Chapter Text
“Good to know that some things don’t change with the war; this place looks as depressing as it always does.”
Vébjorn blew air through his teeth in a hiss as he and Lydia entered the Nightgate Inn stables. “Yes, it is,” he agreed. “Or maybe everything looks more depressing the farther north you go,” he tacked on as an afterthought.
Lydia snickered in response. “Don’t let the College of Winterhold hear you say that.”
“The College would agree with me, that’s the whole reason why they’re rebuilding,” Vébjorn retorted with a roll of his eyes. He settled Daisy into a stall with her feed before he took off her mount and shook out her blanket.
Lydia raised her brows at him mockingly. “Really? And here I thought they were rebuilding because some wild ancient magic exploded out over the town and wrecked Winterhold even more than it already was.”
“Well, that too,” Vébjorn conceded. “But also because it was ugly.”
Lydia barked out a laugh and threw a handful of straw at him, which he batted away as he giggled along.
After settling their horses, the two entered Nightgate Inn and were greeted by the innkeeper, Hadring. The older man looked up from where he was cleaning a table by the door.
“Oh, you again. Good to see you’re still kicking. How’s the kid?”
“She’s very well. She’s become very attached to her sister and fathers, and has started partaking in the children’s fighting lessons the Companions offer,” he informed him before a devious smile crossed his face. “Apparently she’s a biter.”
Hadring let out a loud guffaw of laughter. “Good for her! I tell you, she’ll never have problems with bullies. Wish I had that spite growing up; would’ve been dragged into way less trouble.”
“Ay, she’s a fierce one,” Vébjorn agreed fondly. Sofie had truly blossomed in the short time she had been with her new family. While some things will always linger from her time being homeless, she had changed so much from the fearful girl on the cold streets who was always ready to run or fight for her safety. But certain aspects of her, instead of being forgotten, were honed; the clearest example being her ferocity.
Hadring directed him and Lydia to the table he had just cleaned, and then went off to the kitchens to fetch them dinner and mead. Vébjorn took the chance to gaze around the inn. To his surprise, it was fuller than when he and Sofie left it. A finely dressed, flustered Orc sat in the corner sipping from a cup, accompanied by a grandly gesturing Nord who gazed at him like he was one of the Nine Divines. Vébjorn let a smile part his lips as he watched them, then averted his gaze to give them some semblance of privacy.
He next turned his eye to another Nord drinking at one of the longtables with a strangely crafted sword on his hip. It was long and thin, and though it looked like good quality, it had clearly seen its fair share of use over many years. Something about it made him antsy, but he couldn’t place his finger on what about it exactly, so Vébjorn pulled out his journal and made note to speak with the man if he saw him again on his way back to Whiterun.
There were a few soldiers from both sides of the war milling about. They all were noticeably tense, but none dared to start trouble at an inn. It was an old custom; nobody has ever been willing to risk warm food and a warm bed in Skyrim, even during conflicts. He saw a Stormcloak and an Imperial soldier sitting together, speaking quietly to each other with their hands gently linked on top of the table. It reminded him of Hadvar and Ralof, and he took a moment to silently pray to Talos that they were well.
Quick as ever, his and Lydia’s meals were brought out, and after a few more short words with Hadring he began to eat. As always, the meal was not a masterpiece, but it was food regardless. He and Lydia ate vigorously. They had the provisions with them, but nothing was quite like a warm stew on a cold night.
He startled when Lydia choked on her mead and began coughing while she pointed behind him. He whipped around in his chair, hand ready on his dagger, only to be faced with a short Argonian heavily bundled up in fine clothes. He jolted again– he had not heard them approach, and clearly even Lydia had been shocked by their sudden appearance. But Vébjorn forced himself to relax and greet the unbothered stranger.
“Ah, sorry about that. You are very quiet, and well, we don’t exactly have good experiences with people who are very quiet,” Vébjorn sheepishly explained, gesturing to what scars were visible littering himself. The Argonian let out a few high-pitched hisses that Vébjorn assumed was laughter.
“It is fine. I am indeed very quiet; I should remember to make myself known properly. Apologies. I come here to greet an egg-brother.” Their voice was raspy, although certain words seemed to linger in a hiss moreso than the few Argonians he had met.
Vébjorn tilted his head to the side. “An egg-brother?”
The Argonian gestured to Vébjorn’s eyes with their sharply clawed fingers, but made sure to keep a considerate distance between them. Vébjorn appreciated it.
“Yes, egg-brother. It is what we call each other, but it is no shame to first hear it now. You look like your ancestor is not so close that you could know.”
Vébjorn felt himself pale in realization of what the stranger meant, as he was not egg-brother, but Dragonborn. Though his eyes remained the flax flower color they resembled before Helgen, their shape had changed to resemble a dragon’s– or, it appears, an Argonian’s.
Vébjorn grimaced, embarrassed over the misunderstanding. “Ah, no, I’m sorry. I’m not an Argonian. My eyes– they just, um, look like that,” he lamely explained.
The traveler gave another hissing laugh. “It is alright egg-brother, do not be so alarmed. You find no quarrel with me. I imagine you have had to make that excuse many a time– the Nords here are not so friendly to us, and are probably equally so to those like you who are mixed.”
Vébjorn felt shame slither through his stomach at the reminder of how his people have mistreated others, and tried to assuage it with the knowledge that he will not continue that behavior. The Argonian took a seat at their table, and Lydia averted her gaze from Vébjorn and kept eating, unwilling to help him escape the awkward situation.
“And ‘Argoninan’ is an Imperial term, young one. In our home, we use Saxhleel. But this far north, it makes sense that you would not hear our tongue. Many of us still choose to use ‘Argonian’, but it is the choice that often matters more than the words. Consider this knowledge we share a gift.” The Argonian– the Saxhleel lowered their hood, revealing dark scales and sharp features, although the scales of their nose area were a shade lighter than the rest. Their eyes resembled a sword that was just pulled from the forge, and short but dangerous looking horns jutted from their head.
“No!” Vébjorn scrambled. “No, I really mean it, truly. Thank you for the knowledge, I am honored to be given it, but I truly am just a Nord with weird eyes, I swear to you.”
The stranger’s open expression immediately shuttered, face going blank as they stared Vébjorn down. He felt pinned like a moth under their stare, and he shifted uncomfortably in his seat while trying to convey how genuine he was. Finally, the stanger seemed to reach a conclusion and leaned back in their seat.
“Ah. I am disappointed I did not find an egg-brother, but I have found something interesting nonetheless. Your eyes are indeed weird for a Nord; how did this happen?” They questioned.
Vébjorn darted his gaze to Lydia, hoping for help explaining, but she glared at him and continued eating her dinner. Vébjorn sighed in frustration.
“Um, I am Dragonborn. It is a Nord thing. About dragons.”
The stranger’s intense stare slowly shifted towards a concerned sort of curiosity.
“But not like in an ancestor way! Nobody in my family, um,” Vébjorn scrambled, awkwardly gesturing with his hands before immediately regretting doing so. The stranger merely continued to stare.
Lydia groaned across from him, finally unable to bear Vébjorn’s poor attempts at explanation. She looked to the stranger.
“He killed a dragon and ate its soul,” she plainly explained.
“I mean, not exactly. I had help killing it, and I think the soul was more, just, absorbed somehow. Maybe I breathed it, like pipesmoke in a way? Or something else, I don’t know.”
The stranger stared down Vébjorn with an intensity that made him feel like prey, as if they were a hungry wolf and the information Vébjorn gave them was a particularly tasty looking rabbit. “Is that so?”
Vébjorn felt his shoulders hunch, slightly folding to appear smaller under the stranger’s eyes. “Aye, it is,” he confirmed.
“Hmm. What is your name, Dragonborn?” The stranger relaxed back into their chair, but their yellow eyes remained sharp with curiosity.
“Vébjorn of Clan Sky-Bearer. And this is my companion, Lydia Oath-Guard.”
Lydia wiggled her fingers in a wave when she was named.
The stranger hummed again. “And I am Utadiith.”
“It is good to meet you, Utadiith. And, um, how do you like to be referred to?”
The Saxhleel stared at him blankly, and blinked. “As Utadiith.”
“No, I mean, um,” Vébjorn tried to think of how to explain. “Like, I refer to Lydia with ‘she’, and she refers to me with ‘he’.”
“Ah! Yes, I understand. I have no preference; these distinctions are not important to my people the way it is to you smooth-skins. But I am normally called ‘he’,” Utadiith answered.
“Good to know, friend!”
Vébjorn waved down Hadring to ask for a drink for the new addition to the table, and the three continued to chat.
“So, what brings you this far north, Utadiith?” Lydia questioned, eyeing the many layers of warmth adorning him.
“I travel to Windhelm. A friend of mine works on the docks there, and according to her, it has been far too long since my last visit,” Utadiith rasped. “And what calls the two of you?”
“Similar thing,” Lydia answered, before her smirk turned mischievous. “Although the one we visit isn’t exactly a friend to Vébjorn.”
“Lydia!” Vébjorn hissed, kicking at her under the table. Utadiith laughed as he observed them.
“Ah, romance! Good for you, Dragonborn. I hope your endeavors in love go as well as mine.”
“I hope that means your endeavors went well,” Lydia said, which earned her a reprimanding huff from Vébjorn and laughter from Utadiith.
“They did indeed! My husband and I have been together for many years now, and I am eager for many more. I did not imagine I would find a steady life in this frozen wasteland. But I did, and now I stay, even though each morning I must check for my tail to make sure it has not frozen off.” Utadiith shrugged under his cloaks, before looking at Lydia and Vébjorn. “No offense, of course,” he amended, not sounding apologetic at all.
Lydia and Vébjorn cooed at him, unoffended. “The sacrifices we make for love,” Vébjorn sighed in a lovestruck falsetto, and Lydia cupped her hands over her heart and swooned to further illustrate. Utadiith sighed goodnaturedly at their dramatics, before grinning sharply at Vébjorn.
“Yes, yes. I share, now it is only fair you do the same,” Utadiith demanded. Vébjorn flushed and immediately stopped his antics to bashfully fiddle with his dinner. Lydia cackled at him, drawing the eyes of other patrons and embarrassing Vébjorn further.
“Lydia, hush!” Vébjorn hissed in a whisper, cheeks like the snowberries that grew on the sides of the roads. He grumbled to himself before giving in. “His name is Revyn.”
Utadiith’s face didn’t change. “And is that all you know?” He questioned with a playfully condescending air. Or at least Vébjorn thought it was playful– Utadiith was turning out to be very hard to read.
“No!” Vébjorn defended. “He is from Morrowind, and he owns a shop in the Grey Quarter, and he has a sister, and he’s very honorable, you know. He refuses to buy anything he suspects of being stolen–”
“Sadri’s Used Wares?” Utadiith interrupted.
“Yes! You have been?”
Utadiith laughed bitterly. “It is the only store in Windhelm that takes my coin without giving me unnecessary trouble. Of course I have been.”
Vébjorn deflated a bit. “Oh. That’s not right, Utadiith. I’m sorry you’re treated that way.”
Utadiith waved away his sympathy. “Do not worry over it. It is their own loss after all.” Utadiith smiled widely, showing off the knife-like teeth lining his mouth. “I have quite a lot of coin, none of which they will ever see. But yes, I know your Revyn. Fair prices, good manners, mean streak. I like him.”
Vébjorn lets a dopey smile cross his face. “Yes, he’s very clever, and very educated. I wish I could be as learned, but reading has never been a strength of mine. The words move too quickly for me to read them,” he confessed sheepishly.
“Don’t act like you’re stupid. The only time you’re supposed to play dumb is when you’re putting coin down on card games to throw people off,” Lydia scolded him. Vébjorn rolled his eyes at her, but still patted her hand gratefully nonetheless.
“I want to believe that the Gods would not allow someone stupid to eat the souls of dragons,” Utadiith agreed with Lydia evenly. Vébjorn flushed at their faith in him.
“I want to believe that too,” Vébjorn confessed shyly, and his companions returned his smile.
Soon after, the three finished their meals and drinks and made their way to their own rooms, all tired after long journeys.
“Utadiith,” Vébjorn called before he went into his room. The Saxhleel turned to him, halfway through the door to his room. “Would you like to travel with me and Lydia tomorrow? Since we are all going to Windhelm, and I’m sure the guards are not the kindest to you when you are alone,” Vébjorn offered.
Utadiith smirked at him. “That is very kind of you, Dragonborn, but I have my own ways into the city that keep me away from the guards’ ire.”
Vébjorn and Lydia chuckled. “Then I wish you well. Maybe we will see each other again?”
“Maybe we shall. Sleep well, land-striders.” Utadiith dipped his head at them in goodbye, which the two Nords returned. He slithered fully into his room, completely silent, and let the door shut behind him.
Vébjorn and Lydia followed likewise, and retired to their room for the night. After undressing from their armor to their bedclothes, they crowded around the small mirror and wash basin in the corner of the room. They scrubbed the grime of the road from their hands and faces, before cleaning their teeth with rough cloths and rinsing with a wash made of vinegar and herbs. The two promptly dropped into their beds and fell asleep, awaiting the day’s light so they may finish their journey.
— — —
Vébjorn was woken in the morning by Lydia brutalising him with her pillow.
He groaned, rolling over and curling inwards to protect himself from her attack. “What have I done to earn such cruelty?” He whined from within the cocoon of his blankets. Lydia merely laughed at him, deeming him awake enough to cease her assault. She moved from his side over to the wash basin, where she began readying herself for the day ahead of them.
Grumpily, Vébjorn freed himself from his bedding and stretched out like a cat, further waking himself. He layed there for only a few more seconds, not wanting to linger too long and invoke Lydia’s wrath once more. He pulled himself upright with a groan and rolled out of the bed. He changed out of his bedclothes into his inner layers and scratched at his stomach, before shuffling over to the mirror above the wash basin to brush and re-braid his hair. With that finished, he grabbed his bar of soap and trekked outside to the inn’s communal toilets to do what all living creatures must. Upon finishing, he washed his hands over one of the basins and rinsed with water from the nearby bucket. Wiping his hands on his shirt to dry them, he returned to the inn to pack his bag before finally venturing to the dining room.
Lydia was waiting for him at a table, already stealing sausages off the plate he assumed was for him. He batted her thieving hands away and sat himself down across from her, happily tucking into his own breakfast. He and Lydia chattered away to each other as they ate, and then returned to their room upon finishing to ready themselves for the last part of their journey. They paid Hadring on their way out and retrieved their steeds from the stables to make their way to Windhelm.
— — —
Vébjorn led Daisy into the Windhelm stables, skin still thrumming with the soul of the dragon he and Lydia defeated. It had accosted them just as they approached the city. He and Lydia had done their best to direct any damage away from the stables or Brandy-Mug Farm, and for the most part they were successful. There were a few patches of the farm that got burned, but when Vébjorn went to express his apologies, Bolfrida wouldn’t have any of it.
“Besides, a little dragon fire might be just what this permafrost needs,” she had joked undeterred. Her farmhand did not seem to be of the same mind, and was still recovering from the fainting spell he had experienced upon almost getting scorched.
Vébjorn awkwardly handed over Daisy’s reins to the awestruck stablehand, drawing up his shoulders and hiding under his hood as he and his housecarl crossed over the bridge. Lydia had no such qualms and proudly strode next to him, shoulders back and chest puffed like a smug crow. He wasted no time in making her aware of the comparison, and they had to pause off to the side for a moment as the two tittered like children. Once calm, they walked on till they reached the Stromcloak guards waiting by the gates.
“That… that was a dragon. You killed that dragon. And that light, what was that?” One guard asked in a state of disbelief. The other guard peered at him from behind their helmet. “Are you the Dragonborn? I’ve heard rumors, but I thought that’s all they were,” they murmured.
Vébjorn stammered, until finally he realized that he couldn’t deflect and go back to sweet anonymity. He defeatedly nodded his head in confirmation, and the guards began chattering at him excitedly. Finally, Lydia came to his rescue.
“We’d like to enter sometime today. We have business within the city that we must attend to,” she said in a steely tone that bordered on an order.
“Yes! Of course, sorry.” Chastised, the guards stepped aside and the gates opened.
Lydia and Vébjorn thanked them, and entered the city.
“Damn, this place is ugly,” Lydia muttered under her breath. “You’re really gonna settle here when you and your elf get married?”
Vébjorn sharply elbowed her as his cheeks flushed. “It’s probably very nice when there’s not a war or racially motivated slums,” he weakly defended, even though his thoughts were similar. He kept to himself that he hoped Revyn would prefer Whiterun when the time came. She snorted but didn’t comment further as they made their way to the Grey Quarter.
Turning a corner, Vébjorn and Lydia came across an upset Dunmer talking to a Nord with a gray beard and scaled horn armor. Vébjorn halted, watching the interaction suspiciously and trying to gauge whether he should disrupt. Lydia put a hand on his arm, ready to hold him back if he tried to start another fight.
(How could he not tell her about his brawl with that bigot Angrenor? Which not only did he win, but he was in the right of, and he will assert that till there is no breath in his lungs.)
However, the conversation didn’t seem to escalate. The Dunmer walked away looking slightly happier, but the Nord was left rubbing his forehead and looking defeated. His posture reminded Vébjorn of his Grampa whenever he had bad news. Suddenly, the old warrior turned and spotted the two, far too fast for them to feign minding their own business. He glared and began trudging toward them, gait hindered with age and violence but lacking no strength. He saw Lydia glance at him out of the corner of his eye, clearly wondering if they should just leave and hope the man doesn’t follow them, but Vébjorn stood firm and glared back as the man reached them.
"You one of those "Skyrim for the Nords" types?" The man asked gruffly.
Thrown off, Vébjorn blurted out “What? No. What?” Lydia made a noise of agreement from beside him.
The intimidating man softened. “Good. Too many Nords in this town have been listening to Ulfric's narrow-minded words. He's tough, loyal to his men and a good leader, but if you're not a Nord, Ulfric will never trust you."
Vébjorn relaxed upon realizing there was no threat, but his fire reignited upon being reminded of the injustices plaguing the city. “Yeah, he’s a real ass,” Vébjorn spat like the farm boy he once was. Lydia choked beside him, desperately holding back a laugh at his bluntness.
The intimidating man seemed to be equally startled, except he didn’t bother hiding the bark of laughter Vébjorn startled out of him. Vébjorn was flustered, but refused to show any regret over his words. He meant what he said after all; he wouldn’t have said it if not.
“I’m glad to hear others see that, sword-brother,” the intimidating man said warmly, old eyes wrinkling around a smile. “Brunwulf Free-Winter,” he introduced himself.
“Vébjorn of Clan Sky-Bearer,” he returned, followed by his housecarl’s “Lydia Oath-Guard.”
“Good to have more sensible folk around. I hope to be seeing you both again.”
“The same to you, sir,” Vébjorn returned politely, while Lydia nodded beside him.
Brunwulf trudged away, and they continued on to Revyn’s shop.
Lydia nudged him with a smile on her face. “There we go, at least one man in the city we can rely on.”
Vébjorn returned her smile hopefully. It was heartening to come across another Nord in Windhelm who wouldn’t stand for the prejudice that seemed to be imbued within the city’s stone. It gave him hope that minds could be changed, and the future could hold unity for Skyrim. Maybe he could be made Jarl once Ulfric was deposed? That would set Vébjorn’s mind at ease.
Finally, they stood outside of Sadri’s Used Wares. The store looked even more downtrodden in the light than it did in the dark, but Vébjorn knew it was not from a lack of trying on Revyn’s part. He wondered what the Grey Quarter looked like when it was established. Was it always meant to be a slum? Just a place to toss those who were unwanted? Or was it once a true city quarter, equal to the others? He tried to push those musings out of his mind– they would do no good when it came to fixing these problems present now. He and Lydia entered the store.
— — —
Revyn’s head darted up from where it was bent over a ledger on the shop’s counter. Upon seeing Vébjorn, his carefully neutral expression cracked into a surprised smile, and Vébjorn shyly wiggled his fingers in a small wave. He felt his cheeks bloom with color like red mountain flowers, and cursed the fact that the paleness of his skin didn’t allow for anything to be hidden. But he couldn’t be too unhappy when Revyn was making his way out from behind the counter to greet them, looking at him with soft eyes and a softer smile like Vébjorn belonged here.
“I was not expecting you so soon! Did you travel through a portal?” Revyn joked, clearly pleased by their promptness. Vébjorn giggled while Lydia judged him from his side and snorted at his enamorment. Upon hearing it, Revyn’s face closed off as if he was just noticing her.
“And you brought a companion,” he commented neutrally, though Vébjorn thought he could hear displeasure in his tone.
“This is Lydia, my housecarl!” Vébjorn clarified quickly. He hadn’t thought before now that Revyn would be expecting him to come alone. It made sense that the mer was thrown off, as this was a sensitive matter that called Vébjorn here, and he had worked alone the last time he plucked an orphan from Windhelm’s streets. He hoped Revyn understood that the title of housecarl meant Lydia could be trusted.
Sure enough, Revyn’s expression lost some of its sneer, though he still maintained his distance from her. “So, she knows about Aretino?” He asked.
Vébjorn nodded. “Aye, we set out as soon as we received the letter,” he confirmed, and Revyn’s eyes softened once more. Vébjorn felt like porridge, warm and mushy, as the elf reached out and lightly caressed his wrist.
“Thank you for that.”
Vébjorn felt like he would surely melt into an embarrassingly happy puddle on the floor. “Of course, Revyn.”
Lydia let him indulge for a few more seconds, before she cut in. “So, have there been any updates?”
“No,” Revyn answered as he worried his lip. “The door is still locked and he doesn’t respond when we knock, but the baskets of food are always empty when we go to replace them.”
Lydia grinned mishcievously. “Then it’s a good thing we know how to work around locks,” she assured, already sliding her lockpicks out from one of the small bags on her belt. Revyn let out a startled laugh, and Lydia shot a victorious look to Vébjorn. He returned her look, also hoping that Revyn would defrost toward her. She was practically his sister, and he would like for her and the one he’s interested in to get along.
“I’m not sure how good of an idea it is to break in during the day,” Revyn commented hesistantly.
“Fine. I suppose we can wait until dark, though I didn’t exactly want to be stuck in this city for that long.”
“Lydia,” Vébjorn admonished, darting a glance at Revyn who smiled disbelievingly before turning his attention back to Vébjorn.
“I could, ah, show you around till then. Some parts of the city aren’t bad,” Revyn offered.
Vébjorn tried to stop himself from thinking of it as a date. “I’d like that,” he agreed bashfully, before attempting to frantically signal to Lydia with his eyes.
Lydia smirked at him. “I’ll have to bow out. I wanted to go back and find that Brunwulf man again. Got some questions, you know? Warrior stuff, politics stuff.”
“Oh no, that’s too bad. But I hope you have luck with that!” Vébjorn said, hopefully sounding appropriately disappointed.
“Yes, good luck with that,” Revyn agreed, though he sounded eager. The two waved goodbye to Lydia, who winked at Vébjorn on her way out when Revyn was turned away. He flushed but grinned at her nonetheless.
“She seems like a real character,” Revyn commented, walking over to the ledger to lock it away and grabbing the key to the store. He wrapped himself in his coat and returned to Vébjorn, placing a light hand on Vébjorn’s lower back to guide him out of the store just like when they first met, and Vébjorn felt giddy.
“Yes, she is,” he agreed, chuckling. “But she’s the closest friend I’ve ever had.”
Revyn’s pointed ear twitched in Vébjorn’s direction from where he was locking the door. “That so?”
“Yeah, she’s practically my sister. Especially with the way she annoys me,” Vébjorn recalled fondly. Revyn chuckled quietly, finally finishing with the lock and placing the key into an inner pocket of his shirt.
“My own sister’s similar. Bit of a nag and likes to bother me, but it’s out of love, so I can’t complain much,” he sighed. Vébjorn offered his arm as they began walking, hoping he wasn’t too forward. But Revyn took it, and used it to lead him through the Grey Quarter.
“So do you have other family? Or is it just you and your sister?”
“Pretty much. Haven’t seen our parents since we left Morrowind. We’ve got a relative on Solstheim, that’s how I get my imports. His name’s Geldis, owns an inn called the Retching Netch. We’re pretty sure he’s a cousin, so we just go with that. Not like there’s anyone we can ask.”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Vébjorn gently murmured, but Revyn waved away his condolences with his free hand.
“I’ve come to terms with it– not much else you can do. What about you? Family besides Lydia?”
“My Gramma and Grampa brought me up after my parents passed. They were soldiers– one day they got called away for a conflict, so they left me with my grandparents, but then they just,” Vébjorn shurgged awkwardly. “Never came back.”
Revyn pressed their shoulders together comfortingly, but let Vébjorn continue.
“So my grandparents brought me up in their village, Rorikstead. It’s in Whiterun Hold, but it’s so far west it’s closer to Markarth. Pretty boring place, which I used to resent when I was a kid. But I appreciate it now. Between you and me, it’s paradise when compared to some other places in Skyrim. The weather’s always agreeable and crops always grow, to a point that lots of folk even say the land must have been blessed by Kynareth. It’s probably why we have a harvest festival specifically in her honor each year. There’s cooking competitions, dancing, a bonfire, a crop competition, storytelling– it’s my favorite day of the year. Even more than my birthday,” Vébjorn admitted, so happy to remember his home that his smile seeped into his words as he spoke.
Revyn sighed dreamily. “By Azura, that sounds amazing. What I wouldn’t do for a day where the sun shines.”
“Maybe you could join me for the next one? There’s an inn, but you’d be welcome to stay in my family’s home. Um, if you’d like, that is,” Vébjorn shyly offered.
Revyn’s eyes glittered like rubies as he leaned in close enough for their foreheads to almost touch. Vébjorn held his breath.
“I would love to join you.” Revyn’s eyes crinkled from how widely he smiled, and Vébjorn wanted to kiss him then and there on the streets of Windhelm for all to see. He reached out to tuck stray hair behind Vébjorn’s ear. “Thank you for inviting me. Now I have something to tide me over till the next I see you.”
Oh holy shit he was flirting.
“Oh holy shit you’re flirting.”
Revyn froze, thumb lightly settled against Vébjorn’s cheekbone. The mer nervously wet his lips. “Is it untoward?”
“No!” Vébjorn scrambled. “It’s very toward! Extremely toward. I’m– I– may I kiss you? Oh Gods, I’m so sorry, I can’t believe I–”
Revyn clapped a hand over his own mouth to muffle the laughter that burst out of him as Vébjorn continued his babbling. He was thankfully cut off as Revyn tugged him into a narrow alley, where the two faced each other nervously.
“I–” the two began at the same time, before quietly laughing at themselves. Revyn gestured politely to Vébjorn, but he childishly clasped his hands over his own mouth instead to ensure Revyn went first. The mer gave him the same crinkled-eye smile as earlier, and Vébjorn wanted to cry from how desperately he wanted to be with Revyn for the rest of his life.
Revyn took Vébjorn’s hands and held them, running his thumbs over the weathered and scarred backs. “I’d like to court you,” he whispered.
“And I’d like to court you,” Vébjorn responded cheekily, which earned him a stifled laugh.
“Then it appears we’re courting each other now.”
Vébjorn grinned widely, staring down at where their hands were connected. He turned his gaze to Revyn’s. “I still very much want to kiss you,” Vébjorn admitted bashfully.
Revyn leaned in close again, except this time he rested his forehead on Vébjorn’s. “I’d like that.”
He closed the distance between them to press their lips together, and Vébjorn’s eyes slipped shut. It was cold, and dry, and both their lips were chapped from the climate. Yet, Vébjorn had never before been so content even though his joy felt far too great to be contained within him. Revyn pulled away, but stayed close enough that they shared their breath. The two just looked at each other for a while, basking in each other’s prescence like housecats in a sunbeam, until Vébjorn was reminded that he had not eaten since breakfast by his stomach loudly making itself known. He blushed, before joining Revyn in laughter.
“My sister Idesa and her charge should be eating lunch by now. We could join them, if you’d like,” Revyn offered.
“I’d go anywhere as long as I could be with you,” Vébjorn replied, serious as the plague.
Revyn’s smile grew, and he leaned in once more to press a kiss to the hinge of Vébjorn’s jaw before the two separated and exited the alley.