I Only Want You Near Me

by thyme_and_again

Summary:

Skyrim's Civil War continues to rage, and death and dragonfire lurk outside of every city's walls. But people still do what they can to make their own pockets of stability and happiness.

The Dragonborn has decided that he must finally involve himself in the war for his people, himself, and those his people have mistreated. And maybe, through the course of this endeavor, he will be able to find his own happiness.

Notes:

Woah I'm back. Thank you so much to everyone who read my first work??? You're all so nice like??? Positively had me gnawing on furniture like my dog when he was teething. I've returned with more of Vébjorn thrifting kids from around Skyrim so he can distribute them to loving homes. This story features more of my OCs, which I have many of because I've been goosing around in this game since it came out and I begged my mom to let me play it despite the rating.

No Revyn in this chapter, very sorry. Just friendship and familial love for now. Hopefully the next chapter will make up for that [eye emojis] [wink wink nudge nudge].

Staying on my bull with the title from "For The Dancing and The Dreaming" courtesy of HTTYD.

Chapter 1: Whiterun

Vébjorn stood from the table that he, Lydia, Jarl Balgruuf, and the Jarl’s cabinet had been seated at for the better part of the day. He stretched his back until he felt the stiffness in it finally shift and let out a grunt of satisfaction. From beside him, he heard a dull thud, and looked over to see Lydia with her head planted on the table

“Was it really that bad for you?”

She raised her head enough to send him a venomous glare, and were Vébjorn anyone else, he would have been stricken with fear. But he was not anyone else, so instead he clapped a hand down onto her broad shoulder and grinned.

“It was the very worst thing you have ever made me do as your housecarl,” she bluntly spoke, before swatting at his hand. “I am made for fighting, not politics.”

He snorted at her statement and began walking for the doors.

“And I was made for hunting, yet here we both are,” he tossed over his shoulder, and felt quite satisfied when he heard her laugh in response.

Lydia strode to his side, and they exited the room together. As they ambled down the hall, Vébjorn gazed out the windows at the darkened sky over Whiterun, lit with torches and hearths of homes. He took a moment to mourn the day he had missed and all he could have done, but as Dragonborn, this was a responsibility he could not avoid. He looked to his loyal housecarl and friend, and worried at his lip.

“I… know that this is not,” Vébjorn tried to begin, struggling for words. He never had the proficiency for reading that his grandmother did, but that had not mattered when his greatest responsibilities were providing his village with meat and hides and bones. Now, he cursed himself for it. Maybe if he put more effort forth then, he would know what to say now.

“This is not a good situation. And I appreciate you standing beside me, but I do not wish to make you disregard what you think or want.”

Lydia stopped short and grasped his shoulder, turning him to face her. Her lips were sternly pursed and her eyebrows were raised in an almost offended sort of disbelief.

“You can be softhearted, but don’t be foolish. Vébjorn, you are my friend and my brother-in-arms before you are my Thane. If I had objections, I would voice them. I stand beside you because this is where I want to be. Could any being make me do what I don’t wish to?” She spoke firmly, with the self-assurance he has come to expect from her.

“Not even Talos,” he confirmed, and his apparently unfounded guilt faded.

She chortled, before slinging her arm around his neck and dragging him down to muss his hair. He fought in name only for a moment, before using the opportunity to bring her into a hug.

“Thank you. For being my friend, and my housecarl, and my ally, and my sister-in-arms. I fear what my life could have been if I did not have you at my side,” he confessed in a hushed tone. He felt her soften and return his embrace twofold.

“Well, I suppose that’s just our lots in life. Us together until the cold, bitter end,” she chuckled into his shoulder, and they parted and continued walking.

“Besides, us joining the Imperials doesn’t mean that we can’t set fire to a couple of Thalmor holds. What would they do about it? Arrest the Dragonborn? Ha!”

“Lydia!”

“What? Nobody’s around to snitch! It’s fine,” she waved her hand in the air as if to dissipate his concerns. He tried to prevent the smile spreading across his face, but he failed that endeavor as he always did, and quickly hid it behind a hand. She narrowed her eyes at his display. “Oh, don’t act like we weren’t going to do that anyway, Vébjorn.”

“That doesn’t mean you can actually say it, Lydia! The whole point is secrecy!”

“Come off it, Vébjorn. As if any would be foolish enough to tattle on the Thane,” Lydia argued back with a feral smirk.

Finally exiting Dragonsreach and beginning their descent, his gaze was drawn towards Jorrvaskr. The chatter within was carried towards them on the cool night breeze, and he nudged Lydia. She rolled her eyes and nudged him back.

“Fine. I suppose we deserve some carousing after the day we’ve had,” she conceded, and they changed course to the mead hall.

“I thought you liked Jorrvaskr!” Vébjorn exclaimed in amusement.

“I love Jorrvaskr,” Lydia corrected. “I just know that the only reason we go as often as we do is so that Sofie will mention you more in her letters to that Dunmer in Windhelm.” Lydia ducked away from swat Vébjorn aimed at her.

“Lydia!” Vébjorn sputtered indignently. “That’s not– I– I have friends other than you! Who are Companions!”

“Dear Revyn,” Lydia started in a bad impression of Sofie’s voice as Vébjorn lunged unsuccessfully at her. “Today Vébjorn brought me back an amulet he found on one of his adventures and taught me how to make my own. He’s so brave and strong and considerate and handsome! He sooo amazing, you should marry him right away! Anyway Whiterun is okay too, I guess. With love, Sofie!” Lydia teased as she dodged out of Vébjorn’s reach to the steps of Jorrvaskr.

“Shut up! Shut up! That is completely untrue!” Vébjorn hissed. Lydia only cackled in his Imperial-red face as he joined her. Together, they pushed open the doors of the mead hall and entered into the revelry and warmth.

“Vébjorn! Lydia!” As always, Farkas spotted them first and trudged up the steps to greet them, a child perched on each shoulder. The girls began attempting to wriggle off their father’s shoulders till he finally set them down and let them run to their visitors. Vébjorn took note that Sofie was still small for a child her age and felt a familiar flare of concern, but he reminded himself that recovery took time, and it had only been barely over a month since she was rehomed to Farkas and Mirmir. Farkas had assured him this was normal when he expressed his concern, and though Vébjorn hadn’t known a time before Lucia was Farkas’s, he assumed the older Nord would know best.

Vébjorn knelt down to meet the girls at their heights, and he brought them both into a gentler form of his favorite bear hug while Lydia leaned over to ruffle the girls’ hair. Farkas soon reached them, and brought the four into an embrace.

“Oh, get your paws off me, you oaf!” Lydia yelled and made a show out of struggling, drawing giggles from the girls. Farkas only squeezed tighter with a bright, uninhibited laugh. When they broke apart, the girls gleefully dragged Lydia over to the hearth. Although Lydia didn’t dislike children, Vébjorn was still equal parts surprised and pleased at how the three had bonded. Despite Lydia’s teasing earlier, he was sure that she featured in Sofie’s letters as much if not more than he did.

Vébjorn turned his gaze to his other friend. “Is she still adjusting well?” He whispered to Farkas, who responded with a soft, if tired, look.

“You ask that every time you visit, Vébjorn. She’s doing just fine. She’s strong, all children are,” Farkas assured. “Try to worry less, stress wrinkles aren’t nearly as good a look as age wrinkles.”

Vébjorn rolled his eyes. “Oh, and I’m sure you would know.”

“I would and you know it,” Farkas asserted sagely. “My husband is pushing two hundred and fifty, and he’s still the only one I see when he’s in the room.”

“Oh, Farkas,” Vébjorn beamed. “That’s just beautiful.”

“Not to mention that we fuck every day. Sometimes more! One of the benefits of having so many babysitters.”

“Farkas! Gods above, don’t tell me these things! Ugh!” Vébjorn rubbed furiously at his ears as if he could make Farkas’s words fall out of his head. Farkas howled with laughter at Vébjorn’s embarrassment and led him down the the table, piling a plate high with food for the younger man. Vébjorn took it with a mild glare.

“Doesn’t matter how much you feed me, you’ll never be forgiven,” Vébjorn huffed at the Companion, who only responded with more gleeful peals of laughter.

Farkas poked at him and Vébjorn paused in devouring his roasted goat leg to look over to his friend, who grinned at him impishly.

“Speaking of Dunmer…”

Vébjorn flushed brighter than the tomato soup on the table and let out a long groan, hoping that if he drew it out long enough he would just die on the spot, and never have to speak again.

“Don’t be like that. My friend is in love, let me be happy for you, you oaf!” Farkas said, tenderly clapping a hand onto Vébjorn’s shoulder.

“I can’t believe that you and Lydia only seem to care about embarrassing me. Vorstag would never do this to me.”

“Sure,” Farkas chuffed. “As if. The only reason Vorstag isn’t invading your love life right now is because he’s been mush for his rich-as-anything husband in Solitude for the past decade.”

“Good for him on that one.”

“Cheers to that!”

The two raised their mugs and threw back their drinks in unison before laughing.

“Cheers indeed!” A playful voice cut in, and a reedy Dunmer leaned over Farkas’s shoulder to gently kiss the hinge of his jaw. Farkas visibly softened and turned to meet Mirmir fully, and Vébjorn shifted his attention back to his food to give the couple a bit of privacy. After a minute of soft murmurs, the Dunmer straightened to his full height and cheerfully clasped hands with Vébjorn in greeting before he loped over to the hearth. His daughters greeted him with far louder shrieks than Vébjorn or Lydia received, and he was sat down in front of the housecarl while his daughters relayed their days to him. Judging by the matching braids the girls now sported and the brush in Lydia’s hand, Vébjorn assumed that Mirmir would shortly match them as well. Both he and Farkas looked to each other and let out soft “aww”s at this, chuckling to each other, when a knock on the doors cut through the cheer.

Vébjorn looked to Farkas in confusion, which Farkas returned. Who knocked at Jorrvaskr?

“Enter,” Mirmir’s voice projected through the hall, suddenly authoritative in a way Vébjorn rarely heard. It was easy to forget Mirmir’s status and age sometimes, with the open and carefree way he carried himself. But Vébjorn similarly knew what it meant to be looked upon as a leader, and the masks one maintains for the sake of presentation.

The heavy door creaked as a small man poked his head in, nervous in the presence of numerous rowdy warriors.

“Hello, so sorry to bother you all so late. I was told a Vébjorn might be found here?”

Vébjorn promptly stood. “Yes, that’s me,” he confirmed as he walked to meet him.

The man looked relieved. "I've been looking for you. Got something I'm supposed to deliver - your hands only,” he stated, before rummaging around in his bag. "Let's see here..."

The courier finally pulled out the letter he was looking for. “Here we are. From a Revyn Sadri in Windhelm. Said it was urgent. Don’t know what it’s about, but he seemed fine if that’s any comfort.”

Despite the courier’s attempt, Vébjorn still felt a roiling mess of anxiety boil in his stomach at the word “urgent”. He quickly broke the letter’s seal and began reading, only slightly conscious of Mirmir leading the courier to the table for a meal.

Vébjorn of Clan Skybearer,

I hope you and Sofie are well. I’m disappointed that I can’t be writing under better circumstances. I need you to come to Windhelm as soon as you can. My sister Idesa came across a rumor of there being yet another orphan in Windhelm. Even more concerning, she told me that she heard the boy is trying to contact the Dark Brotherhood. I wasn’t aware they were even still active in Skyrim, but I’ve also never tried to have anyone assassinated, so what would I know? The boy’s name is Aretino. Idesa and I tried to find out where he was, and we ended up concluding that he is probably staying in a building we think may have been his family’s residence. We haven’t seen him, but the basket of food we leave is always empty when we collect it. There isn’t much more we can do, as I believe at this point you understand how Windhelm guards would react to my sister’s and my own involvement in this situation. Probably best for you to hurry. Travel safely, see you soon.

Revyn Sadri

Vébjorn hurried over to Lydia, still relaxing in her chair by the hearth the way she rarely gets to.

“Lydia?” Vébjorn called to her in a hushed tone.

Lydia raised her brow with a grunt of acknowledgement.

Vébjorn passed the letter to her, which she quickly skimmed. “We need to go to Windhelm, right now. You up for it?”

“Am I up for it?” Lydia mocked him. “Don’t even act like there’s a possibility I wouldn’t be. Let’s go sort this shit out.”

Chapter 2: Journeys Begin

Summary:

Bonding and conflict, both internal and external.

Notes:

Okay so [clown emoji]

I originally planned this story as 2 chapters, but I was very wrong about that. Sorry, turns out I love Mirmir and I had to include a full chapter of just him and Vébjorn bonding. That and religious conflict. Sorry, turns out Skyrim has lots of themes surrounding civil rights including religious freedom, so [shrug]. Revyn is not in this chapter either [crying].

I HAVE A BETA KIND OF. They're actually my irl friend, we met in a creative writing class and I finally got the balls [barbie reverb sound effect] to ask them to proofread my fanfic. So thank you Goldie, you are super-duper rad although I hope you never find my account because I have public bookmarks that I do not wish to explain. :-}

EDIT 7/15/23: I goofed on the lore, Dunmer refugees started fleeing to Windhelm around 4E 5 I think, so I adjusted Mirmir's dialogue a bit. Forgive me, as I am silly.

Lydia had returned to her quarters in Dragonsreach to pack for their impromptu journey, which left Vébjorn to pass the information in the letter to Mirmir and The Circle. 

 

“How does a child even know of the Dark Brotherhood?” Vilkas questioned in disbelief, eyebrows furrowed and contorting his warpaint.

 

“People forget children have ears. Probably overheard some drunks telling ghost tales,” Aela guessed. “Doesn’t explain why a kid would want to contact the Dark Brotherhood.”

 

Mirmir frowned down at the letter in his hands, Farkas at his side and looking equally concerned. Farkas turned his eyes to Vébjorn.

 

“Do you have what you need for the trip?”

 

Vébjorn jerked his head in a nod. Being Dragonborn required more travelling than he had even done before, and now he always found himself prepared to pick up and go. The only thing he needed was provisions for him and Lydia until they reached Nightgate Inn. “Mirmir, can you afford me borrowing from your food stores?”

 

“Of course you can. We have the time to replenish before we’ll need them again,” Mirmir assured, at the same time that Farkas pointed out that food can’t exactly be borrowed since there’s no way to return it. Whereas this would normally goad Vébjorn into a friendly argument, he instead made his way down to Jorrvaskr’s food stores. He was distracted by the strangeness of the situation. It was concerning that a child would not only know how to summon the Dark Brotherhood, but have someone that they want dead in the first place.

 

Despite this, Vébjorn still felt the same giddiness that always cropped up within him at the prospect of seeing Revyn. He tried to temper that for now as he rummaged through barrels of preserved foods. As long as that Aretino child was by himself, Vébjorn would not allow his focus to drift; not to Revyn, not to this war, not to Alduin–

 

“Are you alright?” Came a voice from the doorway, and Vébjorn jerked his head up too fast and knocked it on a barrel behind him. 

 

“Oh, well, I suppose you aren’t now,” Mirmir said lightly as he drifted to Vébjorn, who held his head with one hand and lightly hit the barrel in retaliation with the other.

 

“Does the barrel not deserve your mercy, O Mighty Dragonborn?” The Dunmer joked, and Vébjorn grumbled at him in embarrassment as a response. 

 

Mirmir guided him away from the inanimate attacker, and sat them both down on a crate in the corner. The Harbinger peered at him. Clearly, the elf had made his way down here to talk, and Vébjorn couldn’t help but feel a bit like a field mouse being observed by an owl. He distantly noticed that the Dunmer’s eyes were lighter than Revyn’s, and quickly looked away to let his hair curtain his face bashfully. Determined as always, Mirmir simply lifted the strands of hair in his way to continue his silent interrogation. 

 

Vébjorn felt himself fold under the weight of the stare. He heaved out a sigh and tilted his head back to rest against the wall behind him.

 

“I have much going on in my mind.”

 

“Then tell me about it, my friend,” Mirmir suggested. Vébjorn huffed out in frustration.

 

“I just– I never– How do you know you’re making the right choice?”

 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Mirmir’s brows furrowed, and Vébjorn tried again.

 

“I mean, like, as a,” Vébjorn hesitated and grimaced. “As a leader? How do you know what the right choice is as a– a leader?”

 

“Oh! You don’t,” Mirmir answered unhelpfully.

 

“Are you serious?” Vébjorn snapped. “Then what am I supposed to do? How am I supposed to make any decisions? I’m not made for this, I don’t know how to do this! I’ve never done this! I was just a hunter, that’s what I know, what I’m good at. But then a dragon razes a village where I was about to be executed , and suddenly I’m The Dragonborn , and people look to me as if I’m someone who– who knows stuff. But I’m not! I’m not. And I’m ashamed, because people have put their faith in me when I’ve done nothing to earn it. They trust me to make decisions and protect them and do what’s right, but I don’t know what’s right. I feel like I’ve tricked them. I feel like a liar.”

 

“That’s, I think, just part of being a leader, Vébjorn. Doubt and worry, that is. A leader should want to do right by their people, but there is always so much to consider, and there are rarely decisions with solely good outcomes. Being a leader is a burden as much as it is a privelege,” Mirmir offered gently.

 

“But I’m not a leader, Mirmir! People treat me like I am, but they shouldn’t. I only have twenty one summers! Yet people twice or thrice my age listen to me and treat my word like it means something. Jarl Balgruuf is finally involving himself in this war because I advised him to and– and people will die. Even more than they already are, and people have just accepted it because they trust me and I feel like all I’m doing is leading them to their deaths– like it’s my fault. I’m scared, I’m so scared and angry and sad all of the time and I never know what I should do.”

 

Mirmir is silent beside him, but Vébjorn can’t bear to look at him and see the concerned pity that is surely on the elf’s face. He feels insecure over his outburst and his inexperience. Unlike him, the mer is a real leader, chosen by his people and wise in so many ways, and has the experience of centuries to inform his decisions. Vébjorn feels like a child complaining to him.

 

“I suppose I shouldn’t have skipped that meeting,” Mirmir finally murmurs, attempting a joke. Sadly, it falls flat.

 

Vébjorn roughly wipes at his face with the handkerchief offered to him by the elf and lets out a bark of laughter regardless. “Yes, it– it was pretty important. I wish you had been there, but everyone understood. You’re not just a Thane, you’re the Harbinger, and you have other stuff you need to do, I understand.” Vébjorn fiddled with the handkerchief and chewed on the inside of his cheek. “I suppose we could’ve done better to communicate the urgency, but we didn’t want word getting around and you know how much the Dragonsreach staff gossip and-” Vébjorn cut himself off and simply stared at the ground in front of him. 

 

“Who will Whiterun be fighting for?” Mirmir asked, disregarding Vébjorn’s rambling to confront his own concern.

 

Vébjorn felt bitter pinpricks of shame in the pit of his stomach as he tensed and clutched the dirtied handkerchief in his hands. He felt foolish now over how ready he had been to join the Stormcloaks, over how it had felt like his duty. How it had felt like the right choice. And Vébjorn felt even more foolish remembering his naive hurt at Mirmir’s disapproval. The elf would never shame him over it, not then or now, but he recalled in his mind’s eye the way Mirmir’s mouth had pinched and his eyebrows furrowed when Vébjorn first told him he would making the journey to Windhelm. When he thought of how much had changed in only a month’s time, he felt tired.

 

“Empire,” Vébjorn mumbled in answer.

 

“Oh!” Mirmir sounded pleasantly surprised, until the implications seemed to sink in. “Oh, Vébjorn, oh.”

 

Vébjorn kicked at the ground in front of him and felt very much like he was a child again, foolish and arrogant and always seeming to do the wrong thing. 

 

“I’m sorry that I dismissed you then. I’m sorry that I wanted to side with Ulfric; I know now it was foolish for me to take it personally like I did but I– I don’t know. Do you still– do you forgive me?”

 

“Of course I do, why would I–? Vébjorn, I disapproved, and I was… I was disappointed, but even if you had joined the Stormcloaks, I still would’ve forgiven you. You weren’t doing it for the, um, the bad reasons. You were just… trying to do the right thing,” Mirmir insisted, and considered his next words.

 

“Looking back, I suppose I could have been more open with you, about my experiences with the Stormcloaks and about why I disaproved. I think, perhaps, I assumed that discussing it was unnecessary because I never needed it explained. But of course it wouldn’t be the same way for you. And I realize now that I could have done more to make you understand, because you would have. You have a good heart like that. You have had so much put on your shoulders that even I forget you are so young and, although this is not meant to insult you, how little you have had the chance to experience. And I’m sorry that I forgot that and left you alone when I could’ve helped.”

 

“No,” Vébjorn sobbed out even as Mirmir enfolded him in his arms. “Don’t be sorry, I’m sorry. I just– I’m sorry.” Vébjorn slumped against the elf as he tried to calm himself down. As he was pulled tight to Mirmir’s side, he wondered if this was how the elf comforted his daughters. Vébjorn wondered if his own father would have comforted him like this if he had been able to come home, and he instantly felt an overwhelming bitterness about all the children like himself and Sofie that war had made orphans, children who should’ve grown up with their parents around to hold them when they cried but didn’t because some rulers who would never truly feel a war’s effects decided that it was acceptable enough for these people to die. And Vébjorn was so afraid that, after this war ended, there would be children who thought of him the same way. He was vaguely aware of Mirmir shushing him like one would a frightened dog as his sobbing worsened before slowly petering out. He heard Mirmir sigh as the elf gently rocked him.

 

“Around two centuries ago,” Mirmir began softly, “I was hired to assist a large group fleeing Morrowind with finding a safe place to settle. I had been placing refugees for a few years by that point, so I took the job even though it was a far larger group than any I had ever assisted at the time; probably enough elves to fill Whiterun thrice over. But I had never had trouble before, so I believed I could manage. I was too hopeful, and a bit arrogant, and thus unprepared for the struggle it would be. I soon found out that nowhere in Skyrim did they want or could handle such a massive group. I had to split them as small as they were willing– and many were not willing at all. Strength in numbers, after all, and much of the group was long-established families, with grandparents and cousins and siblings who wished to stay close. But I persisted, even though every rejection from a village leader or a jarl left me feeling more ashamed, and eventually I was left with the final group I needed to place. It was the largest, about enough for a small village, and I had not come across a single leader willing to take them in.” 

 

“But you did, didn’t you? You found somewhere?” Vébjorn prodded.

 

“I did. Finally, after months of negotiations, the Jarl of Windhelm wrote to me and offered a patch of the city by the docks.”

 

“Windhelm?” Vébjorn was shocked.

 

Mirmir grimaced. “Yes. This was so long ago; it was not at all like it is now. I took the opportunity, since I did not know if one would ever be given again. My people settled in, built their homes and their shops and their taverns, and they were content. At the time, I was proud of all I had done, and those who I had helped were grateful. When I would visit to see how they were adjusting, they would hold great meals to welcome me and invite me to lead prayers. They would let me hold newborns and the children that were old enough to remember me would not allow me to leave without a story. These communities honored me. At the time, I did not question whether I had made the right choices. But now…”

 

Vébjorn understood. Still, he couldn’t help but jump to the elf’s defense, even against himself.

 

“But you thought it was the right decision,” Vébjorn objected. “And even though it changed, at the time, it really was the best thing.” 

 

“Yes,” Mirmir affirmed. “So when I tell you that, as a leader, you don’t always know what the right choice is, I truly meant that. I– I hold my own regrets and guilt and what-ifs. But all leaders do, especially the ones that were forced into being leaders like you and me. I wish I could soothe your mind and bring you some peace, but I can’t. None can, and I’m sorry. But you have people behind you who are here to help where we can. I promise you that.” Mirmir squeezed Vébjorn to himself once more before bringing his arms back to himself. Vébjorn immediately felt disappointment rush through him, and was once again reminded of much he longed for his grandparents, and their endearingly ugly little house, and their colorful garden, and his village.

 

“I just want this war to stop. I want it to stop so I can go home and never have to deal with a war or dragons again. But even when it ends, its effects will carry over, and everything that happens will be my fault.” Vébjorn blew his nose into the rag, and was too tired to feel embarrassed when Mirmir plucked it from his hands and replaced it with a clean one. 

 

“My parents both had Talos amulets that had been passed around in their families. They left them with me for safekeeping when they were sent away to fight, but then they didn’t come back. Not even their bodies. All we got was a horseshit letter from their commander giving us condolences and promising money as if that could actually soothe our grief. But I had their amulets. When me and my grandmother made my greatsword, I embedded those amulets in the grip. When I fight, it feels like they are fighting with me. When I pray to Talos, it feels like they also hear. When I kneel at Talos’s shrines, I feel like everyone I have ever loved is with me. And I know the same is true for other Nords. And once the Empire wins, I won’t be able to do any of these things without risking punishment from the Thalmor. But I can’t fight for Ulfric Stormcloak, even if that means that I’m somehow no longer a true Nord, because then the Mer and Argonians and Khajiit all over Skyrim will be treated as they are in Windhelm. It’s not– It’s not just, and I can’t ignore it now that I know, and even when Talos was mortal he wouldn’t have– or at least I hope he wouldn’t have–” Vébjorn shakily sighed. 

 

“I just… don’t know, Mirmir. I feel ill over a future where Talos’s shrine doesn’t stand at the foot of Dragonsreach, but I–” Vébjorn shrugged helplessly. “What else can I do?”

 

“Well, the Thalmor can try, but they won’t get rid of Whiterun’s shrine,” Mirmir asserted. “Or any of them. If they try, you have my axe. I will fight for your shrines so you may pray at them, and I will fight for your amulets so you may wear them and their histories with pride, and I will fight for those who offered what they could to my people because they believed Talos and the rest of their gods would have done the same.”

 

“But,” Vébjorn paused and tried to gather himself. “It is not your belief.”

 

“No,” Mirmir confirmed, unbothered. “But it is yours. It is someone’s. What else matters?”

 

“Ah,” Vébjorn quietly agreed. “Nothing, I suppose.”

— — —

Lydia was waiting for him by Jorrvaskr’s entrance when he and Mirmir finally emerged. Vébjorn knew the redness in his eyes must betray him, but Lydia graciously didn’t mention it at the moment. When he approached her, she merely clasped his forearm, and he was grateful.

 

“I fetched your bag as well. We’re ready to leave. We’ll just need to grab some feed before we leave the stables,” Lydia informed him. He packed the travel provisions he had gathered into their bags while she said her own goodbyes. As he closed the bags again, a small hand holding a letter thrust itself in front of his face.

 

“For Revyn,” Sofie clarified with a wide grin. Vébjorn smiled back at her and took the letter, carefully putting it in one of his bag’s inner pockets for safekeeping.

 

“He’ll be happy to hear from you.”

 

“He always is,” Sofie agreed confidently, before throwing her arms as far around his waist as she could reach. As he stooped down to return the hug, she stood herself on her toes to whisper to him.

 

“I noticed you were crying earlier, but I didn’t want to embarrass you, so now we can pretend it’s a goodbye hug.”

 

Vébjorn would start a war for her in a heartbeat, even were he not in the process of ending one.

 

He tightly hugged her back, before Lucia came over and joined the embrace. As the sisters made their way to Lydia, Farkas approached him. The burly man gave him a look, before going in for his own bear hug. As he pulled away, he kept his hands clasped on Vébjorn’s shoulders. 

 

“You alright?”

 

Vébjorn gave him a sheepish smile. “Am now. I think I like your husband better than I like you.”

 

“Bastard!” Farkas barked out a laugh, smacking his shoulder. “Just for that, I like your mer better than you.”

 

Vébjorn flushed like a snowberry. “You’re the worst,” he claimed, even as he went in for another hug which Farkas eagerly returned. 

 

Farkas sobered slightly. “Stay safe, alright? Come back,” he demanded.

 

“Unless Alduin finally deems me worth fighting himself, you’ll be seeing my ugly mug within the week,” Vébjorn assured with a teasing grin, which earned his shoulder another hit from the other man. He laughed and ducked away, waving to the rest of the Companions as he met Lydia by the door. 

 

They made their way to the stables and saddled up their horses. After Vébjorn checked that the mount was secure, he scratched the spot on Daisy’s shoulder she’s always in favor of and put his foot in the stirrup to swing himself up. After he settled, he directed her to follow Lydia and her steed, Faelyn. They emerged from the stables, and with a gentle command of “go” and a press of the stirrups, their journey began.

Chapter 3: Cold Hands, Warm Meetings

Summary:

Strangers become allies, and our heroes arrive in Windhelm.

Notes:

I'm back, and I come with 17 pages. I haven't written that many for a chapter like... ever. Woah.

More OCs in this one, but Revyn finally makes an appearance!!! Love you bby.

This is only a small portion of the chapter, but for some reason I've fixated on it: The ability of the various races to reproduce with each other is like barely documented. All we have is the lore book Racial Phylogeny: https://en.uesp.net/wiki/Lore:Notes_on_Racial_Phylogeny. But it's just an in-universe book, so it's not confirmed by the developers as far as I know. Also, the author of the book gets a side-eye from me for the comments on Orcs, so I'm not sure how much I trust their research. My theory is that all races can reproduce together, but certain unions produce offspring more commonly than others. For example, it's far easier for the races of men to reproduce among themselves and the same is true for the races of mer. On the flip side, it's very difficult for beast races to reproduce outside of their own, so it's very rare to see mixed-race offspring from those unions. But Skyrim legit has gods and Daedric princes and magic running amok everywhere. I feel like if a couple prayed to Mara (or their version of Mara) enough, she'd probably be like "yeah sure, sounds cool. here you go happy couple, have a baby". I feel other gods and princes could be convinced to help out besides her. I'm rambling, sorry about that. I'm fixated on the science of this for some reason.

Anyway, THANK YOU GOLDIE, you're a lovely friend and beta. And thank you all for reading! :)

EDIT 11/28/23: So I was reading this over and I realized that there was a minor discrepancy in how long certain characters have been together [clown emoji] so I fixed that. Actual update coming soon, I prommy.

“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.