He's been dreaming of her eyes again. Not been nearly careful enough; the abomination is starting to become more and more suspicious every time. He can sense it, the trepidation rising behind that horrendous tangle of tentacles. Any perceived rebellious tendencies would mean instantly becoming its target, which is something he absolutely cannot afford.
Check on the Seekers, listen to the acolytes' reports, and keep his senses peeled for any sign of her and her sorceress in the meantime. Just as he's done every day since this madness began.
("But, freedom..." sigh the muscles in his legs, burning with the feeling of running through endless meadows filled with fragrant flowers.)
("Freedom!" screams every single clammy inch of his face, stifled under the weight of his mask.)
Yes, freedom. The most dangerous, the most ruthless of desires, the curse she had unwittingly inflicted on him.
Why has she been brought into this world only to torment him so? Why must she have the green forests of home in her gaze and the softness of freshly-picked roses on her lips?
Oh, he hates. How he hates, with the desperation of one trapped in his own delusions. Sometimes, in his folly, he fantasizes about ripping her to shreds and revelling in it, in being rid of her. But then he remembers himself, remembers how she looked at him, and thinks he need not bother. The end to his suffering is coming, and quickly.
She is resilient, the Dragonborn, the progress she's making towards his lair evident. He's been observing her, sneaking near her camp at night in his spectral form, just to see her stare into the distance, on alert for any intruders, while her mage friend tosses and turns in the small sleeping bag. It's her smile, though, not the sun, that makes the next morning shine so brightly. The expression is so unexpected, such a stark contrast to everything he's seen for so long, that it leaves him reeling the first time. He begins to crave the sight of her.
It's not that surprising, really. After all, how could the First and Last Dragonborn not be linked to one another with the strongest possible bond? She is his counterpart, his only equal. Of that, he has no doubt.
Her name is Clelia Orsino, the acolytes tell him one day.
Clelia Orsino, who carries the burden of a world on her slender shoulders, and whose eyes speak of all things mysterious and untamed.
She is very beautiful, he muses, the way only a mountain can be: proud, unmovable, never defeated, aloof. When she leans, heaving, on her sword after downing a Dovah, stare piercing him straight through while he absorbs his Brother's essence, her beauty could tear his heart asunder.
She has made of him the most devoted of slaves, without even being aware of it.
(He needs to strangle the laughter before it has any chance of escaping him.)
Knowing he would never see his insane dreams become reality, still, he longs to join her in tasting the freedom she's unveiled to him so mercilessly. In the sickly, maddening, writhing cage he's been lingering in for millennia, he feels bone-dry, thoughts of her his only sustenance.
(The Dragonborn—Clelia—gaze full of mirth, not recoiling in contempt at his approach. Him leaning into her, breathing her in, and—oh, glory of glories!—touching her skin, her mouth, any part of her he can reach. His lips on her closed eyelids like a benediction—)
All too suddenly, she's here. She's entered the Temple, two others accompanying her. The agonizing wait for her to at last stand beside him in the flesh is longer than his captivity, an eternity of want.
The fight that ensues goes against every instinct in his body. He almost gives in to the urge to protect her like the miraculous thing she is. Almost. Instead, he keeps away, watching this warrior goddess tear through Seekers with her intricate ebony sword, whirling and parrying as if carried by the winds themselves.
He cannot risk trying to subdue the dragon Sahrotaar, which leads to her being knocked to the ground. He tries to convey his sorrow without words, then feels the mask pressing on his brow, and howls; such depths of rage and revulsion were certainly not meant for the souls of men to experience.
She prevails, of course. How could she not?
And when one of Mora's tentacles lifts him into the air, tendrils of malefic energy starting to chip away at him, he looks only at her.
Wherever his soul should be stranded to, his search for her will never cease. Without her, he is nothing. Surely a bond such as theirs will weather even the universe itself?
He looks into her eyes, and sees the forest.
His last breath is fresh mountain air.
This little thing has been written entirely in one sitting (about two hours' time). But it had been clamouring to get out ever since I finished 'Heart'.
So, there you go: more unstable villains pining after heroines, because my mental version of Skyrim seems to be peppered with such things, for some reason.