to buckle.

"It's my fault." "Shhh." "Ralof, Ralof, Markarth . . ." "We'll take care of it. Don't worry, Leara."

Soon, she's asleep in the medical tent. Ralof is sitting beside her when Commander Kottir pokes his head in.

"So, that's the one stirring up the fuss in camp." "The Dragonborn, Commander." "That's what I hear."

Commander Kottir nods, grim.

"See that she doesn't die on our hands. We can't afford the talk."

Jaw clenched, Ralof just nods. Leara's hand is in his. Over the cot, he catches the commander's eye. Kottir's eyes linger on the joined hands before slipping from the tent.

When Leara wakes, Ralof learns all the dark details of Leara's ill-fated investigation iin Markarth that turned into her incarceration and eventual jailbreak with the King in Rags and his court.

"I had no idea what I was getting into. It was like a completely different playing field from what I'm used to."

Ralof can't offer much advice, except that when the Stormcloaks take over Markarth, they'd weed out the Forsworn support. Leara's face is drawn, but she squeezes his hand.

When she leaves, she says she's heading for Solitude. Ralof wishes her well, but a feeling of foreboding seeps into his bones. She doesn't say why she's going to Solitude, but there's a particular gleam in her eye that piques him in a certain way.

Without Leara in camp, Ralof's focus goes back to the war. General Stone-Fist comes out west, and Ralof is asked to accompany him to Hjaalmarch. They have their eyes on Fort Snowhawk, but before they get there, an anonymous tip comes in that the Dragonborn is being held by the Thalmor at Northwatch Keep.

When he reads the note, Galmar's face is hard. Ralof is cold.

"We can't leave her there, General." "We might have no choice."

But Ralof can't accept that. He'll go after her by himself. His knapsack is packed and his sword is sharpened when he heads for the edge of camp. Galmar stops him.

"You're not going to Northwatch alone." "Respectfully, General, but I am. I can't just leave Leara with the Thalmor when I can do something about it." "No, Captain, you're not going alone." "But sir—" "We'll be leading a raid on the fortress."

The Stormcloak attack on Northwatch is swift and pointed. The Thalmor wizards are difficult, but they're no contest when met in the tight melee range of the halls. General Stone-Fist's battlecry rings off the stonework, rallying the rebels. This is not like their plans for Snowhawk. They weren't trying to hold the fort. Raid, disrupt, and devastate, however? Doable.

Throughout the raid, Ralof felt at turns cold and furious. Leara is here somewhere, he thinks as he leads a group down into the dungeons.

The scent of blood and bile burns his nose. Ralof pushes forward until, rounding a corner, he runs headlong into a tall golden-haired Altmer. Lightning sizzles on her fingers, burning the air and setting Ralof's teeth on edge even as he thrusts his sword deep into her stomach.

Blood curdles out of her mouth as Ralof pushes passed her into the cell beyond. There.

Her head lulled to the side and eyes heavy, Leara is strapped to the wrack, her thin arms stretched skeletal over her head. In her mouth is a heavy gag, tied tight to prevent her from using the Thu'um. Ralof is at her side in an instant, making quick work of the bindings. He pulls the gag from her mouth, tossing it to the side. Behind him, one of the battlemaidens drops to her knees, checking Leara's throat and wrists.

"Captain." "How is she, Tilda?" "Sir, I don't think—"

But Ralof has Leara in his arms, her head falling against his shoulder. She's not heavy at all. They were starving her. Feeding meant removing the gag, risking the Voice. She wasn't this light in the Reach. They starved her.

He hugs her tighter to his chest, and hurries from the keep, Tilda and another soldier on his heels.

That night, after setting fire to the keep, Galmar meets him in the field healer's tent. It's even less equipped than what they have at one of their permanent campsites, and Ralof fears it won't be enough.

Leara is incredibly small and broken under the blankets. New golden scars peak from under the collar of her waif-thin shirt, tracing the path of her veins. Sitting by her bedside, Ralof has held her hand since Tilda finished examing her, the battlemaiden's face grey. The chill in Leara's hand is different now. Unsettling. He can feel the weight of Galmar's eyes on him.

"Tilda told me." "Oh." "If she wakes, she may not be the same."

Galmar cut himself off, but Ralof didn't pay attention. His focus was centered on the slight rise and fall of Leara's chest as she breathed. Every breath was shallow, and none of them restful.

"Listen, Ralof. When the time comes, if you need to take some time and go back home for a few weeks, not a man amung us would begrudge you that."

His throat thick, Ralof only nods.

With Leara in the condition she was in, it was risky to move her, but staying meant her death. The Stormcloaks were caught in a delicate situation, especially considering that they were still in Imperial territory.

"I can give you two days."

Ralof heard Galmar say to Tilda. The battlemaiden nodded. She worked diligently with Leara, praying to Talos, Mara, and Kyne for healing while attempting to work her own arts. Ralof prayed too, though his prayers beseeched Akatosh second only to Talos. But he also prayed to Arkay, begging for the tenuous thread of Leara's life to be strengthened.

One day elapsed. The second one drew toward its close.

There was no change. Within the last hours, Ralof sat on his knees, her hand in his and clasped against his forehead as he leaned into her cot. Ralof's chest ached.

One of the soldiers appeared at the tent flap, but Ralof didn't look up.

"Captain, General's ordered the camp to pack up and head out." "Thank you, Jorvar."

Then it was Tilda's hand on his shoulder.

"Come, Ralof. We must wrap her up and get her on a horse. We've given her as much rest as we can." "She's not strong enough." "Perhaps not, but we have to trust in the Divines that she may be."

His mouth in a line, Ralof simply nodded. Sighing, Tilda turned to finish packing the medical supplies they'd brought from the Haafingar camp.

A tear stung his eyes, followed by another. They weren't the first he'd shed over her, but the fear and despair were beginning to gnaw deeper into his spirit. With trembling lips, Ralof dotted a kiss on Leara's palm, then her knuckles, and the pads of each finger. At last, he drew the thin hand to lay flat on his heart.

Please.

Leara remains stable on the trip to the Haafingar camp, wrapped in blankets and nestled in the bottom of their one wagon. Tilda keeps vigil at her head. Beside the wagon, Ralof rides on horseback, his sword and Leara's katana sheathed at his side.

They make it to the camp, and Tilda is able to administer different medicines that she did not have before. Some color returns to Leara's face, but she still breathes shallowly. Soon, Tilda grows adamant that they must take her to Whiterun, to the Temple of Kynareth. Galmar, while seeing reason in some of Tilda's arguments, is quick to remind the battlemaiden that Whiterun is not their ally. The Stormcloaks cannot step foot in the city. Tilda insists that they can under certain terms.

In the midst of them, Ralof keeps praying that perhaps Leara would at least open her eyes. One last time. During these times, he often falls asleep, his head by her arm on the cot.

It is one of these times that Ralof fell asleep that he thought he woke up. Really, he was sure in the moment that he had, but afterward could never be totally sure. As he lay in half-sleep, he watched a man with golden skin and blue-fire eyes slip into the tent. As he approached, his feet made no noise.

The man's hand passed unfelt (and yet felt) over Ralof's head before landing on Leara's arm. As if entranced, Ralof watched the man remove Leara's hand from his grip and tuck it over her stomach.

"Oh, little one."

For the rest of his life, Ralof could never remember what happened afterward. One minute he was half watching the stranger pass the backs of his fingers over and over Leara's sallow cheek, and then the next, well. The next moment Ralof knew on waking was Leara's fingers carding through his hair. He stirred, and then stared.

From her pillow, Leara was smiling at him. It was a slight smile, still touched with pain, but it was alive because she was awake and she was here.

Ralof met the summer lake warmth of Leara's eyes. And he knew. He clasped her hand in his, and once more began to kiss it. Leara laughed, small and tired, but awake and alive. So very much alive!

He grinned at her.

"I love you." "I know."

Her voice was worn, tired, and fracturing, but so soft and relieved. Hopeful. He pressed a lingering kiss to the inside of Leara's wrist. Yes, he loved her very much, and he would tell her so every day for the rest of their lives.

fin

[gloomwitchwrites]

Dark Knowledge: Part Four

Miraak x Hermaeus Mora x Female Dragonborn Reader

Chapter Specific Warnings (per the warnings MDNI): canon-typical violence, canon-typical swearing, suggestive themes

Word Count: 6.2k

A/N: Part Four of Dark Knowledge (for @childofyuggoth)

The First Dragonborn and the Last Dragonborn meet. Miraak makes an offer.

Part Three

ao3 // taglist // main masterlist // dark knowledge masterlist

Is this what falling feels like?

You thought you knew.

How many times have you slid down the side of a mountain or purposefully launched yourself over a wall you believed was much shorter than what it turned out to be?

Too many times to count, and every time it happened you believed you were falling. But those instances are nothing compared to this.

This is just air. A hover before the descent. Endless amounts of space with nothing to grab on to. You are falling. Fast—so fast it seems impossible—toward the inky water below.

What were you expecting when you tore at the fleshy wall of your cage? What did you think would happen when you dug your nails in, scratch scratch scratching until the gelatinous hole grew wide enough to fit through?

Before you, beyond your endless air, are towering spires and connecting bridges. There are arches made of books and so many eyes embedded into the wall of the tower you hurtle past. Are they Hermaeus Mora’s eyes? Is he watching you fall? Does he care or is this all amusing to him? A game?

Perhaps the eyes are not his. Perhaps they belong to no one in particular. Just empty pupils and empty irises that are simple decoration. Hermaeus Mora appears to create with purpose, but you don’t truly know him. How can a mortal, even one like you, hope to understand a Daedric Prince?

You’re a complete fool. An idiot.

Those were not bars made of black metal. They shifted under your weight. Wiggled. Bent outwards. Unfurled. There is no victory of escape. No reward for tearing your nails into the wall or using your Thu’um to weaken it.

The Seekers knew, didn’t they? They knew that you were clawing toward your death. That is what this fall is. A precursor. A bridge. The height of the song that swells with the music before the Bard plays the final cord.

Your hands extend outward. Seeking. You put all your efforts into reaching for the monolith beside you. Distantly, you hear those Seekers shrieking. They’re likely signaling others, or maybe announcing your imminent death.

All this falling, that feels so incredibly fast, is also so terrifyingly dull. You’ve already accepted the outcome. You already know what awaits you in the dark water. There is no surprise. Your future—your fate—reaches toward you in eagerness.

Black tentacles burst from the water, completely extended in your direction, vibrating with the anticipation of your falling body. You should have listened to Teldryn. You should have never opened the book. You should have taken it to Master Neloth as you originally intended.

What a mess you’ve made.

The largest and longest of the tentacles greet you with a brush of their slimy appendages. You start to curl into a ball, turning your face away from them and upward toward the sickly green sky. Apocrypha’s illness of an atmosphere roils. Ripples.

But as you curl into yourself in an attempt to protect your head, a winged shadow passes above you.

There is a roar, and it is so loud it shakes your bones and teeth.

The shadow returns and with it comes a dragon’s claw.

The tentacles that pull at you, that tug on your limbs and hair fall away, surrendering to the massive silvery blue beast that catches you before you strike the water. Your waist is completely enclosed in its great fist, as are your arms which are crossed over your chest.

The dragon soars upward, turns sharply, trumpets one more time before threading through the massive towering spires that dot the landscape.

It is a beautiful creature. Unique. Its head is more like that of a snake’s than of the dragons you’re used to. There is also a clear underbite as if the dragon’s jaw is too large for its head. The dragon’s scales are smoother and finer. Its hide shimmers, nearly iridescent.

You twist a bit in the dragon’s grasp. There isn’t much room, but there is enough for you to look out upon the lands of Hermaeus Mora.

The realm of a Daedric Lord is vast, and truly you understand just how large Apocrypha is as the dragon carries you above the landscape. Heights have never bothered you, but your head is spinning, swirling with dizziness. How long has it been since you’ve last eaten? Since you’ve rested properly?

Everything is starting to catch up. Everything is rushing forward, ready to slam into you like a giant’s club. You want to resist the tug of exhaustion. The dragon’s claw is a cocoon of safety, and it lulls you into sleepiness. You desperately fight it, but there is no denying what your body craves. It needs the nothingness of sleep absent of dreaming.

When you awaken, it is because the dragon shifts in the sky. It descends toward a towering structure amongst a maze of many. The largest of the bunch has a platform. It isn’t large enough to hold the dragon but it is big enough for the beast to gently lay your body down on its slightly rocky surface.

It takes flight yet again, circling overhead before retreating into the distance. You watch it go, not knowing if this place will be a refuge or a new hell.

Slowly, you push up from the platform, observing your surroundings. The tower is like that of any other across Apocrypha, and beyond it, the labyrinth is a swirling mass of buildings and stairways. It’s clearly a warning to keep away, but to keep away what? People don’t casually find themselves in Apocrypha. What’s the point of the maze?

Standing on shaky legs, you slowly stride from the platform to the interior space, passing under a low archway that leads into the tower.

It’s…a laboratory? No—not quite. A study? That doesn’t seem correct either. It is a home, but more like someone’s attempt at making something strange into something familiar. On the surface, it is a human space made within the horror of Hermaeus Mora’s realm.

Everything around you appears to have been touched by Hermaeus Mora’s influence. To your right is a massive cutout in the black stone of the tower. Within the cutout is a large bed covered in dark sheets that look exactly like the dark waters of Apocrypha. There are furs as well, and you’re not sure if they’re from creatures of the mortal realm, or from this one. The rest of the space consists of stacks and stacks of books, some of which appear beyond saving.

To the left is a stone desk covered in scrolls and loose pieces of parchment as well as quills and ink vials. There is an alchemist workbench as well as an enchantment area. All the soul gems are black, and all the vials on the shelves are full. There are many ingredients on the shelves that you recognize, and a good many you don’t.

Parts of the space remind you of your own home, but something about it feels…off, as if Mora’s influence is wrapped around every item. In your mind, you envision the large Daedric Lord hovering in the air, his mass of tentacles sliding over and around everything yet invisible to the human eye. You sense someone watching you, but as you observe the large space, you notice no one inspecting you from the shadows.

You touch nothing. You know better than to poke around with things you’re not familiar with. There could be any number of unwanted surprises hiding here, and the last thing you want to do is trigger something on accident. Instead, you peer at everything, keeping a safe distant between whoever this stuff belongs to and you.

Apocrypha wants to consume you. It wants to suck the flesh from your bones and then break them open to slurp up the marrow. This realm desires to keep you in its clutches, to possess you and your knowledge, to chew on your brain until you become one with the Daedric Lord. Even here, in this new environment, the tacky pull of Mora’s influence gnaws at the back of your mind. You shiver, wiggling your shoulders in response as if Hermaeus Mora’s tentacles lay against you like a cloak.

So far, Hermaeus Mora has been unsuccessful in drawing you in. And you plan on keeping it that way.

Glancing around the large interior space, there is no sign of the owner. It is entirely quiet. You observe the space uninterrupted. What you really need is a change of clothes. This…sack you were put in does nothing to protect you. It’s also entirely too revealing. You want it gone and to replace it with your armor.

But that might be impossible. Wherever you are, you’re likely far away from your gear. The next step is figuring out what is available to you in this moment. There has to be something useful in this place for you to take, especially a change of clothes. You’ll even take a blanket off the bed. It’s certainly better than what you’re wearing now.

A movement in one of the many vials catches your eye. You pause, and then turn toward the flickering movement. Something is wiggling around in the glass. Something dark and slimy and wet. Something with tentacles. Something with cloudy eyes.

“Does my collection interest you?”

You drop into a crouch, snagging a knife off the nearby table. You flip the handle around and brandish the knife like any blade. It’s dull, which is disappointing, but it’s better than having nothing. Anything can be a weapon in the right hands.

From the dark recesses of the room comes a specter. At first, it is just spots of color. Then those spots elongate, extending outward into points, glowing brightly and revealing a humanoid figure.

Whoever this is, they wear a mask. It’s golden. Shiny. The eyeholes are thin slits and the top of the mask curves upward at four separate points. The bottom half of the mask look like tentacles. It reminds you of the Seekers and their faces. Their robes are a deep greenish brown accented in gold embellishments around and down the arms, at the waist, and shoulders. The colorful glow comes from an aura around the upper half of the body. It’s dragon-like in appearance.

They take one powerful step forward and you sink closer to the floor. With the distance, there is still a thickness in the air, as if their mere presence is enough to change it. It sits heavy on your chest, pushing you down toward the floor.

The stranger takes another step toward you. Instinct ignites, tells you to strike first.

You throw the knife.

You’re good with blades, especially after spending time with some members of the Thieves Guild. But you’re tired. Exhausted. Bone-weary. Your aim is shit, and this intruder easily bats the knife to the side.

“In my own home.” The stranger is a man, and you are in his home. “How rude,” he croons. He doesn’t even sound upset, just slightly irritated as if the thrown knife is an inconvenience.

He takes another step in your direction. More and more of his form comes into clearer focus as he nears. He is bright and bold, and the power that radiates off him is like an unrelenting hand around the throat. It’s so concentrated in the air you could choke on it.

But you don’t plan on staying. You’ll make for the maze. That has to be better than being stuck in here with him.

You throw yourself out from behind the table and sprint for the platform. Your legs burn and your chest heaves, but you’re determined, eager to break free and go about this on your own terms.

As you approach the archway, the dragon from before lands on the platform. It starts to slide a bit, but it’s smart, using its massive claws to hook itself onto the wall of the tower. It’s serpentine head swivels toward you, and then it roars.

It is earth-shattering and you fall to your knees in pain. The world vibrates around you and everything spins. The floor is cold beneath your hands and is hard against your knees.

You are so tired, and you hate it. It makes you weak. It keeps you at the mercy of others.

The serpentine dragon shakes as if it were a dog removing water from its fur. Its giant head turns in the direction of the glowing man. “Miraak. Zu’u drun ek.”

Miraak.

Hermaeus Mora’s servant.

The man whose influence corrupted many minds on the island of Solstheim. The man whose power corrupted the stones, the same stones you purged upon request of Storn Crag-Strider. His followers attacked you in Riverwood, tried to slit your throat and claim your death in his name.

Mora called Miraak “Dragonborn”, and spoke of his desire to return to the mortal realm to conquer it, and in turn, Hermaeus Mora’s influence would spread. But the Daedric Prince also mentioned Miraak’s desire to break away from Mora’s control. That he was “restless” here.

This is the reason you are here in the first place. You and Teldryn didn’t venture into Miraak’s temple because it was too heavily guarded. The Black Book was the option you went with, and instead of finding direct answers, it has handed you over to the person you’re seeking information about.

How…convenient.

You want to laugh but you might sound mad.

“You serve me well, Sahrotaar.” Miraak’s glowing brilliance begins to fade, and then it slowly melts away from his body, disappearing into the air. “Go. When you hear your voice on the wind, know that it is me.”

Sahrotaar shifts, his massive head turning toward you one more time before he pushes off and disappears into the sky. Miraak watches him go, and then slowly twists in your direction. Now that the glowing aura around him is gone, you can see Miraak more clearly than before.

While his robes appear a bit aged, they’re in good repair. Miraak looks regal, almost kingly, which is so odd in a place like Apocrypha. Everything drips with Mora’s influence, and while you see that influence in Miraak’s mask, everything else about him seems detached from Hermaeus Mora’s touch.

Miraak fits right in, and yet is very much out of place.

“You are Dragonborn.” Miraak’s voice almost echoes as if there are two of him speaking. “I can feel it.”

Exhaustion might be setting in, but you’re feeling sharp. Your tongue is a blade and your words are the sting of steel. “How perceptive,” you bite, trying your best to slowly put some greater distance between you and Miraak.

“And yet,” he pauses, masked head tilting slightly to the side, “you do not understand just how much power a Dragonborn can wield.”

You roll your eyes so hard it almost hurts. “And you do?”

“I know things that the Greybeards will never teach you.” Miraak starts to walk toward you again. It’s leisurely, as if he’s not scared of you at all.

And why would he be? You are disheveled. A mess.

“I’m not looking for a teacher,” you snap, slipping as you try to stand.

Miraak is so close, and you’re desperate to escape him. That is what your survival hinges on. Escape. You have no chance if you try to take him on like this. It will not be a fair fight. And you will lose.

Throwing yourself to the right, you reach for another knife. It’s just as dull as the other one, but you don’t care. You’ll use your nails and teeth if you must in your attempt to flee him.

Miraak dives toward you, and you swing at him. He leans back, the edge of the knife scraping against his mask as he moves out of the way. You try again, and this time, you know your exhaustion is truly sneaking up on you. Your reaction time is poor and Miraak grabs your wrist out of the air.

He twists and pain shoots up your arm. You release the blade with a strangled cry. Pinning your arm behind you, Miraak thrusts you toward the floor, your cheek smashing into the cold rock as he pushes you against it. When you kick out at him, Miraak sits on your legs, his weight concentrated on your upper thighs.

You try to buck him off, but only end up rubbing up against him. The sack you’re wearing rides up, dangerously close to exposing yourself to him.

Miraak laughs softly and bends forward, the mask incredibly close to your face. “An enticing offer. But you are…filthy.”

“I hope Mora chokes you with a tentacle,” you growl, wiggling some more.

“I suspect you’ve already choked on one.”

You throw your elbow back but Miraak pushes you right back down against the floor.

“Behave,” he purrs. “I don’t intent to harm you.”

“Liar,” you growl, the air from your lungs pushing some of the hair off your face as you speak.

Miraak shifts his weight on your legs. “What have I done to illicit such anger from you?”

Is he serious? Has he completely forgotten that he sent his worshipers after you?

“Your cultists attacked me,” you say through clenched teeth.

“They were simply trying to subdue you.”

“They tried to kill me. One of them even had a note. It said that whoever struck the killing blow would earn your favor.”

Miraak stiffens. “That is most unfortunate.”

“Unfortunate?” you laugh, bitterness in your tone.

“That was not my instruction.”

Hermaeus Mora’s words come creeping back to you.

I see why Miraak’s devotees were after you. They sought to kill you, which is such a shame since Miraak only wants you brought to him.

“What do you want from me?” you murmur.

Miraak is silent for a moment before he speaks. “If I release you, will you try to stab me?”

You pause, considering it until Miraak begins to fidget in irritation. “No promises,” you finally answer.

His chuckle is low and soft. “I value your honesty.” Miraak removes his weight from your legs and releases your wrists.

You push up onto your knees and glance up at him from your position on the floor. Miraak towers over you, the two of you observing each other in silence. His chest rises and then falls with each breath, but he makes no other move. It’s a bit unnerving, and you question what it is he’s thinking about behind that golden mask.

There is a break in the silence. A flash of movement. It is Miraak’s gloved hand. He offers it to you, palm upward.

You glance it. Then back at his mask. Then back to the hand.

What options do you have? Where will you be if you refuse him? It is unlikely that Miraak will so easily let you go. You don’t trust him, but you trust Hermaeus Mora even less.

With a deep frown, you slide your hand into his. Through the glove, you feel his warmth. That heat is human, and it is an oddly comforting thing after so much strangeness.

Miraak helps you to your feet. Your legs wobble, exhausting swinging its angry head again. Everything aches. It sits down in your bones, the weight of it like boulders. Your stomach growls loudly and you want to cringe from the volume.

Miraak still clutches your hand. You don’t hate it, but it does make you uncomfortable. Yanking your hand away, you drop your arm to the side, hiding the fingers as they curl to form a fist.

“You can bathe through there.” Miraak indicates the direction with a light tilt of his mask. “You need it.”

You snort. “Now you’re the one being rude.”

Miraak crosses his arms but otherwise doesn’t acknowledge you’ve said anything at all. Giving him your best scowl, you turn on your heel in the direction he indicated. There is a deep cut in the wall, one that cannot be seen straight on. You pause right at the opening, and turn back toward Miraak.

He’s walking away in the opposite direction. Your gaze darts to the arch and platform, to the maze beyond the tower. If you time it right, you might be able to slip away from him, to enter the maze and lose him.

As you take a single step toward freedom, and Miraak’s voice rings out around the room. “Don’t even consider it.” You freeze, one hand firmly planted on the wall, every muscle tense. “You cannot flee from me, Dragonborn. I would find you.”

“Bastard,” you whisper, and Miraak turns in your direction as if he heard you.

Slipping inside the opening in the wall, you enter a small, private washroom. In the middle is a tub made from the same black stone as the rest of the tower. There is a drain in the bottom but no indication of how to fill it.

More importantly, is there water on Apocrypha? There is the dark water you plummeted toward, but is there actual water? The kind you drink or bathe with? It seems impossible, and yet there are hundreds if not thousands of Hermaeus Mora’s most devoted followers who haunt his halls, preparing his Black Books.

Do they eat? Do they hydrate? Or are they sustained on Mora’s influence alone? The very idea makes your skin crawl.

You’re about to back out of the room when a Seeker floats in. Its mandibles flare in agitation, and you gasp, stumbling into the wall as you move out of the way. The Seeker doesn’t even give you a second glance. In its four hands the Seeker clutches four buckets of water. Slowly, it empties each one into the tub before disappearing out the way it came.

Seekers are servants of Mora…aren’t they?

You follow it out and watch as it floats to a well-like structure. It’s not exactly a kitchen but there is a small fire pit near it. The Seeker begins filling the buckets and you take this time to glance at the rest of the room. Next to Miraak is another Seeker. A third floats near the bookshelves. A fourth slowly ascends the stairs that leads to another space out of sight.

“What is this?” You gesture at the Seeker fetching your water.

Miraak quickly turns in your direction, his back straightening. “Why are you still wearing those rags?”

You blink, stunned that he completely stepped around your question to ask one of his own. The Seekers floats toward you and you step to the side.

You wave your arm in the creature’s direction, and repeat your question. “What is this?”

“That is a Seeker,” replies Miraak flatly.

“I know what it is,” you retort. “But what is it doing here?”

“It serves me.” Miraak’s arm extends to the rest of the room. “They all serve me.”

You shake your head. “They serve Hermaeus Mora.”

Miraak rolls up the scroll before him and tosses it onto a nearby pile. “They did serve him. And now they attend to my every command.”

The Seeker that floats next to Miraak trills. Miraak glances at it before returning his attention back to you. Even though his features are hidden behind the mask, you feel his gaze roaming up and down your body. You immediately cross your arms over your breasts.

Miraak’s answer gives you no comfort.

“Is that all?” he asks, almost bored.

You glance away from him and back at the opening in the wall. The Seeker emerges, carrying empty buckets. You’re too tired for this. Not liking his answer but accepting it nonetheless, you head back into the small washroom.

You stare into the water in the tub, and keep staring until the Seeker returns, emptying the buckets. The tub is full, and the Seeker gives a little nod of the head before it dismisses itself. Stepping up to the tub, you hesitantly dip your hand into the clear water.

It is cool, and the temperature sends a little shiver up your arm. While you’d prefer it warm, you’ll take anything at this point. You’re coated in grime and even a bit of slime. There are still some crusty bits on your face from when the Cipher removed the paste they slathered over your eyes.

Glancing over your shoulder, you check to make sure no one has entered uninvited. There is no one there. You are alone.

Slowly, you slide one arm and then the other out of the worn rags. It falls to the floor, pools at your feet. You take one step toward the tub. The moment you begin to lift your leg, an arm slides along your back and around your waist.

The touch is so surprising that you shriek and then lash out. The side of your fist hits Miraak in the middle of his mask. He makes a humph sound and draws backward from the blow.

With your hand still raised in alarm, you stare at him in disbelief. Then you realize how intimate the placement of his hand is. That disbelief quickly turns to anger.

“What the hell are you—”

Miraak lifts his hand and flames erupt above his palm. The sudden fire snaps your mouth shut. He hasn’t released your waist, and with the mask, you’re not sure if he’s staring at your face or the rest of you.

His attention shifts to the tub and you take this opportunity to hook your toes under the sack and bring it up enough to snag it. You immediately hold it against your body, clutching it like a shield as the flames in Miraak’s hand vibrate and shift, swirling and then extending as he begins to heat the water in the tub.

You watch in fasciation as the water ripples and then starts to steam. Before it comes to a simmer, Miraak abruptly cuts the flame. He reaches into his robes with his free hand, and from it he retrieves several bundles of lavender.

Miraak tosses them into the tub, and only then does he step away from you.

The gesture of heating the water and throwing in the lavender is…odd. You hate that you like it. But it’s too human. Too kind. Too intimate. Isn’t this man supposed to be your enemy? Isn’t he trying to take over Solstheim and the rest of Tamriel? Does he not see you as a threat to all his carefully laid plans?

“Are you going to join me, too?” you ask, irritating slipping in your tone.

Miraak pauses at the opening in the wall. “Your stink is nauseating.” He disappears, leaving you open-mouthed. Shocked. Fuming.

Growling, you throw your poor excuse for clothes on the ground and step into the tub. The water is perfectly warm and you instantly melt into it, sinking down down down until your head is under the water. When you come up for air, your eyes are closed and you’re smiling. You push your hair back out of your face and breathe deep, reveling in the comforting warmth of the water.

As you open your eyes, a shadow takes form in front of you. At first, you’re confused, and then you quickly realize that it’s Miraak. The entire upper half of your body is on full display, laid bare before his gaze.

You cover your chest and sink into the water until only your head bobs on the surface. Frowning, you stare him down as a he places a chair in front of the tub. He sinks into it, reclining casually, and then tosses a bar of soap at you from one of his pockets.

Snatching it out of the air, you bring it to eye-level. You sniff it, and smell nothing.

“I didn’t poison the soap,” Miraak deadpans. “If I wanted you dead—”

“If you want on my good side, I prefer compliments. Not an insult to my intelligence,” you interrupt, wetting the bar of soap and lathering it between your hands.

Miraak doesn’t finish his sentence. He leans back in his chair, watching as you start to move the suds over your arms.

“Please leave. You’re making me uncomfortable,” you say. Miraak doesn’t move. He just sits there. You drop your arm into the water to rinse it off. “Think I’ll run? Is that why you’re sitting there watching a naked woman bathe herself?”

“Yes,” he replies, almost instantly.

“You are unbelievable,” you mutter, starting to work on your other arm.

“You’ve consumed dragon souls,” states Miraak, completely changing the subject.

You pause in your lathering and glance at him. “You’re just like Hermaeus Mora. All this knowledge and yet everything that comes out of your mouth is incredibly dull.”

Miraak moves as if in a silent laugh. You roll your eyes and return to scrubbing your arms.

“Do I amuse you?” you ask, inspecting the undersides of your nails.

“You bite,” replies Miraak. “And teeth are useful.”

You’re not sure if that’s a compliment or a threat.

He takes a deep, audible breath and shifts in the chair, lifting his hips as he adjusts. You keep your gaze firmly on your nails as if that one subtle movement didn’t stir something in your belly.

“Do you ever wonder if it hurts?” he asks, almost absently, like he’s not really expecting you to answer the question.

“Do I ever wonder if what hurts?” you hesitantly reply.

“To have one’s soul ripped out. Do you think the dragon’s feel it? Do you think they understand what’s happening to them?”

The soap almost slips from your hand. Miraak sounds pensive, almost sad. “We are not dragons,” you answer softly.

Miraak nods. “You’re right. We’re not. Because we’re better than them.”

There it is. Arrogance. Now you feel it. Now you understand a bit of what Hermaeus Mora hinted at. That overwhelming heaviness is back. Miraak’s power is potent. It crackles in the air. Sizzles on your tongue.

His gloved hand taps against the arm of the chair. “When the dragons ruled over mortals, I served as a dragon priest on Solstheim. That was my purpose for many years.” Miraak’s golden mask is turned away from you as if he’s recalling an old memory. “During that time, I came to possess one of Hermaeus Mora’s Black Books.”

Miraak stops tapping the arm of the chair. His hand forms a fist. “He taught me many things. A great many powerful things. One of these things was a dragon shout capable of bending dragons to my will.”

The pause afterward stretches, and you decide to fill the gap, to play along. He is revealing information. Pieces of his history. Why he’s doing so is a bit of a mystery, but you also know that if you play this right, you might gain something that will give you an upper hand on him.

“And what did you do with that knowledge?”

Miraak’s mask swivels in your direction. “Knowledge like that was forbidden. I was a dragon priest serving my dragon masters. To use power like that against them was unthinkable.”

You know where this is heading. “Yet you did it anyway?”

“I betrayed them,” states Miraak. “I used that shout and my power as Dragonborn to devour their souls. With each soul I consumed, I became more powerful. I terrified our dragon overlords. I threatened the power the dragon priests possessed.”

You move to the edge of the tub. Placing the soap on the ledge, you cross your arms over the lip of the tub, you give Miraak your full attention. Men are all the same in the end, and it is clear that Miraak is just that. A man.

His chest rises and falls rapidly. “During the Dragon War, I was…propositioned. Hakon One-Eye, Gormlaith Golden-Hilt, and Felldir the Old all pleaded with me to use my power as Dragonborn to assist them in defeating Aludin. But I refused them. I attempted my own rebellion against the dragons instead.”

“I suspect that did not go well for you?”

“No,” he admits. “I was unsuccessful. And because of my betrayal, the dragons razed my temple on Solstheim.”

“I’ve seen your temple,” you say. “It’s something to behold.” That much is true. Those words are not lies. You and Teldryn were both impressed with how large the structure was on the outside, and the two of you discussed at length just how massive the temple must be on the inside.

“You also interrupted my progress on Solstheim.”

“Yes,” you say slowly, sinking into the tub a bit. “I did.” He stares at you a long moment before you decide to bridge the gap. “You didn’t tell me what happened. After your temple was razed.”

Miraak glances away again. “There are two stories that are told. The first is that a fellow dragon priest named Vahlok became my jailor. Restraining me to Solstheim. The other story is that when Vahlok was about to kill me, Hermaeus Mora stepped in and saved me, transporting me here, to the realm of Apocrypha.”

You laugh and Miraak’s head snaps in your direction. “What?” he asks, clearly flustered.

“It’s obvious that the correct story is the second one.”

“Is it?” replies Miraak, a bit of amusement leaking into his tone.

“Is it not?”

He shrugs and you only shake your head, returning to your soap, this time lathering it into your hair.

“So if Hermaeus Mora stepped in to save you, what have you done all this time?”

Miraak shrugs. “I’ve not been idle.”

“Clearly,” you snort.

Miraak sighs. “I’ve devoured many dragons. Far more than you have I suspect.”

“And that makes you better than me?”

“It makes me more powerful. But you are Dragonborn. You are the only one who I can consider my equal.”

The pieces are falling into place. What was it that the Greybeards told you all that time ago when you first ventured up the mountain? They told you that there is only ever one Dragonborn at a time.

But here you are. And here is Miraak.

The two of you. Together.

You swallow, and your salvia sticks in your throat. “You crave power. Why would you ever see me as an equal?”

“It is foretold that the Last Dragonborn will be my freedom. For so many years I believed it involved your death. But I was wrong.” He leans forward in the chair. “Hermaeus Mora does not lie, but he does twist the truth until you believe that up is down and down is up. He likes control, and I am a thing to collect. It’s what he wants from you, too.”

You shake your head. “You don’t know what Hermaeus Mora wants from me.”

“Beware, Dragonborn. Hermaeus Mora will betray you as he has me.”

“I am not Mora’s puppet. Nor will I be yours.”

“We are the First and the Last. We are the beginning and the end. I am the first blood drawn and you are the killing blow. We are bound by fate. We are inevitable.”

You don’t like where this is going. All this talk of fate is pulling at your nerves. Hermaeus Mora said fate you brought you to him, and now Miraak says the same. But Teldryn told you different before you opened the Black Book. He insisted that the woes of Tamriel are not yours to fix. That your life is your own.

You grip the bar of soap hard enough that your nails begin to sink in. “And yet, you did not slay Alduin.”

“And you have?” counters Miraak.

“Not yet,” you mutter.

“Alduin would not face me because he knew I would defeat him. But the two of us? Together? We could do it. Easily.”

You’re beyond clean now, but Miraak goes too far. He wanted you brought to him so that he can manipulate you into serving with me? To help him…what? Conquer Solstheim? Skyrim? All of Tamriel? Would that even be enough for him, or will Miraak demand more, dragging you along with him in his lust for power?

“You presume much, Miraak. What makes you think I’ll join you?”

Miraak stands from the chair and walks to the edge of the tub. He grabs the back of your neck, and lifts you slightly out of the water. Leaning in, the golden mask is all you can see.

“Do you not feel this? We are tethered. Either we fight it and end up fighting each other. Or you join me.”

As quickly as he grabs you, Miraak releases you, and you fall back into the water, your arms wrapping around your torso protectively. He stares at you behind the mask, and then turns, disappearing from view.

The water has grown cold.

The bundles of lavender have unraveled. Wilted.

You sink further into the water, watching as a lavender stem floats by. The purple petals are dark. Almost black.

You’re not in a physical cage. There are no bars. No restraints. But you are not free with Miraak. He demands an answer, and there is only one he is expecting.

But it’s not the one you want to give.

taglist:

@glassgulls @km-ffluv @singleteapot @tiredmetalenthusiast @childofyuggoth @coffeecaketornado @wrathofcats @ninman82

[pocket-vvardvark]

Before I pass out I wanted to say I just posted chapter 2 of my ldb/Vilkas fic :D

Guys this is going too damn slow for me I want her to kiss Vilkas already 😤

[coffee-at-daybreak]

no more games | brynjolf x f!reader

can't sleep it's skyrim sexyman thirsting time. also! this is really only labeled as f!reader bc bryn says "lass" a few times but otherwise there are no explicit pronouns used for reader. it also gets like the slightest bit steamy but i don't think it needs any tags, lmk if i should though! anyway hope you enjoy tysm for reading!!!

Not even the pouch of septims tucked along your belt makes a noise as you slip into the entrance of Nightingale Hall. The singing of crickets fades behind you, replaced by the eerie silence of the cave. 

You continue all the way down the windy tunnel, past the waterfall and run down bridge alongside it. You pass through the archway leading into the main interior hall, bathed in warm light from the nearby torches. Then, you finally relax. 

Your shoulders droop and your lungs expand with a deep breath. You pull your hood off your head and reach for the newly attained loot at your belt. A small, hefty pouch of septims, with a valuable piece of jewelry wrapped tightly around it. 

You drift closer to one of the torches to get a better look. A necklace, you realize. In your hurry to snatch it off that sleeping nobleman at the Bee and Barb, you'd barely gotten a glance at it. All you knew at that moment was that it was valuable, and you had to have it. 

With deft fingers, you pull the necklace off the pouch and hold it up to study the material. It's made of shiny gold, and has a large pendant dangling off of it. The pendant is round, with a small but glimmering red stone in the center, and intricate markings etched into the gold around it. 

You're turning the treasure between your fingers when you hear a low whistle come from behind you. 

"Now that's quite the prize," Brynjolf's voice flows across the hall. You turn around to see him slipping in from one of the nearby tunnels. 

You turn back to the necklace, trying to ignore the sudden jump in your heart rate. "You know me - I have to take anything that catches my eye."

Brynjolf chuckles. "I don't blame you for it, lass." He stops next to you. "Where'd you get it?"

"Some rich drunkard at the inn. I don't think he'll miss it much." You hold out the necklace by the pendant for him to see. When he goes to take it, his fingers just barely graze over your own. The flicker of warmth you feel from them seems to shoot all the way up your arm. 

He studies the necklace for a moment, giving you a chance to study him. His emerald eyes are bright with awe, and his russet hair looks even brighter, nearly matching the intensity of the torch light. He's in his Nightingale garb, but everything's slightly .. unkempt. He definitely didn't just come back from a job like you. 

"Flawless ruby, for sure," he murmurs. "Very valuable, indeed." His eyes flick to catch your own. "And quite the beauty."

You cross your arms and hold his gaze. You pretend not to notice the gesture - and pretend you don't feel a blush crawling up your neck. "I am not trading that in to Delvin. Don't even ask."

He grins. "What if I take it off your hands?"

You reach over and snatch it from him. "Not for sale."

He chuckles again, a low rumble from deep within his chest. You tuck the necklace into one of the many pockets at your belt and start to head back to the waterfall cave. Crashing into one of those old beds there sounds rather tempting right now. 

"What are you doing here right now, anyway?" You ask Brynjolf as you walk. His footsteps trail behind you. 

"Housekeeping, of course," he replies. "This place has more cobwebs than the Ratway."

You smile at the hint of disgust in his tone. "Afraid of spiders, are you?"

"Aye, just a bit. I don't much like the thought of them crawling around while I sleep." 

You roll your eyes in amusement as you stop next to a bed. The gentle rushing water of the fall and creek echo around the room. The familiar smell of wet stone and misty air flows to your nose. It's not the most pleasant scent, but it's a significant difference from the cistern. 

"I'm surprised you're up at all," you say with a snicker. "It's rather late."

Your gloves come off, and you stoop down to start working off your boots. You hear another couple approaching footsteps. 

"What if I said I was hoping to run into you here?" Brynjolf asks. 

This time, your heart feels like it's leaped into your throat. You try to swallow the nerves down, and focus on slipping off your boots. "You can run into me anytime in the cistern - anywhere in Riften, really. Why here?"

"Because we're alone."

You straighten up, and turn around, and nearly jump back. He'd moved much closer now, a mere hand's width away. The sudden proximity just about takes the breath out of you. 

His eyes seem dark, but there's a little bit of torch light reflecting off of them. And when he smiles, they seem to glimmer. Very much like the stone of that necklace. Something about his eyes is much more captivating, though. 

"I know you feel it, too, lass," he murmurs, voice so soft that you wouldn't be able to hear it over the water if he weren't so close. The cave air suddenly feels warmer than it did a moment ago.

You gulp. "Feel what?"

Brynjolf's head tilts slightly, and he lifts an eyebrow. You know he's clever enough to figure out when you're playing dumb. But of course, he has to play along. 

He takes a step closer. You back up, but your back meets the rough stone of a wall, and you freeze. 

"Don't be coy, now." His eyes  break away from your own, only to travel around your face. You see them looking at your hair, your cheeks, your nose. Then back to your eyes. "I don't exactly try to hide it anymore, if you couldn't tell."

You exhale. Your breath comes out choppy. You don't try to hide it either, because the first thing you look at when you break your eyes away from his is his lips. That slight smirk in them makes your insides coil. 

You had felt a connection with Brynjolf from the moment you'd met. It didn't take long to realize it was more than just a platonic connection. You'd never forget the way your heart went into a frenzy when you and Karliah returned from Snow Veil Sanctum and Brynjolf was trembling with relief. Or the way you'd held each other in Bronze Water Cave, trembling from both the tumultous battle with Mercer and the freezing water you'd so desperately escaped. And the little moments in between the big ones had the same effect. It felt like a game - a tedious, frustrating game of throwing flirtations and quips at each other to see who would crack first. You couldn't deny it any longer, and truthfully, you were tired of trying. 

"You know it's not wise, though," you say. Your words are a protest, but the way you tilt your head up, closer to his own, is the opposite. "We're Nightingales now, after all. Sworn to duty, with no distractions."

Brynjolf pauses for a moment. His hand lifts, and finds the side of your face. You suppress a shiver as the warm skin of his thumb brushes your cheekbone.

"I think we can find a balance, lass." He leans a tad inch closer, and his breath is ghosting over you. 

You let out another shaky breath. Your eyes flutter closed when his thumb moves lower. It trails along your cheek, under your jaw, down your neck. He spreads his hand along the side of your neck, and you know he must feel your racing pulse somewhere in there. 

"I took an oath to Nocturnal because I had to," he whispers. "But you-" his other hand circles your waist, pulling you closer, and by the Gods you nearly collapse against him. Your hands press flat against his chest in an effort to steady yourself. You grow weaker still as he continues, "I'd willingly lay my life down for you. I'd do anything for you."

His voice seems to flow around you. You can hardly imagine your  surroundings anymore - you only feel his hand trailing your side, his breath tickling your skin, his heartbeat thumping beneath your palm. His entire presence is like honey, as if you could melt right into it. 

"Bryn-" Your hushed breath is cut short. His hand is coming off your waist, and coming up between the two of you. 

You open your eyes. He's holding up the golden necklace, dangling from his fingers. 

He grins. That stupid, charming grin. 

You narrow your eyes. "Really?" 

"Easy pick." He leans back, but his other hand doesn't come completely off of you. It glides from your neck to your shoulder, leaving sparks in its wake. He gives the necklace a light swing with his other hand. "Take it back if you can."

You merely glare at him. He still wants to play games. You don't.

Your hand flies out. Brynjolf reels back instinctively. But instead of your hand fishing for the necklace, you hook it around one of the buckles on his chest, and pull him in until your lips meet.

Heat floods you instantly, from just about everywhere. He kisses you back so fiercely that you nearly lose your footing again. But his arms are quick to take you in, one squeezing around your waist and the other coming up along your back. Just as you break the kiss for a gasp of air, his hand buries in your hair, and he's angling your head to bring you back in. 

You clutch at him, pressing as close as you can. It almost feels like you could mold into him, with how perfectly your body fits against his own. It feels right - he feels right. 

You lose track of how many kisses you exchange, how many gasps of air you trade, how many times your hands grip each other in a new spot. You lose yourself completely in him, in his firm lips, in his powerful arms, in that faint taste of Black Briar mead on his tongue and -

Someone clears their throat behind you both. 

In an instant, Brynjolf breaks the kiss and whirls on his feet. He pulls you with him though, earning a small gasp from you when his arm stays hooked firmly around your waist. His other hand is quick to pull out a dagger and point it in front of him. 

Karliah leans against the archway, her violet eyes glimmering in the faint light of the cave. "Good evening," she murmurs.

Brynjolf huffs, his chest heaving against your own. "By Talos, lass. Thought you were an intruder."

You're struggling to catch your breath, especially since you're still pressed up close to him. Your head is spinning and a fuzzy warmth takes over your face as you glance up at Karliah. 

The Dunmer tilts her head. "No, but it seems I did intrude on something."  She leans off the wall. "My apologies. I'll be off... housekeeping."

She disappears down the tunnel as quietly as she came. There's a brief second of silence save for the gurgling water nearby and your heart still roaring in your ears. 

You can't help the giggle that builds up, though, and drop your forehead against Brynjolf's chest. "Alone, huh?"

He scoffs, his breath tickling your hair. "Sorry, love. In my defense, the  girl's a ghost."

You laugh again. Just as you start to catch your breath, you feel Brynjolf's hand hook under your chin, and he's tilting your head up. There's another fluttering warmth in your belly as you meet his gaze. 

"No more dancing around the matter, right?" He asks, voice soft but serious.  His eyes search yours intently. "No more games?"

You hum thoughtfully. You lift a hand up, where the golden necklace peeks out from your fingers. "I make no promises."

He chuckles, head shaking with amusement. "Aye, that's what I expected. So be it."

He yanks the necklace from you once again, and dives back in to crash his lips to yours before you can protest.

[titisorriso]

Getting into an artblock, so i'm finishing old sketches to try and get those creative juices flowing again. Here are some of my favorite OC's from Skyrim. They hate eachother.

[ironwoman359]

A Thief's Gamble - Ch. 12

A Ghost From the Past

Prev: Ch.11 Misdirection || Next: Ch.13 Lacking in Virtue Fic Masterpost

Fic Summary: Brynjolf is certain that the only way the Thieves Guild will return to its glory days is by bringing in new, talented members. Unfortunately, Mercer doesn't agree, and it's not like Brynjolf's latest attempts at recruiting have gone well. But when he meets a stranger in the marketplace one morning, he's willing to take the risk and bring her on board....only time will tell if his gamble pays off.

Chapter Summary: Brynjolf is used to dealing with Mercer's temper, but when an old enemy of the Guild resurfaces, not even he is prepared for the explosion that follows...or for its fallout.

Content: Brynjolf POV, Thieves Guild quest spoilers, game typical violence.

Ships: Brynjolf x Dragonborn OC (slowburn)

Word Count: 3,602

Check the reblogs for a link to read on AO3!

— — —

“You forgot to get intel from the girl before she left?” 

Brynjolf closed his hands into fists, forcing his face to remain a mask of calm. 

It was difficult; he was sore and exhausted after his long day of travel. When he’d arrived back at the Guild, he’d intended to share the good news that the payout from the Markarth job was likely to be double what they’d expected and then take a well deserved nap. Before he could get out a single word though, Mercer had asked him about the Solitude job. 

Which of course, he’d completely forgotten to get an update on before sending Ariene off to Markarth.

“What do you mean you FORGOT?!” Mercer shouted, and Brynjolf rolled his eyes.

“Is there another meaning of the word ‘forgot’ that I don’t know about?” he asked lightly, and Mercer glared at him. 

“Don’t test me right now Brynjolf, I’m not in the mood for your games.” 

“I don’t know what else you want me to say,” Brynjolf said with a sigh. “We were being watched in town, and the job turned out to be just as dangerous as Ariene feared. In all the excitement, the mission to Solitude slipped my mind.”

“I seem to recall one of your main arguments for going to help her was so that we could get the intel from Gulum-Ei sooner,” Mercer snapped. 

“She had to rendezvous–”

“Rendezvous with the client in Markarth, I understand that,” Mercer interrupted. “What I don’t understand is why you failed to do the most basic part of your job and get a report from her before heading back here.”

Brynjolf didn’t answer, mostly because deep down, he knew Mercer was right. He should have thought to ask Ariene about what Gulum-Ei said before letting her ride off into the sunset, but after their near death experience and subsequent conversation, he’d been more than a little bit preoccupied.

Mercer, apparently taking Brynjolf’s silence as confirmation of his suspicions, shook his head, his face twisted with distaste. 

“This is exactly what I was talking about,” he growled. “Gallus was getting sloppy towards the end too, you know.” 

“That’s not fair,” Brynjolf protested instantly. “I told you–”

“That this won’t turn out like last time? You don’t know that,” Mercer shot back. He huffed, and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Look, regardless of our differences, I don’t want you getting a knife in the back because you got distracted.”

“She saved my life, Mercer,” Brynjolf hissed. “What, you think now she’s going to turn around and murder me?”

“More than once, I’ve been burned by someone who used to have my back,” Mercer said simply. “In this line of work, loyalty means nothing.” 

Brynjolf opened his mouth to protest more, but Mercer waved his hand dismissively. 

“I’m not saying the girl will turn traitor, Brynjolf. Just that, so far? You’re not doing a great job of proving to me that she’s not a liability.” 

“So you’re just going to ignore her record?” Brynjolf asked. “Take a look around, Mercer. The Guild is finally starting to gain some footing again, and it’s nearly all thanks to her. She’s even managed to win over Vex and Delvin. Just because she reminds you of Karliah–”

“Don’t say her name,” Mercer cut him off, his eyes flashing with anger. “This isn’t about her.”  

Brynjolf ground his teeth in irritation, biting back his urge to reply:

Yes, it clearly is. 

Instead, he took a deep breath and folded his arms, fixing Mercer with a steady look. 

“So do you not want to hear about the massive payout we got from the Markarth job, then?” 

Mercer’s expression was still glowering, but at the mention of money, he raised a curious eyebrow. 

“Payout?” 

Brynjolf’s assurance to Ariene that coin would cheer Mercer up didn’t end up ringing completely true. Mercer was still angry, and Brynjolf’s haul of septims wasn’t enough to totally soothe his temper. However, the promise of even more coin when Ariene returned was enough to spare Brynjolf any further scolding.

He retreated from the cistern, and decided that what he really needed wasn’t a nap, but a drink. He made his way into the Ragged Flagon and fell into a chair, burying his face in his hands and letting out a frustrated groan. 

Delvin looked up from his table and grimaced in sympathy. 

“Mercer’s in a mood, I take it?” he asked.

“What do you think?” Brynjolf quipped as Vekel approached with a tankard for him.

“I think that when even coin isn’t enough to calm that rotten old skeever down, then it’s in everyone’s best interest to keep clear of him for a few days,” Delvin said, and Brynjolf snorted.

He took a sip of his ale, then looked at Delvin thoughtfully. As one of the few holdovers from the time that Gallus had been Guildmaster, the old thief had been a constant in the Guild for as long as Brynjolf could remember. He knew the younger thieves in the Guild thought the same thing about him and Vex now, but that was hard for him to wrap his head around. 

Brynjolf had been only nineteen when Gallus was killed, and had only been with the Guild for a few years. Just long enough to come to idolize Gallus, Mercer, and Karliah, but not long enough to really get to know them. Delvin, meanwhile, had been one of the Guild’s top members even in those days. He was even the first person that Mercer had made a lieutenant, though he had always been firm that he didn’t want to lead anyone. A sentiment that Brynjolf hadn’t understood at the time, but now that he was a lieutenant himself, he couldn’t help but  sympathize. 

Being a thief was hard enough; it was so much more daunting when you knew that everyone else was looking to you for direction.

A thought struck him, and he found himself wanting to ask something that he’d never really considered before.

“Delvin?” he asked, and the older man looked up. “Why exactly do you think the Guild is cursed?” 

Delvin looked surprised at the question, but he leaned forward, eager to have someone listen to his theories willingly. 

“It just ain’t natural, Bryn,” he insisted. “I’ve been doing this a long time, longer than even you or Mercer. I’ve seen bad thieves, and I’ve seen bad luck. This? It’s different. It’s affectin’ every single member of the Guild, even the most experienced. Vex got made on a job, for cryin’ out loud. Vex!”

“There were over a dozen guards…” Brynjolf offered lamely, but Delvin waved his protest away. 

“Guards, yes, but guards that she should have noticed sooner than she did. The fact that she didn’t is just plain bad–” 

“Bad luck,” Brynjolf finished, and Delvin nodded. 

“Exactly. And it’s like that every time. Things that shouldn’t happen, happenin’ to folks it shouldn’t happen to. Look, I know you lot think I’m crazy, but I can feel it. Something out there is doing this to us.” 

Brynjolf thought of the crypt in Pinewatch, of the way Rigel had appeared seemingly out of thin air without either of them noticing. It had certainly felt unnatural at the time. But how on earth could you be sure of something like that? 

Delvin swirled his mug of ale thoughtfully, then he smirked at Brynjolf. 

“At least, that’s what it has been like. I can’t deny that over the last few months we’ve actually been on the up and up, for what feels like the first time in ages. Maybe that girl of yours is some kinda good luck charm.” 

“She’s not my–” Brynjolf began, and Delvin chuckled, cutting him off. 

“Don’t give me that, Bryn. Maybe it ain’t official yet, but everyone knows the two of you’ll be an item soon.”

“Are you going to scold me about it like everyone else?” Brynjolf asked tiredly, but Delvin shook his head. 

“Nah. As far as I’m concerned, she’s a good match for you. Besides, she’s nearly single-handedly pulled this Guild outta the gutter. How could I complain? A word of advice, though.” 

Brynjolf leaned back in his chair and raised an eyebrow.

“Vekel I could understand, but what makes you qualified to advise me on my love life?”

“Very funny,” Delvin said flatly. “Look, all I was gonna say is this: the girl’s a free spirit. And you’ve gotta be quick to make your intentions clear with ladies like that, or you’ll find that they’ve slipped through your fingers.” 

“Do I pay you to sit around and gossip?” a familiar voice growled, and Brynjolf suppressed the urge to roll his eyes. 

Mercer walked up and grabbed a piece of bread off of the plate that Vekel was bringing Delvin, before dropping one of the ledger books in front of Brynjolf. 

“Look over this, and see if your projected take on this oh so special Markarth job will allow us to pay a portion of what Maven plans to give the jarl. She’s not too happy with the idea of paying for the entire bribe herself.”   

Mercer turned and stalked out of the cistern, and Brynjolf sighed. He reached a hand to his forehead, massaging his temples, then grabbed the ledger and stood up.

“You’re not actually going to work on that now, are you?” Delvin asked.

“Gods no,” Brynjolf said. “I’m going to bed. And if Maven and Mercer are lucky, I’ll wake up sometime before the fifth era and I can finish crunching their precious numbers for them.” 

— — — 

Brynjolf did not, in fact, sleep for hundreds of years. However, he did make himself scarce around the cistern for the next several days, opting to do his accounting work from the relative privacy of what passed for his quarters down in the Ratway tunnels that surrounded the Flagon. 

Fortunately, the gold he’d brought back did provide the Guild enough extra funds to foot half of Maven’s “donation” to Mistveil Keep, and Mercer’s mood improved considerably after the guard patrols were pulled back to their normal rotations. He didn’t apologize, Brynjolf could count on one hand the number of times the Guildmaster had done that, but at least he’d cooled down enough for Brynjolf to walk through the cistern again without being treated to withering glares and backhanded remarks. 

Still, when Ariene finally returned from Markarth, Brynjolf made sure to pull her aside before she went to report to Mercer. 

“It’s my fault, not yours, lass,” he said quietly. “But Mercer’s not pleased that he’s had to wait an extra week for the news from Solitude. Tread lightly, alright?”

Ariene’s face twisted in a grimace.

“Honestly, he could be in the best damn mood of his life and he’d be more livid than a cave troll after getting this news. No sense beating around the bush.” 

“Gulum-Ei didn’t have good intel?” Brynjolf guessed, but Ariene shook her head. 

“Worse.” 

She headed into the cistern without another word, and Brynjolf followed, unease stirring in the pit of his stomach. 

Ariene marched right up to where Mercer was bent over his desk, and the Guildmaster frowned at her as she approached. 

“About damn time you got back,” he said in lieu of a greeting. “Please tell me Gulum-Ei gave up some information on our buyer.” 

“He did,” Ariene said bluntly. “It’s Karliah.” 

Mercer’s head snapped up and the room went dead silent. 

“She’s the lieutenant you told me about, isn’t she?” Ariene said, looking at Brynjolf. “The one who murdered Gallus?”

“Aye, lass,” Brynjolf said quietly. “If she’s back…” 

His blood ran cold at the thought.

“You’re absolutely certain?” Mercer asked, his voice low and dangerous, and Ariene nodded. 

“Gulum-Ei acted as a go-between for her with Aringoth, though he swore up and down he didn’t know it was her until after he’d agreed to broker the sale.” 

Mercer swore and slammed his fist down on his desk, and Brynjolf didn’t miss the way Ariene flinched before quickly regaining her composure. 

“Damn that Dunmer to Oblivion! I hoped we’d never have to cross paths with her again, but it seems she won’t be satisfied until she’s destroyed the Guild for good. Did Gulum-Ei have any information about her current whereabouts?” 

“Nothing concrete,” Ariene said carefully. “But apparently she told him she was going ‘where the end began.’ I pressed him for details, but he insisted that’s all he knows.”

“Where the end began…” Mercer repeated, his face darkening. 

He began to pace back and forth behind his desk, muttering the phrase to himself over and over. Ariene glanced at Brynjolf, a questioning look in her eyes, but he could only shrug in confusion.

“There's only one place that could be,” Mercer said finally. “The place where Karliah killed Gallus over twenty years ago…a ruin called Snow Veil Sanctum.” 

“That’s a few hours north of Windhelm, right?” Brynjolf asked, and Mercer nodded absently, still muttering to himself. 

“I’m the only one left who knows all Karliah’s techniques, all her skills. If she manages to take me out…” He looked up sharply. “We have to go out there and stop her before she does anymore damage.” 

“We as in…?” Ariene asked hesitantly, and Mercer glared at her.

“As in you and me, obviously. We’re going to go out there together and kill her. That should put a stop to any more of her attempts to bring the Guild down.”

“Mercer,” Brynjolf cut in, unable to hold his tongue any longer. “You can’t be serious.” 

“Do I look like I’m joking?” Mercer snapped. “This needs to be done, and I won’t hear any argument otherwise.”

“Aye, and I’m not saying it doesn’t, but the two of you can’t go on your own.” 

“I think you’ll find I can do whatever I damn well please, Brynjolf.” 

“This is Karliah we’re talking about, for Shor’s sake!” Brynjolf exclaimed. “She killed Gallus, and she almost killed you! Vex and I should–”

“I don’t need you to remind me what she’s done,” Mercer interrupted, shooting him a withering look. “I am well aware of exactly how capable she is.” 

“So don’t rely on one new recruit for your backup,” Brynjolf insisted. 

“A recruit who’s proven herself capable in combat multiple times over.”  

A part of Brynjolf urged him to back down. He argued with Mercer often, but he could always tell when it was best to put his own concerns aside in favor of the Guildmaster’s will. It wasn’t exactly good for morale if the underlings saw the Guild’s head and second in command fighting over decisions. This would ordinarily be the type of argument where he had to swallow his pride and concede. 

And yet, this time he found that he couldn’t bring himself to do it. 

“Not three days ago you were complaining that she was a liability,” Brynjolf pressed. “Now you want her to help you hunt down Karliah?”  

“She’s a liability for you, Brynjolf,” Mercer growled. “I’ll be just fine. Which is it, exactly? That she’s a competent thief who deserves my respect, or a green recruit who has no business putting herself in danger? It seems to me the answer is whichever is more convenient for you in any given argument.” 

Brynjolf’s face burned, more from anger than embarrassment, though he could feel the eyes of everyone in the cistern on the two of them as they argued.

“You’re making a mistake,” he insisted, forcing himself to ignore the staring. “This isn’t just another job. Leave the lass behind and let me and Vex come with you.” 

“Karliah is trying to destroy the Guild! I’m not putting my best lieutenants in her path.” 

“You’re too close to this, Mercer,” Brynjolf hissed. “You’re not thinking straight. You shouldn’t–” 

“I am your GUILDMASTER!” Mercer roared. “I’ve made my decision, and you are in NO position to question me!”

The shout echoed around the cistern, and any murmuring from the other Guildmembers stopped instantly. Brynjolf and Mercer openly glared at each other, but before things could escalate further, Ariene’s voice cut through the rising tension. 

“It’s fine,” she said quietly. “I’ll go.” 

“Damn right you will,” Mercer spat without taking his eyes off Brynjolf. “Get your things ready and meet me at the stables within the hour.” 

Brynjolf felt a muscle jump in his jaw, but he didn’t speak or break their eye contact, and eventually Mercer turned and stomped out of the cistern. Brynjolf had half a mind to march right out after him, but Ariene’s hand on his arm stopped him. 

“Don’t,” she said quietly. “It’s not worth it.” 

“It’s not right,” Brynjolf said through gritted teeth, and Ariene shrugged, flashing a smile that was probably meant to be reassuring, but came off as slightly manic.

“Well, look at it this way,” she said, her voice full of false cheer. “Maybe after this, he’ll stop seeing me as a liability.”

She turned and started walking towards the Flagon, and Brynjolf winced.

Damn you, Mercer.

“You don’t have to do this, lass,” he said, falling into step beside her.

“Actually, I do,” Ariene said, ducking through the passageway and into the dingy tavern. “I think he’d kick me out of the Guild altogether if I refuse him.” 

Brynjolf shook his head immediately. 

“I wouldn’t let that happen. Mercer may be too dense to see it, but you’re one of the best we have.”

“I can’t let you use up all your good will with him on my account,” Ariene protested. “You’ve done enough for me already. Syndus!” 

The last was to the fletcher who kept shop beside the Ragged Flagon, who looked up as they approached his alcove. Ariene pulled a coin purse from the satchel at her side and held it up for him to see.

“I need fresh arrows. Two quiverfull.” 

The Bosmer quickly filled her order, and she pulled out a few coins from the purse and handed them over. She turned to Brynjolf and held out the rest of the purse to him. 

“Here. The profits from Markarth. I didn’t get a chance to report to Delvin, but tell him that Endon is happy to open whatever doors are necessary in the city. With any luck, we’ll be able to use the foothold there to start operating more in Haafingar.” 

Brynjolf took the purse, not missing the way that Ariene didn’t quite meet his eyes as she spoke. 

“Are you certain about this, lass?” he asked in a low voice. “Karliah’s too damn smart to let slip where she was going by accident…this is more than likely a trap.”

Ariene sighed, running a hand through her dark hair. 

“I know, but that’s a chance we'll have to take. Mercer is an asshole, but he’s also right. Putting more of the Guild’s leadership in harm’s way than is necessary doesn’t make tactical sense. It’s…it’s better for everyone if I’m the one to go.” 

Brynjolf moved without thinking, stepping forward and taking one of her hands in his. She startled at the touch, but she didn’t pull away. 

“You’re not expendable, lass,” he said softly. “You know that, right? I– the Guild needs you in one piece as much as it needs me or the other lieutenants.” 

Ariene’s looked from where their hands were joined up to Brynjolf’s face. Reflected torchlight danced in her eyes, so deep and blue that he felt as though he could drown in them, and he felt his pulse quicken.

“The Guild needs me?” she repeated, her voice low, and he swallowed. 

Standing inches apart, it was like all rational thought flooded from his mind in an instant. Absently, he reached out and tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear, and he let his hand linger beside her face. It would be so easy to cup her cheek, lean forward and…

The creak of a door and sudden footsteps cut through the silence, and the two jumped apart on instinct. Brynjolf dropped her hand, wondering briefly if he was imagining the flicker of disappointment on her face. 

Damn this sewer’s lack of privacy!

“Well. Good luck, lass,” he said lamely.

She nodded, swinging one of the quivers of arrows she’d bought over her shoulder. The movement made her knapsack shift, and he saw the empty space on her belt where her steel dagger had sat. 

On impulse, he reached for his own belt, unbuckling the sheath of the dagger on his left side. He held the weapon out to her hilt first, and her eyes widened. 

“Here. To replace the one that broke in Pinewatch,” he said.

“I– Brynjolf, I can’t accept that. It was a gift!”

“A gift from Gallus,” Brynjolf agreed. “If you’re going out to avenge him, you may as well take a piece of him with you.”

Reluctantly, Ariene took the dwarven blade and strapped it into place. The silence between them stretched into awkwardness as she fiddled with the straps and straightened the sheath. 

“I guess I should go,” she said eventually. “Don’t want to keep the Guildmaster waiting.” 

She turned to leave, but before she could walk away, Brynjolf called after her. 

“Ariene.”

She looked back at him, and his breath caught in his throat. He couldn’t explain why, but he felt he had to say something before she left, something important, but for once in his life he couldn’t find the right words.

“Just…come back to me in one piece, alright lass?” 

She smiled, though the expression didn’t quite reach her eyes. 

“Of course I will,” she said. “You still owe me a drink, remember?”

— — —

Prev: Ch.11 Misdirection || Next: Ch.13 Fic Masterpost