A/N: Something that's been bouncing around in my head- demanding to be written despite my other commitments to Dragon Age, so I've decided to finally post it and try to exorcise this from my system. Okay, nothing so sinister, but you get my drift, yes?
Summary: Like the title suggests, it's a few years after the main events of Skyrim, and the Dragonborn/Thieves' Guild Leader/Listener/Arch-mage (yes, she's a jaded jack-of-all-trades) is just roaming the place with a new companion with a mystery of his own.
Much more will be added, but I sincerely hope I do get a break from writing this so I can finish the other stories I've started. The rest will be up to popularity, I will only continue if people like this chapter enough, so leave a review or pm if you are intrigued by the concept- Thanks!
A Few Years Hence
Skjári was allowed to travel with her, for as long as he wanted. So, he watched camp for her while she slept, watched her back in battle as she led the way to a cavern's depths, and fended off unwanted attentions as a pair than a solitary soul. She in turn, was perfectly fine at leaving the speaking to him, and those who wished to hire her blade knew enough to approach him instead. She was content to sit in inns, sipping from tankards the local brew, gazing pensively into an unknown distance. This suited him, though sometimes, it could be days before she uttered more than a sentence to him; her monosyllabic murmurs barely replied his very many queries.
He had once complained that she was altogether too silent, that what they had needed an improvement in communication, but all she said was, "You are welcome to leave."
He stopped asking. In truth, he could no longer imagine a life on his own—out in the lonely wilderness. Skjári was not born with that name—he had a comfortable life as a nobleman, very close to royalty in the west. He ran from that, believing that his path lay elsewhere. Beyond endless feasting and mingling amongst others like him; pale, pasty, bloated with mead even—barely able to swing a blade with any efficiency.
It seemed that even she had considered that, her sudden words that one night struck new hope in his heart.
"We won't need two tents. You may have access to mine."
He had sputtered, like the fool that he was. "Share? That—is not ap-propria—"
The warrior stared back at him shortly, before pouring herself a mug of tea. "We take separate watches each night— there is no inappropriateness."
"Oh. I… see. My bad."
"You're forgiven." There—a flicker of the elusive grin, a smile half-imagined, was forming round the rim of her cup. This disappeared in a flash, but it was progress. He was getting there.
xOxOx
He had followed her, tracked her from the trail of blood—not her blood mind you, but apparently the redness belonged to the bandit clan she had very recently slaughtered in their own lair—for there to be this much, meant that the woman had to be practically bathed in it.
The droplets led him to a nearby spring, where her ebony war horse stood guard, flaming red eyes eyeing everything that moved. A dreadmare—the stuff of legends—being in this woman's possession, made her even more remarkable in his eyes. So far, he had witnessed her take apart a pair of giants, a cave of trolls, the bandit clan, as well as the huge spiders that had infested a mine. She accepted payments when the grateful people offered, but never stayed long in an area.
She rose from the water's edge, a pale goddess—dressed in the thinnest of underclothes, and these hid nothing from his already overactive mind. The linen was certainly clinging to parts of her anatomy, still very wet, almost translucent in the growing light of the mid-day sun. Her fierce red hair was damp, tamed by moisture, hanging loose about her firm shoulders.
The womanly curves he saw depicted it all. He had long suspected that the stranger who rode into his father's lands was female, though everyone else used the honorific 'ser', referring to their savior as a true man of honor and might. He had guessed that the height and build of the constantly armored person could not be male, that way 'he' walked was not overtly masculine. Skjári knew that under that ebony platemail was the figure of a woman, but he had not expected one like this. He stared, unabashed, following the scores of long-healed wounds that covered her skin. The horrors that such flesh had endured—survived—made the shift of her lean muscles beneath the uneven ridges an irresistible thing to watch.
She bent, scrubbing the already-dried stains on her black platemail, revealing more of her fair, though scarred skin, allowing more than an eyeful of that rather well-developed bosom. He looked away—this—was akin to spying, something he found very distasteful, and Skjári finally turned his back on that…distracting image.
The subsequent rustle of the bush was unexpectedly loud, and the piercing gaze of the stallion honed in on Skjári's position, the menacing gallop and snorts suddenly crossing the distance, crashing through the vegetation. By Ysmir, the dreadmare's seemed to breathe fire, its vicious teeth so exposed, charging straight at him—red glints afire in its eyes.
He scrambled, as fast as a man in full steel armor could allow, narrowly avoiding being trampled by the heavy iron-shod hooves lifted above his head. He raised his hands in surrender—and came face to face with the barely-clothed woman, staring into large violet eyes set in a youthful face. For all her strength and skill in battle, Skjári had never thought she would be this—pretty.
The blades she held to his throat pressed wickedly on the unprotected skin, just below the line of brown fuzz of his week-old beard and Skjári cursed that he had taken off the helm when he had stopped to watch her. She must think of him as a lowly peeper, and would hear no explanations before ripping him to pieces, beginning with his man-parts. Or throat. Or eyes. He had witnessed the ways she dealt with those stupid enough to cross her path.
But the roars stopped her, the tell-tale cries of the huge bears which lived in the region.
She then cursed in a most unladylike fashion, before sprinting back to the spring. Skjári followed, his concern for her coupled with curiosity, of the source of her sudden distraction.
A huge male mammal was making off with her pack; its claws having scrabbled ineffectually at the straps that proved quite the challenge, being crafted out of dragonhide. Skjári recognized the make as expensive, and was intrigued that the woman had access to such rare materials. Perhaps the rumors of her felling dragons were true. Yet, the exasperated sounds she made while bounding over boulders and finally cornering the bear added to his fascination— she was human after all, and not the statue of stoicism he once thought. But as he watched the woman make her way swiftly down the steep rocky cliff, he noticed that the bear was trying, with all its might to shove its muzzle into the various compartments in search of food. The bluntness of its nose, coupled with the clumsy way it tried undoing the pack's leather fastenings succeeded in nothing but a ludicrous, comical image that the woman missed entirely.
Her moment of animation had flashed him more than just a glance of her bare thighs, and for a moment, Skjári half-hoped that she would fight the creature, so scantily clad, but the plate-sized hooves that clapped down upon the animal's head left only a carcass dead on its four paws. Her dreadmare had proved itself to be a most efficient killer.
Skjári decided he was extremely relieved that the warrior had reached him ahead of her savage steed.
xOxOx
It was important to remain alert, while camping in the wilderness, this was why Skjári did all he could to stay awake, as difficult as it was, with nothing but the chirp of crickets to pass the night. He idled, scratching little sketches of the woman who lay asleep in her tent, of words she could have said—to him—during the course of their day. He wished she asked about him, so he could lie; create a story about his past, remaking himself in her eye. Skjári knew that she never cared about his history, she accepted everything he told her—even from the first. Well, that had not been an exact lie, but it had not been the truth, either.
xOxOx
"Now, you." She turned to him, still not exactly clothed, but the red blood from skinning the bear covered more of her skin. Skjári noticed that she seemed to do that very often. Messy. She didn't even seem to mind the bits of flesh which still clung to her arm, though her blades were now being wiped down most meticulously.
"Wha—?" He had no ready reply, taking the pelt from the woman, scrubbing it thoroughly with the spring water scooped with his helm.
"Your ready excuse for being here." She was done with her swords, and spinned them with a casual flick of her wrists.
"I…was—okay, I don't have anything." He gave up. He definitely could not lie under pressure, not when a woman in blood-soaked undergarments questioned him. Moreover, if she had wanted to hurt him, she would have done so already. At least…he hoped this was so, rather fervently.
It was suddenly all quiet, before the woman shrugged off the stained cloths, sinking into the clear spring water. Skjári didn't know what to think.
He tried to speak, but couldn't. Her free-spirited ways were distracting.
"Fair enough. You may leave." Came her reply, and to be perfectly honest, wasn't what he had in mind. Skjári found himself protesting, unconsciously turning to the woman in her bath, attempting to articulate his wish to journey by her side, completely forgetting that the rocks that lined the edge were damp, and hence, very slippery.
In that second, he found himself deep underwater, and drowning with the weight of his armor. He tried to right himself towards the shine of daylight, but all he succeeded in doing was sinking further to the bottom, but that last view he had, of her perfectly nude body reaching out for him, auburn hair floating out behind her with the fading rays of daylight—was glorious.
xOxOx
But wait, he hadn't gotten to the part with the lie yet—though one could not blame him for getting… distracted. Soon, he promised. Very soon.