#so close jarl!

[gemharvest]

whatever, go my brainrot

[noxcorvid]

help im getting mod ideas beyond my skill level

[beardedalcoholic]

Medical Emergency

‘Medical Emergency, Navigation 4, Medical Emergency, Navigation 4.’

The message repeated over and over across the PA system of the Leviathan Class exploratory ship. A massive space fairing vessel dedicated to finding the edge of creation and everything in between the Galactic Edge was a marvel of multi-species engineering.

Fifteen different habitats built to within micro-specifications for the species they were meant to hold, seven multi species common areas built to accommodate every race on board. Enough FTL drives to be able to be fired in succession so when one batch went down another could be brought online so they didn’t even have to stop for a cool down period between jumps. Recycling processes efficient within .0001% allowing near as possible full self-sustainability for an indefinite amount of time.

The main drawback of such a marvel of galactic traversal being of course…the FUCKING size…larger than some moons, a population numbering more than some planets (or at least it felt that way) and yet somehow never enough personnel in the right places at the right times.

‘Of course the emergency is right inside the border of my territory, because why wouldn’t it be? And of course, it had to be JUST as I was about to go off shift.’ Thought MD1 Joseph Jarl, JJ to anyone who wanted to continue a comfortable existence, after all no one knew how best to take someone apart than the ones who had to put others back together.

Running at full human speed JJ flew down the various passages dodging, spinning, ducking and jumping around the many obstacles in his way with all the predatory grace humans were gifted with.

‘Ha! and mom always said it was a waste for a doctor to learn parkour.’ 

Sliding on one hip beneath the centaur like body of a Gravelin engineer and popping back up to a full run JJ jumped and thrust one foot out to run alongside a bulkhead when he came to a T-section of corridor, narrowly missing the heads of a group of Ranki environmental scientists as he fell from the wall and rolled to maintain momentum.

Slamming a hand to the Medical Bypass Badge on his chest, signaling the door immediately in front of him to open JJ slid to a stop inside Nav.Bay 4 eyes flicking around the space looking for the emergency.

Sharp ocean blue eyes registered three different species, one of which still tensed when in direct line of sight of his forward-facing predatory gaze. Attention landing on a group of navigators clustered in a small huddle JJ slung the med-pack off his back and approached the group.

Head held high, shoulders wide and a purpose in his stride JJ projected every ounce of authority he could dredge up from his years as a medical professional he could when he ordered the group to back up and give him some space to work with. Approaching the center of the group JJ noticed the Elental on the floor, curled into a ball and rocking back and forth while making small pathetic whining sounds while very obviously having a hard time breathing.

Dropping to one knee in front of the one species on board that most closely resembled a human JJ slowly reached out and rested a hand on the Elental’s shoulder. Being a species that stood on average around 6.5-7 feet tall he barely had to reach to grasp the rocking figure’s shoulder.

Elental were a bipedal race with nearly translucent skin in direct light, long sharply pointed ears, eyes that stretched from the bridge of a dual slit nose to where the temple would be on a human with three pupils each, mostly human proportioned faces and a universally slender build.

It was a very little-known fact but the first time the human council met an Elental the lead diplomat was in fact recorded on official record as having muttered the phrase ‘Fuck me we found Space Elves’… though the actual audio recording of this moment was very deeply buried beneath as much galactic red tape as was possible. Noticing there was no response to his touch JJ turned to the closest navigator and asked for any details on the medical emergency.

“We don’t really know Human JJ, he was trying to determine some FTL jump coordinates and the timing required to make them when he started shaking and his speech became rapid and somewhat slurred, he began shaking and clutching his, well it would be the stomach on you, but his main pulmonary area and his respiration began to rapidly increase. When he tried to walk away from his station he collapsed and that was when we called the emergency, is he sick?” The Fenra asked nervously after the quick report on what happened.

JJ would never admit it but seeing a three-foot alien that looked like were-shitzu nervous and scared was absolutely adorable.

“I don’t think so no…hold on,” Quickly determining that there was no external injuries JJ tried raising the Elental’s head to look into his face but his patient seemed to be in a stubborn mood.

Taking a chance JJ reached into his pocket and pulled out a simple twentieth century zippo, an antique passed down in his family that he kept in working condition and never went anywhere without.

Flicking it open with a sharp, practiced snap JJ kept the grin off his face when the Elental’s gaze snapped up at the sudden sound. With a flick of his thumb JJ lit the lighter and held it directly between his eyes. The Elental’s six pupils swiveled and in a rather disconcerting motion…fused into a single large pupil for each eye the size of an Old Earth quarter, totally focused on the flame a mere six inches away.

“What is your name?” JJ asked slowly, in a deep and calm voice that witnesses would later report had a strange resonance to it.

“E-e-ekariel” The Elental responded with a slight stutter, eyes locked on the tiny flame as JJ slowly began to move it back and forth.

“Listen to my voice Ekariel, listen to nothing but my voice, focus on the sound of my words and know nothing but my words…What do you feel Ekariel, what is beneath you right now?” This question spoken in the same deep resonating voice.

“Tell me what is in the now, what is beneath you at this very moment.”

“Deck plates.” The answer came out in a somewhat hurried response.

“Describe the deck plates Ekariel, what are they made of?” The flame moved slowly from left to right and back again, never going further than the outer reaches of the human’s own eyes…left eye, right eye back to left and repeat.

“Cold, metal, textured in small waves, rigid.” Ekariels voice came slightly stronger, less breathless and wheezing.

“What do you see Ekariel, describe what your eyes are telling you.”

“Fire, small flame, glittering eyes, blue stars and black holes.”

“What do you smell Ekariel, describe what you smell in the immediate area around you?” JJ asked as he pitched his voice slightly lower and slowed the waving of the lighter marginally.

“Four species…Musk, fur, water…Otorian species fresh from the hydrosphere…Dust, heat, insects…Lidarians recently from the arid habitats…mold, plant decay, rain…Jaguras from the forest dome…pheromones, sweat, spice, disinfectant…human recently in the medical bay.” Ekariels breathing slowed and stabilized as he spoke, voice gaining slightly more strength.

“What do you hear Ekariel, tell me what sounds you hear in this moment.” The flame now slowly traversed from one pupil to the other, no faster than before but slowly closing in on the middle of the human’s face.

“Typing, I can hear digits impacting sensor boards to the right…scratching, someone is writing equations long hand for accuracy checks near the forward portion of the bay…breathing, so many breathing patterns.” The Elental’s eyes never wavered from the flame, slowly tracking it back and forth, voice becoming stronger, limbs no longer shaking as bad though still quivering slightly.

“Focus on the breathing Ekariel.”

Now the flame only traversed from the inner corner of JJ’s eyes, never moving faster or slower, JJ’s voice becoming slightly deeper, seeming to hum and resonate more from his chest than his throat or mouth.

“Listen to the breaths around you, feel the air move as it is taken in and expelled…smell the breaths of those around you, those who would look after you…now slowly block them out…block out all the breaths but your own…tell me about your breaths Ekariel.” The lighter now barely moved past the outer edges of JJ’s nose.

“Three respiratory voids…expanding and filtering contaminants from the air…nutrients being stripped from the atmosphere into the blood stream…collapsing and expelling by-products of respiration…oxygen, nitrogen, helium being removed from the system via respiration…” Ekariel’s voice now had an almost sleeping dream like quality to it, low and slow.

“Tell me about the heartbeats Ekariel…how many do you feel?” The flame was still now, directly between JJ’s eyes, the focused and unblinking eyes of a predator staring directly into Ekariel’s own dilated pupils.

“I can only feel one heart beat…I can only feel my own heart.”

“Come back to us Ekariel…focus on my voice and with every beat of your heart come back to us…with every beat, shed the fear that imprisoned you and follow my voice.” JJ slowly began to back away from Ekariel as spoke, incrementally rolling onto his haunches as the Elental followed the flame.

Slowly JJ closed the lid to his antique lighter snuffing the flame. As if waking from a deep sleep Ekariel blinked and shook his head, pupils splitting back into two sets of three and eyes widening.

“Easy, easy, Ekariel… focus on the now, sight, smell, touch, hearing focus on those. Come on lad breath in…out…in…out, there you go, no don’t get up…lay down and focus, gather your thoughts.” JJ slowly eased the Elantel down fully onto the deck plates and raised his reverse jointed knees as best he could.

“Ekariel I need you to listen to me, listen to my voice…are you listening?” Ekariel nodded his head, looking up a JJ with a slightly dazed look on his face.

“You had a panic attack E.K. logs show you haven’t had a sufficient rest period for three cycles and in that time your nutritional intake has sharply declined. You are suffering from lack of rest and negligence of sustenance. As such I am removing you from the duty roster for the next four cycles and requiring you to report to the Galley Watch for every normal meal time where you will eat AT A MINIMUM a full standard meal of no less than one and a half again the daily nutritional requirement for at least two cycles. You are barred from any areas or activities relating to the navigation or piloting of this vessel…basically you are going to take the next four cycles to eat food, sleep, relax and either work on or find a hobby.” JJ finished with a small smile at the oddly shell-shocked look on Ekariel’s face.

================================================

After having received JJ’s report on the medical emergency and that Ekariel would be fine with a few cycles of rest and full meals the captain instigated a mandatory rotation of extended rest periods lasting at least three cycles unless otherwise noted by a Corpsman.

On paper the decision was to help the training and cross training of individuals by exposing them to a variety of new positions for longer periods of time and to potentially familiarize more of the crew with the inner workings of other departments and areas of the ship. In reality it was so the entire crew could have a chance to catch their breath and actually enjoy it before being thrown back into high stress situations, they were going to be on this ship for quite a long time after all, no need to have them burn themselves out so early in the voyage.

[plusvanity]

Øystein, son of Aarseth, is the one and only son of the King of Norway. He's the innate leader of the viking army, conquistador and future ruller of the North Sea empire.

He's known to be fearless, radical, and merciless towards his enemies, a brilliant strategist, but an arrogant and selfish commander.

Pelle is the first child of a noble family from Stockholm. Although he never had an inclination for heroism (nor enough stamina for it), he became a viking at the peer pressure of his household.

After a near dead experience during one of the Swedish raids, he came back 'from the dead' as a shaman. He ditched the battlefield to be guided by gods to his new enlightenment. Although reluctant and resistant at first, his kin slowly became aware of his new wave of wisdom and his fortune-telling gift and proclaimed him a 'bridge between gods and mortals'.

Obsessed by death and the occult, Pelle embraced his new status as a nonhuman (how else, really)

After hearing about his powers, Øystein decided to kidnap Pelle for his own benefits. He made Pelle his personal clairvoyant and advicer, but didn't take him as a slave. He was Øystein's loyal companion during raids, following him everywhere and having a privileged place next to the smol and grumpy Majesty.

Varg was the son of a Jarl who had a very close companionship with the King, so (unfortunately) Varg and Øystein have quite a history together.

They never standed each other. At first, the animosity was one sided, but in time it became mutual.

Varg was only 11 years old when he had to follow his father to a congregation in Oslo. He and Øystein had a (seemingly ordinary) sword fight until Øystein cut Varg's face. Naturally, he got away with it, but Varg never forgot him for the humiliation he endured and the new scar that became a constant reminder of his weakness. This is when the hatred became dual.

10 years later, at his father's order, he had to join the youth's movement and become part of Aarseth's army. Arrogant, confident (or so he tries to portray himself), and revengeful, he gladly took the role of a viking, but the worst part had yet to come. He was rendered to have a close position to Øystein and to travel alongside him and his other minions (Jan, Jørn, Fenriz, Snorre, Faust, etc).

Fights occurred on countless times and if they were caught together in a 'life or death' situation, they would let each other simply die rather than work a way out, so the tension was always high, trust was non-existent and curtesy was another word for forced-agreeableness.

Øystein wanted to get rid of Varg as much as Varg wanted to obtain his revenge (kill him and take the throne), but in unfavorable circumstances there was little to nothing they could do (yet).

When Pelle entered the picture, Varg fell in love with his mystic beauty. He began sneaking out and postponing duties to spend time with the shaman.

Pelle's interest in the mortal way of living and human affection was limited, but he became fond of Varg to a certain extent.

Having both Øystein and Varg's trust put Pelle in a delicate position. Typically impartial, he tried his best to stay away from taking sides, but he couldn't deny the ever-growing antagonism between the two.

The story is basically about them having to survive the cold, the hunger, the fights and each other while Varg has a massive crush on Pelle, Pelle acts like he doesn't understand the languages and Øystein munches on elg meat.

[thenameswinterfics]

VISIONS OF HELHEIM

Fandom: The Last Kingdom Pairing: Sihtric Kjartansson x Reader Settings: Season 2, episode 4 Summary: Sihtric has never forgotten his mother, whose presence continues to haunt his dreams. And as the Battle of Dunholm draws to a close, you help Sihtric mourn her. Word Count: 6,1 K Warnings: Fluff, angst, missing moments, mention of past abuse, mention on non-consensual relationship (not described in detail), mention of character death, mention of graphic violence (not described in detail). A/N: I'd like to start by saying that it was supposed to be a short fic, but my imagination literally exploded. I'm terribly nervous about this fic, maybe more nervous than the previous one, I've tried to contain the angst so that reading won't be so overwhelming. I know my summaries are terrible, but I swear I'll learn. I'm not an expert in Norse mithology, nor in Pagan traditions, so I apologise in advance if you'll find some inaccuracies. For Elflaed's description I took inspiration by another amazing writer here on Tumblr, giving my own interpretation in some details as well. I forgot the blog's name, so if any of you should know them, please give me the name and I'll quote it! As always, a special thanks to @sylasthegrim, @legitalicat and @sihtricfedaraaahvicius for calming me down during my writing crises (I know it happened once, but your help has been precious), to @lord-aldhelm for helping me fill in some language gaps and to @foxyanon and @zaldritzosrose for a last minute check and helping me with finding a title (Foxy, I love your brain, and thank you so much for sharing with me your knowledge about Norse and pagan culture).

ENGLISH IS NOT MY FIRST LANGUAGE. I APOLOGISE IN ADVANCE FOR MY GRAMMAR AND VOCABULARY MISTAKES.

Header & dividers by @zaldritzosrose

READ IT ON AO3

A raging storm crossed the lands of Dunholm in the middle of night, the shining moon hiding behind a dense bank of dark grey clouds. The gentle breeze that caressed the tree canopies turned into a violent wind that bent the tree trunks, devastating nature with its destructive force. Drops of rain fell on the ground, saturating the soil and creating small puddles that increased their volume over time. Flashes of light appeared in the sky, creating a spectacle at once majestic and terrifying. 

The bravest men and warriors who dared to face the storm and believed in the Old Gods would say that it was all Thor's plan: enraged by the despicable actions of Dunholm's Jarl and his men, the god of thunder brandished his Mjolnir in the air and unleashed the most dangerous lightning and the most treacherous of the storm. But even the worst of natural disasters could not move the heart of a cruel man.

Elflaed sat on the cold floor of a crumbling hut, feeling the window doors creak and slam violently as cold air and water entered the house. She held her son in her arms, his tiny body curled up against her in search of warmth and protection, his big, mismatched eyes craving comfort in his mother's. Her arms were wrapped around him protectively, adjusting the thick fur on her shoulder and holding him close as her soothing voice sang a lullaby, hoping to shield him from the sounds of the raging storm.

There had always been a hint of sadness in the young woman's eyes, spreading to the sweet features of her face, a bittersweet feeling growing in her chest every time she looked at the little life she held in her embrace. If only the gods had been merciful to her and not given her a son in the most despicable way. 

When she closed her eyes, she could feel Kjartan's large, rough hands exploring parts of her body he wasn't allowed to touch, forcibly stripping her of her dignity, hot tears streaming down her cheeks as she felt her pleas ignored. Anger, fear and resentment grew inside her along with an unwanted life, her womb cultivating the seed of a relationship that should never have existed. Elflaed prayed each night with her eyes to the sky, hoping that some merciful god would rid her of the life she was forced to carry. But no child is guilty of the actions of their father, and the young woman learned that the first time she held the infant in her arms, her maternal instincts took hold of her heart as his soft cries filled the room.

And for the following winters, Elflaed raised her son alone, protecting him from a father who rejected one of the many bastards he had across Dunholm. The love for her son grew along with the hatred for Kjartan, which reached its peak as one day she found a bush of black berries in the forest. She was aware of how poisonous those berries were, and had no intention to waste a precious opportunity.

"You will live, sweet boy," Elflaed cooed as she watched Sihtric drift back to sleep, no longer afraid of the storm outside. Her tone was reassuring, trying to calm herself more than him, as her fingers brushed across his tiny forehead, moving strands of hair away from him. “And I will always be here, watching over you.”

It was in that moment that her gaze moved onto the plate of the nightshade berries on the table. She would have her revenge that night.

And her destiny was sealed.

Never before had the night looked so beautiful and so full of mystery.

That was what you thought as you lay on a large pile of hay outside the saddles, your eyes never leaving the great expanse of black veil that rose above your head, adorned with small silver points of light in which you could see all the signs of Ymir's work as he created the planets and all the stars. Your eyes darted in quick motion as you recognised the constellation of Ulf's Keptr, the Fiskikarlar, Kvennavagn and Karlvagn and the Asar Bardagi, your slender finger pointing at the sky and tracing the imaginary lines that connected those small celestial bodies, as bright as the flames that engulfed your house and took away your home and family years ago. 

You couldn't remember what it was about the stars that fascinated you, or how your mind had gotten so lost in a memory you never thought would surface again. But a sense of peace pervaded your mind, every inch of fear and anxiety in your body fading away as you fixed your gaze on the star, losing yourself in the vastness of the night sky. 

It had become a silent ritual that you would perform each night before going into battle, as if to ask the fallen warriors resting within the sacred walls of Valhalla for their protection to survive another day. But attacking an impregnable fortress like Dunholm was no easy task, you knew that. At least not in the way your brothers Uhtred and Ragnar had described it in their reckless plan to take the fortress and avenge your father's memory. It was your first serious battle, and never more than now did you seek the comfort of the stars. 

Your lips parted as you repeated the stories of the origins of these constellations that you had heard as a naive child from the warriors loyal to your father. It had become a habit for you to let your thoughts out loud in your solitude: the cool night air had always been your silent companion through the years, gently tickling your hair and skin as its way of saying it enjoyed your stories. 

But this time was different. Because you were not alone.

Sihtric lay by your side, one hand on his stomach, the other behind his head. He lifted his eyes to the sky, without ever looking at you, while his ears strained to hear your stories of the celestial world. You could tell he was enjoying the little time you spent together by soft humming escaping from his lips, a soothing sound that warmed your heart. But there was something in his eyes that caught your attention: his gaze was distant, pain and melancholy crossing through its bright, multi-coloured irises, his pupils involuntarily dilated.  

Sihtric had always been a shy and quiet warrior, very reluctant to talk about his past and his birthplace unless asked. You could see his eyes flickering involuntarily at every mention of his father, his head drooping and his jaw clenching as the memory of his past came back to haunt him, the shadow of Dunholm walking beside him and never letting go. 

A gnawing vice tightened in your chest every time you saw Sihtric walking around with a blank stare, taking refuge in his tortured thoughts, and not even your touch could save him, pulling back every time your fingertips brushed against his bare arms. And when you found him asleep in the saddles, or anywhere else far from home, you could hear him calling out to his mother in his nightmares, instinctively embracing her as if to feel the motherly warmth he had lost years ago. Sihtric had never spoken of his mother, nor had you dared to ask, until tonight, under a sky full of stars and a fierce war on the horizon.

“Tell me about your mother,” you broke the silence of the night and shifted your position to lie on your side, looking at Sihtric with curiosity. Your sudden question awoke the Dane from his trance-like state, his eyes widening as he rested his gaze on you.

“Lady?” Sihtric asked back, his voice trembling slightly like the hand that rested on his stomach. 

"You told Lord Uhtred that you were Kjartan's bastard son, whelped on a slave girl. We know everything about that wretched turd," the last word came out in a low hiss, your words as heavy as the resentment you felt for your father's murderer. "But there have been no words for your mother, so I would like to know about her." 

At first you didn't realise how demanding your tone was, but when you regained your composure and saw Sihtric's muscles tense and his breath catch at your request, you bit the inside of your cheek and cursed yourself for being so impulsive. You knew how Sihtric flinched whenever anyone spoke to him in a stern tone, but you were Uhtred and Ragnar's little sister: impulsiveness was in your nature. 

An awkward silence fell over you as you both stared at each other, different emotions mingled in the air creating a heavy atmosphere. Finally, after a few minutes that felt like an eternity, you broke the silence and looked away. 

“Sihtric,” you whispered with guilt in your voice, struggling to find the right words. “My apology, forgive what I said before.” You were about to move when his voice stopped you.

“Elflaed,” Sihtric spoke in a weak voice, and if you listened carefully you could hear the trembling in it. “She was called Elflaed, lady.”

Elflaed. That was the name Sihtric called out every night in his unconscious state, searching for a mother he could no longer hold in his arms. Sadness washed over you as your thoughts returned to your own mother and how you felt your heart torn from your chest the night she died. But you had first Uhtred and Brida, then Ragnar, to help you through your grief, while Sihtric had no one to support him. And the grip on your heart tightened. 

“Was Dunholm her home? Was she a Dane like you?” you asked with a soft voice, and Sihtric shook his head faintly.

“No. She was a Saxon, lady. She came from Hocchale, lady. She was taken in Dunholm as a slave.” the Dane replied, looking down at his trembling hand on his stomach. You could still see his mismatched eyes shining in the pale moonlight, watering as he fought back tears. You held a hand up in the air, wanting to place it on his shoulder and give him all your support, but remembering how your touch was not welcomed by his involuntary shudder, your hand returned to your side.

“Your mother,” you broke the silence for the third time, closing your eyes and squeezing the bridge of your nose as you tried to find the right words. “She… I know I am asking you a delicate question, but… What happened to her?”

And at that moment, Sihtric looked away from the sky to rest his gaze on you, his pupils still dilated and his eyes still watering as he looked around slightly, fearing that some punishment might come if he dared to speak the truth. But when he realised that no harm could come, he calmed down slightly and spoke again. 

"She tried to poison Kjartan, lady," the Dane confessed, mustering the courage to change his position and lie on his side, telling you the truth as he looked into your eyes. "With the black berries. The nightshades, lady," he swallowed a lump that formed in his throat before continuing, his voice breaking with emotion, "I do not know what happened that night, lady. All I remember is that she left me and..." 

A sob escaped his lips and the way his body was shaking made you realise he could collapse in front of you at any moment. Without thinking, you raised your hand and placed it gently on his cheeks: to your surprise, he didn't flinch, but looked at you intently, leaning into your touch.

“Sihtric,” you opened your mouth, but the Dane was quick to interrupt you.

“I loved her, lady. With my whole heart, I swear it,” he said with a pleading voice, clutching the pendant of Mjolnir in his trembling hand, in the same way he did the day he swore his oath to Uhtred.

“And I believe you, Sihtric, you do not need to swear to me,” you replied softly, closing the distance between you and resting your forehead on his. Both your hands rested on his cheeks, your thumbs moving in a circular motion to calm him. You felt a soft breath leave his lips and his breathing slowly stabilised. He found a temporary peace in your warmth and you would be his steady rock, shielding him from his past. 

“I promise you, under this sky painted of stars, that your mother will be avenged tomorrow. Kjartan will draw his last breath in battle and his death will be far from honourable,” you confirmed in a soft yet firm tone, clutching your own Mjolnir pendant in your hands. “Do you trust my words?” 

Sihtric was silent for a moment, your words and actions clearly taking him by surprise. But when he opened his mouth to reply, you saw his hand reach for yours, his frightened eyes soften, a pink hue colouring his cheeks. His words came out in a feeble whisper, but you were close enough to hear them. 

“I trust them, lady. With my life and soul.”

And then, in the middle of the night, the surreal silence was broken by two humming voices saying a prayer for survival in battle.

Tension hung in the air as several warriors gathered to form a square in the courtyard, with Ragnar and Kjartan standing in the centre, facing each other in a duel to the death. Heavy blows of swords and axes against wooden shields came from the human ring, low growls and cheers escaping from their lips as the duel became more bloody and brutal. But Sihtric said nothing, holding his helmet tightly in his hands as he waded through the crowd. 

The battle at Dunholm fortress drained Sihtric both physically and mentally: returning to the place where pain and abuse had haunted him since childhood was a challenge he never wanted to face again. Yet he swore an oath of loyalty to Uhtred, and offered up his sword and his life under the watchful eyes of the gods. If Uhtred wished to attack the fortress, Sihtric would obey without question. 

But even his lord could not prepare him for what he was about to witness. A wave of emotion washed over him as he saw Kjartan, the man who had nothing in common with except the blood that ran through his veins, slowly perish under every blow that Ragnar struck, the scene so crude and sickening that even the bravest of warriors could not watch for long. 

Satisfaction first, then horror, disgust and bitterness as he winced at every blow Kjartan received, the ground of Dunholm painted crimson as blood coursed through his body. Sihtric felt numb, a myriad of thoughts running through his mind, remembering his life as a slave in his own house, how his body and mind endured his father's cruelty, how he tried to impress him and earn love and respect, only to be mocked and humiliated in return. He remembered every scar and bruise he had received, and how his body ached with every blow as he lay stunned on the floor after his punishment was over. 

As he exhaled a ragged breath, unrest was painted on his face, his skin turning pale as his mind returned to the night his mother died, her piercing screams echoing in his mind as they had on that stormy night when she was thrown to the dogs on his father's orders. It was a melody that haunted his dreams, begging his mother to forgive him for not being able to save her. A forgiveness that never reached him.

A gentle grip on his hand brought him back to reality, the muffled voices in his ears crystal clear as reality returned in all its crudeness. Sihtric slowly realised that it was over as his eyes rested on his lord, who was holding an enraged Ragnar close to him. A heavy silence filled the fortress as all the warriors realised what had really happened, neither faction daring to continue the fight. 

Sihtric recognized your touch, but he was too stunned to return the squeeze. And you just stood still at his side, watching helplessly as the ghosts of his past returned to haunt him, while he felt the echo of Elflaed’s voice reaching his ears.

You felt your heart pounding in your chest as you made your way towards Dunholm's dungeon, the faint flame of your torch trembling with your hands. The damp air didn't help your anxiety, and you tried to manoeuvre through the darkness of the place with cautious steps, the metallic smell of blood irritating your nostrils.

You have won the battle, but at what cost? You asked silently over the flames of the small brazier in the great hall, but the soft crackling of the wood didn't give you the answer you were looking for. 

The attack on the fortress had been successful, and Young Ragnar had honoured Ragnar the Fearless’ memory by taking Kjartan's life. But it was a bittersweet victory for you, for the gods wouldn't give you back your father, who was feasting among them in the golden halls of Valhalla. To your surprise, you found out that Thyra was alive, but hatred burned in her heart as she blamed you all for abandoning her to her fate. Uhtred and Ragnar told you that she was safe in Father Beocca's hands, but you knew that nothing could easily mend a broken trust. 

But your mind couldn't stop thinking about Sihtric, and how he was too overwhelmed and confused to return your touch, and how he remained silent throughout the aftermath. He just stood there in the courtyard, looking at his father's lifeless body with an indecipherable expression on his face, before shaking his head and silently returning to his duties. You thought that taking him to Dunholm would have caused him no small amount of pain, and you had several arguments with Uhtred about sparing Sihtric further suffering. But your brother was adamant, and the young Dane was too loyal to disobey him. 

And in the midst of your thoughts, you felt a strong hand squeeze your shoulder, forcing you back into reality and into the deep blue eyes of the Daneslayer, who looked at you with concern. 

“Sihtric has been missing,” he told you with a low voice, and you jolted on the furred chair.

"I thought he was celebrating the victory with Finan and the others," was your blunt reply, feigning disinterest while a storm of emotion exploded inside you. 

“Finan told me he has not seen him for hours,” Uhtred retorted, and deep down in your heart you knew what you had to do. 

And so there you were, searching for Sihtric in the darkest part of the fortress after a long search on the surface. You thought you would find him in the stables, the place where he usually spent most of his time, meticulously tending to the horses: but to your surprise, he wasn't there, nor was he in the servants' quarters. 

A sense of foreboding grew within you, a sense of claustrophobia struck you as you felt the walls of the dungeon closing in around you, the dim light of your torch illuminating the poorly maintained surroundings, the damp, enclosed smell making you dizzy as you saw your shadow playing tricks on you. You were about to lose hope when you heard a ragged breath from a few cells ahead. 

You moved quietly in the direction of the sound until you saw Sihtric lying on the ground, a thick fur protecting him from the cold floor. Your heart ached as you watched him toss and turn on the ground, his lips trembling and his forehead drenched in sweat as nightmares once again took possession of his mind, his mother's name slipping from his mouth in a whisper. You looked at him with a hint of sadness in your eyes, and unlike the other nights, this time you would have woken him. 

You approached him gently, your touch on his shoulder as light as a feather as you shook him lightly. This sudden action caused him to wake up abruptly, jumping to his feet as he didn't recognise you in the darkness. You jumped back as well, about to fall to the ground in a heap from his sudden movements. 

“Sihtric,” you whispered smoothly, raising your hands as you wanted to reassure him no harm would come, “It is me, do not be afraid.”

You continued to speak in your soothing tone as you allowed the fire of the torch to illuminate your features. Sihtric's body stopped shaking as he recognised you, trying to compose himself as he bowed his head slightly in respect, ignoring the way his chest rose and fell frantically.  

“I wondered where you were. I thought you were feasting with the others, or you were resting in one of the fortress’ rooms,” you inquired, your eyes sad as you thought that sleeping in the cells was a habit he had developed during his time as a slave and imagined him resting in his cold, isolated cell.  

“Forgive me, lady,” Sihtric muttered back in a strained voice, looking down at his feet. The Dane warrior secretly thanked the gods for the poor lighting in this place, hiding the redness of his cheeks. “I… I did not know where else to rest.” 

After hearing his answer, you let out a small sigh, saddened by the realisation that he still did not feel safe at home, even after seeing his father's reign of cruelty end before his eyes. 

“Be free to move wherever you want,” you approached him and placed your hand on his shoulder once more, a flash of realisation came over you: you had promised to be his rock under the starry sky, and you would keep it. 

"Kjartan is dead, Sihtric. Your days of fear and suffering are over, you are a free man now," you said with softness in your voice, locking eyes with him as he raised his head, his mismatched eyes silently yearning for your protection. The Dane warrior nodded his head, his lips curling into a small smile. 

"Come, I will take you to a warm place, now," you said as you squeezed his hand and pulled him towards the exit of the dungeon. Sihtric followed you without saying a word, squeezing your hand back as he followed you, leaving a piece of his past behind as he left the cells.

Convincing Sihtric to spend the night with you was a difficult task: the Dane warrior was afraid that Uhtred might turn up and scold him for being alone with his little sister, but you tried to explain that he would not be arriving for some time, too busy discussing the future running of Dunholm with Ragnar. You let out a defeated sigh as you watched him furrow his brow in suspicion, but soon you were glad that he had at least convinced himself to trust your words. 

You led him into your temporary room, one of the largest in Dunholm, beautifully decorated with carved wooden planks on the ceiling and a few rugs covering the wooden floor. Despite its size, the large fireplace in the centre of the room was able to heat the whole room, the crackling of the wood being the only sound allowed in. 

You handled him with the utmost care, looking down his broad arms for any suspected wounds or cuts that might require attention. Desperately chasing away any impure thoughts about his appearance, you were pleased to find that his flesh was untouched and unblemished, save for a few specks of dust scattered about. You almost cursed yourself for not preparing a warm bath for him, and with what little water you had, you tore off a piece of your clothing and used it to clean his skin. Your touch was as soft as silk on his muscles, and Sihtric did his best to hide the redness of his cheeks. 

“Better?” you asked as you looked at Sihtric, your sudden question bringing him out of his thoughts. The Dane hummed back, his eyes softening in your presence. 

“Thank you, lady,” he whispered, leaning desperately on your touch as you continued to clean him.

Afterwards, you both lay down on the large bed, which was much more comfortable than the one you used to sleep on back in Cumbraland. The warmth of the blankets and furs gave you both a sense of peace and comfort, almost making you forget that a fierce battle had been fought that morning. 

You both looked up at the ceiling, imagining it to be the same starry sky as the day before. A pleasant silence filled the room, and the single thought brought a small smile to both of your faces, too drunk with each other's closeness as your hands instinctively reached out to each other, your fingers intertwined as you both used your thumbs to make small circles on the backs of your hands. 

You both enjoyed this idyllic moment until Sihtric cleared his throat and shyly drew your attention to himself as his big, mismatched eyes stared intently at you. You could see his pupils dilate again, and it was then that you realised something was troubling him. 

“Lady,” the Dane spoke quietly, squeezing your hand, “There is one thing I would like to do before we leave Dunholm.” 

You raised your eyebrows in surprise and looked for a moment at how tightly he clasped your hand, as if he were secretly looking to you for comfort and understanding. 

“What is it?” you asked softly, your lips curving into a sympathetic smile as you waited for him to speak up. You were calm, taming your curiosity and impulsiveness. 

"There is a small place, a little far from Dunholm," he continued in a timid voice, looking down at your joined hands, as if he was regaining his courage by looking at them, "We can reach it by following the path of the small spring from the east wall, it is a safe route to take with our horses. It will be a short walk, and when we see a large hawthorn tree in the distance, we will have reached our destination.”

Sihtric paused for a moment and took a long breath before continuing.

"I buried my mother there. At least..." Another long sigh escaped his lips, this time more shaky than the first. "...where I would like to bury her." 

A heavy silence fell over the room, the calm and peaceful atmosphere vanishing in an instant. You stood still, too stunned by his words to speak. And when you found the courage to open your mouth, Sihtric quickly cut you off, clasping both of his hands between yours. 

"I wish to mourn her, my lady. To mourn her properly," Sihtric murmured, his eyes watering as he looked away from you and down at some random spot on the blankets. "I... I know we could slow the return journey, but I will speak to Lord Uhtred and I-I will take my punishment..." 

With an imperceptible movement, you slipped your hand from his grasp and cupped his cheeks, tilting his head and forcing him to look at you. A soft whisper escaped your lips, interrupting his stream of consciousness, his words replaced by a soft sigh, his head unintentionally tilted as his mismatched eyes rested on yours.

"My brother will not punish you for mourning your mother, Sihtric," you told him in a reassuring tone, tilting your head slightly so that your foreheads touched, "because we will go there at dawn tomorrow and you will be free to pray in silence and honour her memory.” 

There was something comforting in your words, a gentle reassurance that was like balm to Sihtric's heart, wrapping itself around your care and love. As your eyes met, you both felt a comforting warmth spread through your chests, an invisible thread drawing you together as you slowly drew closer, your lips brushing gently before locking in a timid kiss that became desperate as Sihtric poured all his love into you, pulling you closer and deepening the contact. 

After a few seconds he pulled away, both breathing heavily, but with their foreheads pressed together, a small smile crossed Sihtric's face. The Dane knew it was wrong to steal a kiss from his lord's sister, but you had become his shining star in a dark sky, and the flame of your love burned brightly in his heart.

And as the moon shone brightly in the sky, you both fell asleep in each other's arms, slipping into a peaceful sleep, feeling the gentle rhythm of each other's breathing and knowing that you would face whatever came next together.

Morning came and Dunholm awoke to a peaceful atmosphere, the days when Kjartan the Cruel ruled the stronghold fading away like grains of sand in the wind. The aftermath of the battle still left its physical scars, the courtyard still painted red, arrows and broken shields still lodged in the ground, the great ram still lying undisturbed at the foot of the gates. Yet nature was reborn after the death of its tyrant, the grass, plants and flowers seemed to grow with the brightest colours, and the melodious chirping of birds echoed in the air.

A few rays of the dawning sun filtered through the window and gently caressed Sihtric's sharp features, and he groaned softly as he slowly awoke, feeling his body well rested as he slept without nightmares for the first time. Rubbing his tired eyes, he turned awkwardly to the other side of the bed, only to find it empty. A sense of worry washed over him when he didn't find you by his side, and suddenly he felt as if he had been transported back in time to when he was in Tekil's service, living under the pressure of impressing a father who was barely aware of his presence.

But his worries quickly vanished when he felt the door to the room open and you appeared behind it with a broad smile on your face. Sihtric was unaware that you had awakened before the sun could greet the earth with a new day, and unnoticed you quietly took your horse from the stables and followed the route he had described to you the night before. 

The ride to the hawthorn tree was very quiet, full of unspoken emotions. Years had passed since he had visited his mother's grave, and he had never thought that he would return to bid her a final farewell and leave Dunholm, burying a past he had hoped to forget, but which had made him the warrior he was. 

After a short walk they reached a large hawthorn tree, and to Sihtric's relief it was the same one he had seen as a child, not even the violent storms of the past few days had wiped it out. His eyes darted down to its roots, and his breath caught in his throat at what he saw: the blank stones that had made up the small mound of earth he had imagined burying his mother many years ago had been replaced by larger, white stones, decorated with symbols he recognised as drawn runes, carefully scattered around the perimeter of the grave. 

A sudden realisation came to him as he remembered the way you had greeted him at dawn, your dirty hands suggesting that you had been to the burial spot and tended to his mother's grave before accompanying him. A small bouquet of hawthorn was placed over the patch of earth, and Sihtric recognised it as the flower Elflaed used to pick when she returned to the forest, remembering her sweet smile as she caressed the white petals with her fingers. 

You both knelt in silence at the foot of the grave, clasping your pendants together as you both silently recited a prayer to the goddess Hel, asking her to watch over Elflaed's soul in the halls of Eljudnir in Helheim. 

As the last words were spoken in silence, the weight of the moment fell heavily on Sihtric, and without realising it, he saw small teardrops fall to the ground and looked up at the sky, thinking that a storm was about to break. But his eyes were too blurred to focus on the orange-blue sky, and he slowly realised that the soil was wet with his own tears. Unable to contain his emotions, the Dane buried his face in his hands and let out a liberating cry, his shoulders shaking with sobs. You reached over and wrapped your arms around his large shoulders, pressing your lips to his temple, leaving a small kiss as you held him tightly in your hands.

"Let it all out," you whispered softly, your voice comforting as you gave him gentle strokes on his back, "I am here with you as your mother, watching over you." 

You pressed your forehead against his shoulder as emotions overwhelmed you as well, and you silently let your tears flow as you cried for your own late mother, whose soul rested in Valhalla with your father and the other fallen warriors. 

You returned to the fortress in silence, following the thin stream of water backwards as you chose your route, your horses dragged by the reins. Halfway you halted your march, your pause forcing Sihtric to rest as well.

"Is something wrong, lady?" he asked, furrowing his brow as he saw you approach in silence, one of your fingers trailing over the pendant of his Mjolnir. You both looked into each other's eyes, your cheeks turning red simultaneously as you both filled your nostrils with each other's scent.

“Promise me that, when we have a baby girl, we will name her Elflaed,” you confessed light-heartedly with a shy smile, and the Dane warrior looked down at his feet as his face turned completely red, the redness reaching all the way to the tips of his ears. 

“A-A baby girl?” he muttered, swallowing a mix of air and saliva while his mind was filled with endless thoughts. 

Sihtric fell in love with you the night he failed in his mission to kidnap Uhtred and was taken prisoner, the compassion in your eyes a thing that never left his mind. He secretly wanted to find the courage to confess his feelings for you and take you as his wife, but something prevented him: he was not afraid to face Uhtred, he knew that you were more stubborn than his lord and that your brother would have given you everything, however reluctantly. He was afraid of himself, afraid of failing to please or impress you. Uhtred was the rightful heir to a land he sought to reclaim, and though in exile, Finan was still an Irish prince by blood. Sihtric was only a bastard son, with no land to claim and no royal title to flaunt. 

"I... I am afraid I cannot satisfy you, lady," the Dane gently declined your offer, which was met with a puzzled look from you. He let out a sigh before speaking again, "I-I have nothing to offer you, lady. I have no land to rule, nor enough silver to give you. I am a nobody, lady, and as much as I love you and want to take you as my wife, I fear I could not make you happy."

"I do not need a rich and powerful lord to be happy," you replied, shaking your head as a light chuckle escaped your lips. You placed your hand gently on his cheek, tracing the scar on his cheekbone with your thumb. "There could be many lords in all of England who would be willing to claim my hand, but in my heart I know that the only man I will ever allow to be by my side is you," you continued, still holding his pendant in your other hand.

A pleasant tension filled the air as you both stared at each other, the wind the silent intruder in your union. Sihtric's large hands rested on your hips, your thumb still tracing his scar, a soft hum vibrating in the Dane's throat as he surrendered to your touch. 

"I love you, Sihtric Kjartansson," you said softly, your eyes full of love as you rested your gaze on his alluring bicoloured eyes, "to Valhalla and back.”

"And I love you, lady," Sihtric replied shyly, returning your gaze with the same intensity as yours, "to Valhalla and back."

And the distance between you disappeared.

If you've come this far, thank you so much for reading my fic! Hope you enjoyed it!

Taglist: @whitedarkmoonflower @sihtricfedaraaahvicius @foxyanon @legitalicat @zaldritzosrose

@alexagirlie @sylasthegrim @lord-aldhelm

[thewrothode-if]

I am very confused and have so many questions. What exactly *happened* in the scene where MC sees some monster as their mother somehow? What did MC do that their father didn't like? Why did Raud leave? Why does MC hate Gungir? Why doesn't MC want to obey their father, and why do they anyway even after starting with such clear intent that they won't? Why is MC so shocked by Anne knowing that MC was in the very same settlement in which Anne met and spoke to to the MC directly? Why does Anne desperately want to go to the place where she already was? Why does MC say that Anne wants to meet the King when that is not even close to what Anne said?

If any of you haven't read the first chapter and don't want any spoilers, I'll hide my answers.

What exactly happened in the scene where MC sees some monster as their mother somehow?

I presume you're talking about the prologue scene where the mother goes crazy. In that scene, it is actually your mother. She just went crazy. As to what happened in the scene, I'm gonna be blunt here: your father strangled her, thus killing her.

What did MC do that their father didn't like?

I've talked a lot about this in other asks like this one. Basically, your father hates you because you remind him of your mother. Your very presence is a reminder of the fact that he killed her so that guilt evolves into a toxic hatred for you.

Why did Raud leave?

Honestly, I couldn't really find a place to put why he left, and there is a reason the readers don't know. So I might need to come back to this.

Why does MC hate Gungir?

The MC hates Gungir because, as I wrote in the pinned post and in the IF itself, he's the son your father always wanted. He treats him better than he treats you, but it's not really shown so I might add scenes where his favoritism is show.

I was planning on improving the first chapter and adding an entire new scene where you actually go on a raid (i love changing my mind about the first chapter right after releasing it) so things might change slightly.

Why doesn't MC want to obey their father, and why do they anyway even after starting with such clear intent that they won't?

There is actually a choice where you can willingly choose to go. But the many choices where you don't want to go overshadow it because the hatred for your father is something that makes his order easy to decline.

You have the choice to not go to the docks in the morning, therefore refusing to go, but you still get dragged over there by Gungir because the Jarl wants you out. And if you selected the choice where you agreed to go, you will not get the option to think about it the next day.

Why is MC so shocked by Anne knowing that MC was in the very same settlement in which Anne met and spoke to to the MC directly?

You do not meet Anne at the destroyed settlement, you meet her at another settlement/town/village. She is shocked because she heard of a settlement that has been destroyed and as a soft-hearted gal, she feels sympathy for the settlement.

Why does Anne desperately want to go to the place where she already was?

This is something I'm confused about. I'm not sure if it's because I coded it wrongly so it led to another scene, or if what I wrote was just a little confusing. But as I said above, you do not meet her at the destroyed settlement.

As to why she wants to go along with you, in her own words, "I cannot stand by while innocent are butchered."

Why does MC say that Anne wants to meet the King when that is not even close to what Anne said?

I might change that wording since Anne doesn't really know the plans yet, but it was supposed to be the MC getting ahead of themselves and all that.

I hope some of your questions are answered!

[yunyin]

Some random ideas for the drawing from memory thing:

Trixx the Kwami

Tuxedo Mask from the Sailor Moon

Thank you, Jarl!!! Surprisingly hard but I tried to get them close!! Sailor Moon proportions are a little tricky for me if I'm drawing normally, and kwamis are so simple that every detail matters! I can remember Rena Rouge a lot better than Trixx, design wise, but I think it more or less looks close!

[revive-the-fandom]

the dragons series had a lot of inconsistencies tbh and I've yet to see anyone spell some of them out? so I'm gonna be the critic i need in my life

Gothi

this childless Grandma is not a healer.

she is a Seeress or a Wise Woman. the Berkians canonically refer to her as The Elder.

A Seeress' job is to commune with gods and spirits (mostly thru getting high) and give advice to their King or Jarl (or Chief). Gothi does this canonically by being the final judge for whether Hiccup or Astrid got to graduate/get the honour of killing the Monstrous Nightmare.

Seeress' were almost always women, although men did occasionally become Seers, it was considered emasculating and unnatural.

Seeress' may also live in high, isolated places in order to be closer to the Gods, which Gothi most definitely does. They could also take vows of silence, which is most likely what Gothi has done, if she isn't physically mute.

Seeress' were highly respected and had a considerably amount of influence over their clan.

Berk's attitude towards the dragons

The end of Httyd 1 showed multiple people riding and co-habituating with Dragons. They had feeding stations (made out of old braziers), stables etc:

But RoB/DoB opens with the village seriously struggling to assimilate the Dragons into their lives, with the Dragons stealing food and shitting in the town square.

Fishlegs & Hiccup

Fishlegs is not Hiccup's friend in Httyd 1, he's one of Hiccup's bullies.

Fishlegs hangs out with Snotlout, the twins and Astrid and laughs along with them when teasing Hiccup. He may be a conflicted or opportunistic bully rather than a flat out asshole, but he's still participating.

Fishlegs is one above Hiccup in the pecking order, if Hiccup's not around to be bullied then Fishlegs is next in line. But as it stands Fishlegs is allowed into the friend circle, whereas Hiccup is not.

Fishlegs is the bully that needs Hiccup around so that he doesn't get bullied himself. He for sure wants to be friends with Hiccup too, but he's not going to risk his position in the group for Hiccup.

Snotlout & bullying Fishlegs

the series (The Iron Gronckle ep mostly) makes out that Snotlout has been terrorising specifically Fishlegs (both physically and verbally) to the point that Fishlegs has become meek and anxious because of him.

which is just blatantly not true, see my above point on Fishlegs being one of the bullies.

Snotlout is mean to Fishlegs, sure. but he's also mean to Hiccup, and on occasion to the Twins. Snotlout is second in command of this group's/generation's pecking order, and he only bows his head to Astrid because she is sitting solidly at the top (and he has a crush on her).

As soon as Astrid is booted off of her pedestal by Hiccup, Snotlout starts acting friendly to Hiccup. So does everyone save Astrid.

and once Hiccup is top dog, Snotlout takes orders from Hiccup, because Hiccup is the most successful and respected of their group. Even when they lead him into dangerous situations like the final battle against the Red/Green Death.

Snotlout is not The Bully TM he's just one of many bullies. He wasn't trying to single people out, he was just trying to fit in with the standard the adults of Berk had set, and one of those standards was bullying the weak.

Astrid & bullying hiccup

the series loves to forget that Astrid was the Leader of the group for most of Httyd 1, and she was at best a passive observer of their bullying Hiccup, and at worst an active participant. She shared Berk's views on "get tough or get out" and applied them to Hiccup.

Astrid took things a step further and started stalking Hiccup as soon as he started out pacing her in training. She pushed him around and hit him, while even Snotlout had only teased him.

Saying that Astrid and Hiccup have "known each other all [their] lives" in RTTE is true in that they have lived in the same village and grown up at the same time, but they most definitely weren't close in Httyd 1.

[argisthebulwark]

I'd Die A Drunk, I'd Die For You

summary: Lucky you, you're his emergency contact! Unlucky for you, there's been an emergency. gn reader, no pronouns or y/n used. feat: Farkas, Brynjolf, Balimund, Vilkas, Cicero warnings: explicit depictions of blood & injury, alcohol consumption masterlist

Farkas

You are absolutely fucking terrified when the guards knock on your door. Sunrise is only a few hours off yet you'd hardly slept, putting off rest until you got a handle of your work. Recruitment requests, work orders, summons from the Jarl, orders for new bedding and maintenance for the hall... sleep simply doesn't fit into your schedule. Everything else falls away when you hear that Farkas is hurt. The guard has hardly finished speaking before you're rushing out the door, snatching a coat over your pajamas and slippers falling off your chilly feet when you hustle through Whiterun. Your mind conjures up awful scenarios that turn your stomach while you're tripping up all those damned steps. Bursting into Jorrvaskr hardly draws any attention. Companions and priests scurry around where Farkas is laid out across the grand table, bloodied linens clutched to his wounds while Vilkas barks orders. Your heart sinks when Farkas spots you, eyes unfocused but grinning. Bandaged fingers beckon you closer and you shuffle toward him, sinking to your knees. "What did you do?" Fat tears roll down your cheeks when you comb through the mess of his hair. Farkas' hand rests on your shoulder, eyes fluttering closed when he sucks in a sharp breath. "Made it home. Just like I promised." He smiles again, trying to cover up the pain with humor. "Don't tell Vilkas you're my emergency contact - 'fraid he'd lecture us both." "You were supposed to come back in one piece." You swipe at the blood drying on his cheek, desperate for a sense of normalcy. The fact that you could be losing him chokes out all rational thought. "Tried my best." He pants, face flushed as Athis mumbles about a dislocated shoulder. "Don't worry - it's not that bad, I'll be fixed up in no time." "You're bleeding all over the table." "Not the first time." His laugh is rough but offers you a touch of comfort. "Probably not the last time, either."

Brynjolf

Something has gone terribly wrong. A pair of guards knocking your door down sent your heart at a dangerous pace - they're at your home. You've been so careful to ensure that nothing ties your personal life to the Guild - had someone been caught? None of the recruits knew your real name and no one in your inner circle would ever rat you out. Their mention of Brynjolf's name wrenches you out of that spiral. You're nodding along to whatever they're saying, allowing them to escort you through Riften. Your skin feels too tight when you descend into the city's jail, too many eyes on you for comfort. They still haven't explained what the hell he did but if they know his real name it must be serious. Slumped against the stiff cot, Brynjolf grins up at you. His eyes shamelessly take in the mess of your crooked tunic and mismatched boots, cheeks flushed and looking far too relaxed for a man in a cell. He gazes at you, clearly ignoring the bloodied state of his knuckles. "Care to explain why the guards darkened my doorstep?" You seethe, paying no mind to his damned dimples. Now is not the time to let him distract you. "Ah, sorry love - put you down as my emergency call. Just in case they found me floatin' down the river." "And your hands?" "Heard some cunt talkin' about you in a less than savory way." He sighs, examining the clearly broken hand. You ignore the way your heart melts a bit. My hero." You deadpan, glad to see the guard fumbling through his keys. Brynjolf lurches forward, arm already around your shoulders before the guard's even finished opening his cell. "Knew I could count on you." You smell the alcohol on his breath when he leans closer, steadying himself on your shoulder. "You are going to pay me back for this." "Anythin' you want. Name it and 'ts yours."

Balimund

Mouth agape and blinking far too much, you try to process the question. Of course you know Balimund - why the hell is a nervous acolyte asking you this in the dead of night? They urge you toward the Temple of Mara, quite tight lipped and only telling you to hurry. You stumble up the steps, knees weak when you see him - the shirt is ripped away from his torso, injured arm laid out and surrounded by priests. The yellowish glow of healing magicka emits from their cupped hands but you see it; red, angry burns climbing up toward his shoulder and blood drying on the shreds of his tunic. His eyes are squeezed shut as their hands ghost over his injuries, paying close attention to each wound. Acolytes flutter around offering aid, one dabbing sweat from Balimund's forehead while the other pours fresh water into a basin. "Oh, honey -" "It's fine." He grunts, eyes squeezed shut. You drag a chair near him, wishing so badly that you could take away the pain. "What happened? Why didn't you wake me?" "Didn't want to worry you." His good hand clutches yours, allowing you to hold it to your chest. "Tried to add more fire salts to the forge, guess I went a bit too fast." He winces, fingers tense around yours. "Glad you're here, though." You do what you can, keeping his attention away from the healers fretting over his arm. You swipe at the soot on his face and press kisses to his unharmed fingers, doing all that you can to keep his spirits up.

Vilkas

When the guards on your porch asked after your ex, you were petrified that Vilkas had been hurt. He must have come back bloodied from some mission, confused when they led you straight past the temple. The relief of him not being injured only lasts a moment before reality sinks in - something else is wrong. You gut continues to sink when you follow them past the steps of Jorrvaskr, hands shaking at your sides as an endless stream of questions bombard your mind. You haven't spoken for a few weeks, taking some time away from the Companions after the break up - how much trouble could they have caused in that amount of time? Vilkas had never been reckless with anyone else's life but you'd gotten sick of watching him risk his own. All thoughts cease when you see him. Dark eyes stare up at you, bruises blossoming over his cheek. His hair has grown longer than he likes and blood dries on his split lip. Despite all the issues you've had, the fights and distance that wrecked your relationship, your heart still flips when he smirks at you. "You look awful." You lie, ignoring those sharp teeth his grin exposes. It's terribly difficult to avoid the memory of how they feel on your skin. "Did you get in a fight?" "You look nice." He counters, seemingly unbothered. "Is that my shirt?" "Shut up or I will let you rot in here." You will not admit that it is absolutely his shirt you'd been sleeping in.

Cicero

"We found your name written on this man's arm. He won't talk - can you please come with us?" Oh, you're in for trouble. If one of your assassins had been caught and isn't sticking to the script drilled into each of your skulls it must be dire. Tying your real name to it can only make the situation worse. Simmering in your anger you prepare to lecture whoever was dense enough to get caught. You freeze upon realizing where you are - you aren't staring into a jail cell. Flanked by two guards you're standing in the middle of the Jarl's longhouse, their healer intensely focused on your Keeper. "Cicero." You swoop down, all pretense forgotten when you press a nervous hand to his forehead. His eyes flutter behind closed lids, familiar clothing torn and stained. You can only pray that the blood isn't his. "What happened?" "We found him crawling back to town. He wasn't making any sense but it looks like he was attacked." The guard pipes up, your stomach dropping at the thought. He'd only been gone a few days but you recall his parting words - finally feeling confident enough to take a job on his own, promising you that he doesn't need you watching his every move. "My love." You murmur, kissing at his clammy forehead. You've never seen Cicero so quiet, even in sleep he mumbles. This just feels wrong.

[soulrider-elena]

I was watching the video for the sso medieval event and..

I realized if the inhabitants during the medieval period on Jorvik KNEW soulriders existed without Jon Jarl ( who arrived in 1218 and being friends with the Keepers of Aideen and backing up their religion )

they would probably be treated like witches and made to confess/or accused of lying through brutal torture but only to be accused anyway then have to go through the horrific deaths

I havent heard of any soulriders/Druids being found and executed in the medieval period ( for what people would believe then their powers would be considered witchcraft and would hunt and execute them ) so I think that has something to do with the Druids and Keepers of Aideen being close with Jon Jarl so they where always recognized as friends and friendly natives

Now if anyone tries to say that they didn't do witch hunts and burn witches on Jorvik during the medieval period, it DID happen. If you do the quests with the witches in sso you see the mention that MULTIPLE TIMES and we can look back in the books and see a organization called the Sixth Hammer that was MADE for hunting and persecuting witches, even the quests in Galloper's Keep. They mention some of the spirits of persecuted witches, AND GALLOPER WAS PERSECUTED FOR IT TOO.

If you're curious about the Sixth Hammer in the books im refering to when they talk about what happend to Sand's first lover because she was tortured and persecuted for supposed witchcraft

( Note that Im not far in the books but I have deep dived in other places and took a look in the books that I do have )

If yall want go ahead and reblog with your thoughts, but I will warn yall that I will not tolerate this being used for starting or fueling fights. This post is just me rambling about my findings and looking for any others that have found similar info on this topic.

Im also going to point out that Im not targeting the medieval event. Im absolutely EXCITED and can't wait for the event, but Im posting this because I wanted to share my thoughts and how it contrasts with the REAL medieval period/ ' Dark Ages '.

Have a lovely day!

[gemharvest]

Clip used is old atp but I wanna share this. Because I didn't share it before ????? anyways Stress is one ofmy favorite songs fuuuck

[umbracirrus]

WIP Wednesday-!! 💛

I'm not sure if I've ever shared any of this scene for the currently in progress chapter of The Perfect Storm on a Wednesday before, but I'm sharing it today anyway because I've done a little work on it!! I know I've definitely shared pieces of it on discord though 😅

Tagging @hircines-hunter, @skyrim-forever, @thequeenofthewinter, @bostoniangirl21 and anyone who wants to share a WIP 💕

-----------

“Dragonborn, just the woman I was hoping to see,” Proventus remarked as he caught sight of her making her way past the two longtables which surrounded the central hearth. “The Jarl was hoping to take a minute or two of your time, but has had to step away from Dragonsreach for a moment.”

“Oh... What for? Should I just wait here?”

“Ah, no. He said that if he hadn’t returned by the time which you did to ask if you could wait for him on the porch. He shouldn’t be long. He also didn’t tell me why he wished to speak with you.”

Her eyebrow raised. “Lydia wasn’t with him, was she?”

Proventus stared at her with confusion before shaking his head. “No. Your housecarl hasn’t been in Dragonsreach today.”

Though she was still suspicious, she nodded and began to make her way up to the porch. It was deserted, beyond there being a guard stood by the doorway. She made her way over to the balcony, and closed her eyes as she felt the cold wind against her face.

When she heard the doors open, she waited for a moment before turning around as Balgruuf made his way over to her. She gave him a slight smile when he was close enough.

“So... Proventus said that you wanted to meet me here?” she asked, stepping away from the balcony and closing the distance between them. “How come?”

“I wanted to ask you something. It seemed to be something you didn’t like to talk about with people nearby, so I thought to ask it here.”

Oh, she knew what this was about...

“This morning... Why didn’t you say that it was your-“

“It’s not a big deal. I don’t like making it a big deal. Lydia seems to think the opposite though...” She let out a sigh. “She seems to think that the Dragonborn should have a big birthday party... I just wanted what I’ve always had, a quiet day without any fuss. I’ve just been hiding away in places that I felt were quiet enough for me.” She then let out a sigh. “It’s silly, I know-“

“I don’t find it silly at all...” Balgruuf then took a deep breath. “May you oblige me with just one thing though?”

Elyse’s brow furrowed. She was beginning to suspect that this was one of her housecarl’s machinations, and that she had somehow managed to rope Balgruuf into it. “... I’m not going anywh-“

“I’ve got you a gift. Please...”

It was only then that she noticed that this whole time, he had been holding onto a box. She blinked for a moment, glancing between it and him, before giving him a puzzled look. “Wh... Why?”

“Elyse. You’ve had a lot happen over recent months. The least you deserve, for your birthday no less, is something nice.”

When she realised that he wasn’t going to allow her to not accept the gift, she slowly took hold of the box and pursed her lips together as she untied the ribbon which was around it. She then opened the box, and her eyes widened. It almost fell onto the floor as her hands shook. “Those are...”

[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

[vikingshieldmaidenx]

Torvi is a shieldmaiden, who was trained by Lagertha. She was a princess, was the wife of Jarl Borg, Erlendur and Bjorn and is now the wife of Ubbe, was the mother of Guthrum, Hali and Asa, who all three died. She's the mother of Ragnar and Leja Talvi, her children with her husband Ubbe. She was the second hand maid of Lagertha, has a close relationship with her. Torvi is a caring, beautiful, smart, and strong-willed young woman. Bjorn described her as "having a wildness that can only be just contained," which Bjorn also says is what he loves and admires about her. Torvi is very protective of those she loves, willing to go as far as killing. For example, when she killed her second husband Erlendur, when he threaten to kill her son and attempted to force her to kill Bjorn. Since becoming a shield-maiden, Torvi has become ruthless and more fearless. She does not let her emotions get the better of her. She becomes Lagertha's second-in-command. Torvi is very observant. She is always quick to notice a potential attack. Torvi seems to be more shy and less outspoken with her now ex-husband Bjorn, despite how outspoken she generally is. She has a close bond with Edda and is a part of the shieldmaidens which are subordinate to Edda. With Xenia and Caya she has a strong and close bond and a sister like relationship.

Proud wife of @ubbesonofragnar and proud mother of @ragnarsonofubbe and @daughterofashieldmaiden - my beloved favorite men and my perfect little girl, my family. I love you so much. We will stay together, always.

[thenameswinterfics]

BOUND TO YOU

Fandom: The Last Kingdom Pairing: Sihtric Kjartansson x Succubus!Reader Settings: Seven Kings Must Die Summary: Since becoming the new lord of Dunholm, Sihtric has ruled alone, with no woman at his side to call "wife". Things begin to change when you begin to appear in his dreams, a human so perfect that he believes he has finally found the one, a blessing from the gods. Little does he know that behind your appearance lies a devil in disguise. Word Count: 4,6 K Warnings: SMUT, mention of death, human/monster romance, monsterfucking, oral (m receiving), fingering, p in v sex. A/N: This is for my beautiful woman @sihtricfedaraaahvicius: happy birthday again my beloved, I really really hope you have a wonderful day and you enjoyed yourself. I hope you enjoy this as well, in case you can cancel me from your existence ahahaha. This story is not outlined, so if you find some confusing and rushing parts, I deeply apologise. Double apologise because this is my first time writing this kind of creature, I hope I have done them justice. A special thanks to @foxyanon for the title and to her and @zaldritzosrose for the brainstorm, the beta reading and for having a lot of patience with me.

ENGLISH IS NOT MY FIRST LANGUAGE. I APOLOGISE IN ADVANCE FOR MY GRAMMAR AND VOCABULARY MISTAKES.

Header & dividers by @zaldritzosrose

READ IT ON AO3

Sihtric crossed the courtyard, one hand rubbing the bridge of his nose as he continued to fight fatigue. His eyes darted around, greeting with an absent nod of his head a few of his men who crossed his path, sighing nervously at the cold air that hit his face, making him feel more tired than relieved. 

Destiny had worked with him in a singular way, and if many years ago it made him leave his birthplace as Sihtric Kjartansson, the bastard son of Kjartan the Cruel, it allowed him to return as Sihtric of Dunholm, a man forged in blood and battle, and who stepped up to rule a fortress that he had always seen through the eyes of a slave, never a leader. 

Years had passed since Uhtred claimed his birthright over Bebbanburg, and with what little interest he had in ruling Dunholm, Sihtric became its new Jarl, without ever breaking the oath he had made to his friend and lord. And so he worked hard to make his own legacy, trying to obscure the trail of cruelty and violence his father left behind. 

All this time he had ruled Dunholm alone, without a woman at his side to support and guide him, or even to share a warm meal and a bed in his private moments. Long gone were the days when he spent all his silver seeking the company of women, longing for the love he had never received in his life: his naivety even led him to fall in love with a whore he paid all his silver for, leaving him with empty pockets and a broken heart. With the battles he had to face over the years, Sihtric never found the opportunity to bind himself to another woman.

Until you started to appear in his dreams at night. 

At first you were just a glimpse, a soft and soothing whisper that made his heart flutter in his chest, your laughter a melody carried on the wind. Each night his dreams became more vivid, and the mysterious silhouette transformed into a woman of disarming beauty, a being so perfect that she was forged by the gods. Sihtric was fascinated by you: he saw the way you carried yourself with your elegance, the way your long hair danced softly in the wind. He saw your eyes, two bright pools that sparkled with an irresistible glimpse of mischief. And he saw your smile. Oh, your beautiful smile. So warm and inviting that it relieved him of all fatigue, spreading a pleasant warmth in his chest and making his head spin with your unmistakable scent. 

Every night Sihtric would reach for your hand and lean for your touch, wanting to feel the warmth of your body as close to his. But the morning would always come, and the Dane would wake up to the reality that you were not at his side, and with an unbearable void in his heart. 

But the gods seemed to smile at him, and when Sihtric raised his eyes to see a familiar silhouette, he could hardly believe his eyes. It was as if one of Thor's lightning bolts had struck him, rendering him speechless for a moment. Sihtric's mismatched eyes blinked rapidly, trying to reconcile the image before him with the memories of the dreams that haunted him every night. 

For the first time, here you were, made of nothing but flesh and bone. He recognised the outline of your face, the way your eyes held that sparkle of mischief even as your lips curved in that warm smile that clouded his thoughts, that same intoxicating scent that made the warmth in his chest rise again and spread to his stomach. The Lord of Dunholm shook his head at first, thinking that either fatigue or Loki himself was playing with his mind. But the more he rubbed his eyes, the clearer his vision became, and you were still there, wandering about the courtyard of the fortress. 

As Sihtric gathered his courage and began to walk towards you, he was interrupted by one of his soldiers, who called him to attend to urgent matters within the fortress. Though he longed for your presence, he was still a man bound to his duties as leader, and he accepted the soldier's help by swallowing the bitter pill and disappearing behind the massive doors of the great hall. His mind was still on you, thinking that the gods had finally blessed him by sending you on his path.

Little did he know that beneath this divine appearance, there was a devil in disguise.

You arrived in Dunholm a few weeks ago, drawn by a life force so strong you could hardly ignore it. As soon as you stepped through the gates, your eyes scanned every hidden corner, licking your lips eagerly as you searched for your next prey, your body quivering with anticipation.

It was not the first time you had hunted humans: the young warriors were your favourite prey because of their high energy and strength. Draining the life force from their souls was nothing more than a sweet banquet for your evil essence, an elixir that fuelled your dark power and increased your demonic impulses.

You began by playing with their dreams, first appearing as a dark figure with a melodious voice, before revealing yourself as the most ethereal creature in the mortal world. And when you felt they were ready to receive you, you would appear before them, showing your graceful appearance and wearing the most attractive clothes. 

You learned over the years that men were easier to bend to your will; your sweet smile and the fluttering of your eyelashes attracted them like a mirror to the larks. And only when they had let down their defences would you strike, your lips capturing them in a kiss that drained the essence from their souls, their life force flowing into you like an exhilarating rush of adrenaline. As their body fell to their eternal rest, your succubus nature revealed itself in all its dark power, seeking the next prey to hunt. 

While at first the souls of young warriors were enough to satisfy your needs, your hunts became less and less satisfying, and you soon began to demand a strong life force to claim. You began to travel across England, intensifying your activities from Wessex to Mercia, from Danelaw to East Anglia, but nothing seemed to tame the beast growing inside you. And it was when you crossed the borders of Northumbria that you felt a strong and vibrant aura calling to you, and soon you found yourself living in disguise among the men of Dunholm.

There you met Sihtric, the fascinating Jarl of Dunholm, who carried himself with dignity. He was a man far too old compared to the young ones you were used to hunting, but it was his long experience on the battlefield that attracted you most, the power of his vitality telling you how much blood flowed from his hands and the wounds he had suffered. It was an irresistible force that drew you to him like an invisible string. You had to dominate him.

And so you worked like your former prey, appearing in his dreams, feeding his insatiable desire to have someone to call his wife and love to the end of his days. When your trap bore its fruit, you began to show yourself more, wandering about like a common and innocent woman. And you knew that every time you crossed the courtyards, his eyes yearned for you from afar, and a small grin formed on your face.

Sihtric would be yours, no matter what the cost.

The night was filled with a vibrant atmosphere, the dim lights of the houses illuminating the streets in warm colours that mingled with the pallor of the moonlight. Several warriors gathered outside to share mugs of ale and stories of their days, their chatter and loud laughter the only sounds of the night, along with the song of some night bird. Other soldiers were stationed on the palisades of the fortress, making sure no surprise attacks could be launched at night.

You slipped outside, out of a small door on the east wall usually used by the servants. You quietly followed the small stream until you reached a small pond not far from Dunholm, but isolated enough to give you some peace.

Normally, you would join the chaos outside, as it is one of the easiest places to find a prey, take it away from the group, work it and seduce it as you please. But tonight you didn't find yourself enjoying the noisy company of the soldiers, or company in general. You had not absorbed any life force for days, the weak auras of the young men's souls could hardly satisfy the great hunger that was growing within you, forcing you to get away from crowded places: you did not want to hunt multiple prey in the night and cause a terrible mess, preferring to work methodically and continue to keep your identity hidden. In the end, it was just you and your inner beast, desperately asking you to be fed with some powerful human elixir. 

“A gracious lady like you should not be walking around alone at this time of night,” was a deep, male voice that brought you back to reality, sensing a life force so strong as to make your head spin and your core trembling in anticipation. 

And as you turned, you recognised the voice as that of Sihtric, the Lord approaching you cautiously so as not to frighten you. You could see the moonlight illuminating his features, its pale rays gently caressing his sharp features and highlighting the scars on his forehead and cheekbones. It was indeed a charming man, his hair half shaved, half combed into plaits that revealed a tattoo that started at the side of his head and reached down to his neck. But it was his eyes that struck you most: two beautiful bicoloured irises, barely covered by his dilated pupils, looking at you with a gaze full of love and anticipation. 

“This gracious lady can defend herself against the pitfalls of the night,” you retorted back, feigning offence at his words, which were welcomed with Sihtric’s loud chuckle. "I have no desire for protection,” you continued, noticing his fingers gripping the hilt of his swords, his body tensing in alarm. 

Your words make Sihtric calm down, his body relaxed and the grip on his sword became weak. “If it is not protection what you seek, then allow me to keep you company,” the Dane politely asked you, and you took this as an opportunity to finally feed your unsatisfied hunger: never had a prey voluntarily approached you. 

“It would be an honour to spend this peaceful night with you, Lord,” you replied in a soft and soothing voice, the same tone you used in his dreams. Your voice was music to his ears and Sihtric swallowed a lump in his throat, feeling his body heat up and his cheeks turn red at your words, the lust growing inside him.

And the two of you sat by the pond, watching the moon cast a beautiful play of light on the surface of the water. There was silence at first, the air filled with a thin layer of intimacy, then a brief pause in conversation as you became accustomed to each other's presence. You told Sihtric a half-truth, concealing your true identity and introducing yourself as a traveller who had travelled far and found her next resting place in Dunholm before continuing her journey. Sihtric told you his story, of how he had escaped his father's cruelty to serve a true lord, of the endless battles, from the simplest to the most violent, that he had fought to help Uhtred reclaim Bebbanburg, of how he had become the new lord of Dunholm, ruling over a land that knew nothing but cruelty and fear. He also told you how he struggled every day with his loneliness, and how not even the company of his friends could fill that void. 

“But then I saw you in my dreams,” Sihtric continued, closing the remaining distance between you. There was a fire in his eyes, a burning desire that could tame the fiercest of the beasts and the darkest of the creatures. A chill ran down your spine, and for the very first time you felt like the prey you hunted all your life. “And I could not believe that such a perfect creature could have been created by the gods,”

You held your breath, your head spinning, for many reasons: his strong, vital strength so close to you, an inviting, tantalising temptation; his gaze, dark with desire, looking at you as if he were peering into your soul; his deep, warm voice echoing in the night, a velvet murmur that hid such a powerful force to alter your senses and awaken your hidden desires. Sihtric was nothing like the ordinary men you had seduced and drained in the past: he was an experienced warrior and a handsome man, and a great challenge that stimulated you.

Without your spirit faltering at his declaration, you raised your hand, one of your fingers tracing the contour of his throat and Adam's apple until you forced his chin up. 

“I did not think you had such a strong devotion to your gods,” you replied with a smirk, your eyes dark as well. “But I am afraid I must warn you: I am anything but what you think I am, Lord,” your voice toned down, wrapping your arms around his neck and drawing him close. 

Your foreheads almost touched, your scent inviting enough to cloud Sihtric's mind, the Lord of Dunholm confused but not frightened: part of him would not believe your words, but the other part wanted nothing more than to make you his, craving your touch and the way your bodies would melt together.

"No witch is a product of the gods, for you have bewitched me," he whispered, tensing slightly as the word witch escaped his lips. He leaned closer again, the temptation to taste your lips strong, but you pushed him away slightly, shaking your head with a grin. 

"I am more than a mere witch, my lord," you replied boldly, your hands intertwining in an intricate embrace, his tattooed, calloused fingers meeting the smoothness of your skin. "I am a superior being, the darkness itself. Nothing a human can control," you continued, squeezing his hand in a tight vice. The conviction in your voice soon faltered when you felt his lips brushing against your wrist, kissing your veins with a tenderness that made you feel weak. 

"Then tell me who you are," Sihtric murmured against your flesh, his lips trailing down to your forearm. "Tell me your name." 

You sneered, shaking your head as you looked at him with your piercing gaze. "My name has power, and you are not yet worthy to bear it. But I am generous today and will allow you to call me whatever you wish."

With slow, fluid movements, Sihtric's lips shook your entire arm, reached for your shoulder and nibbled gently. Then he lifted his head, your lips almost touching. 

"Then allow me to call you mine," he whispered huskily, closing the distance between you with a deep, passionate kiss.

The night air warmed with a burning heat and unspoken desire, the sound of your muffled moans and gasping breaths echoing with the songs of the owls. Your lips met again and again in fierce kisses, your tongues dancing together as you swallowed each other's moans, your hands exploring your clothed bodies. Sihtric’s hands firmly held your back, pulling you close as his mouth claimed you again, a glimpse of his life force flowing in your veins.

All rational logic gave way to the most animal thoughts, an aura of lust enveloping you as a battle of possession took place between you: the two of you teasing each other, Sihtric rubbing your pulsing and sensitive spot as the palm of your hand brushed against his arousal, your touch so seductive it made him growl in your mouth. 

Sihtric arched his head back as you took him in your mouth, your head resting between his legs as you playfully teased the tip of his length, swallowing the salty taste of the pre-cum before wrapping your lips completely around his thickness, your head bobbing up so you could take all of him. He rolled his eyes and nibbled at his lower lips as you began your slow pace, ignoring the firm grip he had on your head, a few strands of hair held in place by his fist. Enjoying your sweet torture at first, his impatience grew and forced him to act, his loud moans turning to ragged breaths and heavy grunts as he began to move his hips in a desperate motion, lust destroying any resistance and ignoring the trembling of his legs. 

He soon came, allowing you to take all he had to give. As you released him, Sihtric felt his head spin, a sudden dizziness hit him as he tried to sit down on the grass, his body suddenly heavy and drained of energy. His eyes closed quickly as he rested his head on your shoulder, falling into a deep sleep as you tended to him. 

You absently scratched his head, licking your lips as you savoured the taste of his life energy feeding your primal hunger. However, the way he made you feel, how he boldly challenged your dark nature and how well he satisfied your lustful desires made you spare him. For how long you craved for his life to amplify your powers, you could not ignore the way he made your heart feel, the thump so ferocious you thought it could escape from your rib cage. 

With the thump of your heart you could not ignore, you leaned your head and gently kissed his forehead, watching him sleeping peacefully in your arms while the spark of the attraction had ignited, destined to burn brightly. 

It was supposed to be an easy hunt, to have him at your mercy. You were supposed to weaken him with your charm and your aura, kiss him and drain him of his life force, and then resume your hunt, your hunger sated, eager to feast on your next victim. 

But in truth it was Sihtric who tamed you: from the first moment you allowed him to call you his, to the way your head turned with each of his kisses, the touch of his calloused hands so diabolically seductive, the ghost of his lips still trailing across your body. No man had ever accepted you with such devotion, nor had you ever allowed him to go beyond the boundaries of a simple brush of your lips. 

But the truth was that you liked his attentions: you loved how Sihtric was a caring and attentive partner, the way he treated you made you forget you were born as a demonic creature. He ignored the trail of victims you left behind in the past, as well as your urge to quench your hunger and have a taste of his strong life force: he would be willing to sacrifice his own life to show you how strong his love was for you. 

You allowed Sihtric to be tempted by the devil, but in return you burned yourself in the flames of his heart. Sparing his life was your greatest act of love, not a mere act of mercy, as you always told yourself.

The days passed and your secret meetings continued after that night at the pond, each time finding a secluded spot when you both craved privacy. The flames of pleasure engulfed you each night, bruising kisses and grabs mixed with strangled moans and high-pitched whimpers as you fucked each other into oblivion, both of you leaving marks on your bodies and pulling at each other's hair. And each time the two of you came in unison, Sihtric's head would collapse in your lap as he allowed you to feed on his life force every time you needed to, as you accepted his physical act of loyalty to you, to finally be loved for who you really were and not hated for being a creature from hell. 

The more time you spent together, the stronger your bond became, an invisible thread that drew you closer together: a bond forged by the forces of the underworld, a dark twist of fate that led a human and a succubus to love each other, a sinister tapestry that defied the logic of fate. 

And the strength of your bond reached its peak when Sihtric, on a cold winter's night in his room, enjoyed your company before he was forced to leave you behind. A message had come from Bebbanburg and he was to rejoin Uhtred and Finan, summoned to resolve urgent matters. He had heard that King Edward’s rule was soon to be faltered, but never could tell that things would escalate so quickly. 

You both lay down in his bed, your hands exploring each other’s curves while your lips met again in a head-spinning kiss, none of you seemed to want to say goodbye to the other. For how long you refused to admit yourself, your heart ached at the feeling of spending your days without Sihtric at your side, and the thought you could lose him on the battlefield was a death sentence even worse than spending your eternal afterlife wrapped in the flames of Hell.   

"Let me come with you," you protested weakly as his lips pressed against yours, his bare arms holding you close as he feared you might escape his embrace. You had become extremely needy of his touch, your defences so low you could hardly recognise yourself. 

“No,” was his firm reply, as he kissed the contour of your lips, trailing down to your jaw and your neck. “This is not a war I will ask you to fight on my behalf,”

He then gently pushed you down, your back resting on the furs. “I will always find a way to come back to you,”

His lips trailed down again on your neck, his touch as light as a feather as his lips kept brushing on your skin, an attempt to cool your anger and to fill your disappointment. But this time you were not fooled by his actions, and you pushed him back with firmness.

“Are you really casting me aside, Sihtric?” you hissed, pushing him back again as you felt him approaching, a regretful expression painted on his face. “You cannot me leave me behind, not after the bond we built-“

“A bond I do not intend to break because I have answered the call of the lord I’m still serving,” Sihtric interrupted you with an authoritative tone, pushing you back on bed and caging you with his body. He could see the tears forming in your eyes, a sight that breaks his heart. Never had he seen you so vulnerable, nor had you ever allowed yourself to lower your defences. 

“I swear to you, on my Thor’s hammer, that I will do everything I am called to do to survive and to return to your arms,” the Dane spoke with a low and soft voice, lowering his head so he could kiss your forehead. “For now, let me take care of you for tonight, my devil lady,” 

With a faint nod of your head, you let him close the distance, sealing with a bittersweet kiss, a soft touch that soon became a desperate embrace of two souls forced to separate for a time you both could not quantify. And for the very first time you allowed yourself to raise down your barriers, crying in his arms as he squeezed you, his mouth swallowing all your faint sobs escaping from your throat. 

It was no longer a stay at his side for his life force, despite the fact that your demonic nature would yearn with all his being. You fell in love with everything about him: for the way he looked in his eyes, for the way he touched and loved you, mostly risking his own life to tame your demonic impulses: a respect and delicacy you would never find in another man, should you ever start another hunt. 

And with the same delicacy he took you that night, your lips exploring every nook and cranny of your body, whispering sweet words and praising you softly, his tongue crossing your throat as he found his way to your breast, teasing you with his hands and mouth, pinching and sucking your hardening nipples. Soon, your sobs turned into sharp breaths and moans, trembling at how good he made you feel. 

His hand slipped down to your stomach, his thick fingers rubbing down on your pulsing core, already wet with anticipation. A loud gasp escaped your lips as you felt one of his fingers inside you, your eyes rolling back at the slow thrust of his hand, fucking you with a steady pace. Sihtric lips trailed over your neck, kissing and nibbling as he quickened the pace, his self control abandoning him completely once he felt how good your walls were clenching on his finger.

“Look at you, my sweet devil is already so tight for me,” Sihtric murmured against your lips, swallowing another loud moan with an eager kiss. “I cannot wait to see how tight you will be around my cock,” 

You muttered nonsense words, pleasure engulfing your mind as you felt your head light as well as your body, your eyes shut from the pleasure you were receiving. You felt as if your own life force was abandoning you, letting you weaken and trembling.

You whined as you felt Sihtric’s finger slowly pulling out you, frustration rising as you well ready to reach the peak of your climax. When you opened your eyes you saw Sihtric holding your hip with one hand, the other hand giving himself a few strokes on his cock, throbbing with anticipation. He entered inside you with a swift motion, an inhuman grunt escaped his throat at how deliciously tight you were around his length. He set up a rough pace, fucking you restlessly as he could not control himself anymore. Whimpers and groans were the only audible things in the room, both of you teasing each other with kisses and nibbles, you often pulling on Sihtric’s wild curls, forcing him to expose his throat and biting it eagerly, leaving visible marks on his fair skin. 

The climax between you quickly raised as you both simultaneously were reaching your peaks, and his grip on your hips became rougher.

“Yes, come for me, my devil queen,” the Dane praised you with a low groan, loving how good was ravaging, how vulnerable you were under his control. “I want you to hear you shout my name while I fill you up,”

“Sihtric,” you whispered between loud moans, and while chanting his name over and over you both reach your peak, him spilling inside you while you coming over his thick length, a blissful feeling hit both of you as you both collapsed on your bed, his strong arms wrapping you as he left soft kisses on your temple. 

And it was when he fell asleep several minutes after that your demonic form showed up, your slender fingers rubbing over his curls as you watched your lover one last time before leaving you for war.

You both know, deep in your heart, that neither death cannot break your bond. 

Because he was bound to you, and you were bound to him. 

If you've come this far, thank you so much for reading my fic! Hope you enjoyed it!

Taglist: @whitedarkmoonflower @sihtricfedaraaahvicius @foxyanon @legitalicat @zaldritzosrose

@alexagirlie @sylasthegrim @lord-aldhelm @sihtricsafin @arcielee

[yanderes-galore]

May I possibly have a romantic yandere rivalry between bulgruff (the jarl of Whiterun) and jarl ulfric with last dragonborn nord darling? Also *offers holiday cookies* enjoy ^^

Sure you can! Sorry this was late ^^;

Yandere! Jarl Balgruuf vs Yandere! Jarl Ulfric

(Last Dragonborn! Nord! Darling)

Pairing: Romantic - Rivalry

Possible Trigger Warnings: Gender-Neutral Darling, Obsession, Rivalry, Violence, Manipulation, Possessive behavior, Jealousy, Blood mentioned, Murder, War, Kidnapping mentioned once, Marriage mentioned at times, Forced relationship implied.

According to the wiki, these two have some history together.

Balgruuf was originally a neutral party, not wishing to involve Whiterun in the civil war.

Yet Ulfric sees anyone who doesn't side with him as an enemy... forcing Balgruuf to side with the Imperials.

Overall this becomes not only a yandere rivalry... but a fight between Imperials and Stormcloaks.

You being The Last Dragonborn would certainly make the obsession worse.

The two would not only like the Dragonborn to be on their side... but it appears they also wish to court you too.

Which brings up old rivalries between the two Jarls.

You met the two relatively close together.

Ulfric was there when you were to be executed before Alduin crashed the execution.

Then you met Balgruuf later and became an ally.

You most likely didn't involve yourself in the civil war conflict until later, too busy dealing with dragons and Miraak to bother.

Despite this, both Jarls have kept track of your progress.

Balgruuf meets you more often, especially during the Alduin crisis.

He's had a spouse before... but she's never brought up during the events of Skyrim.

So for this... we can assume she's just not in the picture.

Balgruuf is used to you aiding Whiterun.

He's provided you hospitality as you were finding yourself... but now look at you!

A skilled Dragonborn and hero who has visited every city there is in Skyrim.

The Jarl of Whiterun finds himself falling for you each time you enter Whiterun to visit.

Even more so if you happen to have an Amulet of Mara on your person.

Then there's Ulfric who comes across you a few times.

Such as when you trap a dragon in Whiterun and when you visit Windhelm for trade.

Of course Ulfric has heard of you, you're a hero and a well-known Nord.

Part of him no doubt wishes to recruit you since he feels you understand his plight as a fellow Nord.

Another part of him feel his heart speed up when he notices you with an Amulet of Mara around your neck.

All this time and you're not claimed?

Courting you begins to be like some sort of power play between the two.

Unlike a General Tullius vs Ulfric Stormcloak rivalry... Balgruuf and Ulfric are both Nords.

So they'll be settling this the Nord way.

Through honorable battle.

I imagine things only get more complicated if you are not a neutral party.

They'd act differently if you sided with Imperials or Stormcloaks.

Siding with Imperials, Balgruuf goes along with it and follows that side with you.

Siding with Stormcloaks, Ulfric praises you and has you storm Whiterun by his side.

I imagine their rivalry would conclude when Whiterun is attacked or when Windhelm is.

Be you a defender or an attacker... it ends there.

If Ulfric wins the battle of Whiterun, he'd walk right up to Balgruuf and fight him.

Ulfric may just kill the Jarl there, he didn't just send his men there... he wanted to end that Jarl himself due to you....

It feels nice to plunge his blade into Balgruuf's gut... watching the blood spill before Ulfric turns to you.

Afterwards, Ulfric may just take you away by force if you're Imperial.

Then there's an alternate version where you storm Windhelm and have General Tullius end Ulfric.

Ulfric would've died happy by your hands... but you don't give him the satisfaction.

Balgruuf wouldn't loved to slit Ulfric's throat himself....

Afterwards Balgruuf would summon you back to Whiterun... no doubt to propose.

There's many different ways to tackle this, especially with their already established rivalry between one another.

If you're neutral in the war then one of them may just kidnap you (Most likely Ulfric).

I don't doubt they'd kill each other.

Especially if it meant one of them got you.

War or not, the two won't compromise when it comes to you.

Balgruuf thinks you could be a wonderful parent to his children in Whiterun.

While Ulfric thinks you could help him fix Skyrim as his spouse.

Who wins no doubt depends on your choices and the war as a whole...

Hopefully you make the right choices.