Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia or Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim. I am merely a fan who appreciates the ingenious glory of Hetalia's masterful tomfoolery and Skyrim's beauty.
Warning: Strong Language, Graphic Scenes, Gore and Violence
Tale One Characters:
-England/ Arthur Kirkland
-America/ Alfred F. Jones
~Fealty~
Tale One
"For the cost of my soul"
After so many years every tavern had begun to look the same. The same hardwood floors with worn rugs tossed about them, tattered banners with faded emblems hanging from otherwise barren walls, and hearths too small and ill-placed to provide proper heat to every corner of the establishment. The smell was always the same too: the odor of cheap ale, the spice of unwashed travelers, and the stench of the unkempt stables outside. This far north, however, the same chilled mountain air that bit the lungs also made the unpleasant smells more bearable. Regardless…he still hated the cold.
The mage remained huddled in his cloak and borrowed furs in the far corner of the room, wishing death upon the ghastly bard attempting to recant some exaggerated ballad, as he waited for his companion to return with what he hoped would be a key to their room. It had been two very long days and nights of hard riding that had brought them this far and he was exhausted. It didn't help matters that the horrid disease coursing through his veins made it impossible to control his internal temperature and drastically fluctuated his strength. It frustrated him beyond reason just how unpredictable his power and health had become, usually made worse during the daylight hours when most of the traveling had to be done. The spasms and episodes in sudden lack of muscle control were intolerable, but worse was the constant dehydration water could not cure and fatigue rest could not remedy.
Even now he felt parched and leaden... He clutched the coverings around him tighter as his heart rate began to surge and a wash of hot, then cold came over him. His eyes were closed to block out the light of the fire pit in the distance but somehow he could not escape visions of the flames. He tried turning his head away and resting his forehead against the coolness of the stone wall, but soon the bard's irritating song began to increase in volume and his ears began to ring. The sound only grew louder as he tried to block it out, and soon the screeching white noise felt painful and deafening. Even so he could not ignore the steady beating beneath it all – the constant, rhythmic pulsing of life he could suddenly smell.
The tantalizing scent of existence, a living heart – blood.
"Hey, stay with me now."
Arthur opened his eyes and found himself sweating and breathing fast, with a white-knuckle grip on the bear fur pelt his companion had wrapped around him. He looked up to the tall, well-built young man standing over him and watching him with concern. He was dressed in the mismatched armor of a mercenary, adorned in pieces chosen for functionality over appearance, and armed with a large two-handed sword strapped across his back. His body was well concealed, but without his helmet his lightly bronzed Imperial skin, golden Nordic hair and shining sky-blue eyes were easy to see. His face was striking, but it wasn't his handsome features or baritone voice that captured the majority of Arthur's attention…
"Your muttish odor is more pronounced than ever."
The mercenary frowned, but otherwise took the comment in stride and offered his hand to help the other up. "Do forgive me, my lord. I shall try to only offend you on purpose next time."
The mage snorted and allowed the half-blood to help him stand. He swayed a bit in his state but soon recomposed himself, and kept on the layers covering him as the man led him up the stairs to the room he had rented for the evening. The small apartment was sparse with only a single bed, writing desk and small chest that doubled as a bedside table. It was utterly unimpressive and smelled as unpleasant as the downstairs common room…but Arthur was so exhausted he had stopped caring.
The half-blood helped his stricken companion to a seat upon the bed before going to the room's only window, checking the outside before setting the lock and pulling the curtains. Arthur was used to the mercenary's habits and allowed him to sweep the rest of the room in peace. The mage was far too tired to bother with him anyway and just longed for the candles to be doused so he could sleep.
"It's getting worse, isn't it?"
Arthur tried to ignore the traces of anxiety in the man's voice and remained tucked within his warm cocoon. "Your smell or the quality of inns you choose for us? In either case I am inclined to say yes."
"Arthur, you know what I mean," the blond returned, bristling. "We should still have another day to fix this, but your eyes have already started to turn red and I can't…"
The room fell silent and for once it didn't herald the sensory acuteness that was slowly driving the mage mad. For that moment it was quiet and he was still himself, as mortal and alive as he had always been… Still so tired…
"We're running out of time."
Arthur had been drifting off when his cohort interjected, and he scowled as he pulled the furs tighter around his frame. "If you're going to deprive me of rest, then do so with something more inspiring."
"Stuff it Arthur, this isn't a joke," the mercenary snapped and continued pacing as he unstrapped his sword and more cumbersome pieces of armor. "If I had my way we'd still be en route to Morthal and be there well before the next nightfall."
"Yes, and we'd arrive frostbitten, near death and short two already half-dead horses," the mage retorted, growing rather irritated with this frivolous argument.
"At least you'd still be alive enough to cure!"
The mage waited as the mercenary vented his anxiety. Arthur took the insults and illogical shouting in understanding for what they really were…the man was worried about him.
But then again Alfred was always worried about him.
The mercenary was a half-Nord, half-Imperial bastard; the product of a violent encounter in the earliest years of the unrest that later swept Skyrim into civil war. Alfred had the fair-colored features and build of his Nordic father, now a sworn member of Ulfric's faction of rebels, while his Imperial-born mother's gifts to him were found in his sun-kissed skin and cursed blood. Alfred's mother was a member of the Companions, and her black magic malady had become her son's reality from the moment he was conceived.
The world had always hated Alfred for his roots, as he would never fully belong to either of his parents' worlds or the common one. His mother, once a proud warrior, was so shamed by her rape and subsequent bastard that she exiled herself and her son away from the societies that would shun her. The move shadowed Alfred's beginning in darkness, but spared him the wrath of the Silver Hand that constantly hunted his and his mother's kind.
Now an adult, Alfred had learned to hide his origins and his curse to function in the world as an outcast – making a living as a mercenary, with the freedom to choose his jobs and those he served as he pleased.
For the past year, that choice had been to serve and protect the Dragonborn, to whom he felt he owed his life.
Arthur had taken to lying down some time ago, and finally Alfred seemed to have calmed enough to cease shouting and notice. The mage had begun drifting again when he felt the bed dip behind him and a muscular pair of arms wrap around his body. He was drained and Alfred's embrace had become something familiar and comfortable over the past few months, so he relaxed back into the other as Alfred's head came to rest on his shoulder.
"You will drive me mad someday," Alfred whispered, pressing his lips against the mage's cheek.
"Only because you'll let me," Arthur replied, his eyes still closed and body preparing for sleep.
Arthur too had inhuman blood, but of a colder variety. The mage's Breton blood flowed red, but thick with dragon essence. Arthur's tongue was endowed with the language of his Dova soul and his breath transformed the very air into power. Since escaping the chopping block in Helgen years ago, he had dedicated his days to learning how to harness the power within him, power even grander than the natural spark of magic he'd been cultivating since childhood. His status as Dragonborn had paved his way into the hallowed halls of the College of Winterhold, where lowborn wretches like him had never been welcome. He had become one of the greatest students to ever adorn the robes of a magic user, and still those of his order looked down on him behind his back. Like Alfred, he would never be of one world or another. He straddled the lines of his class and his destiny, all while adding the stigma of magic user to his reputation.
People only sought him out to use him, never otherwise. He had accepted this fate long ago and had decided to live his life without the burden of others…that was, until Alfred came into his world.
To this day he still did not know what possessed him to stop along that mountain path, littered with the aftermath of a dragon attack. The remains of the caravan heading to Riften were a grisly sight, as those who had not been eaten had been dismembered and cast about like broken dolls. The attack must have happened nearly a day before, but there was still one soul clinging to life among the carnage. Naked but for the blood covering him head to toe, Arthur found the man battered and fighting for breath. The kinder thing might have been to end his suffering and move on, but something about the man's determination to live invoked a kind of curiosity in him…and he wondered what was worth so much pain to go on living. He treated the man in the field as he could and completed his journey to Riften, where he nursed the fallen warrior back to health.
He'd been stuck with him ever since.
Alfred proved to be the most interesting and infuriating nuisance Arthur had ever dealt with. The man followed him around like an exuberant puppy for a good month before Arthur just accepted that short of another dragon devouring the man whole, he'd never be rid of the pest. Even so he had to admit that the man had his uses; he was as good in a fight as he was charismatic with people. When people were oblivious of his background, they were absolutely enthralled by his silver tongue and handsome looks. Charming was a good word to describe him, certainly a word that had never described the reclusive mage but a feature of Alfred's he had begun to see as advantageous when dealing with uncooperative or hostile locals. Alfred was more than willing to let him use his gifts too, since he was under some misguided moral code that he owed Arthur his life and pledged to aid him until he felt his debt had been repaid.
Truth be told, the debt had been repaid a thousand fold and Alfred could have soundly left at any point. The mercenary had saved his life so many times already, and was now on a quest to do it again.
Arthur startled awake when he felt something warm and wet sliding against his neck, making him instinctively kick the body behind him.
Alfred grunted at the blow and quickly tightened his hold on the mage. "Hey, stop!"
"What the bloody hell – did you just lick me?" Arthur demanded, finding the energy to yell on the heels of his adrenaline rush.
Alfred's expression soured, making him look sheepish and guilty all at once in his attempt not to be. "Your wound was bleeding again. I was trying to clean it."
Arthur's face flushed and he quickly shouldered more of the furs to cover his neck, as he fixedly glared anywhere but at Alfred. "Let it bleed, just give me peace."
Alfred just sighed as he always did and resumed his position against his companion. He vigilantly continued his job of keeping Arthur warm and safe, letting the mage sleep as he remained awake and alert for anything that might pose a danger to them.
Or in case Arthur changed early…
"ARTHUR, BEHIND YOU!"
It came down from the sky like a falling mountain, slamming into the earth and ripping apart its frozen skin upon impact. The serpentine neck reared back, flames crackling along the rim of razor-lined jaws before the wicked maul gaped wide and snapped forward – unleashing hell in a jet stream of oily fire.
The mage fell upon the ground while hastily casting a ward spell, feeling the inferno racing over him and melting the surrounding snow even as he spared himself the brunt of the monster's breath. He held his enchantment and endured until the beast had to cease its assault to inhale, but instead of another attack, Arthur heard the sound of steel clashing against the creature's scaly body.
He opened his eyes and found his mercenary shoving his blade deep into the crags between the metallic plates covering the dragon. It roared and shrieked with rage, thrashing around before swiping a massive claw at Alfred's torso and sending him flying into a nearby boulder. Arthur watched and felt his heart leap into his throat, and suddenly his bow was in hand and an arrow flew straight into the lava-colored eye leering at the downed warrior.
Boiling black blood exploded from the wound, pouring down the brute's face and dissolving everything it touched. The ear-shattering cries splitting the air echoed off the mountainside, shaking the ground and the snow. Arthur had let loose several more arrows, each striking true before the mountain's roar drowned out everything else. He looked from his target to the summit and his eyes widened in horror.
The avalanche barreled towards them and took the dragon first, devouring the beast in white before coming after him. All at once time suddenly slammed into him and the frozen terror he'd been trapped in was snapped by the thick, grizzly arm grabbing him. He barely managed to keep his hold on the bow, as the beast that had snatched him moved quickly over the ground, nearly taking to the air as though it had wings.
He clung tighter to his savior when the beast jumped, sending them far away from the sea of white below, as the sound of claws screeching against the rocks became nearly as intolerable as the raging flood. Arthur just kept hanging onto his protector and slowly he felt himself being pulled upward into the safety of a cave. The mage let out a shuddered breath of relief when he was finally lowered and his feet touched something solid again.
He took some deep breaths in an effort to calm himself, listening to the sounds outside begin to fade before finding his voice. "That was close…"
His companion didn't respond beyond a canine-like snort, as he moved to the mouth of the cave to survey the aftermath and what might have been their graves.
Arthur took a moment to observe his friend in turn. He was so much taller and larger in this state, with arms longer than his torso and thick legs bent and twisted to accommodate the powerful muscles coiled beneath the leathery skin. His body was covered in a dense coat of dark fur – closer to a deep amber color with flecks of honey, than the sunshine blond the mage was accustomed to. A large bushy tail flowed out from his backside and swished over the cavern floor in agitation, giving Arthur only glimpses of the massive taloned paws keeping the impressive form anchored. When the beast finally turned around, Arthur beheld the great wolfish face surrounded by a thick mane that flowed down from his pointed ears to his humanoid chest. His companion still stood and walked like a human, but there was little semblance of human left in his appearance…
Except for his eyes. Even in their glowing yellow state, Arthur still saw Alfred in those eyes.
Alfred paused when he realized Arthur was staring at him and the mage watched the all too familiar wash of self-consciousness come over the other. Alfred never liked taking his lycan form, even in front of Arthur, who knew what he was. He turned his head away to keep from making eye contact, and Arthur knew he had unintentionally reminded Alfred of just how altered he had become.
It was a pretty thankless thing to do after the man had just saved his life.
"That dragon hit you pretty hard. Are you hurt?"
Alfred still wouldn't look at him, but he pinned his ears back and shook his head. The man couldn't use his human tongue in this form, but Arthur was already plenty educated in how to read the other's body language. Alfred was pretty expressive as a human too.
"Will you need to feed?" he asked, hoping Alfred wouldn't be too sensitive about it, as werewolves usually had to feed after changing. It took a lot of energy, after all.
Alfred just sighed, the noise sounding so strange coming from a wolf's mouth, as he shook his head again and looked back at the mage with a weary expression. Even though it was the fastest way to replenish strength and sate the cravings of his inner predator, Alfred often restrained himself from partaking in the need to hunt and feed. They had been traveling together for a year and Arthur had only seen Alfred give into his instincts less than a handful of times; even so, the werewolf still refused to let him watch the actual act of him killing and eating prey.
Alfred liked to pretend he was as human as possible, more so because he truly wanted to be human than the fact that many people hunted his kind, especially the Silver Hand. The elusive organization wouldn't hesitate to pull silver-tipped weapons and try to exterminate him.
Eventually Alfred approached him, giving him wide berth before sitting down on his haunches against the wall. The mage watched as his great jaws opened in a loud yawn and he lay down on the floor, extending his long limbs and looking like a giant dog stretching before an afternoon nap.
Alfred would be stuck in this form for a while, but Arthur didn't mind. This was just another part of Alfred, one he still harbored a decent amount of wariness over but still accepted as his friend. Alfred really was the only person in Skyrim he even remotely considered to be his friend...
"You look utterly ridiculous like that, you know," he commented, watching Alfred curl into a ball and give him a deadpanned look. "You're supposed to be a giant monster, not an oversized, pointed-eared house dog."
Alfred rolled his eyes and flicked his large ears for emphasis, before curling up even tighter and hiding his face behind his bushy tail. He was feigning sleep, something he probably needed since he wasn't going to hunt to replenish himself…but the ruse failed when he uncovered his eyes just enough to watch Arthur's expression. The mage found it to be annoying, yet childishly amusing; and judging by Alfred's grin, it showed.
"I'm going to see about gathering anything to use as tinder," he began, turning to venture deeper into the cavern. "I will return shortly."
The sound of Alfred's claws scraping across the ground was loud, and Arthur quickly turned, pointing an authoritative finger at the werewolf and snapped, "Stop!"
Alfred froze halfway between his bowed position and standing, watching Arthur with a surprised look on his face, as the mage suddenly pointed at the ground. "Sit."
If ever a wolf could frown, Alfred would be the prime example of the expression. Looking both incredulous and miffed, Alfred gave a low growl as his rear slowly lowered back to the floor.
It just made Arthur smirk. "Good boy, now stay put so I don't have to worry about you using up whatever energy you have left and passing out," he said, ignoring the loud protesting snap of Alfred's jaws, as he cast his mage's light and continued down the tunnel. "As I said, I will return shortly."
Arthur knew Alfred wasn't pleased with him wondering off on his own. But Arthur had escaped execution, multiple near-death situations and traversed a great deal of Skyrim on his own before meeting Alfred. The Breton knew he was mortal, but he wasn't so easy to kill. He was the Dragonborn and a high mage schooled at the famed College of Winterhold. He was loosely allied with the Imperial Legion and under the political protection of many jarls, all of them using his influence as the Dragonborn as he used theirs to gain safe passage where he otherwise wasn't welcome.
He was smart, powerful and wise to the game of politics; and though he was young by the standards of his kind, he had lived more than forty human years – nearly twice that of his constantly worrying companion. The half-blood's relentless need to protect him was flattering, but smothering at times. He trusted Alfred, more so than he trusted any other being alive, but the man needed to remember that he was just as mortal as he was; he needed someone watching out for him at times too.
Normally Arthur wouldn't have cared, but Alfred had irritatingly grown on him, so much so that the two had recently crossed the line of sharing a bed beyond a necessary manner. It had only happened twice, but Arthur found himself rather content with their strange relationship now. They were lovers, and yet they never said the words; they were inseparable, but neither of them would point it out. Arthur found himself actually caring about Alfred's wellbeing beyond the mechanics of their alliance, and had even found that he had become less and less indifferent to the man's affections. He defended Alfred when bigoted cur mentioned his heritage, and had more than once killed a member of the Silver Hand for pursuing the half-blood. He was much less obvious about his actions to protect his companion than the reverse, but he did care…and admitting it was causing him less distress as time went on.
A cold droplet of water falling from the ceiling broke his train of thought, and Arthur blinked away the wetness before raising his hand to illuminate the shadows above him. The mage's light glowed and reflected off the crystalline surfaces of massive icicles covering the roof of the cave. There was natural moonlight pouring in from a gateway sized opening just up ahead, and Arthur felt the chill of the mountain winds filtering in from it.
He approached it curiously, looking up at the sky and feeling fresh snow lazily drifting down on the current. The snap of something further down the path pulled him back to his surroundings and he quickly cast the light into the distant dark. The shadowy outline of a person appeared, and Arthur narrowed his eyes as he slowly backed out of the moonlight.
He tried to remain quiet as he slowly drew the short sword on his belt. "State your name and purpose," he called out, still carefully backing away.
He didn't think anything dwelling in these tunnels did so for innocent reasons.
Another sound issued behind him, and Arthur whirled to find another dark-clad being standing less than an arm's length from him. He didn't hesitate and drove his sword forward into the figure's body, and the inhuman shriek that followed sent his alarm spiking.
There was no time to react when a freezing cold hand wrapped around his neck from behind and grabbed his throat, hyperextending his neck to the side before sharp, twin jolts of pain sunk into his flesh. The shock and sudden alien warmth spreading from his neck throughout his body paralyzed him, and his throat seized, making sound impossible. The arm around him tightened and so did another wrapping around his torso, pulling him closer to the terribly cold body behind him, as the powerful jaws clamped harder onto his skin.
Inside he was screaming. The initial warmth had faded and now only pain was left. The being behind him began sucking against the wound and immediately Arthur started to feel lightheaded and sick. His body began shaking and suddenly there was another sharp pair of fangs sinking into his wrist. His muscles spasmed and he dropped his sword, the sound of it clanging against the stone never registering as he began feeling weaker. His vision began to fade and all he saw was a massive clawed hand reaching out to him before everything fell to darkness.
He only came to once and wasn't sure how long he'd been gone, but Alfred was standing over him and covered in blood, staring with grief-stricken, glowing yellow eyes. It might have scared him once…but he was so tired now…and the world blissfully fell to darkness again.
The smell of blood was everywhere – warm, wet and metallic. It filled his mouth and he was forced to wake and expel it, his abdomen and chest heaving as his life flooded from him. Hands were grabbing him and trying to hold him steady, but nothing could stop his body from convulsing as he spent what little of his mortal blood remained. He couldn't breathe, even while Alfred kept him upright with his head hung over the side of the bed.
Alfred was panicking, speaking loudly and quickly, but it all just sounded like white noise to him. All Arthur could hear was his own heart pounding in his head before it began slowing to a frightening pace. He felt a terrible pressure building up inside of him, causing him to vomit again to find relief and soon he could hear nothing but the static and his shuddered breaths…
Then it stopped. Everything stopped and Arthur could hear a heartbeat again…but it wasn't his own, and he began to turn towards the source of the sound.
Alfred was staring at him with wide eyes filled with dismay. The man's mouth was moving but all Arthur could hear was his frantic heartbeat…and admire how pronounced the throbbing pulse on the side of his neck had become…
It all happened too fast for his mind to register anything but the taste of blood filling his mouth again. His parched throat had finally found relief and he greedily indulged in the cure. He pulled more and more of the sweet panacea from the warm chalice blessing him with the gift of life, and soon he felt his strength returning to every dying cell in his body. His fingers were tightly wrapped around the golden threads of his sacrifice and he began to pull harder, wanting to fuse this gloriously warm and living body with his own –
The blow to the side of his chest felt like the crushing kick of a horse, and suddenly he collided with floor on his back, unable to breathe. He couldn't draw any air or oust the blood sliding from his mouth down his throat, causing him to choke. His hands clenched and flexed, nails barely scraping over the wooden planks beneath him as he suffocated and writhed.
The world became eclipsed again, but this time he remained awake and aware of what was happening – and for once he could admit just how scared he was.
The side of Alfred's neck was shredded and bleeding profusely, even as the mercenary tried to hold the wound while tending to the man who'd bit him. Arthur weakly managed a cough to try and dislodge the now disgusting lifeblood he'd stolen, but he still couldn't get his lungs to cooperate. Alfred looked torn, wanting to aid his companion by sitting him up so he could breathe but afraid to hold him close again for fear of what might happen. Arthur didn't blame him, and the more he looked at his throat the more revulsion he felt over what he had done.
"We're leaving, tonight," Alfred managed, fighting his own pain and shaking as he finally threw caution away to pick up the mage. "I'm not…giving up on you yet."
His eyes were so sensitive to the light now and the constant ringing in his ears was giving him a headache. The mage was rubbing his eyes to try and massage away some of the throbbing pressure when Alfred's tantrum ruined any efforts at finding relief.
"Three days? Three days! This man wants us to murder someone and bring back a human soul in three days, or – "
"Try not to announce it so flamboyantly, I'd like to avoid making more of a scene," Arthur interrupted apathetically, still sitting on the steps leading down from the tavern where they had finally found the old man, Falion, they had been told could cure his malady. Unfortunately, it was a rather morbid and assembly-required type of job.
"Arthur, we don't have to do this, we'll find another way."
The mage finally cracked and lowered his hand to glare up at the hovering mercenary. "Unless you're offering your curse instead, then you know this is the only way. So which is it?"
Alfred sucked in a breath and tensed. Arthur knew his answer even without the man's mortified expression or his words. Alfred would never inflict his curse upon anyone, especially not him.
"You know I wouldn't do that."
"Then fall in line or stand aside. I'm not pleased with our options either, but the alternatives are far worse. If we can we will try to find some bandit or even a member of the Silver Hand to trap, but we have to be realistic about our time…it already took a day to get here," he retorted, though he began trailing off towards the end. "Our three days are down to two…"
The memory of the struggle in getting out of the mountains was still so fresh. Arthur had been unconscious for most of it, but Alfred had been frantically trying to keep the mage's bleeding under control, as he searched for the nearest human aid around. He had remained in his beastly form to utilize its strength and speed, but it made approaching the town all the more difficult, as no place on Skyrim would readily welcome a werewolf into city limits. Since werewolves always changed back naked, the sight of a nude half-blood carrying a wounded, unresponsive mage hadn't been too much better, but at least no one had tried to outright kill him.
Arthur hadn't come to until closer to nightfall, and all he could feel was terrible burning pain in his neck and wrist. A cleric, who served as the local physician, had tended to him and gravely diagnosed his condition as Sanguinare Vampiris…and no, he didn't have a cure.
But he did have a lead: Falion of Morthal.
It hadn't been much, but Alfred (after obtaining some new clothes) had wasted no time in purchasing two horses and finding someone to point him in the fastest direction of Morthal. Arthur hadn't fared well in the saddle, fighting constant bouts of fatigue and sickness, but Alfred had managed to push him through and get them to their destination by the following morning. Once there, finding the man called Falion hadn't been hard but Alfred had practically yanked the old man from his bed and demanded a cure before introducing himself.
It didn't matter, though…there was nothing the old man could immediately do to alleviate Arthur's suffering. Learning that there was no magical potion or simple exorcism had been tough to swallow, but worse had been hearing of the actual cure: a trapped human soul within an enchanted black gem.
Falion had given them the gem, but now they would have to trap that soul themselves.
"Whiterun is the closest city; chances are that if we don't find someone along the way then we can find someone in the city who won't be missed."
Alfred looked sick to his stomach. His face was drenched with sweat and his expression looked pained. Alfred was a mercenary and a werewolf so it wasn't as if he hadn't taken a life before, but dealing in stealing another's soul cut into him deeply. Arthur knew it would hurt because of Alfred's belief in the sanctity of souls…but more than that he knew Alfred blamed himself for the attack that left him like this. It didn't matter that the notion was utterly ridiculous and Arthur took responsibility for his own actions, Alfred's personal guilt was solidified and it made him determined to right his wrong.
Even if this is what it took…
"Whiterun is the home of my mother's people…we'll have to be careful to avoid them. They won't take kindly to us murdering a citizen in their territory, and they'll be even less thrilled that I'm there," Alfred said, having finally accepted the inevitable but unable to meet his companion's eyes.
The mage watched Alfred's thoughts and fears play over his face and felt his own guilt begin to rise. He swallowed again, fighting a losing battle with the dryness of his throat, and also looked away.
"No matter what…this will all be over soon." It was all he could manage, because all other words of comfort failed him.
The horse racing over the frosted ground was a stolen mare from the inn's stables. Alfred hadn't thought twice about saddling the fresh horse and leaving their original two behind as compensation. The mercenary was pushing the horse hard, keeping it galloping at top speed, as he kept one arm wrapped tightly around the mage pressed against his chest.
Arthur was seated in front of him, voluntarily bound and gagged with thick strips of leather to keep him from attacking again if he lost control. Having harmed Alfred had been an unspeakable last straw for the mage, and he forced his companion to take extreme measures before he'd agree to ride so closely to him on the long journey. The bindings were tight and cut into him, making him extremely uncomfortable, and the strip in his mouth tasted terrible, further drying out his already parched throat; but the feeling of enlarged canines scrapping against the leather kept him from complaining.
He was changing even faster after having fed on Alfred and the urge to finish what he'd unintentionally begun was so painfully strong. He fought it, spending most of his energy trying to focus his mind on something other than the two heartbeats pounding in his head, the smell of fresh blood from Alfred and the horse, and the feel of Alfred's life thumping so rapidly against his back.
He was becoming hungrier having tasted the forbidden fruit and needed more. His eyes had turned completely red and his vision kept changing from a world of color to a monochrome place that pulsed with the life forces of potential prey. The sudden changes were making his head spin, and more than once he became so nauseated that he had to bend over Alfred's arm to dry heave. The mercenary never once stopped, not even when Arthur would begin making animalistic sounds of fury and tried snapping at him through the gag. When Alfred was forced to slow the horse over more treacherous terrain or to give it some rest, the smells became far worse for Arthur and his starvation made him savage. Even so Alfred remained stoic, only tightening his hold on the mage when he began to thrash and fight, and eventually Arthur would tire and return to an exhausted state.
Closer to nightfall Arthur became even more relaxed and soon unresponsive. The change made Alfred even more concerned as he finally rode into the clearing just north of Morthal where Falion had promised to meet them.
With the last night of the third day drawing to a close, Alfred wasted no time in taking Arthur into his arms and quickly dismounting the travel-worn horse, racing for the circle of stones ahead. True to his word the old man was there, and Alfred hastily fumbled for the accursed gem in his satchel before handing it over.
Falion studied the pulsing, raven gem closely, seemingly impressed and entranced by the glowing soul within. Alfred felt sick every time he looked at it and urged the man to hurry – they didn't have time for the scholar's curiosity to get the best of him when midnight was soon to pass.
The old man instructed him to leave Arthur bound in the center of the circle then step back. The mercenary did so quickly but aversely, and stood beside Falion as he began his incantations.
Alfred felt a chill race up his spine as the area surrounding the enchanted circle began to trill with the charge of magic. Falion's words seemed to amplify as the power in the air began to increase. As Falion lifted the gem in his hands, Alfred felt his heart sink and had to turn away.
His mother and her people would never forgive him for what he had done. He would never be able to face her or the Companions again without suffering the gravest of consequences for his crime. He closed his eyes and tried not to think about the soul being sacrificed to save his dearest companion…and like Arthur, whom he could hear gasping for breath behind him, he just waited for it to be over.
The dawn spilling in through the open windows cut straight through his eyelids and into his brain. It triggered a sharp, throbbing headache almost immediately and forced him to roll away from the offensive light and closer to the warm body next to him.
The smell of unwashed male with undertones of wet dog roused him unpleasantly, and he opened his eyes to find the bare chest of a man filling his vision. His brows furrowed…and suddenly it became very important to try and remember what had happened last night.
"Please say this isn't what it looks like."
Alfred startled awake at the sound of Arthur's voice, and when he looked down to find green eyes turning up towards him he sighed in relief. He wanted to wrap his arms around the mage and tell him how grateful he was that the man was mortal again but stopped himself, knowing it would only fluster the Bretonnian. He inhaled deeply and settled for lazily draping his arm across the other's hip. "It can if you want it to be."
Arthur scoffed, but was too drained to remove Alfred's arm and just closed his eyes again as he settled back into the pillow. "My head hurts…"
"The old man said it would. You're anemic, dehydrated…and have technically only been alive for a few hours now," Alfred replied, trying not to remember last night as he also tried not to pull Arthur closer to him in the present. "You'll feel better once you've gotten some sustenance into you."
Arthur didn't say anything as he tried to remember…but everything after escaping the stables in Whiterun was a blur. Still, his body seemed to remember and he could feel the soreness and exhaustion in every fiber of his being – even his soul felt drained. He doubted he could rise from the bed, let alone cast even a rudimentary spell. He opened his eyes and looked back up at Alfred then, his gaze falling on the hastily applied bandages on his neck…
He remembered the thick taste of Alfred's blood in his mouth, and his tongue throbbed at the memory of his pulse. The shame and revulsion for what he had done returned as well, and he bowed his neck to rest his forehead against Alfred's chest.
Alfred, who had been drifting back to sleep, opened his eyes and looked down at his companion curiously; then felt Arthur's arm come around him in as much of an embrace as the mage could manage. "Thank you…"
The mercenary paused for a long time. He wasn't trying to give Arthur a chance to tell him exactly what he was thankful for, he was just trying to absorb the fact that Arthur had said 'thank you' for anything. In the year they had been traveling together, Alfred couldn't recall a single time Arthur had ever sincerely thanked him…
He couldn't say that it wasn't bittersweet, but he couldn't regret what it took to save the mage because he was just so grateful to have him whole again.
The blond warrior leaned down and pressed his lips against Arthur's hair, finally allowing himself to wrap his arms around the other and hold him. He smiled and felt a twinge of happiness when Arthur didn't reject it, and decided to savor the moment just a little bit longer before giving Arthur the chance to regain his dignity.
"Does this mean I'll be getting more sex now?"
"When my strength returns, I'm neutering you."
Alfred just smirked. "Glad to have you back too, Arthur."
~Fin~
Notes from the Author:
Hello again all, and thank you for reading! This is a project the lovely Pie and I have been working on for a bit now and wanted to finally let loose on the world. For the record I have never played Skyrim or any of the other Elder Scrolls games, but an introduction to the magnificence of the world, the music and the art was incredibly inspiring. This tale was a challenge at the request of Pie and together we have built an AU APH headcanon within this fascinating world. :) It is our sincerest hope that this marriage of the two worlds was successful and you all enjoy it. We will release more stories in this collection in time, and the rating will go up accordingly as the material gets bolder (yes there will be yaoi-romance, yes there will be battles, and no we will not be skirting on the bloodier details). Thank you again for taking the time to read this fic and we hope to have more posted soon!
Sincerely,
General Kitty Girl
Pie
