Ichor Echoes

Built upon the bones of dead gods, the world of Celeste is home to Humans and Kynd, supernatural humanoids closer to divinity but heavily outnumbered. They may be gods among men, but Kynd are a mere flea to Man; thus, they are forced to keep their nature hidden as they exist among lesser beings. The Kynd currently recognized are Vampyre, Cypher, Nephylem, Wytch, Theryan, Vestyge, and Shyfter. The Archives of Celeste is an overarching universe detailing the stories of Kynd as they struggle in secret within the confines of society and Humanity while retaining their own. This will be where I share the lore for this universe; all my notes are in Scrivener, but I wanted a something pretty to look at. I'm exclusively working on original stories from here on. My old fanfics will remain posted and are tagged under "lwfanfic." The Archives of Celeste

[ichor-echoes]

WOW I haven't touched this blog in TWO YEARS. I've moved away from fanfiction (clearly) BUT I have not stopped writing... sort of. Been worldbuilding and think I'm gonna shift this blog into a hub for my lore :3

Gonna be going through a lot of change, including a name change (idk what yet), but if you see this post-change, this was "lockewrites"

[ichor-echoes]

An Offer of Alliance

When Death Becomes Devotion - Chapter I

Rhegan (2nd-Person) x Gortash || SFW || 954 words AO3

NOT A RETELLING - just focusing on specific scenes

The Dark Urge break into Gortash's home with an offer.

He’ll be returning home soon; you know his schedule well by this point. 

You slip through the window, the shadows of the night obscuring you from the passing city guards. The study is littered with contraptions, half-worked metal and sketches covering nearly every surface. Looking them over, you can see the genius behind the ink and charcoal, even if you can’t follow all of the intricacies. 

The front door opens with a faint creak, and you disappear into the dark as you wait. His boots sound up the steps, and you ready your dagger, palming the leather hilt. 

A soft click, and the door beside you swings open, letting in the light of the hall and illuminating a man’s silhouette. 

In an instant, your blade is held to his throat, and his body stiffens under your touch.

“Enver Gortash,” you speak, lips right near his ear.

He raises his hands. “The very same. And by whom do I have the pleasure of being held at knifepoint?”

You tilt the knife, letting your knuckles rest under his jaw to feel his pulse. It’s steady, raised only slightly. 

“My dear family calls me ‘The Dark Urge,’” you reply. “I’ve been looking forward to meeting you for quite some time.”

“‘The Dark Urge,’” he repeats, a smile in his tone. “A pleasure to meet you , though I must prefer a more face-to-face introduction.”

The metal presses even deeper against his throat, more a tease than a threat, and his pulse remains a consistent beat. You and your weapon disappear in a cloud of dark smoke, your form returning in a chair opposite the room. Kicking your leg over the other, you lean back and tilt your head.

He watches you, though little is revealed behind your armor and mask, your eyes the only glimpse of your being. 

“Much more civilized,” Gortash remarks. “So, what is it I’ve done to earn your attention?”

“The cult keeps an eye on any upstarts in this city,” you reply, pointing at him with your dagger. “And you’ve been of particular interest.”

Gortash’s brow quirks. “Which cult is that?”

“My father’s.” Your leg begins to bounce. “The Lord of Murder.”

“Bhaal.”

“The very same.”

“So, another Bhaalspawn seeks control of the city?” His mouth twists into a smirk. “If I recall correctly, that hadn’t quite worked out last time.”

You return the smile, though it’s hidden. “My goals are not those of that failure, Sarevok.”

He clasps his hands behind his back, waiting for you to continue. 

“I’ve spent much of my life rebuilding what he destroyed,” you explain. “I will do anything necessary to ensure my family is safe. The cult is an easy rallying point for politicians who have nothing more to offer than an empty promise to eradicate us.” 

Your gaze flickers to his arms, looking for any movement, any sign of attack, but Gortash remains still. 

“Preying on the fear of civilians is an easy means of garnering support. They never have the opportunity, of course,” you add with a shrug. “I don’t tolerate threats.”

“Is this a preemptive strike, then?” he asks. “I’ve made no such promises to the city.”

“Quite the opposite, actually,” you say, playing with your blade between your fingers. “I come offering an alliance.”

In all your time watching the man, you’d never seen surprise cross his face until now.

“You’ve piqued my interest.” His arms return to his side. “To what end?”

“Success and survival.” Pushing off from the chair, you return to your feet and slip your weapon back into your belt. “I ensure you rise to power, you ensure my dearest devoted aren’t hunted.”

Gesturing toward you, he asks, “I assume you have more to offer than shallow words.”

“We can reach depths your Black Hand couldn’t fathom,” you answer. “We abound in the city’s shadows, stealing not only lives but secrets as well. I give the instruction, and that theft is directed at those who stand in your way.”

“I’ve never known Bhaalists to refrain from carnage long enough to find value in secrets,” Gortash replies, crossing his arms while the smirk remains in place.

“Rampant and thoughtless murder does nothing to keep my family safe,” you say, waving your hand as though the notion is obvious. “We can’t properly worship Bhaal if in prison or dead ourselves, and death at the hands of the guard is not one of worth.”

You begin to wander through the room, looking closer at his schematics as you speak.

“Our continued existence and efficiency rely on planning,” you explain as you lift one of his many papers. It depicts the inner workings of a very complex crossbow. “Planning requires knowledge, and what better knowledge is there than that no one was meant to learn?”

“A rather shrewd approach,” he says, his eyes following your every move. “I admit I’m impressed. But there is no give without take. What exactly do you expect from me?”

“A buffer,” you reply, “between us and the city. A distraction. Protection. You keep the ‘sword of justice’ pointed elsewhere, and you convince the masses there’s nothing to fear in the shadows.”

He runs his finger across his chin in thought. “Both of our lords would benefit greatly.”

You smile, noting the hooks sinking in. “Bane receives his coveted power.”

“And Bhaal his death,” Gortash adds. His hands return behind him as he looks off into nothing. “It’s an enticing offer. You’ve given me much to consider, and I’ll need time to think things through, as I’m sure you understand.” His gaze meets yours. “When I come to a decision, how will I find you?”

Your grin widens, though still hidden behind cloth. “I will come to you.”

[ichor-echoes]

Durge!Reader being comforted by Halsin

Reader (gender not specified) x Halsin || SFW-ish (slightly violent) || 2390 words AO3

From anon on Tumblr: I feel like theres a real lack of Halsin/durge fics, specifically him helping her after denying to kill, and I think you’d be amazing for this!!

SPOILERS FOR DURGE IN ACT II - wrote the scene Larian denied us with Halsin as our LI :3

You lie on your bedroll, the stars hidden behind the cloth of your tent, the air within suddenly feeling as though it’s not enough to breathe. Sitting up, a wave of nausea roils through you, bile eating away at the back of your throat; each breath in creates a ripple in your gut. You crawl out of your tent, desperate for the open air; your movements are slow as you push to your feet, fearing your stomach will empty itself.

This sensation is certainly not a stranger; you’ve felt it a number of times since waking from the illithid pod. 

The campfire has long since died, and with it is the absence of your companions, each lost in a trance or dreams. You’re grateful for the solitude; they’re aware of your… general situation, or at least as much of it as you know yourself, but they needn’t see you in such a state. 

Your eyes flicker to Halsin’s tent; the druid had quickly drawn your interest upon joining the party. It began solely as a physical attraction; the sheer size certainly was enticing, and his Wild Shape, that very nature spoke to the feral instincts inside you. But his gentle temperament despite the power he holds, both physical and arcane, is an enigma to you, and him extending that soft touch to you, someone who certainly does not deserve it… the interest had quickly shifted to something deeper. 

And for reasons you still couldn’t fathom, it’d been reciprocated. 

Without realizing, you find yourself having approached his tent, your hand reaching to open it. 

“He believes you’ve relieved the weight of his worries, returning him to himself.”

You spin to find a despicable creature standing behind you; decaying skin stretched taut over sharp bones, beady red eyes looking past you at Halsin’s tent. Sceleritas Fel. 

“Such delusions, to think you a savior. As though you aren’t the heaviest burden to wrap around his neck, until he breathes his last, losing himself forever.”

Your mouth pulls into a sneer, and you take a step to block his view.

“You could do so much better, Milady,” the butler says, shaking his head. 

“Back off, you rotten gremlin,” you hiss, your fists clenching. “You won’t touch him.”

He holds his hands up, unphased by your words. “I won’t lay so much as a talon on the elf.” His pointed teeth show in his malicious smile. “I wouldn’t rob you of that delight.”

A sharp pain beats through your head as you stare the creature down; the evidence apparent in your expression. 

“Your clever mind is penning tragedy as we speak,” he remarks, pointing at you. “Your repressed Urge yearns to kill.” His voice drips with something akin to desire. “And kill you will. Tonight, the moment you close your eyes, your favorite person will be brutalized.”

“But I love him.” Your words are quiet, yet they startle you, spilling from your lips of their accord. Are you surprised by the admission? So early in your journey? Or is it that you don’t know whether you’re truly capable of such a thing?

“We all kill what we love most, in time,” Sceleritas replies. “He is so beneath you; his very presence infects the air with a sickeningly sweet stench. His pure heart would be better served floating in a jar.”

With each utterance, bile crawls further and further up to your throat. 

“Halsin believes I’m stronger than this,” you mutter, more to yourself. “He won’t come to harm by my hand. I haven’t even yet told him how I feel.”

“Why not whisper it while you twist a knife?” He smirks. “Or have a love confession be the final words between you.” Sceleritas leans toward you. “It is my duty to ensure you are making the right decisions, Master. There was much disappointment at your reluctance to kill the little Moonmaiden.” 

Your glare sharpens, suspicion growing and nearly pulling a snarl from your chest.

“You could kill this one deliberately,” he explains. “I’m sure it will be considered a great show of goodwill. The tithe could still be yours.”

The pain stabs through your head again, forcing your eyes shut as you grimace. Your instinct gnaws at your mind, and your Urge claws and screams beneath your skin. 

Forcing your eyes open, you speak through clenched teeth. “Perhaps I sate the Urge by killing you.”

“Oh, my dear Lady.” He shakes his head and smiles. “It’s been many a time I’ve had the pleasure of experiencing your malice personally. But my death means little to your father and the Urge.”

The thought of his death at your hand would be satisfying, but you feel the honesty in his words; it would be far too shallow a victory to quiet the Urge.

“I won’t do it.” Your nails threaten to break the skin of your palms. “I will keep him safe. From you. And from me.” 

He tilts his head. “I do not doubt you will act with the decorum befitting one of your rank.” His head dips, giving a bow just as his body glows an eerie red. “Good night, sweet Lady.” 

His body disappears in a moment, leaving you alone with your back to Halsin’s tent. With a deep breath, you will your jaw and fists to relax; the lingering pain offering a bit of comfort as you wrack your mind on what to do. 

You turn, reaching up to open the flap of Halsin’s tent, leaving a dark spot where your fingers touch. A metallic tinge spills into your nose, and you look down to see your hands streaked with blood, spilling from half-moon wounds in the middle of your palm. Without thinking, you run your tongue across your skin, the taste sending a shiver down your spine as your breath wavers. 

Your movements freeze, the Urge rising in your chest, desperate to taste blood spilled from a body you crave.

“No,” you whisper to yourself, as though simply speaking would placate it. “Not Halsin.”

You dare to step through, finding Halsin lying on his bedroll, still deep in his trance, unaware of the looming threat to his life. Kneeling beside him, your bloodied hands hover above his throat; it would be so easy to spill his life with a simple slice of your dagger. 

“Stop,” you plead to yourself, to your hands. 

They move to his shoulders and give him a shake. “Halsin,” you utter, hoping to not wake the others. He doesn’t react. “Halsin!”

He wakes with a start, sitting up and gripping your arms in concern. “What’s wrong?”

Your lips part, but you struggle to find the words. 

Halsin’s hands move to your wrists, turning them to view your still-bleeding hands.

“Speak to me,” he pleads, looking at you with fear and concern, visible even in the dark.

“You’re in danger,” you breathe, not entirely confident your words are loud enough for him to hear. 

His brow furrows. “From what?”

“Me.”

His mouth opens, and you half-expect a lighthearted remark, but perhaps your severe gaze makes him hesitate. Halsin’s grasp slides to rest on either side of your face, his warmth filling you and quelling the nausea still tainting your stomach. 

“Whatever is going on,” he begins, his thumbs brushing away tears that you hadn’t known spilled, “we will get through it, but I need to know what’s happening.”

You blink, his image going in and out of focus. “I… My… My mind isn’t my own,” you cry.

Each word given steals more and more of your energy, leaving your body on the cusp of failing; your vision grows tunneled and red as a headache splits through your skull, the pain unlike anything you’ve experienced before. 

You feel the last of your consciousness slipping, but you must get out what has your heart in a vice grip. You slip from Halsin’s touch, stumbling backward against the tent’s flaps.

“It wants to kill you, and I… I don’t know what to do. I can’t lose you.”

He leans toward you. “You won’t lose me,” Halsin promises. “Our time together has only begun.” He interrupts himself with a heavy sigh. “You’ve shared a touch of your troubles with me, but this is far beyond anything you’ve said. To hold such a burden alone will destroy you. You could have confided in me.”

“I’m…” Even with the absence of any of your strength, you somehow draw further back; your vision becomes nothing more than a blur, the world spinning beneath you, and your throat burns with bile. “I’m sor—” You collapse into the dirt. 

Whatever time that’s passed is lost to you, waking near the dead campfire with your hands bound behind your back and any semblance of control over your Urge gone. Your body thrashes, your wrists twisting and pulling against the rope, its flesh tearing into your own. 

“Calm yourself,” Halsin orders, his voice sounding authoritative, as if speaking to one of his druids. “My magic cannot penetrate what plagues you. You, your will, will conquer this.”

Your mouth tastes of iron; vile desires gather on your tongue, the Urge itself commanding your body. You try to focus on Halsin, your eyes pleading that he sees you’re trying, even if not successful.

“I know you are still in there.” 

His words are soft, sweet… they sicken the Urge. 

You lurch forward, your teeth seeking to clamp down on any piece of Halsin, wanting to tear the meat from his bones, devouring him raw. 

He doesn’t flinch, but his jaw sets. “I’ve handled the most feral of animals. Your fangs are no threat to me.”

The response sends the Urge over the edge, your limbs pulling with all of your strength, no regard given for any injuries caused by their own actions. The rope breaks through your raw skin, blood soaking the binds.

“Easy, my heart,” Halsin says. “Your strength is greater than this curse, and I will grant you my own alongside. You will not suffer this alone.”

You hold his promise in your chest, hoping it blooms bright enough to allow you to express your gratitude. You try to speak, but all that escapes is a harsh growl that tears through your throat.

“A growl means little from a trapped beast,” he remarks. “But you can escape this. I will see you free of this affliction.”

Tears that feel like acid fill your eyes, and you can’t tell whether it’s frustration and anger from the Urge or fear and dread from you. Your body is beaten inside and out, exhaustion’s hands wrapped around your throat. Still, it fights against your bindings, even as your consciousness slips back into the dark. 

“Let your mind rest,” he says. “Your body will soon follow.”

Again, you don’t know how long you’re out, but at some point, you come to. You feel sticky, your clothes clinging to your sweat-slicked skin; your head still pounds, and your stomach still turns, but your mind is once again your own. As your vision clears, you let out a sigh of relief; Halsin remains in front of you, mercifully unharmed.

His gaze holds yours, searching for you. And he finds you. 

Rising to his feet, he steps behind you and cuts your binds; your freed arms settle in your lap, the muscles screaming, and your wrists and hands caked in dried blood. Tentative, you flex your fingers, the maroon stain cracking and falling from your skin.

Halsin returns in front of you and sits back down. His expression is relieved, but as the seconds pass, it shifts to something far more serious. 

“I am overjoyed to have you back,” he begins, “but we need to discuss what happened.”

Your head drops, shame filling you. With a deep breath, you let everything out: divulging the severity of your Dark Urge, how often it haunts your thoughts and dreams, the little creature that calls himself your butler, your mysterious father you’re supposed to please.

Those hazel eyes are hard, his brows pinched; Halsin is deep in his thoughts, sifting through the heavy truth you’ve just shared. And all you can do is sit and wait, anxiety boiling within as you await his response. Will he claim you too dangerous to live? An unnatural being, something that disrupts the world’s balance? Perhaps simply cast you out, banish you from the camp as he’s unable to bring himself to end you? 

Your hands are suddenly gifted his warmth, his own gently caressing yours. He dips a rag in a bowl of water beside him and begins cleaning your wounds, his touch impossibly gentle.

“In all my years, I’ve not come across anything quite like this,” he finally speaks. “But I stand by my words. You will not lose me. And I will not let you lose yourself to this Urge.”

He puts the rag aside and casts a healing spell; the golden glow fills the space between you, and the torn skin pulls back together. Your wrists still ache, still feel some remnant of the deep injuries, but it’s barely more than a pinprick to you. 

His hands remain on yours, but you feel disgusted and have to fight the temptation to pull away. You should be left to rot, ended now to protect everyone around, to protect him.

“I’m a monster,” you mutter, unable to meet his gaze. “I’ve taken countless lives. I don’t even know the depth of my crimes. I’m an abomination now, and I know… I just know I was fully embracing this Dark Urge before I lost my memories.” Your throat feels as though it’s being stabbed. “You should end me.”

Your head is guided up, his thumb under your chin and forcing you to look at him.

“The Urge is a monster,” he argues. “You, the person you are now, is utterly incredible. And having learned just how hard a battle you face with this evil, I am in awe.”

The tears fall from your cheeks, and while you still don’t believe you deserve a single utterance he’s given, you’re grateful beyond what words could express.

Halsin wipes them away, and his hands remain along your jaw. 

“We will free you from this abomination,” he swears, “and your mind, your heart, your soul, will be entirely yours. And you will see just how extraordinary you are.”

[ichor-echoes]

Reader working on a spell with Halsin

Reader (gender not specified) x Halsin || SFW || 1910 words AO3

From anon on Tumblr: I looove your work 😍 I was wondering whether you could write something with Halsin and a druid apprentice reader. Maybe where the reader gets frustrated that they can’t seem to get a spell right and he shows them very hands on? 👀

You’d seen Halsin cast it numerous times, usually to calm or entertain one of the children, and it always brought a smile to your face. Such simplicity, or so it seemed, yet here you sit in the grass, hunched over with a flower in pre-bloom between your fingers, refusing to open at your command. 

“In flore,” you whisper, trying so hard to keep the frustration from seeping into your spell casting, and the result is exactly what you expect. 

A glimmer of magic ebbs from your fingertips and surrounds the blossom before disappearing entirely, the flower just as hidden behind green as it was before.

The bashful flower falls into the grass and you drop your hands into your lap, defeated. You’ve tried casting the spell in as many ways as you could think: one hand grasping the stem, the other guiding the magic; both hands holding it and letting the magic spill free; enunciating very purposefully; whispering and letting your tongue move with fluidity; combining all of the methods you know to cast spells, and still this damned flower refuses to bloom for you.

Asking Halsin is an option, but to ask for help with something so mundane with all the chaos going on felt absolutely silly. 

With a deep sigh and a shake of your hands, as if to be rid of your failed castings from your fingertips, you steel your mind to try again. The flower remains between the blades of grass, and your hands hover just over it as you speak.

“In flore.” 

Again, iridescent whorls spill from your fingers, wrapping around the flower and lifting it just a touch into the air. It wobbles as your magic attempts to penetrate the bud, but just as before, it begins to wane.

“In flore!” you hiss, unwilling to let the magic die. 

It grows brighter for a moment, but only a moment.

“In flore!” 

Your voice is nearing a shout, and your magic surges, tearing through the green coverings and into the petals; the flower you desperately sought to free falls to the ground in colorful shreds. 

“Dammit!”

“Is everything all right?”

You whip your head around and find Halsin approaching with concern in his gaze. With his size, you're forced to crane your neck the closer he gets until he mercifully kneels beside you. His eyes fall on the pathetic-looking flower before returning to yours. 

“I was just…” Your lips press together as you look down at your failure and blush. “I was trying a spell and not having much success.”

His brow furrows a moment before softening as he settles on the ground in front of you, the dead flower lying between you. 

“What were you trying to cast?”

Your gaze flickers between the flower and him, and you let out a resigned sigh. “It’s silly,” you say. “I… was trying to make the flower bloom. Like I’ve seen you do.”

Halsin smiles. “Would you like some help?” he offers.

He holds his hand out toward you, and in a moment, a stemless bud appears in his palm. His other hand hovers over it, and in a soft voice he speaks, “In flore.” 

The green sepals slowly open, revealing layers and layers of blood-red petals. 

“Show off,” you tease.

With a chuckle, his hand waves over his other, and the flower disappears behind green once again. Holding it out toward you, he places it delicately in your palm. 

“Let me see,” he instructs. 

You release a sigh, your shoulders slumping in preeminent defeat as you know exactly how this demonstration will end; it was frustrating enough failing alone, but now to do so in front of Halsin…

The bud remains closed in your hand, waiting patiently for you, just the same as the druid. After a few moments of staring at it, you raise your other hand to hover just over it, mimicking the movements Halsin performed.

“In flore.” 

Your voice is soft but firm, and in a moment, iridescence spills from your fingers once more, wrapping around the bud and disappearing under the sepals. It begins to rise, the magic lifting the hidden flower and spinning ever-slowly. Your chest lightens, a breath of hope filling you. 

Your eyes dare a glance at Halsin and find him staring at you, rather than the spell between your fingers. Heat pools in your cheeks, and you drop your gaze back down to your hands.

Suddenly, the shimmering tendrils escape the flower and constrict around its fragile greenery, leaving nothing more than a pitiful lump in your hand. 

An irritated breath forces through your nose as your hands fall back into your lap. 

“You’re casting the magic well,” Halsin explains, drawing your attention away from the flower, “but you must also reach out to nature itself.”

You must give him a look that earns you a warm chuckle. He reaches out, his fingertips grazing your palm as he takes the bud from you.

“Let’s ignore the flower for now,” he suggests, placing it on the ground beside him. “Close your eyes.”

You do as he asks, letting him guide you without hesitation. 

“Allow your breaths to grow deep and steady,” Halsin continues, his voice quiet and soothing. “In and out.”

“This feels like guided meditation,” you remark, opening your eyes to glance at him.

His fingers brush over your eyelids, prompting them back shut and giving you a lungful of his forest-like scent. His touch leaves your skin tingling, even as fleeting as it was. 

“Sorry,” you mutter, trying to ignore that your face is on fire. 

“In and out,” he repeats. “Feel the wind filling your chest. The very breath of nature accompanying yours.”

It doesn’t quite come naturally to you, focusing on little more than your breath and the wind. You shift your mind to his instructions: ‘In and out.’ His voice, like warm velvet, wraps around your thoughts, and you breathe in time to his words. 

With each inhale, his words become like whispers, and you no longer hear them within but as if carried in the air. They pull through your senses and spread to your limbs.

“Good,” Halsin says. “Now, listen to nature’s heartbeat. The rustle of leaves, the shifting of blades of grass, the calls of wildlife, the harmony of creation existing together.”

Your breath continues steadily as you push your focus outward, seeking out the melodies Halsin spoke of. The wind picks up a bit, rushing past your ears and blocking any minute sounds you’d otherwise hear.

A finger crooks under your chin, guiding your head up; you hadn’t noticed you tucked in toward your chest in your attempt to listen.

“Relax your face,” he instructs. 

His fingers slide down your neck, and you suppress a shiver; his hand stops just under your collarbone, resting against your sternum, and you're sure he can feel your increasing heartbeat. 

“Focus on your heartbeat,” Halsin says. “Nature’s own will find you.”

He removes his hand, and you immediately miss its heat, but you try to ignore the longing and heed his instruction.

He’s certainly aided in making your heartbeat easier to listen to; it pounds, not quite in your ears, but you feel it heavy in your chest. You focus on its steady — and slightly rapid — pumping: th-thump. th-thump. th-thump. 

Some time passes in silence, nothing but your heartbeat; you’re about to speak up, tell Halsin this isn’t working, when you hear the faintest rustle. The wind has stopped, you hadn’t noticed when, yet the rustling grows louder and falls in time with your heart rate. More sounds join in, as though new instruments are being added one at a time to a composition; a bird’s song, trees creaking, a squirrel’s chitter, and… and another steady beat. 

“Excellent.” Halsin’s voice somehow sounds as distant as the birdsong and as close as a whisper in your ear. “You’re breathing it in, hearing it. Now, feel it.”

Your brow quirks.

“Feel nature’s caress against your skin,” he explains. “Feel its heartbeat within your own. Inside and out.”

You return your mind to the symphony of the world surrounding the both of you, inviting it to wrap itself around you. The wind, though nearly still, brushes across your face and arms with the barest touch; it slips through your lips and wraps around your tongue, offering a hint of pine and herbs. You swallow the taste, feeling it settle in your stomach and overflow into your chest, joining your heartbeat with its own. 

The entirety of your body is synchronized with nature’s breath and heart; you’ve never felt quite so… whole. 

A new pulse joins the rhythm; its origin feeling far closer than the ethereal sensations you’re sure are from the spirit of nature itself. Warmth engulfs your hand and guides it forward until it’s flat against Halsin’s chest; his heat seeps through his tunic into your palm. 

“You feel it,” he remarks. His hand remains atop yours. “We are all connected. Existing within nature, nature existing within us, our own beings existing with one another.”

After some moments of simply existing together, he speaks again. “Open your eyes.”

You find him watching you with a proud grin, and you can’t help but return it. 

He releases you and conjures a fresh bud, dropping it into your hand before cupping yours with his. The other hovers, just as it had before, and he casts the spell once again. 

“In flore.” His words are accompanied by faint whispers that were hidden from you before; they seem to ebb from the magic itself, or perhaps are simply drawn to the magic, following it as it disappears into the flower. A moment later, it blooms, this time into a purple peony. 

“What was that?” you ask, a bit in awe. “I heard something when you cast the spell.”

“Nature,” he replies, smiling, his pride seeping into the crinkles of his eyes. “This type of magic requires nature to be an active participant. It’s only successful when the caster and nature exist in harmony.”

“It’s amazing,” you reply, still looking at the flower. Such a simple spell, yet it needs such an understanding of the ways of the druids; you had taken Halsin’s ease of casting it for granted, it seems. 

“Would you like to try again?” 

Halsin watches you expectantly, and you can’t bring yourself to deny him, even now knowing how daunting a task opening a flower truly is.

“Sure,” you reply, giving a shy smile. 

With a single wave of his hand, the flower closes.

You take a deep breath, closing your eyes and trying to recall all of what Halsin walked you through; it doesn’t feel quite as strong as when he guided you, even with his touch still on your hand, but you manage to reclaim some semblance. 

“In flore.” 

Your magic flows forward into the flower bud, but there are no whispers in response, and you can’t help the disappointment that settles within you. Before the spell can destroy this flower, you release it with a frown.

“This was not a failure,” Halsin assures, giving you a gentle squeeze. 

“It certainly looks like one,” you remark with a sheepish chuckle.

“You were able to embrace the spirit of nature,” he counters. “That’s not an easy feat for those who haven’t dedicated their life to such things.”

“Well,” you reply with a blush and a smile, “I had quite the guide. This was… enlightening. Thank you.”

[ichor-echoes]

Reader giving Halsin a massage

Reader (gender not specified) x Halsin || Semi-NSFW (suggestive) || 1332 words AO3

POST-GAME SPOILERS FOR HALSIN

From @thecaptainsassistant (it won't let me properly tag you D:) - Hi, I saw you posted recently about HalsinxReader oneshots and was wondering if you'd be willing to write one with a human femReader ranger giving Halsin a back-rub (can be any degree of citrus rating you like). Have a lovely day!

You find yourself watching him without meaning to, your eyes often idly drifting to his form whenever he’s near and his attention is not yours to claim. A book had been keeping you company for some time as you sought quiet from the bustle of refugees attempting to reclaim some semblance of stability in Thaniel’s realm, but Halsin rarely stops for breath. Constantly hurrying from place to place, ensuring all were taken care of; exhausting to watch, let alone experience, but it warms your heart all the same… as well as casts worry in your mind.

Hunched over his desk, his hand moves fiercely back and forth as he pens his thoughts and plans, always anticipating the next step, the possible consequences, whose skills would suit the task best. The quill against the scroll echoes in the room, and you can’t help but shake your head. He simply never stops.

The book closes with a soft thump, and you place it on the end table before approaching Halsin. As you near, his posture shifts, straightening and turning slightly to glance at you from the corner of his gaze. Even with the weight of this new responsibility, the distractions and obligations, he never loses sight of you.

“What is it, my heart?” he asks, the scratching of the quill finally halting.

You rest your backside against the edge of his desk and look down at him, one of the few times you don’t need to crane your neck to meet his hazel eyes. Reaching out, your fingers cup his jaw, your palm on his chin as your thumb trails across his lips. Gaze taking him in, you note the shadows beneath his eyes, the tinge of pink in his sclera, and a new heaviness in the rise and fall of his breaths.

“You need to rest,” you say, voice quiet yet firm.

“I will,” he replies as he presses a fleeting kiss against your thumb.

“Now,” you insist, gripping his chin gently, as if to punctuate the word.

Halsin smiles, but it’s not enough to hide the weariness that holds him. He places the quill in the inkpot as his other hand rests on your thigh; you know the movement well, an attempt at distracting you from your concerns. Not a promise of intimacy, as that would draw him away from his duties, but an intimate enough gesture he knows has an effect on you. You can’t think of your worry for him if you’re too focused on his touch, what those fingers have done, what those fingers could do.

Your eyes flicker to his hand before returning to his gaze; your expression is wholly unimpressed.

“I will be finished shortly,” he promises.

He’s an honest man and would typically never dare make such false utterances toward you, but the integrity is pliant when it comes to his own well-being. It’s a lie he’s told you numerous times, and after the first few, you learned it’s never ‘shortly.’

You’re not without your own techniques, however. Pushing off the desk, you step behind him, your hand sliding down his neck and resting just beneath his collarbones as the other joins it; your arms around him, his warmth spilling into your chest as you embrace him from behind.

His muscles shift beneath you as he leans back and places his hands over yours, the tautness in his movements noticeable even through your clothing.

You slip your hands from his and move them to his shoulders, giving a tentative squeeze before kneading the hard flesh under your fingers.

An involuntary groan escapes him, his head falling forward in an instant.

“It’ll take me longer if you continue distracting me,” he warns, though the way his head sways ever-slightly as your fingers work at his stressed muscles betrays the insincerity in his words.

A smile plays on your lips, knowing he won’t deny you much longer. Halsin had always been so pliant under your touch, though it wasn’t until more recently you had realized. Leaning down, your lips press against the back of his neck, the sun-kissed skin warm and filling your senses with hints of oak and herbs; you breathe him in, the scent having become your home after all you’d been through.

Your hands continue massaging away his stress, earning you more poorly stifled moans. He’s losing this battle, and you both know it.

Halsin’s loose hair falls over your fingers as his head tips backward; he looks at you with that hazel gaze, his eyes holding a mix of adoration and exasperation.

With a smirk, you lower your face to his, claiming a kiss that he immediately melts into.

“Come on,” you insist after you pull away. “And I’ll finish what I started.”

He blinks at you a few times before sighing and pushing away from the desk.

Taking his hand, you lead him to the bed but stop him before he can sit. You undo the laces of his tunic, pushing the fabric to the floor and exposing his beautiful torso. After a greedy glance, you motion for him to lie down as you pull a bottle of oil from your nightstand.

“On your stomach.” Your voice is soft but commanding, and he obeys with a chuckle.

Once he’s settled, you climb onto the bed and straddle his thick waist, letting most of your weight rest against him.

“Not often I’m the one face down on the bed,” Halsin remarks, and though you can’t see it, you hear the smile in his voice.

You hum and tilt your head, admiring him beneath you. “It’s quite a view,” you reply as you rub the oil between your fingers.

The smell of lavender and orchid fills the air as you press your fingers into his skin; it doesn’t take long to find knots, the weight of rebuilding Reithwin and caring for those brought over from Baldur’s Gate heavy on his broad shoulders. While the land healed and continues to do so, and Halsin and you escape the town on occasion and venture into the land’s wilderness, it’s not quite enough to free either of you, but especially Halsin, of the constant worries that come with such a responsibility.

He doesn’t speak, and other than his occasional relaxed hum that vibrates beneath your hands, the room is quiet. Peaceful and withdrawn enough that it feels as though you two are in your own world, and you adore these moments. Halsin is hesitant to express such sentiments, but you know he would have collapsed under the pressure he places upon himself if not for these escapes.

You pay no mind to the time past, only stopping once your fingers and arm risk giving out.

He peeks backward at you. “Finished already?” he teases as you shake out your arms.

There was once a time he’d have fought you on pampering him so, but it was a fight he soon conceded when he learned you would never give up and it makes you happy; not to mention, it provides an excuse for him to return the favor, though he rarely needs one as he’s always seeking ways to pleasure you, whether innocently or intimately.

His back arches in, the muscles rippling as he stretches under you. Your legs lift you upward as you move to get off him, and in a moment, he flips onto his back and grabs your hips, forcing you to stay in place. For such a large elf, you never cease to be amazed at how dexterously he moves.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Halsin asks, smirking and raising a brow.

Tilting your head, you return the smile. “I figured you’d want to get right to sleep after such an exhaustive massage.”

His eyebrows shift and furrow, his fingers sliding down across your thighs and sending immediate heat through you.

“First,” he begins, his eyes traveling up your body, only serving to fill your cheeks with warmth, “I must show my thanks properly.”

[ichor-echoes]

Haarlep's Bindings

My friend and I are pretty confident we deciphered the words on Haarlep's skimpy little outfit to be:

1000 lovers in 1 body

Which leads us to believe that part of his sentencing as Raphael's personal incubus has something to do with him being required to gather the forms of 1000 bodies before he can be free. And I don't know the implications of it, but it's juicy af

[ichor-echoes]

Far Beyond Twilight

@wispstalk​ sent: “Far, Twilight, Crooked Door” for @nirnwrote​

F!Dragonborn & Ancano || Semi-NSFW (violence) || 2083 words AO3

Ancano confronts Rhea after a mysterious visit with the Psijic mage.

“Well?” Ancano asked, unaware he’d just been frozen in time mere seconds ago. “What is the meaning of this?”

“I apologize,” the Psijic mage said. “It seems there has been a misunderstanding.”

“A ‘misunderstanding’?” Ancano repeated. “You asked to see a specific student of the college. Here she is,” he continued, waving his hand toward Rhea. “What is it you want?”

Rhea looked between the two mer: utter disdain pouring out of Ancano, and a feigned aloofness from Quaranir. 

“I appear to have made a mistake,” Quaranir replied. “Clearly I should not be here. I shall simply take my leave.”

“What?” Ancano hissed. “What trickery is this? You’re not going anywhere until I find out what you’re up to!” 

“I am not ‘up to’ anything,” the Psijic said, his voice void of emotion. 

Ancano’s jaw clenched.

“As I said,” he continued, “I was mistaken. Forgive me. I do not wish to take any more of your time.” Quaranir placed his hand on his heart and bowed his head before a rippling violet light wrapped around his body, apparating him out of the room.

Rhea stared wide-eyed at the now-empty space, attempting to wrap her mind around the implications of their clandestine conversation.

“What did he want with you?” Ancano demanded from Rhea. 

“I don’t know,” she replied, shrugging and shaking her head.

He grabbed her wrist, digging his fingertips into her skin. “Do not lie to me!”

“Ancano!” Savos ordered, speaking for the first time. “Release her! I will look into this further.”

Rhea snatched her hand away and sneered at the Altmer. He returned her stare, his golden eyes darting to each of hers, as if the answers he sought could’ve been found there. The longer he search, the more her stomach turned. 

“Leave us, Ancano,” Savos said.

His cold gaze remained on her a few moments longer before he turned and stormed out of the Archmage’s chambers. The remaining pair stood in silence until the door at the bottom of the stairs slammed shut. 

The archmage pinched the bridge of his nose. “I’m not sure what just happened,” he began. “Are you all right?”

She nodded. “I’m fine. A bit shaken,” she admitted.

“I apologize on Ancano’s behalf,” he said. “While he may simply be an advisor, he is still held to the same standard as our professors. I will be sure to remind him of this.”

“Thank you, sir,” Rhea replied. Her thoughts returned to the Psijic. “Did that mage say why he was here?”

Savos shook his head. “Beyond asking for you, no. Has there been any correspondence prior? A letter or…?”

“No,” she answered. “Other than that vision in Saarthal, there’s been nothing.”

He pressed his lips together and stroked his beard. Silence hung between them for a few moments before he finally spoke. “Should you hear anything or receive anything, let me or Tolfdir know right away.”

“Yes, sir.”

“It could be mere curiosity,” he said. “An order such as that will have a great interest in any magical and mysterious entity. I wouldn’t be surprised if this was simply an excuse to see the orb and who discovered it.” He placed a hand on her shoulder. “Don’t worry yourself over it.”

With a forced smile, she replied, “I’ll try not to.”

“Get some rest. And in the meantime,” Savos said, offering a smile, “give Ancano a wide berth. For your own peace of mind.”

“I certainly plan to.”

—

The slamming of wood on stone startled her awake, but other than her eyes opening, her body wouldn’t move. Magic kept her in place, paralyzed but completely aware. Internally, her heart raced, her stomach jumped into her throat, and her muscles felt on the verge of bursting. 

A shadow slid over her body, and Ancano appeared, hovering over her with hate pooling in his eyes.

“You wretched cur,” he spat through gritted teeth. “I will. Get. Answers.”

His hand gripped her face, squeezing into her cheekbone and jaw; a bright gold light emanated from his palm briefly before everything grew black.

Cold air stung her cheeks, coaxing her awake. She found herself shackled to a chair in some unfamiliar room; the only light and warmth nearby in a torch hanging on the wall. The air smelled stagnant and lingering death. Her vision swam with the remnants of whatever magic the elf used.

“From the moment you arrived,” Ancano began, “I’ve wanted nothing more than to rip your tongue from that vile little mouth. And I will. Do not doubt that for a second.” 

His appearance focused as she blinked at him, swallowing the nausea that threatened to spill her stomach. Her heart pounded in her ears, and with every beat, her limbs throbbed.

“For now, however,” he continued, “you will tell me all you know.”

“Fuck off,” she slurred, the paralyzing magic still waning. 

Ancano’s lip curled as he struck her across the face with the back of his hand, the gem of his ring slicing her cheek.

She let out a yelp of pain as blood slowly gathered at the cut and ran down her face. With what little strength had returned, Rhea struggled against the shackles, but there was no give. Calling upon her magic yielded nothing as well; as though her connection to her magicka had been severed.

“You’re not going anywhere until I’ve finished with you,” he promised, leaning in close to her face. “You can scream, you can struggle, you can pray… You are far beyond anyone’s aid. No one is coming for you.”

Her breaths came in panicked spurts, but she set her jaw, hoping whatever showed on her face gave no inclination of the fear that settled in her bones. 

“You won’t get away with this, you piece of shit,” she threatened, her words growing a little more defined. “The archmage will–”

“I assure you,” he interrupted, “the archmage will not lift a finger. Now, why did the Psijic come?” he asked, straightening his stance.

“I don’t know,” she said. 

“Do not lie to me,” he hissed. Ancano held out his hand, conjuring an orange tendril of light that wrapped around Rhea’s little finger. “Why did he come?”

“I would think the Thalmor would’ve taught you about the birds and the bees,” she retorted. “When someone’s stimulated enough–AUGH!”

His magic tightened in an instant, shattering the bones in her pinky. The pain sent her stomach roiling.

“If you insist on playing this game,” Ancano began, “I will gladly finish it. Every fiber of your being is mine.”

Her hand throbbed and took on a purple hue, noticeable even in the dim light. She clenched her watering eyes, focusing on breathing through the pain.

“We should at least agree on a safe word,” Rhea said without looking up. “My go-to is ‘Talos.’”

The rest of her fingers on that hand contorted unnaturally; the bones snapping in sickening cracks. She screamed as the pain shot through her arm; tears blinded her for a moment, but as she blinked, she saw her hand darken around the bits of bone pressing against the skin.

“Fuck,” she breathed.

Sharp pain struck her face as her head was tilted back; Ancano’s nails dug deep into the skin of her cheeks as he forced her to look at him. 

“I will break every bone in your body,” he whispered, “I need but an excuse.”

“I didn’t even speak to him,” she muttered through gritted teeth, her body trembling. 

“I don’t believe you,” he snapped, shoving her head back into the metal chair.

“You were right there!” Rhea retorted as her head throbbed a few times. “He didn’t say a word to me.”

“A vision then,” Ancano said. “As when you were in Saarthal.”

Her eyes widening gave him his answer. 

Ancano leaned down, pressing his palms into her forearms. “What did he tell you?”

“He said…” She sniffled, her nose beginning to run. “He said your breath smells like you’ve been licking a goat’s ass.”

His hand reached for her neck, hovering over the skin. Though he didn’t touch her, she felt her breathing weaken with each inhale; pressure from the inside and out, gradually constricting her airway. Rhea coughed and gasped, her sinuses sounding as though they were filled with gravel. Her surroundings blurred; Ancano’s face though mere inches grew unrecognizable. 

Just as her vision began to tunnel, Ancano released his magical chokehold. Oxygen rushed back to her lungs and her mind, giving her a severe headrush.

“I may not be so careful next time,” he warned, gripping her neck with just his hand. “I may hold on just a touch too long.”

“You won’t get anything if you kill me,” she whispered, her voice still caught in her chest.

A dangerous smile spread on his face. “When I’m through with you, you’ll wish I had.”

Lightning shot through his hands and beneath her skin where he held her. Her muscles twitched, arching her back and forcing her broken hand against the shackle. Every inch of her skin felt torn apart and pierced with thousands of needles. He pulled away, but the electricity seemed to pulse through her with every heartbeat until it came to a sudden halt. She could take in no breath and felt lightheaded; the mer’s dimly lit image gradually darkened to pitch black. 

A blinding light erupted behind her eyes, and she gasped at the dank air until Ancano returned to her view. Beneath her sternum, her heart pounded with such violence she feared it would burst through the bone.

“Stop!” Rhea pleaded, her voice tearing against her throat despite little noise escaping. 

“It all can stop,” he promised. “Just tell me what the Psijic wanted.”

“He… He…” She wracked her mind for anything to say to appease him without giving up the one bit of information the Psijic offered, but there was little for her to grasp; her body and mind felt out of sync yet pulsing in sync, sending wave after wave of confusion and pain. “He said the Eye–it was dangerous.”

“What else?” he growled.

She shook her head, just barely moving but it was enough to dizzy her. “Just that.”

Ancano leaned forward again, and she dropped her head to avoid looking into those empty eyes. He grabbed her face again, his thumbnail pressing into the cut on her cheek, but she barely felt it over the agony filling the rest of her. 

“What. Else.” 

Squeezing her eyes shut, she replied, “We have to deal with it… somehow.”

His other hand wrapped around her non-broken one as he conjured a blue flame and forced it against her skin. 

The sickening scent of burning flesh filled her senses, and she let out a scream.

“What did he say needed to be done?”

“He didn’t!” she whimpered.

“Why did he come in person?”

Rhea choked on an anguished yelp before answering. “It was blocking the visions. The Eye.”

Ancano’s flame died down, but Rhea’s skin was well beyond the point of saving. She kept her eyes shut, not wanting to see the damage. 

“This is going to be a very long night for you if I have to repeat myself,” he began, “over.” He twisted one of her remaining uninjured fingers until it snapped. “And over.” Another finger. “And over again.”

Making good on his promise, Ancano kept the young woman shackled for hours, or perhaps it was days, or maybe twilight hadn’t even yet broken. Rhea had no idea. The excruciating magical torture had, as he warned, left her begging for the release of death; silently praying to the Divines that one would grant her the mercy. But no such answer.

Not until she mumbled the words. “Augur of Dunlain.” And finally, the world went dark.

Rhea bolted upright, gasping and looking around the room as her vision returned. She was still surrounded by stone, but also warmth and familiarity. This was her dormitory; the door perfectly in place, though slightly ajar.

“Rhea!”

She looked to her right, finding Onmund sitting on the edge of her bed, all color drained from his face. 

“Are you all right?” he asked.

Her eyes dropped to her hands; neither broken nor burned, the skin just as smooth and untouched as when she’d gone to sleep earlier. Reaching for her cheek, she felt nothing on her cheek.

“Rhea,” Onmund repeated. “Look at me.”

She obeyed, tears spilling freely.

“You’re safe,” he promised, grasping her shoulders with an assuring strength. “It was just a nightmare.”

[ichor-echoes]

Glassy Eyes and Ice

@knightdawn​​ sent: “Royal, Ice, and Glassy Eyes” for @nirnwrote​

F!Dragonborn & Balgruuf || SFW || 1615 words AO3

Rhea and Balgruuf find themselves seeking solitude after a council meeting.

All those who held the power of Skyrim were gathered around the large table in the Blue Palace; the jarls of every hold with their housecarls at the ready behind them, Tullius who was as stone-faced as ever, and Rhea, whose attendance was expected at any meeting such as this, despite lack of political experience or interest. Elisif always insisted; ‘ You saved this land from what many believed to be mere legend. Don’t you want to ensure that effort doesn’t go to waste?’ the young Jarl told Rhea often. Rhea’s housecarl, Lydia, who had been with the Dragonborn since the near-beginning, took her own place alongside the others, though her role had shifted to emotional protection, rather than physical at that point.

Rhea sat with her elbows on the table, her chin resting on the back of her clasped fingers. Her eyes watched the dancing flame of one of the large candles in front of her; absent-mindedly guiding its movements and color with her magic. The jarls were in deep discussions over the future of Skyrim, now that the civil war had come to a bloody end. She listened on and off; Rhea already had her mind made on what should happen next: drive out the Thalmor. But such a discussion was impossible with Elenwen, the dedicated Thalmor dignitary–or whatever her official title was, always in attendance.

There was talk, yet again, of summoning the Moot to give the facade of a united country, but of course, they couldn’t agree on who to support as the High Royal. The Moot itself was a facade; the decision was to be made before the summons, despite what the common folk of Skyrim believed. Some favored Elisif, she was the queen consort and had a closer seat to the position than anyone; others argued it would widen the gap between the Empire and the Stormcloaks who survived, and the goal was unity.

With a long sigh, Rhea blew out the flame she’d been toying with.

“Do you need anything, my Thane?” Lydia muttered in her ear.

Rhea shook her head. It wasn’t an offer, it was a reminder: behave. Perhaps she should’ve suggested Lydia for High Queen; it would’ve been an entertaining throwaway line.

A servant was quick to refill her glass, despite her waving her housecarl off. She silently thanked him with a forced smile and greedily drank. If nothing else, these gatherings had the best alcohol.

She caught Balgruuf’s gaze as she placed her glass back down. The bruises beneath his eyes grew darker with each meeting, aging him considerably in these few short months. It saddened her. The jarl gave her a small smile, and she dropped her eyes to the still-smoking candle, realizing she’d been staring.

The meeting continued on, and Rhea had long since stopped listening. She was no politician, no tactful being; she was just an unlucky divine-touched woman who wanted nothing more than to find her place in the world, and it certainly wasn’t at this table. But maybe it was at the bottom of her glass.

“It is getting rather late,” Elisif announced, standing at the head of the table. “We should adjourn for the night. We can continue these discussions tomorrow after we’ve all had some much-needed and deserved rest.”

The rest of the jarls and Rhea stood, bowing slightly to one another before following their appointed servants to their guestrooms.

Rhea followed her own with Lydia close behind. The walls twisted just slightly, the many drinks she’d had now settling beyond her stomach. They reached their rooms–Lydia’s was right next to Rhea’s–and bid the servant a “goodnight.”

Rhea had fallen into her bed, forgoing the option of food and opting for sleep instead. It was a comfortable bed with soft blankets and pillows, and with the fire now a mere smolder, the room was at a relaxing warmth, but she still found herself tossing and turning. Her mind unable to quiet itself, she gave up and crawled out of her bed. Wrapping herself in a thin robe, she snuck out of her room and wandered the halls until finding the balcony.

Winter had staked its claim in Solitude; her breath rose in thick clouds around her, the cold burning her lungs with each inhale. It was a nice distraction from the throbbing in her temples; the alcohol had staked its own claim in every shadow of her skull.

Even over the pounding in her head, she heard the door behind her open and careful footsteps press into the snow.

Rhea rolled her eyes. “I’m not someone you should sneak up on,” she said without turning around.

A chuckle preceded the reply. “I would never so blatantly throw my life away,” Balgruuf said.

She spun around, immediately regretting the jerked movement and pressing a palm into her temple.

“Jarl Balgruuf,” she groaned, the tone directed at her pain rather than him. “Sorry, I thought you were… well… I don’t know who I thought it was.”

“May I join you?”

With her other hand, she waved it forward and said, “Of course.” Rhea turned back toward the balcony railing, resting her palms on the ice-covered stone. “You’ll have to forgive me. I’m afraid I’ve reached my capacity for tact,” she added.

“I’m sure we can forgo the niceties,” he said, giving her a smile. “You’ve had me keep a dragon in my home–I think we’re well past formalities. And I’ve had more than enough from these damned councils.”

Rhea chuckled, sharp and dry. “Tell me about it.”

“Are you cold?” he asked

She smiled. “No, but thank you.”

Balgruuf settled beside her, crossing his arms over his chest as he looked out to the city. “Why do you always attend?” he asked. “You’re not subtle in your disdain.”

“Elisif,” she replied. “She might not seem like much of a warrior, but that woman can wield words like a weapon.”

“She’s certainly coming into her own,” he said as he nodded. “Torygg’s death and the war have hardened her. She’ll make a fine High Queen.”

Rhea quirked a brow. “You think she’ll wind up on the throne?”

“The others may bicker, and would do so endlessly if allowed,” he began, “but they’ll have to come to accept she’s the only viable choice.”

She turned, resting her lower back against the frozen rail and watching the jarl. “Why do you say that?”

“Who else would we choose?” Balgruuf asked, glancing at Rhea. “Idgrod is wise, even beyond her late years, but she’s far too eccentric to be widely accepted. Igmund is too deep in his own stone to see the needs of Skyrim as a whole. Siddgeir is… need I even bother with him? Brina does well as a jarl but would be too militaristic if given further power. Maven sees and hears only the clink of coin. Kraldar is blind to the stars in his own eyes. And Brunwulf has far too much unrest in Windhelm to consider much beyond those walls.”

Rhea listened as Balgruuf rattled on; with each complaint he released, the lines etched in his face seemed to soften. She allowed him to speak without interruption and found herself taking in his words, unlike while in the council room.

When he finished, he turned to her, his cheeks red with cold and frustration.

“Sorry,” he said, pinching the bridge of his nose. “It seems I had a looser hold of my tongue than I thought.”

With a laugh, she replied, “Seems you’ve been holding that in for a while.”

He sighed and let out an affirming hum.

“What about you?” she asked.

“What about me?”

“Why couldn’t you take the position?” It was a genuine question; Balgruuf was one of the few jarls she believed had his head on right.

He let out a laugh, holding up his hands. “I would be honored, of course, and would accept if that was the will of the Moot.”

“But…?”

“But I have a responsibility to Whiterun,” he explained. “The hold, the city, the people. I serve Skyrim best by serving Whiterun first.”

He looked over the city with glassy eyes, the light of the lantern swaying in a random gust of wind across the tired lines in his skin, his dirty blond hair flitting across shoulders that looked strong enough to carry the whole of the province. Short of a crown, he already looked the part of High King.

Rhea huffed a short laugh through her nose and shook her head.

“What?”

“Nothing,” she replied. “The gods just have funny timing.”

His brow rose but he didn’t question it. “Apologies,” he said instead. “I came out here to clear my head. I never thought to ask you what brought you out here before I rambled on.”

She shrugged. “Couldn’t sleep. Or maybe I’m procrastinating on letting tomorrow come.” Rhea curled her lip. “Another day of the same words spewed and no progress.” She crossed her arms over her chest as another gust of wind sent chills across her skin. “I didn’t give much thought about what I’d do after dealing with Alduin, but I never foresaw… whatever you want to call this whole fiasco.”

Balgruuf chuckled as he shuffled with something next to her. “Perhaps one day we’ll see peace again.”

Something heavy and warm rested across her shoulders. She looked over, seeing and feeling Balgruuf’s hands placing his coat on her. Her cheeks darkened.

“Uh, thanks,” she said. Her fingers wrapped around the fur-lined edge and pulled closed over her front.

His hands lingered a moment before sliding down off her shoulder blades. “I should go before Irileth learns I escaped my room. I hope sleep finds you, Rheanon.”

[ichor-echoes]

Twilight Thorns

@blossom-adventures​ sent: “Hidden Tavern, Twilight, Red Berries” & “Entering a Daedric Realm” for @nirnwrote​

F!Dragonborn & Sanguine || Semi-NSFW || 1514 words AO3

Rhea attends one of Sanguine's lavish parties. Spicy content mentioned, but nothing in graphic detail.

The sweet, musky scent of roses greeted her as she found her footing. It wasn’t the first portal Rhea had stepped through, but it was certainly the least taxing physically; normally, she was left with nausea and dizziness, but this one merely filled her body with a strange buzz, an excited tingling in her limbs.

An ogrim stood in front of her, its arms barely crossed over its chest as it glared down at her. Behind it was an imposing metal gate, taller than the daedra and lined with just as tall shrubbery, making it difficult to tell just what it was blocking.

“Need a name,” it grunted, though the “voice” was more like gravel beneath a boot.

“Rheanon Blaire,” she replied. “What’s yours?”

The ogrim gave her a confused look before answering, “Allit.”

It unfolded its arms, revealing a scroll in its hand; the beast began scanning what she assumed to be the guest list, rolling it an impossible number of times given its apparent size.

As it continued searching, Rhea pulled a parchment from her pocket and held it out to the daedra. “I was given this invite.”

“Should’a said so sooner,” it huffed. With an unsettlingly large hand, it pushed open the gate and allowed her to pass.

Rhea stepped through and gaped at the scene before her. A castle, far larger and more lavish than any jarl or even emperor could boast stretched far into the twilight sky; the grounds were decorated with a dizzying array of colored lanterns and candles, and music that wasn’t heard until passing through the gate spilled from somewhere beyond the castle walls. The lawn itself was laced with rose bushes, statues and fountains, many of which expressed a variety of different coital positions, and the different-colored liquids, which wafted a strong and bitter smell, were no doubt the strongest alcohols to be found in Oblivion.

“Milady.”

A deep voice startled Rhea. She looked down to find a horned, crimson-skinned being standing in front of her; he barely reached her mid-thigh and was adorned in his weight in jewelry. She suddenly felt very underdressed.

With a nod of his head and a jingle of his embellishments, he spoke again. “If you would kindly follow me,” he said, “I will guide you to our dear Lord Sanguine’s party.”

Rhea followed him along the twisting path, which seemed strategically placed to pass by the most vulgar of the lawn decor, until they reached the ornate castle doors. Two more daedric beings stood guard; they were far quieter in terms of appearance (and quite literally, as they spoke no words at their approach); their skin and armor were stone-like, as though Sanguine carved them out of granite and granted them mobility.

This close, she could feel the music pulsing in her chest, her heartbeat seeming to match the pace; her stomach tightened and the corners of her lips twitched upward.

The pair of guards opened the doors, revealing ostentation on a scale the vainest of mortals could never dream. Somehow both bright and ambient; flames glinting off the numerous gold surfaces scattered around the grand hall, showing every curve of the piles of bodies writhing in time with the band’s deep, vibrating music.

Inebriation hung in the very air itself, smell and effect, and in simply standing there, Rhea felt that excited tingle shift within her muscles to relaxation and a desire for gaiety.

A servant approached her, holding a tray of gold goblets, each filled to the brim with a shimmering liquid that shifted colors in the light. She took one and sniffed it: cinnamon, vanilla, and various herbs she couldn’t place. With a shrug, she took an exploratory sip; the drink burned all the way down her throat and into her stomach, but pleasantly so, like the heat from a sauna but under her skin.

As she continued on her drink, Rhea looked toward the heart of the hall; a throne as tall as a building, lined with golden thorns and jewels of the bloodiest red, and sitting with as pleased a grin as any was the host himself: Sanguine. An androgynous figure stood beside him, animatedly speaking to him, their arms flailing as they shared their story. Sensing her gaze, Sanguine’s crimson eyes met hers, and his smile widened as he gave her a wink.

Rhea returned the smile and raised her goblet to him before downing the rest of it. After grabbing another, she wandered around the grandiose room, stepping over people enjoying carnal pleasures and skirting between those twisting around the band’s melodies.

“I had wondered when you’d be making an appearance, Rheanon,” a silky voice spoke behind her.

She turned, finding Sanguine standing close enough for her to have to crane her neck to properly meet his gaze. The embellished robes he wore were left open, exposing his chest and the scarlet etchings along his skin; matching black fabric hung low on his hips, graced with gold chains and beads that shimmered perfectly with his movements. He took her hand and brought it to his dark lips.

“I didn’t want to show up prior to the mass orgy,” she replied. The skin beneath his kiss prickled. “This is a bit more lavish than your last party,” Rhea added.

Sanguine chuckled. “Oh, my dear, that was a mere gathering catered to your needs,” he explained. “With you off galavanting and saving the world, a party such as this would be far too overwhelming. But you certainly needed something, and I’m always one to oblige.”

“Oh?” Rhea took a long drink before continuing. “Well, I’m flattered someone would go to the trouble for a stranger like myself.”

“Ah, but you’re no stranger,” he corrected. “Not to me, and not to my siblings. We’ve all had our eyes on you for quite some time.” Sanguine reached out and ran his clawed finger along her jaw, stopping beneath her chin. “It’s not every era the divines grace Nirn with a piece of themselves within a mortal’s skin.”

Her smile fell, and Sanguine’s hand dropped in response.

“Is that why I’m here?” she asked, her tone indignant.

He quirked his eyebrow.

“That’s why all the others have sent for me,” Rhea said. “‘I’ve chosen you as my champion,’ ‘Do this menial task for me,’ ‘You’re power incarnate, and I want it for myself.’”

Sanguine clicked his tongue. “You misunderstand my intentions.” His hand hovered over her chalice a moment before the liquid topped itself off. “I seek your company simply because you are intriguing. And I know you’re capable of indulging in the pleasures of your world, and I’m curious if you can continue to do so in mine.”

After taking a sip of his own, he continued, “So, perhaps, that is part of it–your very nature being a point of interest. But, I’m not about to request you return to Nirn to do my bidding, as I’ve no doubt my siblings have done on many occasions.”

Rhea furrowed her brow. “So, you… what? Just want me to enjoy myself?”

He grinned, showing off his sharp fangs. “Precisely.” He tilted his head, some of his dark locks falling around his horns. “Was that not obvious from our first meeting?”

With a shrug, she replied, “I figured you were trying to butter me up. Get on my good side before asking me to run off and cause hell.”

Sanguine chuckled as he dipped his finger into his drink, pulling out a strange, red berry.

“My Rheanon,” he purred, leaning in close, his breath smelling heavily of his drink. He brought the berry to her lips, which she involuntarily parted and accepted. “I only seek to be on your worst side.”

A deep flush settled in her cheeks and her lower abdomen fluttered. She swallowed hard, too deep in his trance to even taste the fruit, and said, “Well then, you’re, uh, a nice change of pace.” In an attempt to swallow her stuttered words, Rhea took another drink, moving too quickly and spilling a bit from the corner of her mouth.

When she pulled the glass away, Sanguine gathered the excess from her mouth with his thumb and dragged his tongue along the length. It only served to darken her blush.

“I don’t think you’ve freed yourself from the shackles and worries of your world just yet,” he remarked. “I know your divine soul is not so easily taken by daedric influence, but even so, alcohol and the like can still offer some respite.”

He shifted to her side and wrapped an arm around her shoulder. She glanced at the point of contact.

“Why don’t I show you how a Daedric Prince properly indulges?” His nails grazed along her skin as he guided her to the front of the hall. “I do so enjoy having a deserving guest of honor. It’s like its own form of voyeurism.”

Rhea let out a nervous chuckle and motioned to the fornicating bodies. “This isn’t voyeuristic enough for you?”

“Oh, darling Rheanon,” he said, shaking his head. “This is simply white noise.”

[ichor-echoes]

A Bloody Birth

@blossom-adventures​ sent: Harkon, “Transforming into a werewolf/vampire or watching somebody else do so” for @nirnwrote​

OC & Harkon || SFW || 977 words AO3

Rhea joins the Volkihar clan and is given Lord Harkon's gift.

Her heart raced, blood rushing through her ears; her fingers twitched at her sides, and waves of nausea gnawed at the back of her throat. But this wasn’t all borne of fear; it ran alongside excitement. A new life. A new identity. A new family. 

“My dear court,” Harkon began, his voice booming from behind her, “we gather this night to celebrate the birthing of a new member to the Volkihar clan.”

The vampires sat at the long tables below her, raising chalices and offering soft cheers.

“It has been many a year since we invited another into our family,” Harkon continued, “should she survive.” His tone grew dark on the final word.

The knot in Rhea’s stomach tightened, but there was no backing out; not only would it guarantee her death, but she had no intention of doing so. She set her jaw and stared out at the vampires before her. This was what she wanted, where she belonged.

Heavy hands rested on her shoulders.

“Welcome to the night,” he whispered. His breath at her ear sent chills across her skin.

The sensation worsened as his fingers swept across the back of her neck and his thumb rested in the crook. With the barest of pressure, he guided her head to the side, exposing her pulsating artery.

In an instant, his lips were pressed against her skin, his fangs piercing deep. Rhea felt no pain; the venom of his bite flooded her body with a sense of euphoria. Every beat of her heart sent another pleasure-filled rush through her. The ritual suddenly felt exhibitionistic, but she cared little, even as a sensuous sigh escaped her. 

The edges of her vision wavered before growing dark; with each breath in, the shadow grew, the great hall disappearing more and more. If this was death taking her, she didn’t mind. What better way to leave this world than in sheer ecstasy?

“Garan.” Harkon’s voice sounded as though it were across the room, but she was sure he still held her. “Take her below.”

A new set of hands gripped her just as the shade took her completely. 

She awoke on a stone slab; the cold seeping through her clothing and offering some relief from the overwhelming burning that coursed through her body. Rhea sat up, her head swimming a moment as her surroundings came into focus. The room was dark, absent of any windows and lit only by a few candles. Rather befitting for a vampire’s castle.

“I am pleased to see you have survived the first trial of your transformation,” Harkon spoke, his voice far quieter than in the hall, but no less deserving of the respect he demanded. 

He stood at the far end of the room, in front of an eerie and intriguing statue, the mouth of which poured what she could only assume to be blood. As she took a deep breath, the scent of iron confirmed her suspicions. 

“Stand.”

Rhea did as commanded but collapsed to her hands and knees, the floor beneath her bare feet even colder than the slab. With her senses returning, she became aware of the pain and turmoil writhing under her skin; as though something was trying to claw its way out. That burning she’d felt upon waking was now a blue-tinged fire. Every joint and muscle throbbing; the overwhelming pain caused her to dry heave.

Over the rumbling in her ears, she heard his heels click against the stone as he approached her. Her eyes moved to his boots, just a step away. They traveled upwards, along his legs and torso, settling on those unsettlingly dark irises.

Harkon met her gaze, his face devoid of any emotion. “Stand,” he repeated, his voice harder.

She looked back at the floor and swallowed hard. The entirety of her body protested, but Rhea had no doubt Harkon would strike her down if she failed to heed his command. And she wanted this—needed this.

With every bit of willpower she could call forth, she pushed herself up, pulling her feet under her. Her arms shook and threatened to give out, but with Harkon’s fierce gaze watching her, she refused to allow them any leeway. Using the slab for leverage, she pulled herself to her feet; wobbling and on the verge of collapse, but she remained upright. 

“Excellent,” he said. “Now, release your power!”

He offered no further instruction; just three simple words giving no insight into how to do just that. Rhea furrowed her brow and closed her eyes, attempting to sift through her mind over the roar of her pain. Release your power. Release your power. Release your pain. Pain? She had been fighting the pain since waking; pushing it down, forcing through it, but perhaps… the power was her pain. 

She focused within herself, recalling the gnawing feeling of something attempting to tear through her flesh. With a deep breath, anticipating the torment it would wreak, Rhea let her body go limp, giving any of her remaining resolve over to the torture deep in her core. 

Her skin rippled, taking on a spectral gray color and growing taut across her muscles; her bones broke and reconfigured themselves in lengthened limbs; and from her shoulder blades, the skin ripped free to allow the growth of batlike wings. And through it all, she screamed. Blood-curdling, it echoed against the stone walls and pierced through her sharpened ears.

Rhea fell to her knees once more; blood trickled from her every orifice, dripping onto her hands, which now came to deadly clawed points. She swallowed, tasting nothing but metallic. Her tongue ran over elongated fangs, accidentally piercing itself, but that pain was nothing compared to what she’d just endured.

Harkon knelt in front of her and placed a hand under her chin. His thumb brushed the blood from her bottom lip.

He whispered, “Beautiful.”

[ichor-echoes]

A Sour Victory

@noblexcelestemorningstar​​ sent: Serana, "A victory gone sour" for @nirnwrote​

OC & Serana || SFW || 469 words AO3

Rhea speaks to Serana following the death of Lord Harkon.

The waves lapped at the boulders lining the shore, the ever-present crashing alongside the cries of the bone hawks that circled the island. Rhea often sought peace at this stretch of the castle’s land, peace from the incessant bickering of the clan, the maneuvering of imaginary chess pieces on a blood-stained floor. But tonight, the castle was silent; the members in stasis as the future of the vampires had just been upended. And there was one among them who felt this displacement burn far deeper than the rest could imagine. 

“You don’t have to check on me,” Serana muttered, her back to Rhea. 

“I’m not here for you,” Rhea replied. “This is just where I happen to come to escape. But, since you mention it…” She sat on the rock beside Serana. “I suppose it wouldn’t make much sense to ask how you feel.”

She barked a joyless laugh. “I don’t even know how I feel.” She glanced at Rhea briefly before returning her gaze to the sea. “Sadness. Guilt. Anger. Relief. It’s all pooling together into a bleak gray. Numb.”

Rhea looked out to the water, furrowing her brow as she sifted through possible words of comfort. But what comfort could be provided after having been the driving force in her father’s death?

“I’m glad to be through with this ordeal,” Serana continued. “We were by no means a model family, but we were still a family in some strange way. But his obsession–it was always his obsessions that drove our family further and further apart.” She let out a long sigh. “This one just happened to run too deep for us to crawl back out as a whole.”

“Will your mother return?” Rhea asked.

“I suppose,” she said. “Father was the only thing keeping her away once we freed her.”

“Then your family’s not gone,” Rhea assured. “It’s merely a bit smaller.” She curled her lip at her own words. “Not exactly the comforting sentiment I was going for.”

“I know what you meant.” Serana smiled, though Rhea nearly didn’t catch it as it fell just as quickly. “My father died a long time ago. This man was Lord Harkon, leader of the Volkihar Clan. Nothing more.”

Craning her head, Rhea looked up at the castle and muttered, “May his death be the start of closure.” She turned back to Serana and grinned. “Speaking of… There’s nothing keeping either of us here now. Getting into some trouble on the mainland might be good for you.”

She remained facing forward, unresponsive to Rhea’s words for a few moments. “I don’t think my family is any smaller,” she finally said, her words barely more than a whisper. 

“You might be right,” Serana said before turning toward Rhea. She smiled. “And there’s never a shortage of trouble when you’re involved.”

[ichor-echoes]

Combat Training

@blossom-adventures​ sent: “practicing combat with a friend or ally (the friend/ally is going to be Farkas)” for @nirnwrote​

OC & Farkas || SFW || 365 words AO3

Rhea and Farkas spar in the training yard.

“Keep your stance squared!” Farkas shouted over the metallic clangs of their blades crossing.

Though she still preferred using her conjured weapon, she was getting more and more used to the corporeal weapon Farkas forced her to train with. ‘None of that magic stuff here,’ he’d lectured, following it up with something about it being the equivalent of cheating.

Rhea hadn’t the luxury of training as a child; both her mother and father chose more peaceful lines of work. She had more than a decade to make up for the lack of swordplay.

“I’m trying,” she replied through gritted teeth.

Their swords locked, both attempting to push the other back, though she knew Farkas was holding back. The strongest of the Companions, and well-known to be; she had no doubt he could overpower her in this stand-off. 

“Come on, Rhea!” 

Her mounting frustration began reaching into her magic, pulling at her control and seeping into her irises; the usual green filling with an ethereal glow of gold. 

“No magic!” Farkas huffed, a brief and unfamiliar flicker of fear twitched across his features. 

Rhea pushed against him with every bit of strength her muscles carried, but he remained unmoved. With a throat-straining battle cry, she attempted to call forward additional physical strength that simply did not exist in her body. 

In her exertion, her magic seeped out of her fingertips and traveled the length of her blade, disappearing into the patterns of the grain briefly before returning to life and illuminating the sword.

“Rhea, what are you–”

His words were cut short as a ray of sheer force burst forth, sending Farkas flying backward, stopping only when his body collided with the training dummies. Wood splinters fluttered to the ground around him, but his gaze was fixated on Rhea.

She rushed over and knelt in front of him. “By the gods, I’m sorry! Are you all right?”

The Companion remained wordless for a time, simply staring with those silver eyes that seemed to grow more and more dilated.

“Farkas?” She turned toward Jorrvaskr. “I’ll get Tilma.”

He grabbed her wrist. “I just, uh… That was…” He watched her once more, wide-eyed. “I’m good,” he finally said.

[ichor-echoes]

Free Drinks

@blossom-adventures​ sent: “maybe you should start treating people better for a change” for @nirnwrote​

OC x Brynjolf || SFW || 368 words AO3 & FF

Anya and Brynjolf enjoy a night at the tavern.

She smiled as the warmth of the alcohol settled in her belly and the bards’ lute and drum filled the tavern with upbeat melodies. It’d been her fourth free drink that night.

Brynjolf shook his head. “There’s something about drinking with someone else’s coin that makes it go down much smoother, eh, lass?”

“You’ve got that right,” Anya replied.

The same Bosmer that’d been purchasing her drinks all night sent another over her way. He sat at the bar, glancing at her every so often and giving a sloppy grin whenever he caught her eye. Dressed in thick, elaborate fabrics, fingers adorned with a few showy rings, and slightly smeared makeup gathered beneath his eyes; he looked better off than most at the bar, even with it being in a more upscale part of the city.

Anya returned a lopsided smile, raising the pint at the mer in thanks. Her eyes moved to Brynjolf who watched her lift the mug with poorly veiled envy.

“Are you feeling a bit neglected?” she asked, teasing him with a soft kick beneath the table.

“A bit,” he replied. With a smile, he added, “I’m not often the one ignored at a tavern.”

“Maybe you should start treating people better,” Anya said, smirking, “for a change.” He chuckled and shook his head once more. “As if you didn’t just get done cleaning out his home.” Brynjolf side-eyed the Bosmer. “I almost pity him.”

The pair had been hired to search for a rather specific amulet owned by the Bosmer– their employer claiming it to be a stolen family heirloom, as though either of them cared–but Anya and her sticky fingers couldn’t help but nab a few other valuables for herself. But given the large jewels on his rings, the extra rewards she claimed would go unnoticed.

“And I don’t think it was your friendly banter at the bar that caught his attention,” he added, his eyes blatantly traveling down to her chest, her collarbones and cleavage on display in her low-hanging shirt. He returned to her gaze and tilted his head.

“I can’t believe you’d suggest such a thing,” she retorted, feigning offense. “As if my enchanting personality wasn’t good enough.”

[ichor-echoes]

Waking Dreams

The Perfect Storm: Chapter 16

LDB x Miraak || SFW || 4143 words AO3 and FF(.)Net

Telyra deals with the aftermath of learning the new Word.

“You should rest.”

Telyra shrugged at Erik’s suggestion and drained the remainder of her drink; the ashfire mead burned all the way down, warming her body. She didn’t want rest, she wanted to continue their plan: they were nearing the end of this ordeal, she could feel it. But that hadn’t been the only thing keeping her away from sleep…

“You look ready to drop,” Erik continued. “And I know you haven’t drunk enough to be that drunk.” He took a sip of his own mead, far less greedily than Telyra.

“I’m fine,” she insisted. “I’m still just a bit drained. He warned me it would take a while to recover.” Miraak was dealing with the aftermath himself; he’d sent Telyra away from Apocrypha, insisting she take time to rest her body and mind after absorbing the Word while he did the same.

“All the more reason,” Erik replied.

She looked over at him and felt a pang of guilt over the pleading in his eyes, the sheer concern for her.

With a sigh, she yielded. “All right.”

“I’ll be up a while still,” he said.

After tossing a few coins on the counter and bidding Erik goodnight, Telyra headed to their room. She let her body fall onto her bed but immediately sat upright to keep from falling asleep right away. The movement caused her head to swim.

“Okay,” she mumbled to herself. “Think of… think of the college.”

She closed her eyes and tried to pull forward those memories: the cold that suddenly dissipated as soon as one stepped through the gates past the bridge despite the snow; the luminous blue pulsing from the basin below the statue in the center of the courtyard; her classmates gathering in the great hall for lectures; Tolfdir berating them for not focusing. Her chest felt light and warm, thinking of a time when her most pressing concern was an exam.

“Dream of Winterhold,” she pleaded, to herself and to Akatosh or Talos, whoever would listen. Telyra whispered her prayer once more before lying down and closing her eyes.

It didn’t take long for sleep to come to her; Erik had been right. Exhaustion had been her companion since her last visit to Apocrypha, and not much effort was put in to send it away.

Telyra’s prayer was answered, her dream building the walls of the college around her, surrounding her with the buzzing energy of magic. She was dressed in her college robes, the fabric smelling just as she remembered; ozone and faintly herbal soap the bedkeepers used for the laundry–she’d never been able to find it at any market since leaving.

“Are you joining us, Telyra?” Tolfdir’s voice echoed softly against the stone of the great hall.

She turned to see her old professor standing in front of several mages, including Onmund and Brelyna.

“Yes,” she replied, her voice sounding a little less raspy than she remembered. “Sorry!”

“Welcome back,” Onmund whispered as she approached. “Hasn’t been the same without you here.”

“Things got… complicated,” she replied, giving him a smile.

“Do you two want to lead this class?” Tolfdir asked, raising his bushy, white brow.

“No,” Onmund uttered. “Sorry, Professor.”

“Good,” Tolfdir said. “Now, barring any further interruptions–we’ll be discussing wards.”

Lip curling, Telyra let out a sigh.

“Care to demonstrate?” he asked, his eyes looking pointedly at Telyra.

Her face flushed, embarrassed at being called out, though she should’ve been more than used to it.

“Of course, Professor,” she said.

The students parted down the middle in synchrony, leaving the space between Telyra and Tolfdir open. She held her hand out in front of her, fingers splayed; calling forth her magic, she produced a small, protective shield. Before she had time to blink, a bolt of flame burst against the ward.

“Excellent,” Tolfdir said. “But magical attacks rarely occur in singularity.”

He released a few more attacks toward her, each fizzling as they were absorbed by her ward. It took little effort to keep herself from getting singed.

“Now,” Tolfdir began, “what of the rest of the class?”

Telyra took a step to join her classmates, but the professor raised his hand, silently instructing her to stop.

“You misunderstand, dear.” His voice took an unsettling dark tone. “Can you protect the rest of the class?”

“What?”

Without further explanation, Tolfdir began throwing stronger attacks at her, ones with a greater area of effect. Her classmates screeched in fear and hurried behind her; Onmund stood closest.

She expanded the ward, the filmy surface growing to form a wall-like barrier. A shield of this size would drain her far quicker, but Tolfdir’s attacks weren’t halting.

“What the hell are you doing?!” she screamed.

“You have to protect them,” he replied, his voice eerily calm and somehow traveling over the sounds of exploding magicka.

“You have to protect us,” Onmund repeated. He placed a hand on her lower back. “You have to.”

Her brows furrowed, sweat gathering along her hairline, both from the exertion and the anxiety filling her.

“Help me!” she pleaded, daring a glance at Onmund.

He shook his head. “This is your job. You have to protect us.”

“You have to protect us,” another student said. It sounded like Brelyna.

Cracks began to form in her ward, sounding like the breaking of glass as each of the professor’s attacks landed.

“You have to protect us. You have to protect us.” The students’ voices grew into a cacophony of the repeated words.

“I’m trying!” she cried, tears stinging her eyes.

“No, you’re not.” Onmund’s hand fell from her back. “If you were really trying, we’d already be safe.”

“What?” The tears were running down her cheeks. “What does that mean?”

The ward suddenly burst, and her classmates screamed as Tolfdir’s flames engulfed them; Telyra’s voice joined them. She ducked down, covering her face as the heat wrapped around her, the light stinging her eyes even as they were closed.

Everything grew cold then, as the fire disappeared.

She opened her eyes, blinking hard as they adjusted to the now-dim lighting. Tolfdir was gone. The walls were in ruin. And her classmates were naught but skeletal remains littering the stone floor. Burnt flesh and fabric overwhelmed her senses, and she doubled over, releasing her stomach’s contents.

As she stood back up, the broken stone and skeletons of the college and its students were gone entirely, replaced by green hills and massive evergreens, and a battalion of dead bodies. The sickly burnt smell remained, but not nearly as strong; it traveled away with a breeze that felt far too calm for the carnage surrounding her.

A familiar beat sounded, bringing with it gusts of air. Telyra looked up, panicking as she saw a dragon’s form circling overhead, growing larger as it drew closer to the ground.

But she didn’t attack. She didn’t even move; no attempt to hide or run away or prepare herself for a fight. She simply watched.

The dragon’s snake-like head came into view, and Telyra couldn’t help but smile, recognizing her dear friend.

“Sahrotaar,” she said to herself.

He landed in front of her, bowing his head.

“My lady,” he said, his voice deep and guttural. “Commander Ahzidal brings word. She has claimed victory against Rahgot’s forces, but the priest himself managed to evade her.”

Telyra shook her head, stopping briefly to touch the mask on her face. Confusion nicked at her mind a moment before she returned her attention to Sahrotaar.

“Rahgot,” she spat. “Always so cowardly.”

“Shall I return you to the temple?” the dragon asked.

“Yes,” Telyra replied. She glanced around herself once more, the grass as green as ever; untouched, barely moving with the wind. Furrowing her brow, that tinge of confusion returned. “I… I think I am quite finished here.”

After climbing into Sahrotaar’s saddle, they arrived at her temple in what felt like the blink of an eye. Ahzidal was waiting, her usual impatience well-settled in the hard lines of her face.

“I trust you saw success,” she said, greeting Telyra with a tight grip on her forearm.

She paused a moment before replying, “Of course.” Noting Ahzidal’s lack of company, she added, “Dukaan will be here soon?”

Ahzidal nodded, her graying coils bouncing with the movement. “Zahkriisos and Vahlok are awaiting you in the council chambers.” She stepped to the side and held out her arm, beckoning Telyra inside with a lowering of her head; despite the leniency granted with her words, Ahzidal never forgot to show her respect to whom she vowed her loyalty.

Giving her a nod, Telyra entered the temple. Everyone bowed to her as she passed, venturing through her halls that once served the dragons and now housed the heart of a revolution.

The doors to the council room opened as she approached, revealing Vahlok, standing in a pool of crimson with his sword drawn and bloodied, the tip disappearing into Zahkriisos’s chest.

“Vahlok!” Telyra’s Voice shook the walls. “What have you done?”

Her lover took a step back and turned his gaze toward her, sending her body’s warmth fleeing. He lunged at her. Their bodies collided and fell to the floor, the force knocking both their masks off; the stone collapsed beneath them, leaving them falling through the air for an inexplicable amount of time.

Finally, they landed somewhere outside, the walls of the temple nonexistent, replaced by green hills and massive evergreens, and a battalion of dead bodies. But Telyra’s eyes remained fixed on Vahlok’s as he pinned her wrists down and straddled her hips. The sun shone brightly behind him, illuminating his golden fly-away hairs, and dipping the rest of him in shadow. She stared, searching within that familiar gaze for any hint of an explanation for why he betrayed them, betrayed her.

“Why?” she heard her voice ask, but she didn’t feel her lips move.

She was given no answer; not in his words, nor in his eyes. They held the same warmth she’d always seen in them, the same glint of affection wrapped in honey. It left her heart aching and wanting.

His grip on her wrists tightened as he lowered himself, hesitating just a moment before pressing his lips to hers, hard and desperate. Sliding his hands down, he slipped them under her back and lifted her to his chest, bringing them both upright.

Telyra wrapped her legs around his waist, leaving no space between her and her lover. Her hands disappeared into his hair, the soft waves rippling through her fingers.

Their kiss broke, both stopping for air.

“I love you,” she whispered, nausea filling her the moment the words escaped her lips.

He shook his head. “You should not.”

Something pierced her side, sending her body jolting upright.

“Telyra?”

Her breath came in spurts, heart racing and adrenaline pumping through her. She frantically looked around, but her vision was blurred, unable to make out her surroundings.

“Telyra!”

She flinched as someone gripped her shoulders.

“Hey! Easy!” Erik said. “Calm down. You’re all right.”

Telyra blinked at him a few times before reality broke through the fog in her mind.

“Erik,” she breathed. Her hand pressed into her side, half-expecting to feel it sticky with blood, but her fingers returned clean. “Gods.” She pressed her palms into her eyes, attempting to force away the images still caught beneath her eyelids.

“Must’ve been a hell of a nightmare,” Erik remarked.

With a shake of her head, she replied, “It wasn’t the worst. Just… “ She trailed off and let out a heavy sigh.

“Was it about Miraak again?”

Telyra glanced at him, irritation filling her at the accusation, but she bit her tongue before saying anything she’d regret. Her gaze fell to her hands in her lap, pondering what she could say that would skirt the truth but wouldn’t be an outright lie. Erik worried about her enough, and her frustration was misdirected; he deserved better.

“No,” she answered. “Miraak wasn’t in this one.” She looked over at him again; he stared at her, waiting for her to explain further. “Believe it or not, this was a pretty normal nightmare,” she added, forcing some levity in her voice. “Someone stabbed me.”

His eyes narrowed slightly, as though contemplating the truth of her words. “You should get back to sleep,” he said after a few moments. “We still have a couple hours before dawn.”

Nodding in agreement, she rolled over, facing away from Erik as he returned to his own bed.

The visions of the body-strewn college and hills still beset her mind. The screams of her classmates, of her old friends. And their desperate words. You have to protect us. You have to protect us.

Her eyes squeezed shut, causing a rumbling in her ears, but it didn’t quite drown out the echoes. Thankfully, Erik soon filled the room with his snores, and it provided just enough distraction for Telyra to attempt to fall back into sleep.

But as she lay there, snippets of the dream returned. Not the cries, this time, but of the temple. Unsettling, to say the least, to experience life as Miraak. To feel her own body, hear her own voice, live his past, or at least some twisted dream-version of it. To touch and be touched by his former lover; that felt far more invasive than if she were to sneak a peek through a keyhole into their bedroom.

Falling to her back, she let out a long breath and stared at the ceiling. This was not the first night her dreams had been plagued with nightmares and glimpses into Miraak’s past; she’d normally welcome the opportunity to see what had made Miraak into the man he was, but this… this was a stolen chapter of his, something he didn’t share willingly.

It was often nights such as this when she contemplated going to Miraak for guidance; surely he would’ve had some idea how to make the visions stop. But the timing was simple to follow: only after taking in that word, kast , did she begin dealing with the hauntings of someone else’s past. Miraak had fought to keep from sharing; was this why? Had he known what she’d suffer through? She couldn’t give him reason to regret more than he already had.

“Telyra?”

She opened her eyes, regretting doing so so quickly; the light of the candles and lanterns was surprisingly bright, causing an ache behind her eyes.

“I let you sleep in a bit, but,” Erik began, “it’s getting late. We promised Talvas we’d stop by.”

After sitting up, she rubbed the apparent sleep from her eyes and yawned as she spoke. “Right. He wanted help with his spell or something.”

Erik was already dressed, light and ready for the minor trek from Raven Rock to Tel Mithryn. It didn’t take long for Telyra to do the same, though her movements were noticeably sluggish.

Their journey to Neloth’s fungal home was one of silence, other than Erik’s occasional comment on the weather or terrain–both of which were nothing but gray. Telyra certainly appreciated the quiet; she was too in her own head to offer much in the way of conversation, and there was always a chance Erik would glean some bit of info she intended to keep to herself. He fretted too much on her behalf already.

Talvas stood outside, ready to greet up well before they even showed up, if the exasperated look on his face was anything to go by. But it softened as they approached and soon broke out in a genuine smile.

“I wasn’t sure you were still coming,” he said.

Erik returned his smile. “We had a bit of a late start. Sorry.” He glanced at Telyra who merely gave a curt nod. Turning back to Talvas, he asked, “What did you need from us?”

The Dunmer looked between the two, but his gaze held on Erik far longer. “I’m still struggling with Master Neloth’s ash guardian spell. I would appreciate it if you two could stand ready should the spell… go awry.”

“We can certainly do that,” Erik replied. He nudged Telyra. “Right, Telly?”

She started at the nickname, smiling and returning the nudge, quite a bit harder than his. “Yes, yes, we can do that.”

“Excellent!” Talvas said. “I’ve deciphered more of Master Neloth’s writing. I’m hoping it’s enough to properly cast the spell.”

While the Dunmer read through the tome a few times, Telyra sat upon one of the roots of Neloth’s enormous mushrooms. Erik offered his own expertise in reading chicken scratch after years of working with his father at the inn. She was content to watch the two.

“Could that be ‘warm’ or ‘worm’?” Talvas asked.

“He has a loop in this ‘o’ here,” Erik replied. He squinted and leaned his face closer to the page, pointing to various spots. “But he doesn’t have one here. I don’t think ‘worm’ works in this context… or does it?”

“With Master Neloth?” Talvas said. “Anything could fit the context.”

Erik appeared relaxed, far moreso than she’d seen since arriving in Solstheim. In their travels, he had a penchant for solving puzzles she never would’ve guessed; not that she believed him to be simple, but growing up in Rorikstead with a father who feared stepping beyond the village boundaries, it didn’t seem Erik had much chance to be anything more than the innkeeper’s son.

“That has to be it!” Erik said.

Telyra’s head shot up; he and Talvas stared at the book with unbridled glee.

“Master Neloth has some inside,” Talvas remarked. “Though, I doubt he’ll give one to me.”

“We could borrow one,” Erik suggested.

“It says the heart stone will be consumed upon casting the spell,” he retorted, pointing at the page.

“Yes, but we can always replace it.”

The apprentice’s excitement disappeared. “I don’t think stealing from Master Neloth is safe.”

“It’s not stealing,” he replied. “‘Borrow.’ Is he here?”

“No, but–”

“We’ll replace it!” Erik assured. He looked to Telyra. “We’ll be right back.” His cheer was still blatant, despite his lack of interest in magic. He headed up the hill, toward the main mushroom, practically carrying Talvas with him.

While Erik made it known he enjoyed combat, she caught a glimpse of joy whenever he worked out a difficult problem. She’d probably have gotten herself killed twenty times over with an incorrect solution to a trapped puzzle or a wrong path chosen were it not for him.

And for all of that, her thanks came in the form of reasons to worry and near-death experiences. It wasn’t right. He shouldn’t have ever had to save her. She was the Dragonborn. She was the savior. She was supposed to save him, to save all of them, all of Skyrim.

Her stomach twisted, and her breathing quickened. Telyra swallowed hard and forced a deep breath in and out. It didn’t work. The pressure continued to build within her, tearing at the back of her throat as her eyes burned. She pressed her hands against her eyes, as though she could literally hold the tears back. But that didn’t work either. Pushing to her feet, she began to pace, hoping some form of movement would untie the knot in her gut.

Erik and Talvas returned soon after, their approaching bodies catching in Telyra’s periphery.

“I’m going to take a walk,” she called out, turning before he had a chance to ask anything. If something went wrong with the spell, the two of them would be able to handle it, she thought.

Her feet dragged in the ashy sand, her eyes cast down as she trudged along. No mind paid to where she headed, she simply sought isolation and distraction, but there was little to be had in a barren wasteland. Very few bird calls, very little wind, and naught but the scent of embers that permeated through the entire island. Still, she continued on.

Lost in thought, tormenting herself with guilt and anxiety. A constant barrage of ‘Not good enough,’ ‘Not strong enough,’ ‘Risking too much for one man.’ Miraak .

Her steps halted, a new wave of guilt settling over her. It wasn’t too much; she needed him, she had no chance of defeating Alduin otherwise. Perhaps it was asking too much of Erik, to expect him to remain at her side through all of this, but the rest? Skyrim would survive for the time being. Miraak needed her; he didn’t deserve to rot in Oblivion for eternity. To consider leaving him to such a fate, that was truly unworthy of the Dragonborn.

As her eyes refocused on her surroundings after glazing over during her inner monologue, she found herself looking over a sea of green. The birds were far more active, the wind even moreso, carrying with it the scent of dirt and pine. It was beautiful and completely unfamiliar.

Telyra turned and found the green stretched far behind her, shadowed by a canopy of evergreens she hadn’t noticed. She headed back, following the trail of her heavy footsteps.

She missed him, she admitted to herself. Riding with him on Sahrotaar, even for a short while, sparring, spending hours reading beside each other. It felt as though a lifetime had passed since she’d seen him.

His blond hair, his golden eyes–her brows pinched together. Gold?

“Have you forgotten already?” a voice sounded beside her.

“Vahlok.” She smiled. “I feel as though I see less and less of you as the war carries on.”

“I know,” he replied. “War is not kind to those in love. I fear Ahzidal to be even crueler, however, should I choose to remain at your side rather than aid in the war effort.”

“Truly.” Telyra hooked her arm in his. “It is during these brief moments of respite that I feel any semblance of peace. One day, this shall be our norm.”

They continued through the trees, their steps falling in line with one another’s. Despite the joy guiding her forward, a sense of foreboding tickled the back of her mind; but, when did one ever achieve true peace while in the middle of a war? She brushed the thought away, opting to revel in the quiet moment shared.

The trees gave way to an open field, and past that was the ocean, crashing against the cliffside. How long had it been since she stepped foot here? To have forgotten these cliffs? The waves grew louder as they approached, kicking up misty, salted air.

“Do you recall, prior to our induction into the priesthood,” Vahlok began, “anything we had done for pure delight?”

She tilted her head. “What is it you mean?”

“Our lives have been dedicated to the dragons,” he explained, “in one form or another. Whether it be our schooling or our training, or now this war.”

Telyra hummed in thought, trying to pull any recollection from so long ago. “I… I do not know that I have any such memories.”

His perfect lips fell into a frown. “A part of me pities you, to have forgone, whether by your choice or not, those times of merriment.”

“I do not want your pity,” she replied, smiling and placing a hand on his cheek.

He leaned into it and returned her grin. “Another part of me envies you. It is difficult to yearn for that which you cannot recall. To think of those times brings both joy and sorrow.”

Her smile faltered. “To hear you speak of it brings its own sense of bittersweet.”

Vahlok’s eyes moved to the cliff’s edge, a mischievous, childlike pull on his lips. “Do you wish to create new memories?”

She followed his line of sight. “What exactly have you in mind?”

Their gazes returned to each other.

“Fly with me.”

Telyra laughed nervously. “Surely you jest.”

“No,” he said, shaking his head. “Let us touch the air as the dragons do for even the briefest of moments.”

“Vahlok,” she said. Her eyes darted to the edge once more. “That is quite the drop.”

“The waves will catch us,” he insisted. “You often face fear with death so great a possibility. This? This naught but child’s play. Embrace that childlike ferocity with me, while we still have the chance.”

She looked between him and the waters below; her stomach flipping as she spoke her next words. “May Ahzidal show you mercy should I perish.” She gave him a smile.

Vahlok beamed at her and took her hand. They inched toward the edge, sharing nervous glances before he began to count down.

“One. Two.” He paused just long enough to be dramatic. “Three!”

Together, they leapt. His hand disappeared from hers as they fell, and she could no longer see him from the corner of her eye. And before she had a chance to look, she collided with the water’s surface and was swallowed by the waves.

[ichor-echoes]

I Thought I Lost You

F!LDB x Miraak || SFT || 946 words

AO3 & FF.net

Prompt: Miraak and Telyra, "I thought I lost you" hugs, course whats not to love about hurt/comfort fics

“Search for survivors,” Telyra ordered. “Gather those well enough to transport to the healers.”

“And the enemy?”

“Bind any of higher ranking,” she replied. “Kill the rest.”

With a nod, the lieutenant rushed off, gathering her unit to carry out Telyra’s orders.

“General.”

Another soldier approached, his voice went unheard as Telyra looked over the battlefield. Iron and ozone weighing down the air, too heavy even for any bit of breeze; the scene stagnant, silent other than the calls of those looking for fallen loved ones and fellow soldiers.

“Telyra,” he said, speaking louder.

She turned this time, looking up despite every move causing her body to protest in pain. Erik, looking a little worse for wear but otherwise uninjured. 

“There’s been no word from Miraak.”

Any relief she felt at seeing her closest friend alive vanished. Her stomach dropped, nausea welling inside her as a lump formed in the back of her throat, threatening her breath.

“Find Miraak!” she cried across the fields, blood painting her tongue as her Voice sent a ripple through the grasses. “He takes priority!” 

Telyra pushed past Erik and hurried through the bodies in the direction she’d last seen Miraak. Eyes darting over each fallen soldier, praying he wasn’t one of them yet desperate to see his face.

“Miraak!” she Shouted. Again and again, she called out, her Voice piercing the air as her throat burned.

Her treatment of the dead was unsanctimonious, but she cared little; she flipped bodies, tore off helmets, pushed the dead aside with her bloodied boots. With each unfamiliar face, the bile in her throat grew. If anyone spoke to her, it was lost to the deafening pounding of her heart in her ears and her panicked focus. This frantic pattern continued, her trembling body pushing beyond the boundaries of exhaustion and her voice becoming nothing more than a rasp with each order barked at every passing soldier. Find him. Find him. Find him. Find Miraak!

It all felt in vain; with each minute past, his chances of surviving dwindled. If he was hurt, if he was on the brink of death… 

Telyra broke into a run, willing her spent muscles to continue through the exhaustion and pain. She fell to her knees beside a large, face-down body clad in familiar armor. Turning him over with what little strength she had left, Telyra was filled with an anxiety-provoking mix of relief and dread. His front was covered in blood, originating from multiple impacts in the armor.

“Miraak.” Her voice was barely a whisper. 

His eyes fluttered and opened, barely enough to see the blues of his irises. He placed a shaky hand on her arm a moment before it slid off.

“Miraak!” She cradled his face as tears rolled down her own. 

With his lips barely parting, he muttered, “Dii mal ruvaak.” 

“Don’t you dare leave me!” she cried.

His body grew limp.

“I need a healer!” she Shouted, her mouth filling with blood once more. “Get me a fucking healer!” 

______

“You need to sleep.”

Telyra ignored Erik and continued her pacing outside the infirmary. It’d been a struggle to get her out of the room, but Erik managed to talk her down; a feat that impressed even the seasoned healer.

“You passing out from exhaustion isn’t going to help Miraak,” he lectured.

She threw her hands up. “How am I supposed to rest knowing he could–”

“Telyra.” Erik pushed off the wall he’d been leaning on and placed a hand on her shoulder. “He’ll make it. He’s always made it.” His voice wavered, so subtle anyone other than Telyra would’ve missed it. 

Stepping away from Erik, she leaned against the wall and slid onto the floor, digging her fingers into her battle-greased hair and letting her head rest on her palms.

Tears pricked her already-raw eyes. They’d come so far, were so close to seeing the end of this war; stability and peace a near-reality on the verge of crashing. Their life together had been constantly plagued with the promise of another fight, another enemy, another world-ending threat. To see a life of quiet and love teetering on the edge, a breath away from falling into Oblivion; it tore at her soul.

The door opened, and Healer Arimon stepped out, his wrinkles looking even deeper, his eyes noticeably exhausted.

“General.”

Telyra looked up at him, her lips parted but unable to ask the question that caught in her throat and threatened to strangle her.

“He’s unconscious,” he began, “but stable.”

Erik held a hand out to Telyra, pulling her to her feet.

“It will take time for General Miraak to recover,” the healer explained. “We’ll need to keep an eye on him, but for now, you may go to him.” 

He stepped aside before Telyra could run through him.

“Thank you, Arimon,” she heard Erik say behind her.

“The gods truly must watch over him,” Arimon replied in a hushed tone. “Were he not Dragonborn, I don’t think he would’ve survived.”

Telyra was too elated to see the rise and fall of his chest to pay much mind to the implications of Arimon’s words. A basin stood in the corner of the room, bloodied rags fueled the fire, the light bouncing across Miraak’s face. She hovered over him, her fingers grazing over the raised, sutchered skin on his cheek. Her hand moved to rest against his other, thumb trembling across his cheekbone.

“I thought I lost you,” she whispered, fresh tears rolling down her face.

His head turned, his hand covered hers, and he placed a soft kiss on her palm.

His voice was little more than breath. “Hi fen neh saan zey.”

[ichor-echoes]

Come to Bed

F!LDB x Miraak || Slight-NSFT || 675 words

AO3 & FF.net

Prompt:  "trying to concentrate on a task, but your lover’s kissing your neck, making your head spin"  for our favorite pair of dragonborns, please :D

The candles were nearing their last minutes of life, the flame dimming with each second passed. And still Miraak remained hunched over the table, the whites of his fingertips surrounded in the pink of irritation, the weight of him and his worries pressing into the table.

“If you haven’t found it by now…” Telyra’s voice trailed off. Her body leaned against the doorframe across the room, her arms crossed over her chest.

Miraak’s form deflated with the long release of breath. “So you have said.”

“Will you come to bed?” she asked, the usual mirth in her voice replaced by fatigue. 

Moments of silence carried on the dust motes illuminated by the fading candles whorled between them. 

Letting out a sigh, Telyra stepped toward him, her sheer night robe brushing along the stone floor; skin unbothered despite the chill in the air. Her pale, silver hand pressed into the map on the table, sliding it to rest against his.

“Miraak.”

He turned at her voice, shadows well at home under his eyes and familiar with the red surrounding his irises. 

“You can’t see an answer if you can’t see,” she said. “The candles are just about through. We’ll gather again tomorrow, but you need to sleep.”

“My mind will not grant me the peace needed to sleep,” he muttered. “Not until we discern a viable strategy.”

Telyra placed her hand atop his. “The war can wait a night.”

A sigh was his only acknowledgment. 

With another of her own, she moved beneath his arm and placed herself between him and the table; it wasn’t the most comfortable of positions, her back having to arch around Miraak’s torso as he didn’t make any effort to provide her space. He simply looked at her, or perhaps through her to the map.

“Come to bed,” she repeated.

“I will shortly,” he replied, not meeting her eyes.

“No. Now.”

He offered nothing more than a soft grunt, no tonal inclination of ‘yes’ or ‘no.’

Asking politely found only failure. She touched his waist, opting for a new means of persuasion. His stomach twitched under her fingers, but otherwise, he remained still. Telyra’s hands grazed along his torso, slipping beneath the deep-cut collar of his shirt; his heart thrummed under her skin, harder and faster as he recognized the game she instigated. This was not their first stand-off in which words failed.

“Please,” she whispered.

With a deep sigh, he ignored her. It was naught but mere pride keeping him here at this point, Telyra believed.

“The bed is far too cold without you,” she pleaded.

“You do not feel cold,” he replied.

“Maybe not, but…” Telyra leaned up and pressed a kiss at the edge of his jaw. “I certainly feel you.”

He leaned into her on instinct, growing rigid as soon as he realized her play.

“I can take your mind elsewhere,” she promised against his skin as her lips followed the taut muscle of his neck.

“There is little that could free my thoughts of this war,” Miraak retorted. The color filling his cheeks spoke otherwise. 

Lower her kisses traveled, sucking on his skin briefly before placating it with tender presses of her mouth, leaving no physical trace of her affections beyond the blush creeping along his neck. She reached his collarbone and gave it the softest nick of her teeth.

“No honor to be found in your tactics,” he mumbled.

She smiled. “I’ve always preferred to play dirty.”

As she continued tracing the lines of his neck, her hands traveled down his torso, his waist, stopping only when they felt his growing excitement. A quiet moan vibrated in the back of his throat as she brushed across the front of his pants. 

Her mouth returned to his ear, and she asked, “Now will you come to bed?”

“No,” he replied. His embrace engulfed her, and without a chance to react, he lifted her onto the table and stepped between her legs.

Telyra stared at him for a breath’s moment before his lips claimed hers.

“Not yet.”

[ichor-echoes]

Under the Stagecoach

OC x Arthur Morgan || SFW || 912 words

AO3

Rose and Arthur wait out the storm in the woods, and Arthur keeps himself occupied with the scenery.

The echoes of a gunfight weren’t rare occurrences, and neither were the screams that so often accompanied them. Rose and Arthur shared a look and a nod, a silent agreement to check out the scene. They rode alongside each other, following the road and listening as the fight grew louder.

“Bandit attack?” Arthur asked. “Or some wild animal?”

“I don’t hear no growlin’ or howlin’,” Rose replied. “I’d bet bandits. And it certainly don’t sound like a clean robbery.”

The pair continued on, falling into silence as the gunfire suddenly stopped. They slowed as they reached the top of a hill, surveying the scene below; toppled over stagecoaches, scattered belongings, a few remaining horses struggling to break out of their tack, and bodies. So many bodies.

Most of those lying on the ground looked like mere civilians, caught unawares by those with covered faces. A fair share of the bandits had joined them in the dirt. It seemed the victims put up a fight the bandits weren’t expecting; only one of the outlaws remained, and he seemed unconcerned for his fallen friends, picking through his earned bounty rather than checking the bodies.

“Sorry bastards,” Arthur huffed, shaking his head.

“Wonder if he found anything worthwhile.” Rose nodded toward the carnage. “Why don’t we offer him a hand?”

Without waiting for a response, Rose headed down the road; Arthur followed close behind.

The man’s back was to them as he reached underneath a turned-over stagecoach that was just barely propped up on a rock, and he seemed oblivious to their approach.

“Leave me alone!” an unseen girl’s voice cried out.

Rose slid off her horse and drew her revolver.

“Get out of there, you little bitch!” The bandit scrambled, flailing in an effort to pull her from beneath the carriage.

His body froze suddenly as the metal of Rose’s gun pressed into the back of his head. She pulled back the hammer with a soft click.

“Stand up,” Rose ordered, still holding the gun to his head. “Slowly.”

The man did as told, raising his hands in surrender once he was on his feet.

“I wasn’t gonna–”

She grabbed the collar of his shirt and yanked him toward her, cutting off his words and forcing him to follow her backward away from the carriage.

“Arthur?” Rose said, nodding toward the wagon.

Arthur came from behind her and knelt down where the man had been previously.

“You hurt?” he asked.

“Get away from me!” she shouted back.

He held up his hands. “I ain’t gonna hurt ya, kid.”

“Take the girl,” the bandit pleaded. “Take all this shit. Just let me go.”

Rose twisted the fabric in her hands, pulling it tighter around his throat. “Shut the hell up.”

Arthur shook his head before turning back toward the stagecoach. “You got a name?” Arthur asked the young girl. “Mine’s Arthur, and the woman’s Rose.”

Silence.

“Come on, now,” he said. “We’re just tryin’ to help. Are you hurt?”

“No,” she answered this time around.

“Are you stuck in there?”

A few moments of silence passed before the girl replied. “Yes.”

“All right,” Arthur grunted as he stood. Moving to the side, he squatted and tucked his fingers beneath the wood. “I’m gonna need you to move quick, okay?”

With a grunt, he lifted the wagon a little bit off the ground, just enough for the girl to slip through.

“You out?” he asked through gritted teeth.

“Mh-hmm.”

The young girl shook, eyes bloodshot and staring at the bodies littering the ground. Her blonde hair was long and disheveled, and her clothes were covered with dirt and blood. A loud creaking of wood sounded as Arthur let the carriage go, making her flinch.

“See? She’s fine!” the bandit choked out.

“I swear you say one more goddamn word,” Rose hissed in his ear, “and I will make your death long and drawn out.”

Arthur moved in front of the young lady’s view, blocking most of the carnage, or so Rose hoped; couldn’t shield a child from death, but there were better ways to become acquainted. He leaned down slightly, bringing himself to her eye level.

“What’s your name?” he asked again.

She sniffled and watched him for a moment before replying, “Daniella.”

She leaned to her left, trying to peek around Arthur, but he stopped her with a gentle hand on her shoulder.

“You don’t wanna look, girl.”

“But my aunt. She–”

“You should take her back to camp,” Rose suggested, “an’ we can figure out where to go from there.” Her gaze lowered to the civilian bodies.

“You want me to just leave you here alone?” he asked, turning his head toward her.

“I’ll holler if I need help,” she insisted. “Just get her outta here, all right?”

He shook his head but agreed. “Okay.” He turned back to the girl. “That sound good?”

“Aunt Bethany,” she muttered. “What if she’s still… she could be–”

“Rose’ll check for ya,” he promised. “She’s real thorough.”

Daniella nodded and wiped at her eyes.

Arthur clicked his tongue a few times, calling his large, dark horse closer. After helping Daniella into the saddle, he climbed in behind her.

“You go on,” Rose said. “I’ll catch up with you in a few.”

He gave a nod before kicking his heels and urging the horse forward. “Let’s go, boy.”

“What’s she gonna do that man?” Rose heard Daniella ask.

Arthur replied, “She’s gonna make sure he won’t hurt no one else.”