A/N: This is a lot of words, I'm sorry.

Hi, guys! I dunno what the Skyrim fandom's been up to lately but I think it's time I get my ass back to writing again, and what better way to do it than to get back to my favorite boys? It's been an eon since I reliably wrote anything, and for that I'm sorry. College is awful for trying to do creative shit, which is why I basically fell off the face of the earth for the past few years. But I've graduated and become a Real Adult™ so I have time to write again. I don't even know if the people who liked my shitty writing are even still around, but, hey. A story is never for the listener. It is always for the one who tells. (Huntokar, 2017.) So, here's the plan for the rest of this year, at least:

- I absolutely MUST rewrite Prologue, Prelude, and Soul of a Dov. Early 2012 Nick (that's me) thought she was writing some amazing shit. Early 2012 Nick was wrong. The characterization's inconsistent, the writing is crappy, that's not what drunk sounds like, and Marcurio's GOT to stop calling Dal his 'wife', because that shit's weird and kind of a problem? So I'm gonna do that, all in this one big story. I'll probably leave Crossing Borders alone because I hate it a lot less. (I might tweak chapters individually, and I'll let people know if/when that happens.)

- Hopefully that lasts over the course of October, and then I'll do a 30 day challenge for Marcurio over November, because I want to work some stuff out with him as well.

- After that I'll begin a new thing featuring a teenage Kylius, an older Dalamus and Marcurio, a few cameos from Sinding and Aendriel, and my new elf girl Corim.

And that is my plan to entertain y'all for the rest of the year. Wish me luck!

…

Lydia is only the most recent in a long list of people that Dalamus has lost.

She's the first, however, to die because of him.

He'll be angry later, angry that the sight of the Dwarven Centurion rattled him so thoroughly, that his hands shook as he reached for the arrows at his back, that Lydia hadn't escaped by the time he'd reached the lever to trap it behind the grate and now she's dead, speared through by the Centurion's bladed arm. That by the time he'd finally destroyed it he wasn't even strong enough to get her body out from under it. But for now he shuts down, his mind clouded with exhaustion and grief while his body continues its quest. He should feel accomplished when he finally claws his way back up to the snowy surface, Elder Scroll and runed lexicon in tow, but really he just needs a drink.

He only goes to give the cube to Septimus Signus because it's relatively close, but he regrets that decision when he has to tug his fur cloak up close around his face to keep his teeth from chattering. He gives up that stupid cube, a spark of passive irritation lighting somewhere in the back of his mind when he hears that Septimus Signus has more research to do with it, and will call for him later. But that does free Dal up to do what he likes for a while, because he'll be damned if anyone thought he was going to hike up the Throat of the World immediately after this ordeal.

It's time to get drunk.

But he avoids Windhelm on principle, so he urges his horse on to Riften, dismounting at the stables after little more than a day. The sky is a darkening scarlet as the door to the Bee and Barb closes behind him.

Keerava opens her mouth to offer a cheerful greeting when he seats himself at the counter, but thinks better of it at the look on his face. Instead of saying hello he reaches into his coin pouch and puts a giant handful of gold on the counter, grumbling, "Keep the mead flowing."

She's only happy to oblige.

…

Marcurio is immediately drawn to the head of white hair at the counter when he enters the Bee and Barb; he only knows one Dunmer with white hair, and it's been months since he last saw that Dunmer. He's mildly surprised that Dalamus came down to Riften without Lydia, but at least that frees up the stool next to him so Marc can sit down.

"Long time no see," he says, leaning back against the counter as Dal takes a long swig, draining his mug. The elf drops it heavily onto the counter, and turns to look at Marcurio as Keerava pours more mead inside.

"Hi, Marcurio." Dalamus tries to pick the mug up without looking, as his dull red eyes are trained on the Imperial next to him, but instead he accidentally knocks it over the other side of the bar counter.

Keerava jumps back with a hiss, turning angry eyes on the drunk elf. "That's enough for you."

Marc inserts himself into the conversation, because the look on Dal's face suggests that his response might get him kicked out. "Sorry, Keerava, let me pay for that—"

"He's good for it," the Argonian reassures him, waving him off, but looks irritatedly down at her shoes. "But he's had more than enough to drink."

"I'll tell you when I've had enough to drink," Dalamus slurs, suddenly getting up from the stool and lurching across the room. He grabs a mug from the table where Sapphire's sitting and drains it in a series of long gulps, slamming the empty cup down on the wood.

Sapphire gets up from her chair, giving the elf a dangerous look. "You shouldn't have done that, friend," she says, hooking her thumb into the belt where her dagger rests against her hip.

Dal steps up close to her, his face almost touching hers, and growls, "You wanna fucking fight me, friend?"

Shit, it's time to get him away from all these people. Marcurio grabs Dalamus' arm, pulling him away from Sapphire with one hand and fishing coins out of the pouch at his side with the other. "Hey—hey, Dal, let's calm down a bit, okay? Sapphire, don't worry about him. Take this for the mead, and we'll get out of your hair."

"Don't tell me what to do," Marc is sure the archer means to snap it, but it comes out a bit too slow to retain its bite, even as he clumsily wrenches his arm from Marcurio's grip.

Sapphire takes the proffered coins and with a nod to the mage and takes Dalamus' seat at the bar. Marc turns to Keerava and nods, effectively taking responsibility for him. "Come on, Dal, let's get you upstairs."

"Whatever."

In the room Marcurio keeps, after a daunting trip up too many stairs for a place serving alcohol, Dalamus sits down on the bed, suddenly feeling dizzy and a little nauseated. He tips to the side, prepared for a descent into the soft layers of warm furs, but instead the side of his face finds itself in Marcurio's hand, which lifts him back upright. "Marcur—"

"What on Nirn is wrong with you?" the mage's voice is sharp, not necessarily angry but demanding an answer to his question. "I did not come here to babysit."

"Get off," Dal grumbles instead, shaking Marcurio's hand from his face and instantly regretting it. He leans forward with a groan, putting his head between his knees in an attempt to stave off the urge to throw up all over the Imperial's room.

Marc sighs, realizing that he won't getting anything out of him in this state. He puts a hand to the back of the Dunmer's head, murmuring a short string of words. Dalamus' head jerks upward, the beginnings of a protest on his lips, but the spell is already glowing gold around Marc's hand, so he just shushes the elf and gets on with it.

Dal lets out another groan as the cloud in his head clears, and while he's happy his stomach has settled, he was drunk for a reason. "I said, get off," he growls, sitting up straight and roughly shoving Marcurio's hands away.

"What the fuck is your problem?" Marc demands, grabbing those shoving hands. "You can't show up here again after all these months and just start threatening people."

"I can and I did."

Marcurio lets him wrench his hands back, giving him a long look. "You're not usually this hostile. What happened?"

"Don't worry about it," Dalamus grumbles, hugging his knees to his chest.

"Does it have to do with Lydia not being here?"

At that, the Dunmer lets out a small, choked noise from the back of his throat and buries his face in his hands. Marc doesn't quite hear the words he mumbles.

"Huh?"

"She's dead," Dal says again, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes. "She's dead because of me, and I left her body there and I was drunk for a reason, asshole!"

That gives the mage pause, and his voice lowers when he offers his condolences. But then his eyes narrow. "You left her there?"

One red eye peeks up at him over navy-grey knuckles, white brow arched incredulously, "Excuse me?"

"You obviously loved her. Your lover died in your service and you left her body down in some dungeon?"

"What? No. She was just a friend."

"That makes it okay?"

"No, that's not what I'm saying. She followed me into that hole because she wanted to; I wouldn't have made her. And that doesn't excuse it either, but I wasn't…" the eye closes, and a deep breath shudders in his chest, "I wasn't strong enough to get her out of there."

"But when were you going to go back for her?" Marcurio asks, crossing his arms across his chest, "You weren't strong enough at first, sure. But how long were you going to going to sit at that bar and drown your sorrows in alcohol? You have to go back for her body."

A panicked look flashes through Dalamus' eyes. "I can't."

"You owe it to her, Dal. Friend or not, she was your housecarl, and her burial is on your shoulders."

"Fine, fine!" he takes in a long, steadying breath, running his hands back through his hair. "But not on my own. I can't go back there by myself."

Marcurio studies him for a bit, watches the Dragonborn retreat into himself when he doesn't answer immediately. "That's fair. We leave in the morning."

"What—" his voice cracks over the word, and he has to clear his throat to go on. "Why so soon?"

"Dalamus. You can't let her rot down there." Marc says it like he's a child, like he's in trouble and he doesn't understand why. He heaves a sigh, nodding slowly as he accepts the responsibility.

"Fine."

…

The sky is bleeding a milky pink when the pair leave the city gates, bags in tow. Marc strokes the nose of Dal's horse as he saddles her up, and turns to leave coin for the stablehand.

"What's her name?"

Dalamus looks at him funny for a second, then continues securing their things on her back. "She doesn't have a name."

"Why not?"

"I had no intention of staying here before I got wrapped up in all this Dragonborn nonsense," the elf grumbles, taking the reins from his companion as they set out north, toward Windhelm. "She was just supposed to get me back across the border to Morrowind."

"That's no excuse." Dal doesn't comment back, so Marcurio goes on, "So, when you're done this 'Dragonborn nonsense', what then?"

"If I'm not dead?" the elf simply shrugs. "I don't know. Probably go back."

"Nothing to keep you here, huh?"

"Not really. But there isn't much to make me go back home, either."

"You could make a life here," Marc says, pensive, "Find a woman, settle down on a farm somewhere. Or not, maybe you're the city type. I don't know."

"I'm not really interested in women," Dalamus lowers his voice as they pass a guard tower.

Marcurio just blinks. "Oh, well. Settle down with a man, then."

"It's always such a pleasant surprise when people act like that's no big deal," Marc looks back and the smile in his voice is also painted across his face, a sweet curve to his lips and a flash of white teeth as he opens his mouth to continue, "I do like that about Skyrim."

"It's not like that in Morrowind?"

Dal barks a laugh. "It is, mostly, but that doesn't matter when you're an only child. My grandparents were beside themselves when I brought my first sweetheart home."

The Imperial just nods, keeping to himself what happened when he brought a man home for the first time. "It's probably a real relief for you, then."

"Yeah, it is," the smile turns a little bitter, eyes darkening sadly. "Lydia laughed at me when I told her. She thought it was weird that I said it so quietly."

Marcurio narrows his gait, moving back to walk beside the Dunmer. "You're doing the right thing, you know."

"I know. And I don't want you to think that I wasn't going back for her; that place is just… a lot," he attempts to hide his shaking hands by shoving them in his pockets. Marc doesn't miss it.

…

It's early evening when Marcurio and Dalamus emerge on the northern side of Wayward Pass, though that's the closest estimation they could make as the sky is an angry, dirty gray that hurls snow in all directions, with winds sharp enough to cut right through the furs on their backs. Dal, having been raised on a farm, is usually loathe to use the Clear Sky shout because of the greater implications all weather has on the farming season…

But the wind at the mouth of the pass is biting, forcing the Dragonborn's eyes to shut against the sharp shards of snow it carries. He grips the Altar of Arkay to his right, taking a deep breath as a rough heat floods down his throat and hooks its claws inside his chest. All he can do is hope Marc's not in the way when he Shouts, "Lok vah koor!" into the blasting wind through the mouth of the pass; it doesn't hurt much, but up here in the mountains, a Shout to the face would ring his head like a bell.

Almost immediately the wind calms, the snowfall trickles down to a gentle dusting, and then both disappear entirely. Dal bangs a fist to his chest and coughs, the space under his ribs feeling cold and hollow after the heat the Shout had held. The deep breath he'd taken leaves him in a huff as he looks up, taking in the sight of the lift down into Alftand.

They make much better time after the storm, especially since the lift isn't far from the pass. Marcurio works the lever to take them down, though Dalamus is the first to exit once they reach the bottom. The body of a Redguard is lying just outside the gate to the lift, and Marc glances back to gauge Dal's reaction, but the Dunmer steps over her without a thought, as well as the Imperial a bit further in, beside a square stairwell.

They pass through the gate at the other end of the chamber, and Marcuio hesitates at the sight before him.

Two Dwarven Centurions lay destroyed at the base of the stairs, though one just seems broken, rendered inoperative by time. The other was clearly fought with tooth and nail; the metal composing its body is scraped and chipped and dented and partially melted. Dalamus, who had stopped a few stairs below him, is clenching his hands repeatedly—open, shut, open, shut—Marc closes the distance, putting a hand on the archer's shoulder.

"I'm right here. You can do this." Dal still doesn't move, and the Imperial can see that his jaw clenches from where he stands. "Nothing's going to happen."

That gets him a little nod, and they begin to move down the stairs. As they near the Centurion Marcurio looks around for Lydia, but her body is nowhere to be found, until Dalamus kneels beside the destroyed automaton.

"A little help?" he says, cracking his knuckles and reaching under the Centurion. Marc moves in beside him, gripping as well, and together they lift it, inch by inch, off of Lydia's body. By the time they've shoved it off completely they're panting, and sweating, arms and shoulders screaming with exertion.

Marcurio is still trying to get his bearings when he hears Dal let out a sob beside him. Lydia's eyes stare blankly at the ceiling, her mouth still open in a gasp of pain. The wound in her middle is enormous, a gaping gash right through her armor. It's still covered in flaking, dried blood, the same color as the huge stain in the stone of the floor.

Dalamus has a hand over his mouth, eyes shining with unshed tears. "I'm so sorry," he whispers through his fingers, and lunges forward, reaching for the body of his friend.

"Stop!" Marc is just quick enough to stop him, grabbing him by the back of his armor and pulling him back. "Don't touch her!"

"Why not?!" the Dunmer demands, yanking himself out of Marcurio's grip.

"You can't touch a body that's been dead for this long, it'll make you sick."

Dal relaxes then, swiping a hand over his face. "How do we get her out, then?"

"Pick her up by her armor. We'll take her to the Sea of Ghosts and give her a true Nord funeral."

Dalamus takes her by the steel near her shoulders, and the mage takes her ankles, and they move back up the stairs toward the lift. Back on the surface they drape her across the archer's horse, protected by one of the furs they'd brought along. With Dal keeping the skies clear and the horse moving at a steady plod, they reach the northern coast in less than two hours.

It's the middle of the night, but the sky is alight with ribbons of turquoise light when they lay Lydia's body out on a floating sheet of ice. Dalamus bends down, setting the small gathering of wood they'd placed around her body alight with his torch, and kicks the ice out away from the shore. They watch the makeshift pyre float out into the sea, encouraged by the current and the winds.

"So what are you going to do now?" Marc asks later that night, when they're seated by the hearth at the Nightgate Inn, "I'm sure there's still more you have to do to save us all from the dragons."

Dalamus just shrugs. "I don't want to go back to that yet. The past few months have been nothing but running back and forth across the country for other people. I'd never been to Skyrim before; it isn't making a good impression."

"Go see it for yourself, then. Take a break. You deserve it."

"I do," the Dunmer says, as if just deciding that for himself. "Do you want to come with me?"

Marcurio appears to consider it, then nods. "I don't see why not. I've been wanting a change of scenery. Let's go see the sights."

…

Dalamus and Marcurio spend a few weeks in the wilderness, traveling across the country at their own pace, either finding safe places to sleep at night or bunking at a conveniently-placed inn. They mainly avoid the major cities, as Dal's fame finds him enough in the dragons they encounter occasionally along the way. No use in going into town only be be given another task by some self-important official. Tonight they're camped on the western bank of Lake Ilinalta, roasting salmon over a fire. Or, at least, Marc is.

"Nope, fish is disgusting," Dalamus grunts, laying back on his bedroll and looking up at the stars. "I should still have some horker jerky left, though. Can you grab it out of my bag?"

Marc goes through the bag, searching for the satchel of dried meat, but his fingers touch something much more interesting. He grips the rough disc, thumb brushing over a smooth stone at the center, and pulls out an Amulet of Mara. "How long have you had this?"

Dal rolls over, looking at what the Imperial is talking about. "Ages. I found it on a bandit in some fort Lydia and I cleared a long time ago."

"Did she tell you what it is?" Marcurio puts it down carefully, continuing his search as he listens for his companion's answer.

"Yes. I never wore it because I didn't have the time to find a lover."

"I've been wearing one for months," the mage murmurs, and finally locates the jerky Dalamus had asked for. "But it's hard to find a new love interest when you're looking at the same people all day, every day."

Dal grins, catching the wrapped bundle Marcurio had thrown to him. "Thank goodness I came along, then, huh?"

"Why, Dalamus, is that a proposal?" the raised brow is evident both in Marc's teasing tone and on his face.

"Sure," the Dunmer shrugs, taking a big bite of jerky. "You've been good to me, and I've enjoyed all this time we've spent together. Besides, don't think I haven't caught you looking at my ass when we go swimming."

"You're the one who insists on swimming naked," he shoots back, laughing as he reaches to turn his fish over.

"I'm serious," Dal says, crawling around to the other side of the fire on his hands and knees. He doesn't stop until he's practically in Marcurio's lap, his nose pressed against the Imperial's, lips a hair's breadth away from each other. "I want to be with you, if you'd have me. Stop me if you want to."

Marc doesn't stop him, and Dalamus kisses him full on the mouth. His body flushes with warmth, like a hot breath coursing over his skin, and his arms immediately wrap around the Dunmer, pulling him closer. Dal's lips are warm and dry, and his mouth tastes like the spices of the jerky. His hand curls around the back of Marcurio's head, fingers threading in the hair there, and attempts a little lick into the mage's mouth. Marc does him one better and goes all in, alternating strokes of his tongue with little nibbles at those warm, dry lips; Dalamus responds in kind with a chuckle that rumbles in his throat.

When they pull apart it's only because Dal's jaw is tired, and Marcurio's stomach is empty. They eat in a companionable silence, and while they still go to sleep on opposite sides of the fire Marc finds himself lying awake for a while, watching the Dunmer sleep. It occurs to him that he never gave Dalamus an answer, but just after that he decides that it doesn't really matter, because he'd be crazy not to say yes.

…

A/N: So what had happened was, I accidentally yol-ed Lydia to death while fighting that Centurion in Alftand on my first Skyrim playthough, and I think reloading from a previous save was too much work, so she stayed dead. Then I went and found Marcurio, and the rest is history.

I'll try to have the new Prelude up next week or so. I REALLY tried to have this up yesterday but I got busy and ended up falling asleep before I could do my last read-through. Somebody fight me if I don't have this next joint up next Monday.

I'll do my best, I promise. xo