Amber Evenings

By, Sonsasu


Held in the cozy warmth of the mead hall, the quiet evening had only the hushed conversation of two to fill it. Faint murmurs, light chuckles, the soft snap and crackle of wood burning; it was a fine night for small company. And what company it was indeed. The Harbinger sitting beside him had a way with words that would shame a silver tongued bard into silence. Or at least, Vilkas believed.

The nord might have sat in contentment through the entire eve and right into the pale hour of morning had his thoughts not gone off and strayed, wandering from their conversation to…a less considered notion.

Oh, how even the best of occasions could suffer a moment of explicit ruin.

Snared in the deceptive comfort of semi privacy in a near empty Jorrvaskr, the evening's downward decent initially began with a rushed kiss. Not the type salacious novels—the Lusty Argonian Maid for example—built them up to be, no, but the type that ushered forth from a hasty, frustrated effort. It was something nerves and the trepidation for rejection created. Something clumsy, quick, and anxiety filled. Something that was supposed to 'test the waters', not seduce, ravage, or compel.

And as abrupt as the kiss was—planted whilst in the middle of a conversation featuring apples coated in a sweet substance and the right balance of mead per meal—it was most apparently unexpected from the recipient's end.

A pinched expression of perplexed disbelief had successfully etched itself across the Harbinger's normally so…calm, ever borderlining-a-scowl, face.

Taking a brief pause to imagine how his fellow companions would never spare a second to believe that their leader had shown outward shock, the mental picture faded and the quiet thump of reality resumed.

Right before his watching silver, the Harbinger's regular scowl was on the return. Suppressing the internal voice calling for the use of caution, the Nord leaned forward once again.

Daring to press his luck.

Hand still resting at the back of the warm, slender neck, fingers threaded through and under a veil of long black hair, his eyes were on the search for some sign, some flicker of actual objection, as he closed the distance between he and the mouth before him. Vilkas was fully planning to set a better example on the line, of course, the mer, on the other hand, was not going to allow it. A hand snaked its way up and seized his chin and jaw, thumb pressing on the stubbled skin and fingers splayed opposite it along his jaw.

The grip was...painfully hard.

The Harbinger pulled away from the paralyzed nord, keeping hold as he shrugged off the hand at his neck and stood up and off the long bench's chair. Straightening to a full height, which would merely put several inches above the seated Nord's own, those tight fingers on his jaw angled his head back. Resuming the infamous, neutral face the companions had come to know their Harbinger to wear, this time with an edge to it, slanted, altmer gold narrowed. Finely arched eyebrows swept down to form a razor sharp frown.

"Do 'not' attempt that again, Vilkas."

The hand let go and off swept the Harbinger, quietly and coldly departing for the stairs leading to the floors below.

Left in the jarring wake of a poor decision's consequences, it was with an indistinct sensation, almost a dull simmering ache, beating beneath his chest that ultimately submerged any hopeful fantasies of future pursuit. Absently rubbing at his chin, conjuring up the remembrance of warm fingers, Vilkas turned back to his half empty mug.

Damn.

His eyes settled on the untouched mead next to his.

Where had he gone wrong?


-A.N-

Sonsasu does not own The Elder Scroll series.