Author's note :
Hey guys ! So, first fanfiction in the Skyrim random, resulting from a real in-game event that just broke my heart. There will be two chapters to this fic, first one from Erandur's point of view, then from my Dragonborn's one, Galaadal.
I apologize for any mistakes, English is not my native language. Therefore, I also play Skyrim in French.
Enjoy !
They had done many things together, Erandur thought.
Kneeling before his shrine of Mara in Nightcaller Temple, his old priest robes back on his slender body, he thought about all the time he had spend with her.
Galaadal.
The Dragonborn.
Defeater of Miraak.
Defenser of the Skaals.
Champion of Azura.
Archmage of the College of WInterhold.
Guildmaster of the Thieves Guild.
Listener of the Dark Brotherhood.
Thane of every hold in Skyrim.
And probably a whole lot more titles which had been forgotten.
But most importantly.
His saviour.
His wife.
She had come back to Nightcaller Temple, an amulet of Mara around her neck. She had looked at him with her oh so beautiful iron-blue eyes.
No words needed to be said.
They had been happy.
Galaadal had already adopted two children : Samuel, a boy from Honorhall Orphanage, and Lucia, an oprhaned girl in Whiterun.
They had been happy.
Erandur had often stayed home with the children, awaiting his love's return.
And it had been good this way.
Galaadal had provided him peace.
One day, she had come home with a new housecarl, Valdimar. She had made him her new steward of Windstad Manor.
She had seemed suspicious of him, strangely mistrusting. But she had dismissed those thoughts, aying all those adventures had probably made her panaroiac. She had left her children in his care, and had took Erandur with her.
They had travelled to Solitude, where they had met Belrand. A nice fellow. A sellsword. Galaadal had immediately trusted him, and had hired him.
The three of them had gotten along, and Belrand proved himself as a powerful friend. Galaadal had wanted for them three to go home.
And the nightmare began.
It was stupid, really. Three bandits. Erandur and Belrand had defeated them easily.
But Galaadal had not fought.
She was kneeling in front of what seemed a body.
A little, tiny body.
Erandur came closer.
His eyes widened with horror.
Little Lucia, their daughter, was dead.
Dead.
This word haunted Erandur.
Killed by three bandits.
Erandur just stood there.
He barely felt Belrand moving closer too.
And then, Valdimar came out of the house.
He asked, « What happened ? ».
And that was it.
Only Erandur saw what happened next.
He knew her well.
Flames dancing around her fingers. Two balls appearing in her hands.
She rose.
Here it was.
Her wrath.
Silent.
Deadly.
The second after, Valdimar burnt.
No one could have survived such a fireball.
Erandur watched.
That is what he did best.
Watching.
Observing.
Learning.
She turned in his direction.
Her face distorted. Her blond hair sticking to her forehead and cheeks. Sweat and tears. Her mouth small, lips pressed together. Jaw clenched, strong. Her eyebrows nearly together. Her eyes colder than ever, yet blazing with anger.
Ernadur watched.
Only he saw the immense sadness and pain behind the wrath.
She stepped forward.
Ernadur watched.
Fire was still dancing around her fingers.
Envelopping them.
Protecting her.
Then it struck him.
He should be the one to do it.
Provide these to her.
Comfort.
Protection.
She had given him both.
He briefly wondered about Belrand.
Galaadal stood in front of him.
He felt her breath on his face.
Envelopping him.
« Why don't you say anything ? » she asked.
Her voice was trembling in retained anger.
He said nothing.
He watched.
And he saw.
Her hand rising.
She had forgotten her hand was still swimming in magicka.
It rose.
And she slapped him.
Hard.
A fireball still in her hand.
Erandur fell.
Everything hurt.
And burnt.
« Go away ! »
She yelled.
She never yelled.
Erandur got up.
He could not watch anymore.
Not with so much tears in his eyes.
And so there he was.
Back in this damned temple.
With these damned broken benches.
With this damned, gigantic sculpture of Vaermina.
With this damned, ridiculously little shrine of Mara.
With his damned, damned self.
With his damned, damned thoughts.
WIth eyes that had nothing to watch.
With eyes that could only cry.