The Taste of Dominion (Altmer Dragonborn Self Insert (SI))

by MistressMister

Summary:

When a man from another world awakens in the body of an Altmer sorceress—Andariel, the Last Dragonborn—he (now she) embraces his (hers) new existence with ruthless delight. No longer constrained by the game’s limitations, she hunts dragons not for glory, but for the sheer ecstasy of dominance.

Her path soon crosses with Elenwen, the Thalmor’s First Emissary—a woman as calculating as she is cruel. What begins as a dance of political intrigue and mutual fascination spirals into something far more dangerous: a courtship of wit, blood, and unrelenting power.

Notes:

This is my debut work. I hope you like it.
If you do, please leave kudos, subscription, bookmarks. This would mean a world to me. 💕

Chapter 1: A New Dawn in an Elder Body

A New Dawn in an Elder Body

When consciousness returned, it did so with a rush of sensation—golden hair spilling like liquid sunlight over bare shoulders, the sinuous curve of a waist that tapered into generous hips, the weight of power humming beneath flawless Altmeri skin. He—no, she—inhaled sharply, fingers flexing as if testing the reality of this impossible new existence.

This isn’t just a game anymore.

The memories of his past life—dim, unremarkable, a faceless man lost in the drudgery of an ordinary world—flickered like a dying ember. He had spent countless hours escaping into Skyrim, always choosing the Altmer, always craving the elegance, the magic, the sheer superiority of the High Elves. And now, by some divine jest or cosmic whim, he was that fantasy.

Andariel.

The name rolled through her mind like thunder, settling into her bones. She was her now—tall, regal, every inch the apex of Merish perfection. A sorceress. A Dragonborn. A goddess in mortal flesh.

A laugh spilled from her lips, rich and velvety, as she stretched, reveling in the way her body moved—the sway of her hips, the arch of her back, the way her very presence seemed to command the air around her.

Oh, this is going to be delicious.

Beyond the Limits of a Game

The greatest thrill of this new existence was the absence of boundaries. No scripted paths, no forced allegiances, no mechanics holding her back from true greatness.

In his past life, he had always resented how the game funneled the Dragonborn into conflict with the Thalmor. The Altmer were the pinnacle of Tamrielic civilization—masters of magic, philosophy, art, and governance. Their vision for a world ordered under Merish rule was righteous, and yet the game offered no way to embrace it.

No more.

Andariel stepped out of the inn, the cold wind of Skyrim brushing against her skin like a lover’s whisper. The Nords around her were brutish, their lives short and their minds narrow. She pitied them, in a distant, amused way. But she had no intention of wasting her time playing hero for a people who would never truly appreciate her.

She had greater ambitions.

The Path to Power

The first step was simple: dragon souls.

The game had forced her to chase petty squabbles—helping Jarls, fetching trinkets, playing errand girl for the Blades. But now? Now, she would hunt the children of Akatosh with single-minded purpose. Each slain dragon was a burst of flame in her veins, each absorbed soul a key to greater power.

She sought them relentlessly.

The first fell to her at the watchtower near Whiterun, its bones crumbling as she drank its essence. The second she tracked to the marshes of Morthal, where she shattered its mind with a single, reverberating Fus Ro Dah. The third she ambushed atop a mountain peak, her spells twisting reality itself to her will.

With each kill, she grew stronger. The Thu’um bent to her like a lover, her mastery of magic deepening beyond anything the game had allowed. She experimented—combining spells, pushing the limits of what should have been possible. Fire and frost danced at her fingertips not as separate forces, but as extensions of her will.

This was true power.

The Thalmor’s Interest

It did not take long for the Dominion to take notice.

Elenwen’s spies were everywhere, and whispers of a golden sorceress—one who hunted dragons not for glory, but for the sheer thrill of dominance—reached her ears.

Their first meeting was no accident.

Andariel had just felled a dragon near Solitude, its corpse still smoldering as she absorbed its soul. The air shimmered with residual magic when a Thalmor patrol approached, their Justiciars clad in robes of gold and arrogance.

“Dragonborn,” their leader intoned, his voice laced with the haughty superiority all Altmer seemed to possess. “First Emissary Elenwen requests your presence.”

Andariel’s lips curled. Oh, this should be fun.

A Dance of Wit and Will

The Thalmor Embassy was a jewel of Merish refinement amidst Skyrim’s barbaric snows. And at its heart stood Elenwen—tall, imperious, her golden eyes sharp with intelligence and ambition.

“So,” the First Emissary mused, circling Andariel like a hawk assessing prey, “the legendary Dragonborn is one of our own.”

Andariel smirked. “Disappointed?”

Elenwen’s lips twitched. “Intrigued.”

They spoke at length—of power, of destiny, of the Dominion’s vision for Tamriel. Andariel made no pretenses. She admitted Delphine’s attempts to recruit her, dismissed the Blades as relics, and made it clear she had no interest in the petty squabbles of men.

“The Stormcloaks and the Empire can tear each other apart,” Andariel said, sipping wine with deliberate slowness. “Their war only weakens them for the Dominion’s eventual triumph. Why interfere?”

Elenwen’s eyes gleamed. “You are… unexpectedly perceptive.”

“I am many things, First Emissary,” Andariel purred. “Perceptive is merely one of them.”

The Courtship Begins

What followed was a game as old as time itself—a dance of power and seduction.

Andariel did not bow. She did not grovel. She matched Elenwen’s wit with her own, her magic with greater displays of arcane mastery, her ambition with a vision even the Thalmor had not dared to dream.

She hunted dragons not for glory, but to consume their power. She delved into forbidden tomes, unlocking secrets the College of Winterhold had long forgotten. She walked the ruins of lost civilizations, claiming their knowledge as her own.

And through it all, Elenwen watched.

Their encounters grew charged—debates that bordered on flirtation, challenges that ended with shared wine and lingering glances. The Thalmor had sought to control the Dragonborn.

Andariel would let them try.

Ascension

Months passed. The civil war raged on, a distant noise compared to Andariel’s ascent.

She stood atop the Throat of the World, the wind howling around her, the souls of a dozen dragons burning in her blood. The Greybeards’ teachings had been a foundation, but she had built upon them, transcending their limitations.

The world stretched before her—a chessboard awaiting its queen.

And Andariel intended to claim it all.

Chapter 2: the Art of Courtship

The Art of Courtship

The Thalmor Embassy had become a second home to Andariel. Where once she might have been viewed with suspicion, she now walked the gilded halls with the ease of one who belonged. The Justiciars no longer stiffened at her approach; instead, they offered respectful nods, their golden masks unable to hide their curiosity—and in some cases, their envy.

Elenwen’s private study was a sanctuary of order and elegance. Shelves lined with ancient tomes, maps of Tamriel marked with Thalmor influence, and a decanter of Summerset’s finest moon sugar-infused wine. It was here, bathed in the soft glow of magelight, that their dance of wit and power truly flourished.

Tonight, Andariel arrived unannounced, a bottle of Cyrodiilic brandy in hand—an indulgence she knew Elenwen secretly favored despite her disdain for Imperial luxuries.

“First Emissary,” she greeted, her voice smooth as she set the bottle on the desk. “I thought you might appreciate something stronger than politics tonight.”

Elenwen glanced up from her reports, her golden eyes glinting with amusement. “Bold of you to assume I’d share my time so freely.”

Andariel smirked. “Boldness is a trait we share.”

A beat of silence. Then, Elenwen gestured to the chair across from her. “Sit.”

A Meeting of Minds

The hours melted away as they spoke—of magic, of history, of the future of the Dominion. Andariel listened as Elenwen dissected the Empire’s weaknesses, her voice laced with the precision of a surgeon.

“The Stormcloaks are a useful distraction,” Elenwen mused, swirling her drink. “But their rebellion is a symptom, not the disease. The Empire rots from within.”

Andariel leaned forward, her fingers tracing the rim of her glass. “And when it collapses?”

“Then the Dominion will reshape the pieces.”

There was something intoxicating about Elenwen’s certainty, her unshakable belief in the Thalmor’s destiny. Andariel had always admired that—the way the Altmer carried themselves as if the world’s submission was inevitable.

“You speak as though it’s already written,” Andariel murmured.

Elenwen’s lips curved. “History favors those who seize it.”

Andariel met her gaze. “Then let’s write it together.”

Trust Through Fire

Trust was not given freely among the Thalmor—it was earned through trial, through proof of loyalty. Andariel knew this. So when Elenwen’s spies uncovered a plot by a rogue Justiciar to undermine her authority, she saw an opportunity.

The traitor had fled to a ruined fort near Falkreath, where he planned to sell Thalmor secrets to the Blades. Andariel volunteered to handle the matter—alone.

The fort was a crumbling husk, its walls scarred by time and war. The rogue Justiciar, a wiry Altmer named Calion, stood surrounded by mercenaries, his face twisted in defiance.

“You’re a fool if you think Elenwen will reward your loyalty,” he spat.

Andariel smiled. “I don’t need rewards.”

The battle was short. Lightning split the air, reducing his hired blades to charred corpses. Calion fought with desperation, his spells wild and unrefined. Andariel toyed with him, parrying his magic with ease before finally pinning him against the stone with a whispered “Zun Haal Viik.”

His weapon clattered to the ground.

“Tell Elenwen—” he gasped.

Andariel’s hand closed around his throat. “I’ll tell her nothing.”

A flare of magic, a snap of bone—and it was done.

The Gift of Loyalty

She returned to the Embassy that night, blood still singing with the thrill of the hunt. Elenwen awaited her in the courtyard, her expression unreadable.

“It’s done,” Andariel said simply.

Elenwen studied her for a long moment before nodding. “Come.”

They walked in silence to the gardens, where the air was thick with the scent of night-blooming flowers. Finally, Elenwen spoke.

“You didn’t have to kill him.”

Andariel arched a brow. “Would you have preferred I bring him back for interrogation?”

“No.” Elenwen’s voice was soft, almost approving. “You understood what needed to be done.”

It was the closest thing to praise Andariel had ever heard from her.

A Step Closer

The weeks that followed saw their bond deepen. They dined together, debated together, even sparred—magic against magic, wit against wit. Andariel reveled in the challenge, in the way Elenwen’s eyes gleamed when she was impressed.

One evening, as they reviewed reports of dragon sightings, Elenwen did something unexpected—she reached out, her fingers brushing Andariel’s wrist.

“You’ve proven yourself,” she said quietly. “More than I expected.”

Andariel stilled, her pulse quickening. “Does that mean I’ve earned your trust?”

Elenwen’s thumb traced a slow circle over her skin. “It means I’m beginning to wonder what else you’re capable of.”

The air between them crackled—not with magic, but something far more dangerous.

The Unspoken Promise

Andariel dreamed of power. Of a Tamriel reshaped by their will. Of Elenwen’s lips on hers, her body pressed close, their ambitions intertwined.

When she woke, it was with a singular certainty:

This was no longer just a game of politics.

It was a courtship.

And she intended to win.

Chapter 3: The Breaking Point

The Breaking Point

The tension between them had become a living thing—a third presence in every room they shared, in every glance they exchanged. It thrummed in the air like the charged stillness before a storm, thick with unsaid words and restrained desire.

Andariel found herself lingering longer in Elenwen’s study, inventing reasons to stay—another report on dragon movements, another debate on Altmeri philosophy, another glass of wine. Each meeting ended with their chairs closer than before, their words softer, their gazes lingering just a heartbeat too long.

Tonight, the air was particularly heavy. A storm raged outside the Embassy, lightning splitting the sky in jagged streaks, the wind howling against the windows like a restless spirit. The fire in the hearth cast flickering shadows across Elenwen’s face, gilding her sharp features in gold and amber.

Andariel watched her from across the desk, fingers tracing the rim of her goblet. They had been discussing the latest missive from Alinor—dry political maneuvering, the usual Thalmor scheming—but the words had long since lost meaning.

Elenwen’s voice trailed off mid-sentence, her quill hovering over parchment. She exhaled, slow and deliberate, before setting it down.

“This is becoming untenable,” she said at last.

Andariel arched a brow. “The Dominion’s policies?”

A flash of irritation—and something hotter—crossed Elenwen’s face. “You know what I mean.”

The First Touch

Silence stretched between them, taut as a bowstring.

Then, Andariel stood.

She circled the desk with deliberate slowness, her robes whispering against the floor. Elenwen didn’t move, but her breath hitched—just slightly—as Andariel stopped beside her chair.

“Tell me to leave,” Andariel murmured, her voice low, “and I will.”

Elenwen’s golden eyes burned into hers. She said nothing.

That was all the invitation Andariel needed.

She reached out, her fingers brushing Elenwen’s jaw, tracing the elegant line of it. The contact sent a thrill through her—Elenwen’s skin was warm, softer than she’d imagined, and the way the Thalmor’s lips parted at the touch was intoxicating.

“You’ve been testing me,” Andariel whispered, leaning in. “Seeing how far I’d go. How much I’d risk for you.”

Elenwen’s hand rose, catching her wrist—not to push her away, but to hold her there. “And?”

Andariel smiled. “I’d burn the world down if you asked.”

The Fall

The kiss was inevitable.

Elenwen surged forward, her lips crashing against Andariel’s with a hunger that bordered on violence. It was nothing like the careful, calculated exchanges of courtly flirtation—this was raw, desperate, years of restraint unraveling in an instant.

Andariel groaned into it, her hands tangling in Elenwen’s hair, pulling her closer. The taste of her was intoxicating—wine and power and something uniquely her, something no game could have ever captured.

Elenwen’s nails dug into her shoulders, her breath coming in sharp gasps as Andariel backed her against the desk. Parchments scattered, inkwells toppled, but neither cared. The world outside this room no longer existed.

“I should have done this months ago,” Andariel growled against her throat.

Elenwen’s laugh was breathless. “Arrogant.”

“You love it.”

The Unraveling

Clothing became an afterthought. Robes pooled on the floor, armor clattered aside, until there was nothing between them but skin and heat and want.

Elenwen was every bit as regal naked as she was clothed—her body a masterpiece of Altmeri grace, all long limbs and golden skin, her pride undiminished even as she arched into Andariel’s touch.

Andariel worshipped her. With hands, with lips, with whispered praises in a mix of Tamrielic and Aldmeris. She mapped every curve, every scar, every place that made Elenwen gasp. The Thalmor emissary was always so composed, so controlled—but here, now, she was wild, her usual eloquence reduced to ragged pleas.

“Andariel—”

The sound of her name on Elenwen’s lips was sweeter than any Shout.

The Claiming

Later—much later—they lay tangled in the ruins of Elenwen’s bed, the storm outside finally spent.

Elenwen traced idle patterns across Andariel’s collarbone, her expression unreadable.

“This changes nothing,” she said at last.

Andariel smirked. “Liar.”

A pause. Then, Elenwen sighed. “...It changes everything.”

Andariel pulled her closer, pressing a kiss to her temple. “Good.”

The Aftermath

Dawn found them still entwined, the first light of morning painting their skin in pale gold.

Elenwen stirred, her usual mask of composure slipping back into place—but not before Andariel caught the softness in her eyes.

“We have work to do,” Elenwen said, all business once more.

Andariel stretched lazily. “Mm. I can think of a few things.”

A flicker of amusement. “Later.”

Andariel grinned. Oh, this was just the beginning.

Chapter 4: The Mask and the Knife

The Mask and the Knife (Elenwen’s POV)

The morning light was unforgiving.

Elenwen watched it trace the curve of Andariel’s bare shoulder, gilding her skin in pale gold, and for the first time in decades, she felt—uneasy.

It was not the act itself that unsettled her. She had taken lovers before, though never one who matched her so completely—in intellect, in ambition, in the way their bodies had moved together like a perfectly cast spell. No, what coiled in her chest like a serpent was the realization that Andariel knew her now. Not just the First Emissary, the polished diplomat, but the woman beneath.

And that woman had claws.

The Art of Pain

The dungeons beneath the Thalmor Embassy were always cold.

Elenwen ran a gloved finger along the edge of a freshly sharpened dagger, listening to the whimpers of the Stormcloak spy chained to the wall. The man was young—barely more than a boy—with the broad shoulders and stubborn jaw of a true Nord. He had been caught trying to infiltrate the Embassy’s courier logs. A foolish mistake.

"Please," the boy gasped, his breath fogging in the chill air. "I don’t know anything else—"

Elenwen smiled. "Let’s be certain."

The dagger found the soft space between his ribs—not deep enough to kill, just enough to make him scream. Blood welled, dripping onto the stone floor in fat, crimson drops. She watched his face contort, the way his body strained against the chains, and felt that familiar, dark thrill curl in her stomach.

Interrogation was an art. Pain was simply the brush.

But then—

"Fascinating."

The voice came from the shadows.

Elenwen froze.

Andariel stepped into the torchlight, her golden eyes alight with something unreadable.

The Revelation

For the first time in her life, Elenwen felt exposed.

She had not intended for Andariel to see this. Had not wanted her to witness the uglier truths of her work. The Dragonborn was a creature of fire and fury, yes, but there was a difference between battle and this. Between killing and playing.

Elenwen lowered the dagger, her voice carefully neutral. "This doesn’t concern you."

Andariel tilted her head, studying the prisoner with detached curiosity. "Does it not?" She stepped closer, her fingers trailing along the rack of implements beside them. "You’ve been holding out on me, Emissary."

The Stormcloak whimpered.

Elenwen’s pulse was a drumbeat in her throat. Disgust? Judgment? She braced for it.

Instead, Andariel picked up a slender, curved blade—one designed for precision work—and turned it in the light. "You missed a vein," she mused. "Here." She pointed to the inside of the prisoner’s wrist. "It would hurt more. Bleed slower."

Silence.

Then—

Elenwen laughed.

It burst from her like a spell unleashed, sharp and startled and alive.

"You," she breathed, "are full of surprises."

The Game

They played together.

Andariel was a quick study—observant, inventive, her magic adding new dimensions to Elenwen’s usual methods. A whispered spell could heighten pain without risking death. A flick of her wrist could mend flesh just enough to start anew.

The Stormcloak broke within the hour.

After, as they washed the blood from their hands in the Embassy’s pristine basins, Elenwen caught Andariel’s gaze in the mirror.

"You’re not... troubled?" The question was rare for her—uncertainty even rarer.

Andariel’s lips curved. "Why would I be?" She turned, catching Elenwen’s chin in her hand. "You think I’ve never broken a man before?"

"Not like this."

"No," Andariel admitted. "But I find I enjoy your way."

Elenwen exhaled, something tight in her chest unraveling.

The Confession

Later, in the privacy of her chambers, Elenwen let herself speak the truth.

"I thought you would despise me for it."

Andariel stretched across the bed, gloriously unrepentant. "For taking pleasure in your work? Please." She smirked. "I devour dragon souls. We’re both monsters."

Elenwen traced the curve of Andariel’s hip, her touch possessive. "You’re different."

"Am I?" Andariel caught her wrist, pressing a kiss to her palm. "Or am I just the only one you’d rather worship than break?"

The words sent a shiver through her.

Because it was true.

Andariel was hers—but not like the others. Never like the others.

The Offering

The next prisoner was a Blade.

Elenwen handed Andariel the dagger. "Show me."

And Andariel did.

Chapter 5: The Unveiling

The Unveiling

Elenwen had never shared this part of herself with anyone.

Not truly.

Oh, her subordinates knew of her methods—feared them, even—but none had ever understood. None had ever stood beside her in the torch-lit dark, breathing in the metallic tang of fear and blood, and approved.

Until now.

Andariel lounged in the corner of the interrogation chamber, her long legs crossed at the ankle, a goblet of spiced wine in hand. She watched with rapt attention as Elenwen worked, her golden eyes reflecting the flickering torchlight like a predator’s.

The prisoner—a Breton smuggler caught running Thalmor dispatches to the Stormcloaks—whimpered against his restraints.

"Please," he gasped, sweat dripping into his eyes. "I’ve told you everything!"

Elenwen smiled, running the tip of her dagger down his chest. "Have you?" She glanced at Andariel. "What do you think, my dear?"

Andariel took a slow sip of wine. "He’s lying."

The Breton’s eyes widened. "No! I swear—"

"The pulse in his throat jumps when he speaks," Andariel continued, setting her goblet aside. "And his fingers keep twitching toward his left boot." She stood, gliding forward. "There’s something hidden there."

Elenwen’s lips curled. "Clever girl."

The Dance

They fell into a rhythm.

Elenwen would ask the questions, her voice honeyed and sharp as poisoned wine. Andariel would watch, her magic sensing the flutter of hearts, the hitch of breath, the minute tells that even the most hardened liars couldn’t control.

When the Breton finally broke—sobbing out the location of his contacts in Solitude—Elenwen turned to Andariel with something dangerously close to admiration.

"You’re wasted on dragons," she murmured.

Andariel laughed, low and throaty. "I’m wasted anywhere but at your side."

The Breton, forgotten in his chains, shuddered.

The Gift

That night, Elenwen presented Andariel with a box.

Inside lay a dagger—elven-forged, its blade etched with delicate runes that glowed faintly blue.

"A pain-enhancement enchantment," Elenwen explained, trailing a finger along the edge. "It magnifies sensation without risking fatal blood loss."

Andariel tested the weight of it in her hand, her eyes alight. "Exquisite."

"I had it made for you." The admission was softer than Elenwen intended.

Andariel’s gaze snapped to hers. For a moment, they simply looked at each other—two predators recognizing their match.

Then Andariel kissed her, hard enough to bruise.

The Experiment

Their next subject was a captured Blade operative.

This time, Andariel took the lead.

She used the dagger with practiced ease, her magic weaving through each cut, each whisper of pain. Elenwen watched, enthralled, as the Dragonborn—usually so quick to end fights with fire and fury—savored the slow unraveling of a mind.

"You’re beautiful like this," Elenwen breathed.

Andariel paused, her bloodied hand cupping Elenwen’s cheek. "So are you."

The Blade agent wept between them.

Neither cared.

The Confession

After, curled together in Elenwen’s bed, Andariel traced the lines of her palm.

"You were afraid I’d judge you," she said.

Elenwen stiffened. "A foolish thought."

"No." Andariel pressed a kiss to her wrist. "But you should know by now—I’ll always want every part of you."

Elenwen exhaled, the last of her walls crumbling.

Chapter 6: The Narcissist's Obsession

The Weight of the Gift

The dagger was exquisite.

Andariel turned it over in her hands, watching how the enchanted runes pulsed like a living thing beneath her fingertips. It was more than a weapon—it was a confession. A key to the darkest chambers of Elenwen's soul, offered freely. The thought that the Thalmor emissary had trusted her enough to reveal this hidden facet of herself sent a rush of warmth through Andariel that rivaled the euphoria of devouring a dragon's soul.

But beneath that warmth coiled something darker, sharper—an insatiable need.

She could not—would not—be outshone.

Not in power. Not in cruelty. And certainly not in generosity.

The dagger was perfect, yes, but perfection demanded reciprocation. Not mere equality—supremacy. Elenwen had given her a blade? Fine. She would give her a piece of history itself.

The Narcissist's Obsession

The thought took root in her mind like a parasite, gnawing at her until it became all-consuming. Every glance at the dagger—every admiring stroke of its enchanted edge—was a reminder that Elenwen had dared to impress her.

It was unacceptable.

Andariel paced the length of her chambers, her golden eyes burning with manic intensity. She would find something beyond rare. Beyond valuable. Something that would make Elenwen's gift seem like a child's toy in comparison. Something that would leave the Thalmor emissary breathless, awestruck—utterly humbled by the magnitude of her affection.

The Snow Elves.

The idea struck her like lightning. Their civilization had been extinct for millennia, their relics rarer than dragonbone. If she could unearth even a fragment of their magic...

A slow, predatory smile spread across her face.

Yes. That would do nicely.

The Hunt for the Unattainable

The search consumed her.

She tore through the College of Winterhold's archives, her presence so relentless that Urag gro-Shub began hiding from her. The Arcaneum's rarest tomes yielded only whispers—hints of a Snow Elf chantry buried beneath the ice of the Pale, its treasures preserved by ancient magic.

The journey was brutal. The chantry, when she found it, was a tomb of ice and silence, its entrance sealed behind a wall of glacial spellwork that would have turned any lesser mage to frost. Andariel shattered it with a single, reverberating Shout.

Inside, time stood still.

The chamber was a snapshot of a dead world—frozen in perfect clarity, untouched by the centuries. And at its heart, atop an altar of carved moonstone, lay her prize.

The bracelets were magnificent.

Woven from enchanted snow and silver-thread, their surfaces etched with flowing Snow Elf script that shimmered like captured starlight. The moment her fingers brushed them, warmth flooded her veins—not the harsh burn of flame, but the gentle, inexorable heat of a midsummer sun.

"Perfect," she breathed.

And powerful. The magic thrumming within them was old, refined, elegant in a way modern enchantments could never replicate. They would make the wearer impervious to cold, yes, but they would also sing to the magic in their blood, coaxing it to greater heights with effortless grace.

No Altmer in Summerset—not even the High Chancellor himself—could claim to own such relics.

Until now.

The Presentation

She returned to the Embassy under cover of night, the bracelets cradled in a velvet-lined box of dwarven steel.

Elenwen was at her desk, as always, her quill moving with precise, measured strokes. She did not look up as Andariel entered—a calculated slight that only sharpened Andariel's anticipation.

"You've been absent," Elenwen remarked, her voice cool.

Andariel smirked. "I had a project."

"More important than your duties?"

"Infinitely."

She placed the box on the desk with deliberate ceremony. Elenwen eyed it, then Andariel, before lifting the lid.

For the first time in their acquaintance, the First Emissary of the Thalmor was stunned into silence.

Her fingers hovered over the bracelets, not quite daring to touch them. "These are—"

"Snow Elf. Pre-Falmer. One of perhaps three intact artifacts of their kind in existence." Andariel leaned forward, her voice dropping to a whisper. "They'll keep you warm in the coldest winters and make your magic sing like it hasn't in centuries."

Elenwen's breath caught.

Andariel reveled in it—in the way Elenwen's flawless composure fractured, in the awe dawning in her eyes. This was more than a gift. It was a victory.

I see your dagger and raise you a lost civilization.

Try to surpass that.

The Concealment

Elenwen slid the bracelets onto her wrists with trembling hands. The moment they settled against her skin, the enchantments flared to life, the runes glowing like captured moonlight. A shudder ran through her—not from cold, but from the sheer power humming in her veins.

"They're too valuable to be seen," she murmured, already reaching for her gloves.

Andariel arched a brow. "You won't show them off?"

"Are you mad?" Elenwen's voice was sharp. "Do you have any idea what the Dominion would do if they knew these existed? The vultures that would descend?" She pulled the gloves on with swift, practiced motions, concealing the relics beneath black leather. "No. These are for us alone."

Andariel smiled.

Even better.

Not only had she given Elenwen a treasure beyond imagining—she had given her a secret. Something precious. Something theirs.

The thought sent a thrill through her that no amount of dragon souls could match.

The Intimacy of Secrets

That night, in the privacy of Elenwen's chambers, the gloves came off.

The bracelets gleamed in the firelight as Elenwen traced their intricate patterns, her touch reverent. "How did you find them?"

Andariel stretched lazily across the bed, savoring the question. "I have my methods."

"Tell me."

"Why?" Andariel smirked. "So you can try to outdo me again?"

Elenwen's eyes narrowed—then, to Andariel's delight, she laughed, the sound rich and rare as the relics themselves.

"You're impossible."

"And yet," Andariel purred, pulling her close, "you adore me."

The bracelets glowed between them, a silent testament to the truth of her words

Chapter 7: The Art of Degradation

The Art of Degradation

The prisoner was useless.

Elenwen knew it the moment she stepped into the cell—the way the man cowered against the wall, his eyes wide with animal terror, his lips already forming incoherent pleas. No spy. No rebel. Just a foolish merchant caught in the wrong place at the wrong time, his only crime being his Nord blood and his inability to bribe the right Thalmor guard.

Perfect.

She let the door swing shut behind her with a resonant click, the sound of finality. The man flinched.

"Please," he gasped, his voice cracking. "I don't—I don't know anything, I swear—"

Elenwen smiled. "I know."

His confusion was delicious.

The Dance Begins

She took her time.

First, the gloves. She peeled them off finger by finger, revealing the glint of Snow Elf bracelets beneath—a secret indulgence, a reminder of Andariel’s gift. The prisoner didn’t recognize them, of course. He was too busy staring at her boots.

Fine leather, polished to a mirror shine, heeled just enough to make every step a statement. She crossed the cell slowly, savoring the way his breath hitched with each click against the stone.

"You’re filthy," she observed, tilting her head. "Do you know what happens to filth?"

The man swallowed hard. "I—I can pay—"

Elenwen laughed. "Oh, no. You’ll pay in other ways."

The First Press

She planted her boot on his thigh, just above the knee, and pressed.

The man yelped, scrambling backward until his back hit the wall. Elenwen followed, increasing the pressure until she felt the muscle tremble beneath her heel.

"Pathetic," she murmured. "You Nords boast of your strength, and yet..." She shifted her weight, relishing his whimper. "You crumble beneath a single step."

Her boot slid higher, tracing the line of his hip, his waist—then, with a sudden, sharp motion, she stamped down on his ribs.

The air left his lungs in a whoosh.

The Command

"Lick."

The man stared up at her, dazed. "W-what?"

Elenwen lifted her boot, showing him the scuff marks left by his grimy clothing. "You’ve dirtied them. Clean. Them."

His face twisted in revulsion—but only for a moment. A flick of her wrist, a spark of magic, and the air around him grew heavy, hot, pressing against his skin like a furnace.

"Now."

He broke.

The Submission

His tongue was rough, desperate, dragging over the leather with a mix of shame and terror. Elenwen watched, her fingers idly tracing the edge of one bracelet, as he groveled at her feet.

"Good," she purred. "But don’t forget the heel."

He obeyed, his breath coming in ragged gasps, his hands trembling where they braced against the floor. When he finished, she tilted his chin up with the toe of her boot, studying the tears streaking his face.

"Remember this," she said softly. "Remember your place."

Then she turned and left him there, crumpled and broken, the door locking behind her with a satisfied snick.

The Afterglow

Andariel was waiting in her chambers, lounging across the bed with a goblet of wine in hand. She took one look at Elenwen’s expression and smirked.

"Enjoy yourself?"

Elenwen slid the bracelets free, setting them carefully on the nightstand. "Immensely."

Andariel’s laugh was dark, knowing. "Tell me everything."

And Elenwen did.

Chapter 8: The Invitation

The Education

The fire in Elenwen's chambers cast flickering shadows across the walls as she reclined in her favorite chair, a goblet of spiced wine cradled in her hands. Andariel lounged across from her, her golden eyes alight with curiosity. The scent of frost and magic still clung to the Dragonborn's skin from her latest hunt, mingling with the rich aroma of the wine.

"You're staring," Elenwen remarked, her lips curving slightly.

Andariel smirked. "You're avoiding my question."

Earlier, over dinner, she had asked about Elenwen's methods—why some prisoners emerged from her chambers broken but alive, while others never left at all. It was not the first time she had inquired, but it was the first time Elenwen considered answering in full.

With a slow exhale, Elenwen set her goblet aside. "There is a difference," she began, "between work and pleasure."

Andariel's brow arched. "Do tell."

The Distinction

"Interrogation is work," Elenwen said, her voice measured. "It is precise. Purposeful. Every cut, every word, every moment of pain is calculated to extract information. There is no room for indulgence—only results."

She traced the rim of her goblet with a fingertip. "But sometimes, a prisoner is brought before me who knows nothing of value. A petty thief. A drunken fool. A Nord who couldn't keep his mouth shut in the wrong tavern." Her lips curled. "Those are mine."

Andariel leaned forward, her gaze intent. "Yours for what?"

Elenwen's smile sharpened. "For play."

The Invitation

Silence stretched between them, thick with anticipation.

Then—

"Show me."

Andariel's voice was low, hungry. Not a request. A demand.

Elenwen regarded her for a long moment, weighing the offer. She had never shared this part of herself with anyone—not truly. Even her subordinates only saw the aftermath, never the act itself.

But Andariel was different.

"Very well," she said at last, rising gracefully to her feet. "Tomorrow night. The prisoner is a Breton smuggler—stupid enough to brag about evading Thalmor taxes in the wrong company. He knows nothing. But he fears everything."

Andariel's eyes gleamed. "And you'll make sure he fears you most of all."

Elenwen's laugh was a dark, silken thing. "Oh, my dear. I'll do far worse than that."

The Anticipation

Later, as they prepared for bed, Andariel watched Elenwen remove her bracelets with reverent care, setting them aside for the night.

"You've never let anyone see this before," Andariel observed.

Elenwen slid beneath the sheets, her expression unreadable. "No."

"Why now?"

A pause. Then—

"Because you won't look away."

Andariel smiled, sharp and knowing, and pulled her close.

The Promise

The next evening, as they stood outside the cell, Elenwen turned to Andariel. "Remember—this is not an interrogation. There is no goal here but enjoyment."

Andariel's grin was feral. "Oh, I plan to."

Elenwen's gloved hand settled on the door. "Then let's begin."

Chapter 9: The Art of Defilement

The Performance

The cell door swung open with a whisper of well-oiled hinges.

The Breton smuggler—a wiry man with greasy brown hair and the stench of fear clinging to him like cheap perfume—jerked his head up at their entrance. His chains rattled as he scrambled backward until his spine met cold stone, his eyes darting between the two Altmer women like a cornered animal.

Elenwen let him sweat for a long, delicious moment before stepping forward, her heeled boots clicking sharply against the dungeon floor.

"Look at you," she mused, circling him slowly. "A grown man, trembling like a child." She paused, tilting her head. "Do you know why you're here?"

The Breton's throat bobbed. "I-I didn't—"

"Not for information," Andariel purred from the doorway, her arms crossed as she leaned against the damp wall. "You're far too stupid to know anything useful."

Elenwen shot her a glance, her lips twitching.

Oh, she's enjoying this.

The Request

Andariel pushed off the wall, her golden eyes gleaming in the torchlight. "Actually, my love—before we begin, there's something I'd like to see."

Elenwen arched a brow. "Oh?"

Andariel closed the distance between them, her voice dropping to a whisper only Elenwen could hear. "Last time, you made him lick your boots clean. I haven't been able to stop thinking about it." Her fingers traced the edge of Elenwen's glove. "I want to watch it again. Properly this time."

A shiver ran down Elenwen's spine. She'd known Andariel had appreciated that particular display, but hearing the raw hunger in her voice now—

Gods.

She turned back to the prisoner, her smile sharpening. "You heard her. On your knees."

The Preparation

The Breton didn't move fast enough.

Elenwen's boot lashed out, catching him in the ribs with a crack that echoed off the walls. He crumpled with a wheeze, blood speckling his lips as he gasped for air.

"Now," Elenwen hissed.

Whimpering, the man dragged himself upright, his chains clinking as he knelt before her. Andariel watched, rapt, as Elenwen planted her boot firmly on his thigh, digging the heel in until he cried out.

"Look at them," Elenwen commanded, tilting her foot to showcase the flawless leather. "Filthy from touching you. Disgusting." She glanced at Andariel, her voice dropping to a murmur. "Would you like to help me dirty them further?"

Andariel's grin was wicked. "Oh, yes."

The Art of Defilement

What followed was a masterpiece of degradation.

Andariel seized the Breton's hair, yanking his head back as Elenwen ground her boot into his chest, leaving dark streaks of dirt and sweat across the pristine leather. She dragged the toe along his cheek, smearing grime and tears, then pressed down on his fingers until something snapped.

The Breton sobbed.

"Perfect," Andariel breathed, her grip tightening in his hair. "Now—clean them."

Elenwen lifted her boot to his face, watching with dark satisfaction as the man's tongue darted out, trembling as it swiped along the leather. His tears mixed with the filth, streaking the polish in uneven rivulets.

"Slower," Andariel ordered, her free hand tracing idle patterns on Elenwen's lower back.

The Breton obeyed, his every shudder, every choked whimper, a symphony of submission.

The Reward

Later, in the privacy of Elenwen's chambers, Andariel peeled the gloves from her lover's hands with reverent slowness, pressing a kiss to each bared knuckle.

"You were magnificent," she murmured.

Elenwen hummed, her fingers tangling in Andariel's hair. "I aim to please."

Andariel laughed, low and throaty, before dragging her down onto the bed.

Chapter 10: The Paradox of Kindness

The Paradox of Kindness

The morning sun streamed through the stained-glass windows of the Thalmor Embassy, painting the marble floors in fractured hues of gold and crimson. Elenwen stood at her desk, reviewing reports with her usual razor focus, when the doors swung open without ceremony.

Andariel strode in, her robes still damp with morning mist, her arms laden with baskets of fresh bread, wheels of cheese, and small pouches that jingled with coin. She dropped them onto a nearby divan with a satisfied sigh.

Elenwen's quill paused mid-stroke. "What is this?"

"Donations," Andariel said, shaking out her sleeves. "For the orphanage in Solitude."

A beat of silence. Then—

"You're joking."

Andariel laughed, bright and unrepentant. "Not at all. Those poor Imperial brats lost parents in the war. I thought I'd brighten their day."

Elenwen set down her quill with deliberate slowness. "You spent the morning delivering charity?"

"And why not?" Andariel plucked a grape from a nearby fruit bowl, popping it into her mouth. "Their little faces when I handed out honey-nut treats were adorable. You should have seen it."

Elenwen stared.

The Contradiction

It wasn't the first time.

Over the weeks, Elenwen had noticed the inconsistencies—the way Andariel would leave a pouch of gold in a beggar's cup near the Blue Palace without breaking stride, the way she'd healed a wounded stable boy just to watch the groom weep with gratitude. At first, she'd dismissed it as whimsy, or perhaps some convoluted scheme to curry favor with Solitude's elite.

But now, watching Andariel hum as she sorted through her purchases, it was impossible to ignore.

"You tortured a man yesterday," Elenwen said flatly.

Andariel grinned. "Beautifully, might I add."

"And today you're playing patron saint to orphans."

"Isn't life more interesting this way?"

Elenwen's fingers tightened around the edge of her desk. "It doesn't make sense."

Andariel paused, her head tilting. "Doesn't it?"

The Explanation

Andariel moved to the window, gazing out at the sprawling city below. "Tell me, my dear—what is the point of power if not to indulge?"

Elenwen frowned. "You indulge in cruelty."

"And in kindness." Andariel turned, her golden eyes alight. "Why limit myself? The look on that smuggler's face as he licked your boot was exquisite. But so was the look on that little girl's face when I mended her broken doll." She sighed dreamily. "Pure adoration. Like I'd hung the moons for her."

Elenwen opened her mouth—then closed it.

Andariel smiled. "You think me a hypocrite."

"I think you're confusing."

"Not at all." Andariel glided forward, her fingers trailing along the desk. "We claim to be superior, yes? Masters of this world. But what does that mean? If we're only ever vicious, we're no better than beasts. But if we're also generous? Benevolent?" Her nails tapped against the wood. "That's true superiority."

Elenwen's breath caught.

The Epiphany

It struck her like a lightning bolt.

All these years, she'd clung to the Thalmor doctrine with iron resolve—Altmer supremacy, the righteousness of their cause, the necessity of their cruelty. But there had always been a hollowness in her chest, a quiet lack she'd buried under duty and disdain.

But this—

This was brilliant.

Not just power, but mastery. Not just cruelty, but balance.

She could see it now—the way their influence would grow, the way hearts and minds would bend to them not just out of fear, but out of love. Out of gratitude.

Her hands trembled.

The Awakening

Andariel cupped Elenwen's face, her thumb brushing over the sharp curve of her cheekbone. "You feel it, don't you?"

Elenwen exhaled shakily. "It's... intoxicating."

"Isn't it just?" Andariel pressed their foreheads together. "Imagine it. The Thalmor, feared and adored. The people whispering your name in terror one moment, in reverence the next." She laughed softly. "We could rule souls, not just lands."

Elenwen's pulse roared in her ears.

For the first time in decades, she felt whole.

The Beginning

That afternoon, Elenwen accompanied Andariel to the Solitude Orphanage.

The children froze when the Thalmor emissary swept through the doors, their eyes wide with fear—until Andariel pressed a basket of warm sweetrolls into Elenwen's hands and nudged her forward.

The first child to accept the treat stared up at her with crumbs on their chin and something akin to wonder in their eyes.

Elenwen's chest tightened.

Oh.

This is power too.

Chapter 11: The Dark Mirror

The Revelation of Virtue

Elenwen had never known sunlight could feel like this.

She stood in the courtyard of the Solitude Orphanage, the crisp northern air carrying the scent of baking bread and childish laughter. A week had passed since her first visit, and already the children no longer flinched at her approach. Now they clustered around her like ducklings, their small hands clutching at the embroidered hem of her robes, their voices rising in excited chatter.

"Lady Elenwen! Lady Elenwen! Did you bring more honey cakes?"

She reached into the basket at her hip, producing the promised treats with a flourish that sent the children into raptures. Their joy was a tangible thing, warm and bright against her skin, and it filled some hollow place inside her she hadn't known existed.

This, she realized with dawning wonder, is what righteousness feels like.

The Philosophy of Power

That evening, she poured wine for Andariel with uncharacteristic reverence.

"I understand now," she said, the words spilling forth like a dam breaking. "All these years, I thought dominance came only through fear. But this—" She gestured toward the window, where the lights of Solitude twinkled below. "To be loved as we are feared... It makes our supremacy unassailable."

Andariel sipped her wine, eyes gleaming. "The Nords have a saying: 'Honey catches more flies than vinegar.'"

Elenwen scoffed. "How revoltingly provincial."

"And yet?"

"And yet," Elenwen conceded, "they are not entirely wrong."

She had seen it in the way the orphanage matron now curtsied deeply when they passed in the street, in how the merchants in the market square no longer muttered curses when her back was turned. The people of Solitude still feared the Thalmor—as they should—but now there was something new in their eyes when they looked at her.

Awe.

Gratitude.

Devotion.

It was more intoxicating than the finest Summerset vintage.

The Dark Mirror

Three days later, the dungeons welcomed her back like an old lover.

The prisoner—a Breton sailor caught smuggling Stormcloak sympathizers—flinched as Elenwen's boots echoed against the stone. She had dressed carefully for the occasion: her usual black leathers, the gloves that hid her precious bracelets, her hair pulled back in a ruthlessly tight braid.

Andariel leaned against the far wall, watching with hungry eyes.

"Please," the Breton gasped, his chains rattling. "I'll tell you anything—"

Elenwen smiled.

"Oh, I know."

Her first blow shattered his nose.

The Ecstasy of Cruelty

What followed was artistry.

Every scream was a symphony. Every drop of blood a brushstroke on the canvas of his flesh. Elenwen moved with newfound fervor, her every action infused with the certainty of her own moral superiority.

When she pressed her boot to his broken fingers, it was with the serene detachment of a gardener pruning roses.

When she made him beg for the privilege of cleaning her boots with his tongue, it was with the benevolence of a queen granting a boon.

And when Andariel stepped forward with that wicked little dagger—the one Elenwen had gifted her—to carve delicate patterns into his chest, it felt like worship.

"You're even more beautiful like this," Andariel murmured, her breath hot against Elenwen's ear as the Breton sobbed at their feet.

Elenwen turned her head, capturing Andariel's lips in a kiss that tasted of copper and power.

The Perfect Balance

Later, bathed and sated, they lay entwined in Elenwen's bed.

Andariel traced the lines of Elenwen's palm with idle fascination. "So which did you prefer? The orphans or the interrogation?"

Elenwen considered the question with uncharacteristic solemnity.

"The orphans made me feel... light." She flexed her fingers, remembering the children's trusting touches. "But the dungeon?" Her nails dug into Andariel's skin, drawing a delicious gasp. "That made me feel alive."

Andariel laughed, rolling atop her. "Then we'll just have to do both."

And as Elenwen surrendered to her lover's touch, she realized with dizzying clarity:

She had never been more complete.

Chapter 12: The Flaw in Enlightenment

The Flaw in Enlightenment

The scent of lavender and moon sugar hung heavy in Elenwen's chambers as Andariel watched her lover prepare for another visit to the orphanage. The Thalmor emissary moved with practiced precision—selecting jewels that would catch the light just so, adjusting her robes to appear both regal and approachable, rehearsing the exact tilt of her head that made children instinctively trust her.

Andariel's fingers stilled around her wineglass.

"You're treating this like a performance," she observed.

Elenwen didn't look up from fastening her bracelets. "All interactions are performances, my dear."

"That's not what this is supposed to be."

The air between them shifted.

The Heart of the Matter

Andariel set down her glass with deliberate care. "When you made that smuggler lick your boots last week, was it just for show?"

Elenwen's hands paused. "Of course not."

"Then why is this?"

A beat of silence. The fire crackled in the hearth.

Elenwen turned, her golden eyes narrowing. "I don't see the difference. Both bring satisfaction. Both reinforce our position."

Andariel sighed, rising to her feet. "That's the problem."

The True Lesson

She guided Elenwen to the balcony, where the first light of dawn painted Solitude in hues of rose and gold. Below them, the city stirred—merchants opening their stalls, fishermen hauling their catch, children chasing each other through the streets.

"Look at them," Andariel murmured. "Born into this world with no say in their shape, their station, their souls." Her fingers brushed Elenwen's wrist. "We could have been them."

Elenwen stiffened. "We're Altmer."

"By grace, not merit." Andariel's voice softened. "Do you think the gods rolled dice when they made us? That we earned our golden skin and centuries of life?"

The question hung between them, heavy as a thunderhead.

The Gift of Perspective

Andariel turned Elenwen's hand palm-up, tracing the lines there. "Every morning, I wake up grateful. Not just for power or beauty, but for the simple fact of being what I am." She pressed their joined hands to her chest. "When I give coin to a beggar or heal a wounded animal, it's not just for their admiration. It's..." She searched for the word. "Thanksgiving."

Elenwen's breath caught.

"These lesser creatures," Andariel continued, "they're not just tools for our amusement or ego. They're living proof of how fortunate we are." Her thumb brushed Elenwen's knuckles. "That's why true kindness matters—because it honors the gift we've been given."

The wind carried the sound of children laughing from the streets below.

The Awakening

Elenwen stared at their joined hands, her mind reeling. All her life, she'd viewed the world as a hierarchy—the Altmer at the top by right of birth, all others beneath them by divine decree. But this...

This was different.

If their superiority was indeed a gift rather than an entitlement...

Her throat tightened.

"You're saying we should be... humble?" The word tasted foreign on her tongue.

Andariel laughed, bright and clear. "No, my love. Grateful. There's power in recognizing how blessed we are." She leaned in, her lips brushing Elenwen's ear. "And there's joy in sharing those blessings—not for show, but because it makes your soul sing."

The Test

That afternoon, Elenwen walked the streets of Solitude alone.

When a scrawny Breton girl—no older than six, her dress patched and faded—tugged at her sleeve and asked for a coin, Elenwen nearly brushed her aside out of habit.

Then she paused.

Really looked at the child—the dirt smudged on her cheeks, the too-thin arms, the eyes too old for her face.

And something in her chest ached.

She knelt, bringing herself eye-level with the girl. "What's your name?"

"L-Lyss, milady."

Elenwen reached into her purse, pressing not one but five gold coins into the child's hand. "Buy yourself something warm to eat, Lyss. And..." She hesitated, then added, "Come to the orphanage tomorrow. I'll make sure there's a new dress waiting for you."

The girl's eyes widened, her grubby fingers closing around the coins like treasure. "Thank you, milady! Thank you!"

And as Lyss scampered away, her joy bubbling over like a spring, Elenwen felt something unfamiliar unfurl in her chest.

Not satisfaction.

Not pride.

Peace.

The Return

Andariel was waiting when Elenwen returned to the Embassy, her golden eyes knowing.

"Well?"

Elenwen exhaled shakily, her gloves still damp from where Lyss had clutched them. "It... felt right."

Andariel smiled, slow and radiant. "Welcome to true enlightenment, my love."

Chapter 13: The Integration

The Blossoming

Elenwen woke with dawn's first light streaming through her windows, her body thrumming with a quiet energy she had never known before. For the first time in centuries, she did not rise with the weight of some unseen void pressing against her ribs. The world seemed sharper—the scent of morning dew on the Embassy gardens, the distant cry of gulls over Solitude's harbor, the warmth of Andariel's sleeping form beside her—all of it vibrated with a clarity that made her breath catch.

She pressed a hand to her chest, half-expecting to feel something physical—some tangible proof of the transformation that had taken root inside her. But there was only steady heartbeat, only the quiet certainty that something fundamental had changed.

She was whole.

The Integration

The change did not go unnoticed.

Her subordinates whispered as she passed through the Embassy halls, their usual stiff-backed deference tinged with something new—curiosity. Even the most hardened Justiciars paused when she greeted them by name, their golden masks tilting in barely concealed surprise.

At first, she thought it was suspicion. Then, one evening, a young Altmer clerk approached her, trembling hands clutching a sheaf of reports.

"First Emissary," the girl stammered, "I—I wanted to thank you. For the books you sent to the orphanage. My sister is one of the caretakers there. She says the children haven't stopped talking about you."

Elenwen had done it on a whim—a crate of old storybooks from Summerset, gathering dust in the Embassy's library. A meaningless gesture, or so she'd thought.

But the clerk's eyes shone with something that made Elenwen's throat tighten.

"You're welcome," she said, and meant it.

The Paradox of Power

The most surprising change was in her work.

Where once she had relied on fear alone, now her influence spread like creeping ivy—gentle but inexorable. A well-timed donation to a struggling merchant here, a healed injury for a guardsman's child there, and suddenly, doors opened without force.

Even her interrogations grew more effective.

"Please," the Stormcloak courier sobbed, his wrists raw from the manacles. "I've told you everything!"

Elenwen circled him, her boots clicking against the stone. "I know."

She crouched, bringing herself eye-level with him. "Your daughter is at the Solitude orphanage, isn't she? Little Lina? Such bright eyes."

The man froze.

"I made sure she got extra sweets this morning," Elenwen continued, her voice soft. "And a new wool cloak. The nights are getting colder."

Tears tracked through the grime on the man's face.

"Now," Elenwen murmured, brushing a strand of hair from his forehead, "let's try this again. And if you're very honest, I'll see that she gets a proper education. Wouldn't you like that?"

The courier broke faster than any torture could have achieved.

The Dark Reflection

Andariel watched from the shadows as Elenwen worked, her golden eyes alight with fascination.

Later, in the privacy of their chambers, she pressed Elenwen against the wall, her teeth scraping the delicate point of one ear.

"You were magnificent today," she breathed.

Elenwen shuddered, her fingers tangling in Andariel's hair. "Which part? The kindness or the cruelty?"

Andariel laughed, low and dark. "The both. The way you broke him with mercy—" Her nails dug into Elenwen's hips. "Gods, I've never been so aroused."

Elenwen's answering smile was a blade in the dark.

The Balance

The true test came with the arrival of the Thalmor delegation from Alinor.

Elenwen received them in the Embassy's grand hall, her posture flawless, her voice carrying the crisp authority of her station. But when the youngest envoy—a pompous fool barely past his first century—sneered at the human servants, she intervened.

"Enough."

The hall fell silent.

She stepped forward, her gaze pinning the young Altmer in place. "We are guests in this land. Act like it."

The envoy's mouth opened—then closed at the look in her eyes.

Later, Andariel would tell her how the servants had whispered her name like a prayer.

The Ascension

That night, standing atop the Embassy's highest tower, Elenwen spread her arms and breathed.

The stars wheeled above her, ancient and uncaring. The sea crashed against the cliffs below, relentless as time itself. And she—

She was alive.

Not just a weapon. Not just a tool.

But something more.

Andariel's arms slid around her waist, her chin resting on Elenwen's shoulder. "How does it feel?"

Elenwen turned her face to the wind.

"Like flying."

Chapter 14: The Rhythm of Days

The Rhythm of Days

Life in the Thalmor Embassy settled into a comfortable cadence. Mornings began with the scent of imported tea leaves steeping in porcelain cups, afternoons filled with carefully balanced acts of calculated kindness and ruthless efficiency, evenings spent tangled in silk sheets with Andariel's laughter ringing against the vaulted ceilings.

Elenwen found herself measuring time not in reports filed or prisoners broken, but in the spaces between the Dragonborn's visits—the way the halls seemed brighter when Andariel strode through them, the way even the most hardened Justiciars stood straighter under her golden gaze.

She would arrive unannounced, smelling of frost and fire and dragonblood, her robes singed from some distant battle, her pockets full of trinkets from her travels—a rare tome from Blackreach, a jeweled hairpin from a Riften merchant, a bottle of vintage Cyrodiilic brandy "liberated" from a bandit chief. She would stay for days, sometimes weeks, filling the Embassy with her impossible energy before vanishing again, leaving behind only rumpled sheets and the faint scent of lightning.

Elenwen never asked her to stay.

And Andariel always returned.

The Gift

The door to Elenwen's private chambers burst open without ceremony, the heavy oak cracking against the stone wall.

"Darling," Andariel purred, her voice dripping with mischief, "I brought you a present."

Elenwen looked up from her correspondence, one elegant brow arched. The Dragonborn stood framed in the doorway, her travel-stained robes dusted with snow, her cheeks flushed from the cold. In her hands, she held a coiled length of black leather that made Elenwen's breath catch.

"Is that—"

"A dwemer-forged whip, yes." Andariel stepped forward, letting the weapon unfurl with a sinuous grace. "Enchanted to leave marks that linger." Her golden eyes gleamed. "I thought we might test it."

Elenwen's lips curved.

The Preparation

The dungeons had never felt so alive.

Andariel paced the length of the cell like a caged wolf, the whip coiled in her hands, her every movement thrumming with barely restrained energy. The prisoner—a middle-aged Imperial caught smuggling letters for the Blades—cowered in his chains, his eyes darting between the two Altmer women.

"You're in luck," Elenwen informed him, her voice sweet as poisoned honey. "The Dragonborn has taken an interest in you."

Andariel leaned close, her breath hot against the man's ear. "Do you know what happens to little birds who carry messages for the Blades?"

The whip cracked against the stone floor, leaving a scorch mark in its wake.

The Imperial whimpered.

The Dance

What followed was artistry.

Andariel moved with the precision of a master duelist, each flick of her wrist sending the whip singing through the air. It kissed the prisoner's skin with devastating accuracy—searing lines across his back, his thighs, the tender flesh of his inner arms.

Elenwen watched from her chair, her legs crossed, a goblet of wine cradled in one hand. She had seen Andariel fight before—had watched her reduce dragons to ash with nothing but her voice and her will—but this was different.

This was intimacy.

Every gasp, every flinch, every tear that tracked down the man's face was a note in a symphony only they could hear.

"Beautiful," Elenwen breathed.

Andariel turned, her chest heaving, her pupils blown wide with arousal. "Your turn."

The Exchange

The whip felt alive in Elenwen's hands—a serpent of enchanted leather, hungry for flesh.

She traced it along the prisoner's collarbone, watching the way his breath hitched. "Beg."

"P-please—"

"Louder."

The whip cracked. The man screamed.

Andariel's fingers dug into Elenwen's hips from behind, her teeth scraping the sensitive point of one ear. "Gods, look at you."

Elenwen had never felt more powerful.

The Aftermath

Later, when the prisoner had been dragged away to heal—just enough to endure another session—they collapsed together in Elenwen's bed, their skin still humming with spent energy.

Andariel traced the lines of Elenwen's palm, her touch feather-light. "I missed this."

Elenwen turned her head, studying the Dragonborn's profile in the firelight. "The torture or the sex?"

Andariel's laugh was a dark, honeyed thing. "The you."

And for once, Elenwen had no clever reply.

Chapter 15: The Ripple Effect

The Ripple Effect

The letter arrived on gilded parchment, sealed with the crest of Alinor in wax the color of fresh blood. Elenwen traced the embossed edges with a fingertip, feeling the weight of the thick paper between her fingers before breaking the seal. The missive inside was brief, its elegant script conveying in few words what would have taken a lesser diplomat paragraphs to articulate:

First Emissary Elenwen,
Your recent successes have not gone unnoticed. The stabilization of Skyrim's political landscape through your... unique alliance with the Dragonborn reflects well upon the Dominion. Expect reinforcements and additional resources at your discretion.
- High Legate Tandilwe, Office of Altmeri Supremacy

Elenwen allowed herself a small, satisfied smile as she ran her thumb over the embossed signature. The wax cracked beneath her touch, releasing a faint scent of summer citrus that reminded her of home.

The Windfall

The reinforcements arrived within the fortnight - a full contingent of twenty fresh-faced Justiciars, their golden armor polished to a mirror shine that reflected the pale Skyrim sunlight, their backs straight with the unshakable confidence of youth yet to be tempered by the harsh realities of northern politics. Along with them came crates of supplies that filled the Embassy's storerooms to bursting: enchanted weaponry from the fabled forges of Lillandril, each blade singing with barely-contained magic; rare alchemical ingredients from the hanging gardens of Cloudrest, their fragrances mingling into an intoxicating perfume; and perhaps most tellingly, a chest of funding so substantial it required two armored soldiers to carry it to her office, their muscles straining under the weight of gold and gemstones.

Andariel, sprawled across Elenwen's favorite divan with a stolen sweetroll in hand, let out a low whistle that cut through the quiet of the study. "Someone's moving up in the world," she remarked, crumbs dusting the front of her travel-worn robes.

Elenwen ran her fingers over the chest's intricate carvings - scenes of Altmeri triumph from the days when Summerset still answered to no one. "They're rewarding results," she said simply, though the slight lift at the corner of her mouth betrayed her satisfaction.

"Our results," Andariel corrected, popping the last of the sweetroll into her mouth with a grin that showed too many teeth.

Elenwen's answering smile was a knife in the dark, sharp and dangerous.

The Political Game

The changes were immediate and far-reaching. Where once she had been forced to carefully ration her influence like a miser counting coins, now doors swung open at her slightest whim. The Jarl of Solitude granted her additional patrol rights along the northern roads without so much as a token protest, his advisors suddenly finding Thalmor interests aligned perfectly with their own. The East Empire Company's normally obstructive bureaucrats miraculously discovered room in their shipping schedules for Thalmor cargo, their ledgers mysteriously clearing space for Dominion shipments. Even the normally reticent College of Winterhold, that nest of rebellious mages, sent a nervous Breton envoy bearing gifts of rare spell tomes - "a gesture of goodwill," the stuttering man claimed, though his eyes darted to Andariel's presence in the corner like a rabbit sensing a wolf in the brush.

And through it all, the Dragonborn remained a constant presence - sometimes physically at her side during negotiations, sometimes merely a shadow of influence that preceded Elenwen's every move. The hero's reputation as Skyrim's savior lent Elenwen's position an unshakable legitimacy that no amount of gold or threats could have purchased. When the Dragonborn leaned casually against Elenwen's chair during meetings with skeptical nobles, when she mentioned in passing how "reasonable" she found Thalmor policies, the effect was more potent than any spell or blade.

The Rumor Mill

Of course, not all attention was welcome. Elenwen intercepted the letter before it could reach Alinor's shores, her fingers tightening around the parchment as she read the treasonous contents by candlelight in her private chambers.

First Emissary Elenwen has grown too close to the Dragonborn, the anonymous report claimed in cramped, nervous script. Their... unnatural relationship compromises the purity of our cause and—

She set the letter alight with a flick of her wrist, watching as the hungry flames consumed the cowardly words, the paper curling and blackening until nothing remained but feather-light ashes that drifted to her desk like snow.

"Trouble?" Andariel asked from the doorway, her arms crossed over her chest, the shifting candlelight playing across the sharp planes of her face.

Elenwen dusted the ashes from her hands with slow, deliberate motions. "Nothing I can't handle," she replied, her voice as smooth as the polished marble floors beneath their feet.

The Consolidation

She handled it with characteristic efficiency. The informant - a junior clerk from the accounting offices with ambitions far exceeding his station - found himself abruptly reassigned to a remote outpost in the Valenwood borderlands, where the humidity would ruin his precious ledgers and the constant guerrilla warfare would test his dedication to the Dominion. The few remaining malcontents in her ranks suddenly discovered the benefits of silence, their complaints drying up overnight like puddles under a desert sun.

When the next delegation from Alinor arrived - a stuffy group of senior legates sent to "assess the situation" - they saw only what Elenwen wished them to see: A thriving Embassy buzzing with activity, its halls filled with the hum of productive discourse rather than fearful whispers. A loyal Dragonborn who spoke respectfully of Thalmor interests in between tales of her adventures. A First Emissary in complete control of her domain, her authority unquestioned, her results undeniable.

They left within three days, their reports glowing with praise for Elenwen's "innovative methods" and "unparalleled results."

The Celebration

That night, Elenwen hosted a dinner that would be remembered in Solitude's social circles for years to come. The grand hall of the Embassy glittered with enchanted lights that floated like captured stars beneath the vaulted ceilings. The finest vintage from Summerset's sun-kissed vineyards flowed freely from crystal decanters, their rich amber hues catching the light. The tables groaned under the weight of delicacies from across Tamriel - spiced meats from Hammerfell, delicate pastries from High Rock, rare fruits shipped at great expense from the markets of the Imperial City.

And through it all moved the cream of Skyrim's society - jarls and thanes, merchant princes and master wizards, all carefully curated guests who represented the most influential circles of northern politics. They mingled and schemed under the watchful eyes of golden-masked Justiciars, their conversations a low hum that echoed through the hall.

At the center of it all stood Andariel, holding court before a captive audience of wide-eyed nobles and star-struck officials. Her laughter rang out like silver bells as she regaled them with carefully edited tales of her adventures, her hands moving in graceful arcs as she described dragon fights and dungeon delves, her golden eyes alight with mischief.

Elenwen watched from her seat at the high table, her goblet of wine untouched before her, her satisfaction a warm, living thing in her chest. The Dragonborn caught her eye across the crowded room and winked, a private gesture that spoke volumes.

For the first time in her long career, Elenwen didn't bother to school her features into perfect neutrality. She allowed herself to smile - a real, unguarded expression that felt strange yet right on her usually composed face.

Later, when the last guest had stumbled out into the cold night air and the servants had begun clearing the remnants of the feast, Elenwen stood alone on the balcony, breathing in the salt-tinged air from the Sea of Ghosts. The stars wheeled overhead in their ancient patterns, uncaring and eternal, their cold light reflecting in her golden eyes as she listened to the distant crash of waves against Solitude's cliffs.

The heavy oak door creaked open behind her, but she didn't need to turn to know who approached. Familiar arms encircled her waist, and the scent of lightning and lavender filled her senses as Andariel pressed against her back, her chin coming to rest on Elenwen's shoulder.

Neither spoke. There was no need.

The night stretched before them, endless and full of possibility.

Chapter 16: The Divine Hierarchy Made Manifest

The Divine Hierarchy Made Manifest

The dungeon air hung thick with the metallic tang of fear and sweat, the flickering torchlight casting elongated shadows that danced across the damp stone walls like restless spirits. Elenwen stood motionless at the center of the chamber, her polished leather boots planted firmly apart, the supple black material gleaming like obsidian in the uneven light. Before her, a broken Stormcloak courier knelt in chains, his ragged breathing the only sound in the heavy silence.

Andariel lounged against the far wall, her golden eyes half-lidded with pleasure as she watched the scene unfold. There was something profoundly right about this tableau—the way the light caught the elegant curve of Elenwen's instep, the way the prisoner's shoulders trembled with barely contained terror, the way the entire world seemed to narrow to this single, perfect moment of absolute submission.

"Look at him," Andariel murmured, her voice rich with amusement. "Like a dog waiting for its master's command."

Elenwen's lips curved into a smile sharp enough to draw blood. She lifted her right boot slightly, the heel hovering just inches from the man's face. "Clean it," she commanded, her voice dripping with honeyed malice.

The Nord's throat worked as he swallowed hard, his eyes darting between the boot and Elenwen's merciless expression. When he hesitated a heartbeat too long, Andariel pushed off from the wall with predatory grace.

"Let me help," she purred, her fingers tangling in the man's matted hair as she yanked his head forward. The sudden movement made him gasp, his lips parting instinctively—just in time for Elenwen to press the toe of her boot against his mouth.

Andariel watched, enraptured, as the man's tongue emerged—pink and pathetic—to lap at the leather. The sight sent a thrill through her that no amount of gold or power could replicate. This was the natural order made flesh: the strong dominating the weak, the superior commanding the inferior, the divine right of their Altmeri blood made manifest in this simple, beautiful act of degradation.

"Good boy," Elenwen cooed, pressing her boot harder against his face until his nose bent at an uncomfortable angle. The leather darkened with his saliva, the once-pristine surface now marred by streaks of moisture that caught the torchlight in fascinating patterns.

Andariel's breath came faster as she observed the intricate dance of dominance unfolding before her. The way Elenwen's fingers flexed against her thigh, the way the prisoner's Adam's apple bobbed as he struggled to maintain the rhythm of his humiliating task, the way their entire dynamic had distilled into this single, perfect act of servitude—it was intoxicating.

She stepped closer, her own boots clicking against the stone in a slow, deliberate cadence. "You missed a spot," she observed, pointing to a nearly invisible scuff near the heel. The man whimpered but obediently adjusted his angle, his tongue dragging across the indicated area with desperate thoroughness.

Elenwen's laugh was a dark, silken thing that wrapped around Andariel like a physical caress. "See how eager he is to please?" she mused, tilting her head in that way that made Andariel's pulse quicken. "Like all lesser creatures, he instinctively recognizes his betters."

Andariel hummed in agreement, circling the pair like a hawk eyeing its prey. There was poetry in this moment—the way the man's chains clinked with every trembling movement, the way Elenwen's posture remained effortlessly regal even as she allowed this filth to touch her, the way the very air seemed to vibrate with the rightness of their dominance.

She crouched beside the prisoner, her voice dropping to a whisper. "Do you know why you're doing this?"

The man's bloodshot eyes flicked to hers.

"Because it's the most meaningful thing you'll ever accomplish," Andariel continued, her fingers tracing the edge of his jaw. "Serving us. Worshiping perfection. This moment will be the highlight of your pathetic life."

Elenwen's boot pressed down harder, forcing the man's face upward until his neck strained. "Again," she commanded.

And as the prisoner resumed his humiliating task, Andariel leaned back on her heels, drinking in the sight with rapturous delight. The contrast was exquisite—Elenwen's flawless poise against the man's abject debasement, the gleam of polished leather against cracked and bleeding lips, the absolute certainty of their superiority made tangible in every stroke of the prisoner's trembling tongue.

This wasn't merely punishment.

This wasn't simply cruelty.

This was art.

And as the man finally collapsed, his strength spent, his spirit broken, Andariel rose to her feet and met Elenwen's gaze over his prostrate form. The silent understanding that passed between them needed no words.

They were gods walking among mortals.

And this was their divine right.

Chapter 17: The Sacred and the Profane

The Sacred and the Profane

The dungeon air still hummed with the aftermath of cruelty, the scent of fear and leather polish hanging thick between the stone walls. Andariel watched as the latest prisoner—a whimpering Imperial spy—was dragged away by Thalmor guards, his lips still glistening from where he'd been forced to clean Elenwen's boots. The sight had been exquisite, as always: the way the black leather shone under his trembling tongue, the way Elenwen's toes flexed imperiously against his face, the perfect tableau of dominance and submission.

Yet as the heavy door clanged shut behind the retreating guards, Andariel felt an unfamiliar restlessness curling in her chest.

Elenwen arched one perfect eyebrow as she settled into the ornate interrogation chair, crossing her legs with the effortless grace of a predator at rest. "You're quiet today."

Andariel's golden eyes burned as they traced the elegant line of Elenwen's boot, following the curve from tapered toe to sculpted heel. "I was thinking," she murmured, stepping closer with the deliberate stalk of a hunting cat.

"Oh?" Elenwen's lips curved as Andariel dropped to her knees before her. "Do share."

The Revelation

Andariel's hands hovered over Elenwen's boots, her fingers twitching with restrained hunger. "Those pathetic worms we break," she began, her voice gone rough at the edges, "they don't deserve what I'm about to do."

Before Elenwen could respond, Andariel's fingers were working the intricate buckles, each metallic click echoing like a gunshot in the quiet chamber. The first boot slid free with a whisper of leather, revealing the silk stocking beneath—damp with the day's exertions, the fabric clinging to the elegant arch of Elenwen's foot.

The scent hit Andariel first—warm musk and salt and something indefinably Elenwen—making her mouth water.

"You—" Elenwen's breath hitched as Andariel peeled away the stocking with reverent slowness.

"Shhh." Andariel pressed a kiss to the exposed arch, her tongue darting out to taste the sweat-slick skin. "Let me worship you properly."

The Devotion

What followed transcended mere pleasure—it was sacrament.

Andariel's tongue traced every inch with single-minded devotion: the high arch that had spent centuries stepping over lesser beings, the delicate bones of the ankle that had crushed rebellions, the perfect toes that had tapped impatiently against palace floors while kings groveled. She sucked each digit into her mouth with unhurried relish, her teeth grazing the tender flesh just enough to make Elenwen's fingers tighten in her hair.

The taste was intoxicating—salt and leather and something darkly sweet that made Andariel moan against her skin. This wasn't the forced servitude they demanded from prisoners; this was voluntary adoration, a goddess kneeling before her equal.

Elenwen's breath came faster as Andariel worked her way up the sensitive tendon of her Achilles, her free hand massaging the sole with firm, knowing strokes. "You—ah—you find this more satisfying than watching the prisoners?"

Andariel pulled back just enough to meet her gaze, her lips glistening. "There's no comparison." Her thumb circled the ball of Elenwen's foot, pressing into the sweet spot that made her thighs tense. "They lick your boots because they fear you." She dragged her tongue along the arch in one long, wet stripe. "I do this because I feel an inexplicable attraction to you. A perfect specimen of Altmeri beauty."

The Claiming

Elenwen's composure shattered.

Her foot pressed harder against Andariel's mouth, her hips lifting instinctively from the chair as pleasure crackled up her spine. The sight of Skyrim's mighty Dragonborn—the slayer of Alduin, the conqueror of nations—on her knees, enraptured by the taste of her sweat? It was more powerful than any throne.

Andariel reveled in it, her fingers digging into Elenwen's calf as she redoubled her efforts. She lavished attention on every crease and curve, her tongue swirling between toes before plunging into the sensitive space beneath them, drawing out shuddering gasps that echoed off the dungeon walls.

When Elenwen finally came with a cry, her back arching like a drawn bow, Andariel drank it in—the tremors against her lips, the way her toes curled in ecstasy, the absolute surrender of the most powerful woman in Tamriel.

The Aftermath

Later, when Elenwen had caught her breath and Andariel had licked her clean with lingering satisfaction, they lay tangled together in the plush chair, Elenwen's bare feet still draped across Andariel's lap.

"You realize," Elenwen mused, tracing the shell of Andariel's ear, "this changes our interrogation techniques."

Andariel nipped at her ankle in warning. "My worship is exclusive."

Elenwen's laugh was dark velvet. "Oh, my love. I wouldn't dream of sharing."

And as Andariel pressed one last kiss to the arch of her foot, she knew—this was the true meaning of power.

Chapter 18: The Inadequacy

The Weight of Gifts

The fire in Elenwen’s chambers burned low, casting flickering shadows across the walls as she reclined in her favorite chair, a half-empty goblet of Summerset wine cradled loosely in her fingers. Across from her, Andariel sprawled lazily across the divan, her golden hair fanned out like a halo against the rich velvet, her eyes half-lidded with contentment. The sight of her—radiant, powerful, alive—sent a familiar ache through Elenwen’s chest.

She had spent centuries building walls around herself, fortifying her heart with ice and steel, ensuring that no one could ever touch what lay beneath. And yet, this woman—this force of nature—had shattered them all without even trying.

Andariel had given her everything.

Companionship that did not demand she hide her darkness. Acceptance of her sadism, not as a flaw, but as part of her very being. The priceless Snow Elf bracelets, relics of a forgotten age, gifted not as a bribe or a transaction, but as a treasure meant for her alone. A new philosophy—a way to balance cruelty with kindness, to wield both with purpose. The revelation of gratitude, of understanding that her very existence as Altmer was a divine gift, not merely a right.

And now, worship. Not the groveling of prisoners, not the fearful deference of subordinates, but true, devoted worship—Andariel on her knees before her, not out of fear or obligation, but out of desire.

Elenwen’s throat tightened.

What had she given in return?

The Inadequacy

She was not a fool. She knew her own worth—her intelligence, her influence, her beauty. But compared to Andariel?

The Dragonborn. The Last Dragonborn. The woman who had faced down Alduin and laughed, who had walked into Apocrypha and bargained with Hermaeus Mora himself, who carried the soul of a dragon and the blood of a god in her veins.

What could Elenwen possibly offer that could compare?

Power? Andariel had more than she could ever need.

Wealth? The Dragonborn could plunder ancient ruins and walk away with fortunes.

Pleasure? They had that in abundance, but it was not enough. Not for this. Not for what Andariel had given her.

Her fingers tightened around the goblet.

There had to be something.

The Offer

She set the wine aside with deliberate care, the crystal ringing softly against the table.

“Andariel.”

The Dragonborn turned her head, her golden eyes sharpening at the tone.

Elenwen took a slow breath. “You have given me… everything.” The words felt inadequate, but they were all she had. “I find myself at a loss. There is nothing in my possession that could possibly repay you.”

Andariel’s brow arched, but she said nothing, waiting.

Elenwen straightened, her voice steady. “So I offer you this instead. Anything. Name what you desire of me, and it is yours. A request, a command—whatever you wish. I will do it.”

The silence stretched between them, thick with unspoken weight.

Andariel sat up slowly, her gaze never leaving Elenwen’s.

The Answer

For a long moment, Andariel simply looked at her, as if peeling back every layer of pretense, every carefully constructed defense, until Elenwen felt laid bare before her.

Then, she smiled.

Not the sharp, wicked grin she wore when toying with prisoners. Not the lazy, self-satisfied smirk after a particularly indulgent night.

This was softer. Truer.

“You already know what I want,” she murmured.

Elenwen’s pulse stuttered.

Andariel rose from the divan in one fluid motion, crossing the space between them until she stood before Elenwen, her presence overwhelming, inevitable. She cupped Elenwen’s face in her hands, her thumbs brushing the high arches of her cheekbones.

“I want you,” she said simply. “Not for an hour. Not for a night. Not until you grow bored or I grow restless.” Her grip tightened, just slightly. “Forever.”

Elenwen’s breath caught.

“Swear yourself to me,” Andariel whispered, her voice like velvet and steel. “In eternal love. In eternal care. In eternal companionship. Be mine in all aspects of your being, as I am already yours.”

The words should have terrified her. Elenwen had spent her entire life ensuring she belonged to no one—not her family, not her superiors, not even the Dominion itself. She had carved her own path with blood and cunning, answering to nothing but her own will.

And yet—

The thought of belonging to Andariel did not feel like chains.

It felt like coming home.

The Vow

Elenwen reached up, covering Andariel’s hands with her own.

“Yes.”

No hesitation. No conditions.

Andariel’s eyes burned. “Say it.”

Elenwen rose to her feet, forcing Andariel to tilt her head back to maintain eye contact. She could feel the Dragonborn’s pulse racing beneath her fingers, the unshakable woman actually trembling with anticipation.

It was intoxicating.

“I swear myself to you, Andariel,” Elenwen said, each word deliberate, final. “In eternal love. In eternal care. In eternal companionship. I am yours—in this life, and in whatever comes after.”

A shudder ran through Andariel’s body, her fingers tightening almost painfully on Elenwen’s face. For a heartbeat, she looked vulnerable, as if the weight of what she had just been given was too much to bear.

Then she surged forward, crushing their lips together in a kiss that tasted like fire and devotion.

Elenwen met her with equal fervor, her hands tangling in golden hair, her body pressing flush against Andariel’s. When they finally broke apart, both breathless, Andariel’s eyes shone with something dangerously close to awe.

“Mine,” she whispered.

Elenwen smiled.

“Yours.”

Chapter 19: The Gift of Eternity

The Change Unseen

The scent of frost and burning pine preceded her.

Elenwen looked up from her desk, the quill in her hand stilling mid-sentence as the doors to her study swung open without ceremony. Andariel stood framed in the doorway, her golden hair windswept, her travel-worn robes dusted with snow. She was smiling—that familiar, razor-edged smile that had haunted Elenwen’s dreams for months—and yet…

Something was different.

Not in her bearing, not in her voice when she greeted her with a murmured "Darling," as she crossed the room. Not even in the way she pressed a kiss to Elenwen’s lips, her mouth cool against hers.

But something.

Elenwen could not name it.

The Telling

They sat before the fire, Andariel sprawled across the divan like a contented predator, a goblet of wine cradled in her fingers. Elenwen watched her over the rim of her own glass, studying the way the firelight caught in her lover’s eyes—had they always been that shade of gold? Had they always gleamed so unnaturally in the dark?

"You're staring," Andariel murmured, her lips curving.

Elenwen set her wine aside. "Tell me of your travels."

And so Andariel did.

She spoke of a forgotten cave, hidden in the jagged cliffs of the Pale, where the wind howled like the ghosts of long-dead dragons. Of a girl—pale as moonlight, with eyes like rubies and a voice like crumbling parchment—who had slept for eras untouched by time.

Serana.

The name hung between them, weighted with history.

The Daughter of Coldharbour

Andariel’s voice dropped, weaving a tale of ancient prophecies and darker bloodlines. The Volkihar, lurking in their frozen castle, their hollowed-out eyes fixed on a sunless future. A father’s madness. A daughter’s defiance. A scroll older than the bones of the earth, whispering secrets that could unmake the sky itself.

Elenwen listened, motionless, as Andariel described the dim halls of Castle Volkihar, where the very air tasted of rust and old blood. Of the moment she had stood beside Serana, facing down the monstrous Lord Harkon, her Thu’um shaking the foundations of his cursed fortress as he screamed his fury to the void.

"And when it was done," Andariel murmured, her fingers tracing the rim of her goblet, "she asked me to stay."

Elenwen’s breath caught.

The Forgotten Valley

But it was the next part of the tale that made Elenwen’s pulse stutter.

A valley—hidden, untouched, perfect—where the last remnants of Snow Elf glory stood frozen in time. Towers of delicate crystal, arches carved from living ice, streets paved with stones that sang when stepped upon.

"And there was no one left to see it," Andariel whispered, her gaze distant. "No one to remember. The beauty of an entire people, and no eyes left to weep at its passing."

Her hand found Elenwen’s, their fingers intertwining.

"I thought of you. Of the bracelets. Of what we could have built, if the world had been kinder."

The Gift of Eternity

The fire crackled, casting long shadows across the walls.

Andariel turned Elenwen’s hand over, exposing the pale skin of her wrist. "I left Serana to rule what remains of her kind," she said softly. "But before I did…"

Her thumb pressed against Elenwen’s pulse point.

"I let her change me."

The words landed like a thunderclap.

Elenwen’s gaze snapped up, searching Andariel’s face—really searching—and suddenly, she understood. The unnatural stillness. The too-bright eyes. The way the cold no longer seemed to touch her.

Vampirism.

But not the feral, half-mad hunger of common bloodfiends.

Volkihar.

Pure. Noble. Eternal.

Andariel leaned forward, her lips brushing Elenwen’s ear. "I can give this to you," she whispered. "No more fleeting years. No more stolen moments. Forever, Elenwen. As we were always meant to be."

The Choice

The world narrowed to this single, breathless moment.

Elenwen could see it—feel it—stretching before her. Centuries unwinding like a spool of silk, endless and glittering. Herself, unchanged, unfading, standing beside Andariel as empires rose and fell. Their love, unbroken by time, undimmed by mortality.

Her fingers tightened around Andariel’s.

There was no hesitation.

No fear.

Only certainty.

"Yes."

Notes:

As a fanfic reader I was always frustrated with fanfics with interesting premise, but which were abandoned halfway.
I did not want to do the same to you, guys. So I decided to post it only after completion.
For now my itch to see the fanfic I always wanted by never saw is satisfied.
I did enjoy creating this story.
I will post more. I have myriad ideas for other fanfics. But that will have to wait a little.
Thanks for reading. Lov u.

P.S. Leave your comments, please.
P.P.S I would also appreciate the suggestion for tags, so that more people could find my work.