Disclaimer:
I do not own the characters of Skyrim. This is the first in a series of one-shots about my character, Stephen the Breton, and his companion/lover Erik the Slayer. Erik can be found in the Frostfruit Inn in Rorikstead: you are supposed to be able to marry him, but due to a glitch the option never appears. By the time I realized this I was already too attached to start using anyone else. I've taken a few liberties here (the size of Rorikstead for one) but tried to stay true to the game whenever possible. One of Erik's lines to my character is "You lead, I'll follow." Lover's Comfort is a bonus you receive for sleeping in your own house once married.
Lover's Comfort: Living Legends
Stephen leads and Erik follows.
It has been that way since the beginning of their association, the native son of Skyrim dogging the footsteps of the foreigner, but Erik does not mind. He trusts Stephen to know where their next destination is, and Stephen trusts Erik to keep up and watch for danger.
Following also allows Erik to appreciate the fluid grace of Stephen's movements. Under his light armor the Breton is all sinew and wiry muscle. Bretons, Erik knows, all have Elven blood somewhere in their lineage. Stephen does not appreciate comparisons, however. He isn't overly fond of elves. Erik is careful to keep his teasing within what Stephen considers acceptable levels. They have been lovers for some time now, and friends longer than that. Erik believes that it is his duty as both a lover and a friend to cajole Stephen out of the dark moods he is sometimes prone to, when the weight of what he has to do is about to crush him.
They are headed toward Whiterun now, and Stephen thinks they'll reach it by nightfall. Erik is lulled by the distant birdcalls and the crunch of their boots in the frosty grass, but he keeps part of his mind alert for the howls of wolves on the hunt, and the leathery flapping that indicates something far more deadly. He allows the other part to drift where it will, and today as he watches Stephen dart up a hill he remembers how the Breton came into his life.
Rumors that the Dragonborn, the Dovahkiin, is headed to Rorikstead have floated around for days now. Erik is excited by this, his father Mralki more curious than anything else. He has dutifully taught Erik the legend since the boy was old enough to reason, the same as his own father taught him. He wouldn't believe a word of it, except that he has seen the dragons circling in the distance. He cares not whether or not the man in question is actually Dovahkiin: if he's willing to kill off the wretched beasts before they destroy more lives, Mralki wishes him all the best. His son, who loves Rorikstead but is bored to tears by it, can't wait to meet the living legend and thinks it may be the best day of his life.
Erik tries to imagine what Dovahkiin will look like, and he pictures a hulking, grisly man of middle age. His mind's eye covers the hero in gleaming silver armor, straps a giant broadsword to his back. Brown hair rapidly going to gray, a weather-creased face. He would have wise, somewhat distant eyes, and a thousand stories to tell. Erik has cleaned the best room the inn has over and over, piled the softest furs upon the bed. He hopes that the Dovahkiin will not be insulted by what they offer: they are not wealthy men.
He looks up that evening when the door opens, and is disappointed to see only a weary-looking young Breton. He looks about twenty, a few years Erik's junior. He's as blond and fair-skinned as any Nord, but Erik was taller and bulkier at twelve than this man is grown. He wears lethal-looking daggers on his bony hips, and when he moves toward the counter he sways so much it reminds Erik of a candle flame. He speaks for a moment to Mralki, his accent so thick it takes Erik a moment to understand what he's saying. A room, Erik finally is able to make out, some salt, and permission to use the cooking pot dangling over the fire. Coin is exchanged, and the Breton heads for the fire, standing there for a moment enjoying the warmth before throwing some meat and vegetables into the pot. He appears dead on his feet.
"Have a seat, friend, before you fall over." Erik offers, pushing a wooden chair toward the Breton. The boy (it's hard for Erik not to think of him as a boy) accepts it gratefully. He proceeds to peel off some rather ineffective-looking (at least to Erik) armor and leans against the back of the chair, his face tilted upward as he basks in the peace and heat.
"Long travel?" Erik asks. His father shoots him a look that clearly says "Don't bother him" but the boy doesn't seem to mind. He gives Erik a quick smile. "I've come from Whiterun." Erik understands him better this time, but it still takes some effort. How in the world do the Bretons ever communicate with each other, he wonders, when all their words seem to flow together? "Whiterun! By the Nine: why didn't you take a carriage?"
The boy chuckles. "Can't hunt from a carriage. Not easily, anyway."
"Ah, you're a hunter? I am too. My father taught me to use a bow almost before I could toddle."
They continue to speak about hunting techniques and weapons and favorite prey. The boy, who gives his name only as Stephen, devours his simple stew (which appears gray and unappetizing to Erik) and buys some bread and ale off of Erik's father. Erik finally asks "Did you happen to see Dovahkiin? He's supposed to be headed here but we haven't seen him yet."
Stephen shrugs one shoulder, and there is a ghost of a smile on his face. He seems to be taking Erik's measure, and the Nordsman almost blushes as red as his hair. "I'm not sure. What does he look like?"
"I've never met him, but he's a great warrior. He's supposed to be a Breton, like you, but probably a much older."
"Likely then the poor old bugger's already frozen to death. Your inn would see a lot livelier business, my friend, if your customers survived long enough to make it here. I had doubts about myself a time or two." Stephen makes a kind of odd sniffing noise, and Erik gets the feeling he's trying hard not to laugh. It annoys him. "Scoff all you want, Stranger, but he's already rid the world of a four dragons. There have been legends about him since before my great-grandfather's time. I doubt he'd be deterred by a little snow."
"He'd have to be a great warrior indeed to live up to the legends." Stephen agrees. "Maybe he's not what you think: maybe he's simply a man caught up in something a lot larger than he ever intended." The logs in the firepit crackle, and Erik is aware that his father is listening in to their conversation. They are the only people in Frostfruit Inn tonight. In the recent past, this place would have been filled with villagers and the smell of mead around this time of evening, but with the threat of dragons everywhere people are choosing to stay indoors after dark now.
"He came to Skyrim to save us!" Erik is beyond annoyed with this rude little Breton. "It was foretold…"
The Breton shrugs again . "If you say so. Now if you'll excuse me, I paid your father good septims for a bed, and I intend to use it."
But Fate has other ideas tonight, because no sooner have the words left the Breton's mouth than the entire inn trembles and the air is split with a shriek that makes Erik's hair stand on end. A moment later the town's warning bell rings, but Erik and his father are already out the door. He is dimly aware of his father pressing a sword hilt into his hand, but the full scope of his intention is on the giant beast squatting in the middle of town.
He had thought dragons would be hideously ugly things, but this creature is beautiful and that makes it even more frightening, although if pressed he really couldn't say why that was. The monster is already being flanked by the men of Rorikstead. They've wounded it, but these are men used to hunting and fighting off bandit raids, and before Erik's eyes the beast catches Trofur between its fangs and flings him off to the side. There is a cry of grief from one of the women (his wife? His daughter?) but Erik doesn't bother finding out. He starts toward the dragon but his father holds him back with an iron grip. "Guard the women and children. Don't let it get at them!"
He has always been an obedient son, but for the first time in his life he is on the verge of rebelling. His sword is thirsty for dragon blood and he wants a piece of the creature. He hesitates for a second, and that's when he sees a small figure in silver rushing headlong into the fray and for the first time, he sees Stephen fight.
The Breton lacks the size to handle a broadsword, but he doesn't need one. The daggers glitter in the moonlight as he darts forward, slashing at the neck of the beast, and then ducking under the flames and teeth. He looks and fights like a demented wasp, and the huge, lumbering dragon cannot maneuver itself quickly enough to stop him. Twice Erik flinches, believe it almost has the Breton, and twice Stephen rolls to safety at the last second. The dragon lowers his head an attempt to gore him with a giant horn, and Stephen lashes out with both daggers, each one slicing cleanly across an eye. Blinded now, the beast begins to panic and this is the moment the man (Erik can no longer think of him as a boy) has been waiting for. He crosses his arms and the daggers open up the dragon's throat as he pulls them quickly to the sides. The beast tries to roar again, but only manages a weak gurgling cry before it falls to the ground, still.
Erik begins to move forward cautiously, about to ask the Breton if he's injured, when the dragon's body begins to glow. Erik jumps back instinctively, as do the villagers of Rorikstead. Stephen remains however, his eyes never leaving the dragon, and he appears to be waiting for something. His body begins to radiate blue, and he tilts his head back, the same as he had in the inn when appreciating the fire. The glow becomes stronger, and there is a look of both pain and ecstasy on Stephen's face. Then it's gone as quickly as it happened, and the dragon has become a pile of bone.
The muttering around Erik becomes excited, and the crowd moves forward, surging around Stephen. In the distance, Erik sees Trofur miraculously on his feet, being supported by his wife. He looks dazed and his clothing is torn, but he appears to be unharmed. His attention goes back to the Breton, who looks just as shaken as Trofur.
"Dovahkiin! It's true! The legend is true! He's here."
"Dovahkiin killed it! Took the bastard's soul!"
"Dragonborn…"
"Enough!" Mralki shoves everyone aside and takes Stephen firmly by the arm. "Leave him be! You can pester him tomorrow: the lad was about to collapse anyway when he showed up here tonight. Come on, son. Let's get you to bed."
No one argues, and Erik moves quickly to hold open the door of the inn. As Erik's father hustles the Breton past him, Stephen's eyes lock on his for a moment. Erik meets his gaze, and sees…an utterly exhausted young man, singed and battered and totally confused about how he ended up in these circumstances. He sees not Dovahkiin, not the awe-inspiring living legend, but Stephen. And then Stephen breaks his gaze and steps back inside the warmth of the inn.
Erik follows.
They are still a good few hours from Whiterun when Erik spots the dragon in the distance, and brings it to Stephen's attention. They've reached the top of a small knoll, and they pause there, their hands on their weapons. They are ready for battle.
The dragon, it seems, is not. It may be aware of their presence: it probably is, but it has no desire to fight at this time. Instead it swoops and dives in the air, riding the wind currents. The setting sun makes the blue scales glitter like a rich woman's sapphire choker.
"Almost beautiful, isn't it?" Stephen asks softly, never taking his eyes off the creature. "I'd think it was lovely if I didn't hate them so damn much."
Erik makes a sound of agreement, and he wishes he could freeze this moment in time: the colors of the sunset, the peace of the evening, and the dragon that appears to be, against everything he's ever known or seen of the beasts, playing. He can hear Stephen's breathing, and the Breton smells like dust and leather and sweat and the onions they had in their stew earlier that day. Rorikstead and the safety of his father's hearth are far away, but there is nowhere in the world Erik would rather be right now and no one he would rather be with.
The sun sinks lower and the dragon finally grows bored with his (her?) game and flies off into the distance. Stephen shakes himself, and the mood is broken. "Ready to move on?"
Erik nods and rotates his neck, which now as a crick in it from staring upward so long. "It'll be good to sleep in a real bed tonight. Whose idea was it to make the ground so hard, anyway?"
Contrary to the opinion of most who know him, Stephen does have a sense of humor. It's subtle, and he's by nature a quiet man so it doesn't show itself often. Now is not one of those times: he gives Erik a sideways look that clearly states he knows his lover is joking and doesn't think much of the effort. Erik is in no way offended by this: he simply stares back with a look of bland innocence, and finally Stephen's lips curl up in a smile. "Get a move on, Nord, or we'll be spending yet another night on inconsiderately hard soil." He reaches up and runs his thumb briefly across Erik's cheek, the leather rough against his companion's beard. Words do not always come easily to him, but with Erik he doesn't always need them.
The moment passes. Stephen turns and heads off again in the direction of Whiterun after one last glance at the sky to make sure the dragon hasn't doubled back around on them.
Erik follows.