This was one of the prompts for Fandom February. I had meant to do the others, but as my friend bestowed upon me Dragon Age, I soon became enraptured and lost my inspiration to finish out the month with my Onmund/Dovakhiin fics. But I know there has to be some Onmund fans out there, so I hope you enjoy this fanfic.

The Dovakhiin is left nameless so that you can pretend she's yours. For the most part. My portrayal of the Dovakhiin tends to have magical preferences.

Disclaimer: I do not own the Elder Scrolls series.

Breezehome was where she kept all of the lonely memories. Every weapon and scrap of armor from battles she fought in the middle of the dark with no one at her back except her shadow, from cautious explorations with her two hands to defend and attack, from nights around a fire with eyes on the endless forest of dangers and her mind seeking company with the echo of her thoughts. Leather that would one day become strips for the hilt of a dagger, for the strap of a helmet, all stored in a chest. Extra potions in case something came her way she couldn't handle on pure luck and skill.

Looking at it brought all the memories back. It was kept nice by Lydia, with a fire always lit. She didn't confine the Housecarl there, but she insisted that she lived there since the Dovakhiin rarely did. And yet, when she returned to meet the Housecarl and to restock on supplies, she felt a pang of loneliness anyways, because the light shining on a sword reminded her of the way the moon had done the same on a night she had almost died with no one but the cave bear for company. Lydia could not breathe that sense of companionship and belonging into the house, and the Dragonborn couldn't stay there enough to call it 'home'.

So when she married Onmund and he asked her where she wanted to live, she had no answer. Breezehome was the only place she owned, and she didn't want to stay at the College where a married couple could only find privacy in the chambers of a dead man, the Archmage now lost to them.

It's technically my room. But so was Breezehome, and neither meant anything good to her.

"Ah… I…"

Onmund smiled and brought her close to kiss her forehead. "No pressure, Love. I'll be back at-"

"Don't say College."

He froze, glancing down at her in confusion. The priest of Mara cleared his throat and was quick to usher out the people that had come to celebrate the marriage. Two minutes into married life and he feared the two were already about to fight.

"Why not?"

"Because…" She groaned and threw her head back to stare at the ceiling, thinking it over. "I just… it isn't ours."

"We're both students there. Well, I guess you're Archmage now, aren't you?"

"Yes, but… I…" Slowly she turned back to face him, desperately trying to figure out how to convey what she was thinking. "That room could never be mine, let alone ours. And it most certainly can't be home. And Breezehome… I love Whiterun, really, except… that home is full of all the bad things of before… before I met you."

"Lonely?" Onmund suddenly guessed, cocking his head to the side and praying to the nine that it wasn't presumptuous of him to assume her life had been lonely before him.

The Dragonborn smiled bitterly and twisted the ring fresh on her finger with Mara's blessing. "Yes…" she admitted softly. "And it's too late for me to start staying there now in hopes of living there anyway. I… I want something new."

He knew that look, that look that involved the intensity of the sun flashing in her eyes, that look that always came with sudden movement. Sometimes the sudden movement of her hands as she summoned a spell to finish off an opponent, though in this case it was the sudden setting of her jaw. Determination at its finest, at least as far as the Dovakhiin was concerned.

"Hey, wherever you want us to go," he started as he clapped a hand over her shoulder, "I've got your back."

She stared at him a long time, deciphering what that comment meant. "Are you serious?"

"Wha- Of course."

"Really?" she asked, fighting a smile. "Because that's what you used to say to me when you were nervous in a dungeon. I've got your back," she offered in a poor imitation of his voice, too low and too gruff and too insensitive to possibly be his. Onmund started to retaliate, but she had already brushed his hand off of her shoulder and was instead tugging him towards her by the braids, pressing her lips to his. "And we're more than comrades now. Any time you want to remind me of what we are to each other, I expect more than this whole shoulder-clapping business. You know that… don't you?" Her hands caressed his neck, traveling down his chest.

He coughed loudly to remind her of where exactly they were, still in Mara's domain. "If you want that, you need to give me something to work with because… we're not doing it here," he hurriedly insisted, face flushing pink as he pressed his face into her hair.

"Fine," she whispered in return.

They stood there for several moments before Farkas, the Dovakhiin's ever loyal and favored shield brother, entered to remind them they still had their own reception to get to. It wasn't the fanciest thing, but the Argonian innkeepers of Riften had still given their all for the small party, and the newly weds appreciated it.

As well as the bedroom for the night, free of charge.

Of course, Onmund had to remind her the next morning that they still needed somewhere to live if that was ever going to happen again. He probably thought he was poking innocent fun, as finding an entirely new place to live was likely going to take time and thorough thought.

But then she was telling him to grab his horse.

The two rode north, far north, almost north to the point that Onmund thought they werereturning to the College. But then she veered east, and suddenly they were in somewhere Onmund did not recognize. Still, eh knew where they were. Skyrim was his home, after all.

"Windhelm," he observed as they left their horses at the stable and entered.

"I don't much like some of the people here," the Dragonborn informed him, voice barely a whisper. "They're condescending and unbearably rude to dark elves, or some are anyway, and others prefer blows to speaking, but there are good people here."

Onmund frowned at finding out how racist some were, thinking of studious and persevering Brelyna back in Winterhold, but nodded at her explanation. Still, he knew she wasn't saying everything. There was something else about the place. Something more. This was more than about shaping a house into a home. This was, perhaps, about shaping a city into a home as well. Whiterun loved her from the beginning, accepted change and adjusted and offered her aid.

But Windhelm was a divided, racist, and bitter group of people.

Now he was certain. This was also about being able to change the city for the better.

It sounded like a well-intentioned and noble idea, though he temporarily grew unsure in the idea when she suddenly stopped before a large mansion of a house that exuded a dark and sorrowful energy, a melancholy frown on her face to match the feeling.

"Love?" Was she alright?

At his name for her she was quick to escape her thoughts, whatever they were, and instead guided him to the front door. "Onmund, this is Hjerim," she introduced. "Hjerim, Onmund."

The mage gave a playful smile to the dark house. "The honor is mine," Onmund offered in hopes of easing his wife's nerves, whatever their reason for appearing.

Her soft laugh told him his attempt had been a success, and they entered the house.

"She's a bit neglected after her last owner but… it should be fine."

Those had been the Dragonborn's words when she finally revealed that they were riding to - hopefully - their new home that morning.

But neglected was not necessarily the word Onmund would have used.

Empty and riddled with cobwebs, dust, broken glass and scratched wood floors and walls, Onmund might have used the words 'dilapidated' and 'ruined' and 'ancient remnants of destruction and abandonment combined under one roof to form the perfect setting for a horrific tale around a campfire'. That particular set of words grew bolder in his mind when, with the blood draining from his face, he caught sight of the blood splatter.

But he didn't say anything to his wife. Not that he hadn't been planning to, because he had, but when he turned to face her, he saw that she had gone ghostly white, eyes wide and jaw clenched as her hands nervously wrung the hem of her tunic.

Onmund decided to say nothing. She loved him for that, loved that he could read the atmosphere and know exactly what to do to make her and anyone else feel better, loved that he could always say the right thing or choose not to say anything at all if that was better. His touches were always warm, his eyes always full of concern and worry and love for the subject of his gaze. So instead of asking her what was wrong, he stood just behind her, arms slowly wrapping around her slim waist, waiting.

"A woman died here," she finally murmured. "The owner. The daughter of one of the families here. So did others. I came when… when the third one was killed. She had managed to escape, made it to the graveyard before… necromancy… There's a hidden room behind that chest over there. That's… that's where it happened… The court mage…"

Onmund furrowed his brow, slowly piecing together the story he was telling her. That fact would deter anyone. And yet there they were, standing in the living room.

Some might have proposed they simply find another house, but he knew her. She'd likely already made arrangements to purchase it without letting him know. The Dragonborn was a stubborn one. She would turn the whole city into a home, even if the place she slept in bore the memories of blood and torture and magic of the dead.

"Well, I wouldn't necessarily call it neglected," he began as she flashed him a look of disbelief. "Oh don't give me that. This house has suffered from a lot more than neglect. You undersold that factor a lot." She started to look discouraged, perhaps believing he was going to refuse to try the house, for all of its unfortunate history. But then a large smile appeared on the mage's face, and he was grabbing a broom leaned against the wall. "That just means a lot more work before we can get a bed in here. I'm not about to have sex in a house where I can still see blood stains."

This time all the unease seemed to melt out of her body, and she laughed for real this time. "Shouldn't we mop first, then? Get the stains out of the way as fast as possible?"

Onmund chuckled as he started attacking cobwebs and dust bunnies. "Oh no, this is our home now. We're doing this right. You can't mop before you sweep. Where were you raised? A barn?"

The Dragonborn could only shake her head and continue to laugh as she watched him set to work, eyed the way his muscles bunched beneath his mage robes, the way he pushed his hood off of his head and rubbed his neck after a few minutes of work. He didn't notice that she hadn't started working, far too distracted with watching him to properly handle the broom.

He kept going, trusting that she had made the right decision with this house as he always did. She could rarely be as trusting in a year as he was trusting in a day to a complete stranger. He kept his spirits high as he worked, occasionally humming some Nordic tune under his breath. She loved that, too, how optimistic he could be and determined to help and support and fight for the happiness of those he loved. It set her heart on fire thinking about it.

Finally she set to work, too. Hjerim would not be neglected again. It would become a home, their home, a home where anyone could enter and not feel lonely. A home where a mage always kept the fire and a series of scented candles lit at all times to brave the heat and the bitterness of the city.

And as the mansion was nurtured out of its neglect, so was the city. Of course, the Dragonborn and her husband could not always be there. Flying beasts that breathed fire and dark minded wizards and greedy bandits still roamed Skyrim, and so long as they breathed the two would travel, seeking ways to stop them.

But at the end of the day, the week, however long it took them to finish the quest, it ended roughly the same.

"All done here?" Onmund asked, eying the Khajit caravan that was eagerly thanking them for slaying the dragon.

The Dovakhiin smiled, feeling warm from the new soul inside of her, and turned to her husband. "Looks that way," she answered, draping her arms around him and lazily pulling him close so she could bury her head in his neck.

"Then where should we go now?"

They both knew the answer as he pulled back to kiss her senseless.

"Home," she finally breathed. "Always home."

Many things went neglected, but Hjerim did not. Because so long as their love would thrive, their home would thrive too.

I have now done my part, contributing to the dismal amount of Onmund/Dovakhiin fanfiction. Reviews, critiques, and comments are much appreciated. Thank you very much for reading!

Sivo