A/N: Hello again readers! Here is chapter 4! Pretty similar to the original fourth chapter, again. From here on out, however, the chapters will get jumbled and be quite different.
Anyways. Thanks for all the new favourites and follows, and especially to Baz4, Meleba, and RickBe for your lovely reviews!
RickBe: Glad you liked the last chapter! I agree - the Nord's rant is not unfounded, but it is quite petty. Glad I managed to convey that moreso than in the original! Hope you enjoy this chapter!
As always, enjoy, and drop a review if you'd like. It would mean a lot if you did!
Lydia hated dragons.
No, really. She absolutely despised them.
They were monstrously terrifying creatures, made of the darkest stuff of nightmares whose only purpose, it seemed, was to destroy and slaughter and burn their way through the world of men and mer. They weren't good for anything. Well, perhaps only for their bones and scales. They could fetch a good price. But even so her Thane made her drag them around until they found a merchant willing to buy them. They were so heavy.
She'd only ever seen a few in her lifetime, despite being the now-renowned partner to the Dragonborn. She could easily count the number of times she'd been close enough to make out their features, and the number of times they'd actually killed one was even fewer.
Eight. That was it.
It wasn't borne of fear or dread, and they never ran from a fight. Lydia was a Nord – proud and strong, born and bred in the cold mountains of the north – and that was never something they did, despite the fire and the death and the carnage those beasts of legend left in their wake.
It was the beasts themselves.
Lydia had seen the great dragons as they soared high above, waking up after long years of sleep, moving from one mountain cave to the next with a near-hypnotic slowness and resolve. She had seen them swoop low and raze an entire herd of elk to the ground in a blinding flash of calculated fire. She had watched them as they watched her, perched on a crumbling ruin not far from the mountain-pass as the travellers made their way. Everything they did seemed to be done with purpose, and power, and no small amount of wisdom – not so unlike herself, like others, she thought. There was thinking, and discovering, and ideas behind their eyes. They were animals, they were beasts, but they were also more than that. And that, perhaps, is what unnerved her the most.
Yes, Lydia hated them. And in particular fighting them, for they always drained the energy and strength of them both. It was not easy to kill a dragon, you can imagine. Lydia and Cato never walked away from a battle without a few burns and cuts and stories to tell. And though her friend would always give an exultant whoop at the very end, beaten and breathless and bloodied, and even when they shared a fierce grin fueled by the flames of dragon-fire and peril, she could tell there was… something else. She wasn't really sure, and she couldn't well tell you if she tried, but it was there.
It was seen in the way he staggered and grimaced in pain as the soul of the monster bound itself unto his own. It was how, for a moment, it seemed his bright brown eyes would flash a striking yellow, and a fire all their own would burn within. It was his contemplating silence that night, and how he sat, unmoving and unyielding, staring into the orange flames at camp, as though finding there stories and knowledge unseen to all.
So even though she hated the dragons for what they were and how they killed, and the terrifying glimpses of understanding in their eyes, the damage they did to her Thane was worse than all of that together.
And so this dragon would be their ninth.
"Left! Left! Lydia! Go left!" Cato cried out, frantically waving his arm at her. She saw him and nodded, breathing deeply and gripping her sword before sprinting to the dragon's side.
The air smelled of blood and burning wood and that foul reek that only a dragon could claim as its own. She soared over blackened logs and across the scorched grasses, eyes never leaving the rippling scaly hide of the enraged dragon. It was thrashing about, and in its rage was splintering the trunks of trees that had stood here, in the ageless forests of the Rift, for years untold like little twigs with its massive tail and sabred claws.
Cato had managed to slice through the thin, papery membrane of its right wing as it landed for a terrestrial attack, rendering it unable to fly. But just because it couldn't didn't mean it hadn't tried. The Housecarl had nearly been blown off her feet by the gusts the beast made with its ruined wings in a desperate vie to get off the ground. The dust and ash it kicked up nearly blinded her, and she had to stop a moment and rub her watery eyes as she coughed. The heat coming from the beast was nearly unbearable. It parched her throat, made her sweat, form a thin pasty layer of ash and sweat on her skin, and she could see the invisible waves of it emanating from the golden scales. She blinked and then was on her way again, ducking to avoid the swings of its tail and the flying shards of wood.
Lydia and her Thane had a rough strategy when it came to defeating dragons. They would shoot arrows at it into the sky, taking cover behind rocks and hills, before it was enraged enough to come in for a ground attack. Then the two would spring up from their cover and attempt to sever the ties between it and the sky. They'd slash at the wings until it could no longer lift its massive body from the ground. Remove its flight and the battle was nearly won. A downed dragon is a dead dragon.
But a downed dragon is, in Cato's articulate words, a bloody pissed-off lizard. If one thinks they are terrifying in the sky, they have not seen one on the ground, cornered, with no way out but through.
So these were perhaps the most dangerous moments in dealing with a dragon. The orange beast was blind with pure boiling rage and it was thrashing its weakening body around the scorched clearing it had made. Right now it wanted nothing more than to end the Shouting match and stamp the Imperial man flat into the dusty ground, and if Lydia didn't hurry up, it just might.
Cato was weakening as well. He was dodging the blows of the animal's clawed fists into the dirt and its massive snapping jaws, all while skirting the absolutely sweltering heat of dragon fire thrust forth from the foul mouth of the utterly livid beast. He was doing alright, but she could see, across the clearing between the bleeding legs of the dragon, that he was getting tired. The fire was missing him more narrowly and the jabs of his ebony sword were not as deep. She needed to hurry.
And so, head throbbing and heart thrashing, with a harsh cry and barely a moments thought, she tore towards the dragon and thrust her Skyforge greatsword through the thick hide and into the flank of the beast, right to the hilt. The scales cracked as she did so, splintering off in sparkly chunks, and the golden dragon threw its massive head back and roared so loud and so furiously she was certain everyone in the Rift could hear it.
Lydia let go of her sword, leaving it buried deep inside the dragon, and leaped back. Heart pounding, she took off and sprinted into the trees at the edge of the clearing just before the dragon, lashing and coiling in its white-hot agony, turned and blew a blistering stream of fire where she had been standing only seconds before. She peered from behind a blackened pine and watched, as she always did, in awe as Cato killed the dragon at last.
Lydia had been the distraction he'd needed, and as the dragon was preoccupied by the sharp bite of the greatsword, he'd taken what little time he had to steel his will, fill his lungs, and leap onto the unsuspecting head of the brute. His sweating hands grasped onto the sharp ivory horns protruding from the skull of the animal, and it took everything he had to stabilise himself against the beast's thrashing. It roared and shook its head roughly, and Lydia gasped as Cato was nearly thrown off.
He still had a tight hold on one horn, but he was dangling from the side of the dragon's head, weapon arm with his dark sword swinging about. The dragon tilted its head to the side, fiery yellow eyes burning with hatred, its mouth open, bloodied and rancid and so, so hot. The world slowed and Lydia's blood ran cold as ice when she realised the dragon would have her Thane in its massive jaws any second now.
But Cato was quicker than the wounded lumbering giant. He used the open maw as a step to leap onto the head again, and in a fraction of a second, before the beast even knew what was happening, he had stood up, positioned the black sword, and, with all the remaining might of his arm, thrust it into the neck of the dragon, right at the base of the skull.
The dragon felt its death-pang and screamed, heaving its bulk up onto its hind legs, thrusting its head to the heavens. Cato could no longer hold on and was thrown to the ground, landing on his side painfully. In a last desperate attempt at escape, the dragon flapped its torn and bloody wings, kicking up even more dust and ash and little swirling embers into the sweltering sky. It was a terrifying but beautiful sight, Lydia thought. Something straight out of legend, something Farengar back at Dragonsreach would write about. But it didn't last long, and with one final earth-shattering roar the dragon faltered and crashed to the earth, sending Cato darting out of the way to avoid its crushing mass.
It was over.
An eerie silence filled the clearing, and the Dragonborn stood up slowly as the dust settled. Smoke hissed from the blackened logs and burnt grasses. Airborne cinders and flakes of ash, now falling softly like snow onto the dragon and the slayer, gave the world a muffled, ghostly glow.
Lydia waited for the flesh to melt and the soul to swirl, but it never came. The dragon was still alive.
She was not close enough to the Dov to see them look into each others eyes, but they did. Tired, triumphant bright brown ones gazed down into those tired, defeated striking yellow ones. Neither moved, and they simply looked at each other.
Eventually Lydia stepped gingerly from behind the scorched pine, and she cautiously made her way over to them, creeping over slivers of wood and pockets of hissing slag. She stopped, though, when Cato stepped closer to the beast and bent down on one knee. He placed a bloodied, bruised hand on the golden snout and listened to the dragon as it spoke.
"Dovahkiin los dii dovahkriid, ruz," the beast guttered in a deep voice, older and slower than time, wiser than any wizard. Lydia froze. She'd never heard a dragon speak before. Not unless it was Shouting fire or ice at her. "Hin mul, Dovahkiin. Hin krif voth ahkrin. Zu'u sahlo. Fahofan Dovah."
Cato shook his head, eyes closed. "Nid, Dovah. Ni los dii Paak." His voice was rough, throat raw from the power of the Shouts, and the words he spoke were foreign and softer but just as deep and old as any dragon. Lydia blinked. Her Thane could speak dragon?
Cato's eyes opened again. "Hin Tivaak?"
The dragon grumbled lightly, and it seemed to Lydia it was a friendly sound. "Nust Tivaak Yolyuvonmaar. Nii los ni vahzah, nii koraav." The dragon grumbled again, the sound rumbling deep within the dying beast.
The Imperial smiled and shook his head again. "Nid, Yolyuvonmaar. Hin mul. Fahofan Dovahkiin."
The dragon took a deep breath and sighed. "Zu'u bo nol daar Gol, zeymah. Zu'u fen aav Dovahkiin nu." Cato's smile fell. "Tiiraaz mu nis lahney drem."
Cato nodded once and he smiled again, sadly. "Osossul. Aus nid lingrah, Yolyuvonmaar."
With a final shudder the dragon released its last breath. The scales dissolved and the flesh melted. The soul of the golden dragon filled the desolate clearing with a glow the same colour as fire, but somehow softer and warmer. It twisted around Cato's body, swirling round his limbs and head and crushing into his chest, and he winced as it entered him. He fell to both knees and pressed his palms to his eyes, blocking out the obvious pain he was in. His temples bulged and he groaned, clenching his jaw, spasm after spasm rippling through his body, only slowing down when the last shred of papery light disappeared.
When it was over, and the Dragonborn was kneeling in front of a skeleton, hands lowered now, panting, Lydia shook herself from her daze and slowly crept over to him, boots crunching the coals and ashes of the dragon's wrath.
She stopped when she was within arms reach, hesitating, not sure what to do. His eyes were closed.
"Cato?" she asked tentatively. Her quiet voice seemed unfit for this place that had seen such ruin and fire.
He didn't answer, and it seemed as though he hadn't even heard her.
"Grik Paak." He shook his head, eyes still closed. "Such a shame."
"Cato, are you alright?" she asked worriedly. She didn't know what he was saying, and she wanted to get them out of here. They needed rest and something to eat.
He opened his eyes and turned his head up to look at her. His eyes were full of sorrow, and he was covered in grime and sweat and dragon blood. "I'm fine."
Lydia held out her hand to him, and he took it. His own hand was burning hot, covered in ash and blood, and she let go maybe a bit too quickly as he stood up.
There was no triumphant laughter or devious grin like all their battles before. The scorched clearing was silent as the Dragonborn looked down onto the bones of the defeated dragon. The only sounds to be heard were the hissing and crackling of charred trees.
"We should go." Lydia felt useless standing there beside him, doing nothing. She turned around to find their packs and extra weapons hidden between the trees.
She returned, having found them safely and in good condition, to her Thane still standing there.
"Are you okay?" she asked again.
He frowned down at the dragon.
"Cato?"
"Hm? Yeah. I'm fine."
She did not believe him in the slightest. "We should go," she said again, more forcefully this time, glancing up into the sky. It was darkening, and in a few hours night would be upon them, shining the cold stars of winter upon the world.
An icy wind blew through the clearing, reminding her that it was winter and it was cold, despite the intense heat that was here. She shivered and shouldered her pack, and her Thane's, and reached down to yank his ebony sword from the skull of the beast. It was a beautiful weapon, black as night, sharp as ice, and he'd picked it off some dead bandit long ago. It was his favoured weapon. But it was covered in dragon blood, and so was he. They needed to leave.
So she grabbed his arm lightly and pulled him away from that place. He didn't protest as she led him out of the scorched clearing and into the darkening woods. It smelled better here, of pine needles and snow and fresh clean air, and it was not long before the slivers of Masser and Secunda could be spotted through the canopy.
She led him north through the woods and they walked in silence for hours, or what felt like hours, not stopping until the twinkling fires of Riften were shimmering between the trees and on the surface of the moonlit lake.
She decided against camping outside tonight, seeing as her Thane needed a good meal, a good rest, and a warm bath to clear his mind and body of blood.
The guards at the gates gave them no trouble, remembering the time Cato had threatened them with an apple and a sharp knife and shown them what he could do with it. And Keerava at the Bee and Barb was more than accommodating, giving them the largest room she had and sending Talen-Jei off to warm some water for a bath.
She paid the Argonian and shut the door, sighing contentedly as she leaned against it.
The room was large, the largest one here, and it had a big bed to the right and a wardrobe and dresser to the left against the wall. A fire was burning low in the hearth at the far end. It was a nice room, and she knew the innkeeper had given them a good deal.
Cato was sitting on the edge of the bed, looking at her.
"Thanks." It was the first thing he'd said to her since the clearing.
She smiled. "No worries." She frowned a bit, however, and added, "you know, you shouldn't be sitting on the bed in that armour." He looked down at himself. "You're going to get blood and dirt on the sheets and I'm not paying for that."
He laughed then, and she smiled again. She never liked seeing him like this. Remote and cold. He was her friend, her partner, and he was always warm and close.
"Oh, so it's your money now, is it?" He raised an eyebrow at her, and she moved from the door to kneel by his pack. She was glad he was feeling better.
"Well, it might as well be. You're not capable of managing your gold." She rummaged around in his sack, pulling out a simple clean shirt. "You'd bet the whole town guard a month's earnings you could fly if given the chance."
He laughed again. "Yeah, probably."
It was true. He would spend his money on the most ridiculous items he could, and for no apparent reason other than he had the coin. It was almost as if he'd never had any before, like a child in a sweet shop. So she'd taken it upon herself to deal with the Septims and ration out their earnings. It was strange, sure, but her Thane was strange – maybe she was a bit, too – and it was just a part of who he was. Who they both were.
She pulled out some clean pants and stood up to face him again.
"Here." She handed him the clothes and he reached out for them. "Take off your armour and get in the bath when its ready."
He raised an eyebrow suggestively and a little grin slid onto his face.
She rolled her eyes. Well, as long as he wasn't moping about tonight she didn't care.
"Just do it, Cato."
His grin widened and he stood up, tossing the clean clothes on the bed. "Hm. Been a while since I was propositioned so."
"Is that right?" she smiled, feeling her cheeks burning up a little.
"You know, if you wanted me so bad you could have just asked."
"Well, I'm glad you're feeling better. But really, my Thane, is it your goal in life to make every situation an awkward and uncomfortable one?"
He started unlacing the grimy leather armour from his body, letting it fall piece by piece onto the wooden floor. "Well, no. It's actually to save the world from Alduin, the World-Eater, Nordic God of Death and Destruction. This is just a side-quest."
"I see."
She took this time to do the same, though her steel armour had simple clasps instead of strings and she found herself waiting for him to finish.
She watched him as he took it all off, piece by piece. His bracers, his greaves, his pauldrons. His fingers were quick, agile, practiced. She'd never seen someone take off their armour so easily. It had always fascinated her.
"Shit," he said, holding up one of his knee-cops, inspecting it. "Nearly melted right through. Guess we'll have to pay a visit to dear old Balimund at the forge. You know how much he loves seeing my face," he smirked, eyes flashing up at her.
Lydia's stomach pitched, and she found her cheeks burning up again. She smiled sheepishly, foolishly, and she found herself warming at his smile. Liking his smile. Because he had a nice one, because it meant he was alright, now. Because it was for her.
The logical part of her was quick to slash her down.
No, it said. He is your Thane. Your ward, your friend, your partner. Nothing more.
And that was true. She'd taken the oath herself.
But that doesn't mean I can't think him nice to look at, the less logical part of her whispered.
Which was also true.
And Cato was not hard on the eyes.
He was modest when stood beside a Nord, neither as tall nor as built, and his hair was darker and shorter and so was his skin, tanned olive from the sun and the Provincial blood in his veins. Less scars, less muscle, less jaw. No beard, no braids, no anything that would make him stand out among the other men. But his face was kind, and his eyes were kinder. His smile softer and common. He was different in every way, she supposed, and yet everything that needed to be there was, even if others could not see it.
But Lydia could. And she liked it. All of it. Well, most of it. His tongue was a bit too sharp for his own good, really, and his head tended to wander too high in the clouds sometimes.
His flash of a smile was nice, no doubt, but it was nicer because of the man behind it.
"What?" he asked, with only a little concern.
Lydia blinked. "What what?"
"You're staring at me."
Lydia's heart dropped. "No I'm not."
"Yes you are."
"No, I'm not.
"Yes, you are. You feeling alright?"
"I'm fine."
The look he cast her clearly said he didn't believe her. "Alright. If you say so. Here, help me get this off."
He turned around, all armour off now save the leather breastplate. It was laced at the back and required another's help. She went over to him, her own fingers used to the movements by now, but still clumsier than his.
When she was done it fell to the floor with the rest and he turned around, smiling. "Ahh. Thanks. Much better. I can finally breathe, now." He wore a simple chemise under his armour to stop it from chaffing, but it was dirty and probably smelled bad. She didn't want to get too close. For multiple reasons.
He flopped backwards onto the bed then, surprising Lydia. "Aaaahhh hahaha!" He groaned and laughed with child-like glee as he writhed on top of the roughly sewn quilt and the extra furs. "Lydia, by the Eight! It's been way too long since I've slept in a proper bed. Nearly forgot what they looked like."
She smiled at his childish antics, but she found herself wanting to do the same.
"Cato, get off!" She scolded, laughing lightly. He lifted his head to look at her, a big stupid smile plastered on his face. "Your shirt is dirtier than your armour."
He laid his head back down, completely ignoring her, and he pulled a bit of the quilt up to his face. He breathed it in, closing his eyes, and smiled again.
"Lydia," he chuckled, looking back up. "It doesn't smell like dirt or smoke! Or bandit piss, at that." He was referring to their own bedrolls they used in the wilds, of course. Smelled like a dying horker on the best of days.
She shook her head at him, crossing her arms. "You are very odd, my Thane."
"Cato. No, really. Come and smell them."
She sighed but obeyed him, and walked over to the side of the bed. Lifting a soft white fox fur to her nose, she breathed it in. He was right. They did smell really good, like soap and herbs and just plain clean. He was watching her with interest, propped up on his elbow, and he tried, and failed, to look serious as she dropped the fur, raising his eyebrows as if asking for confirmation.
She nodded. "Very nice," she said, earning a smirk. "I'll be loathe to let you sleep there tonight."
"Me? No. I'll be the man here. I'll sleep on the floor this time."
"No you won't. You need your rest, Cato."
"And you don't?"
Lydia hesitated. The bed was soft and warm, and it had been quite a while since she'd last slept in one. And it did smell really good.
She didn't answer, and he didn't say anything. But the question hung there in the air between them, unspoken, heavy, and so painfully obvious it nearly hurt.
Should we share the bed?
The bed was large, large enough for two, certainly, and it would be better if they both got a good night's rest.
Cato was her friend, and they'd been fighting together for a good couple of months, now. They slept beside each other in the tent, in safer lands, and in separate bedrolls. They watched each other's backs, saved each other's lives. She'd followed him down more than one crypt, into the flaming jaws of more than one dragon. But this? Were they ready to share?
Lydia just so happened to look down at him the same moment he looked up at her. They made eye contact, only for a few seconds, but it was enough to make Lydia's stomach flop again and Cato's face to flush. Hard to see sometimes on his darker skin, but Lydia could tell, now, when it happened.
An awkward, hefty silence filled the room and she was about to say something, anything, when a knock at the door followed by the gravelly voice of an Argonian informed them their bath was prepared.
"You go first," she told him, breaking the tense silence.
"Yeah. Okay," he agreed as he sat up on the bed. He grabbed the clean clothes and stood up, walking towards the door. He stopped before he left, and looked back to her. "I won't be long."
"That's alright. I'll get some food."
He nodded and left her standing there in a slushy, churning mess of emotions and musings and… feelings.
Lydia didn't have those. Ever.
"Mrrm. Cato," she groaned in frustration, falling back onto the bed like he had done. It was warm from his body and she didn't even care that she was dirtying the sheets and that she'd scolded her Thane for it.
'Imperials are nothing but trouble,' her father had said – many, many times – and for once, she was inclined to agree.
Because trouble was all Cato had ever given her. Trouble with dragons, and bandits, and sabre-cats. Trolls and Forsworn and even a giant, once. Trouble with the law, on occasion, and trouble with his sticky fingers – not very often, and only on people who were exceptionally bigoted or rude. But still. Trouble with guards. Trouble with Jarls. Trouble with elves and Nords. Trouble with keeping his mouth shut. A lot of trouble with that.
She sighed. It had been so much easier when she didn't care about him. If this had happened a mere month or two ago, she wouldn't even be thinking about it now.
It seemed like Lydia never did a very good job of making or keeping friends. There had been others that might have become friends, if she'd spent time and effort on the endeavor. But she thought she was fine being alone. She thought she didn't need anyone. Most people, good and caring and true as they were, always seemed to disappoint her, and in the end she found herself simply avoiding their gazes and their attempts. It was easier.
But she'd never met anyone like Cato. He was maddening and stubborn and arrogant at times. He couldn't cook to save his life, and he hated cleaning his armour and weapons, and he always made her carry his junk around. They constantly argued and teased and sometimes wouldn't even talk to each other over the most trivial of reasons. He swore too much, gambled away his coin, earned enemies faster than friends, seemed to make a long, long string of questionable decisions and bad choices. Yes, he was an frustrating human. He was a near-intolerable man. He was trouble.
But was that all he was to her? Maybe, if she looked close enough, the moments and little things that happened in between those times were the things that endeared him to her.
For one: he always smiled at little stupid things, small forgotten things, like the smell of clean sheets.
And gods but his laugh was wonderful. It rumbled from deep in his chest, and it sounded so genuine, whether he was laughing at her or with her. And he laughed so easily. She didn't know anyone else like that. Other people were more guarded, harder to please, less apt to smile. Especially her kind, and in these hard times. But her Thane, someone who clearly had seen battle more than once, and before she'd ever met him, still laughed with the innocence of youth.
She would never admit it, especially to his face, but he was very clever. He knew things she'd never even dreamed of. Provincials were known to be scholarly, educated, cultured. And they knew it. They had universities and schools above and beyond anything in Skyrim, or High Rock, or even Morrowind. She could lay on her back and listen to him point out constellations in the sky beside her all night long, or go on about the politics of Cyrodiil or the ethics of things while they trudged across the land. She couldn't understand half of what he said, but she liked his voice and his company.
They fought well together, too. She liked her heavy steel armour and her two-handed greatswords while he preferred his lighter leather armour and his little ebony sword and bows. It was strange, she thought, but she would admit that two different fighting styles worked better than similar ones. She played the part of shield, the steadfast warrior taking the brunt of the damage, while he would sweep in a volley of arrows from on high or slice enemies from behind with much more grace than she could ever manage. She protected him, and he watched out for her.
And they had grown to understand each other without having to say much – not that Cato let a silence linger for too long, mind you. When something needed to be said, something bothering one or the other, or perhaps when a good rebuke or scold was needed, it was said and they both moved on, leaving it in the past. Her favourite moments with him were not spent discussing the goings-on of the world, but in silence. They could walk an entire day without a word and be content. She loved sitting at an inn with him, listening to the conversations of others, the only communication between the two some raised eyebrows and knowing smiles.
And, annoying as he was, she had to smile whenever he stopped to pick flowers for potions, or point to a hawk taking flight, or when he'd halt their hiking to watch the mammoths make their slow journey across the wild, wind-swept plains.
There was just… something about him that she liked. Something that made her enjoy being near him. Maybe it was because he chose to stay, after being arrested and nearly executed by his own kind, and detested ever after by hers. Or that he took on the world with such zest and easiness despite everything that was thrown his way. Maybe it was the big things, and the little things too.
Whatever it was, it was enough to start changing the way she did things and thought about the world. He had shown her that not everyone would disappoint, and not everyone was bad. It was so easy being around him, she thought, and she hardly noticed the changes in herself. She smiled more, and laughed more, and her eyes were open to the beauty of the world. She knew the constellations, now. She often helped him pick flowers. She thought the mammoths stately and wise, instead of the senseless brutes she once painted them as. And she indulged in simple pleasures, like fresh furs on a soft, clean bed. She owed him so much for that.
Someone had told her once, long ago, that sometimes people come into your life and it seems they were meant to be there, and that they will affect you in some profound way. She'd laughed at that, of course, but that was before she'd met the Dragonborn. He was destined for great things, and he was the hero in everyone's lives. But they didn't know him like she did.
And she was okay with that.
She smiled, thinking back on things they'd done, and the reasons why he was her friend. The trouble they'd gotten into. Her thoughts were interrupted by her stomach growling, and she remembered she'd promised to have food for when Cato got back. So, with a final tired sigh, she heaved herself up off the bed and crept down the creaky wooden stairs, aware that it was late and the other patrons were likely asleep.
She was right, mostly. In the dim firelight of the common area she could make out two shadowy figures in a corner and an old man sitting at the bar. It was mostly silent there, except for Talen-Jei's broom scraping across the wooden floors and the fire crackling in the hearth.
Keerava offered to make Lydia a hot meal, but the kitchen fire was low and it would take too long, so she decided to buy some fresh bread and cheese. It wasn't her first choice, and she would have much rather eaten some meat or soup, but she was too hungry to care. And as much as she disliked the Black-Briars, she bought a bottle of their ale. If they couldn't eat what they wanted, perhaps the drink would make up for it. She thanked the Argonian and collected the food, creeping past the shadowy patrons and up the squeaky stairs.
She knocked on their bedroom door just to make sure. She didn't want to walk in on Cato getting dressed.
"Yeah?" he answered through the door.
"It's me. I've got food."
"Hold on a second. I'm completely indecent for such decent company. I wouldn't want to emotionally scar you." She could hear him moving in the room, and a moment later he opened the door.
Her eyes widened when she saw him, and the first thing she noticed was that he'd shaved his short scruff so his face was bare.
"You shaved," she said blankly. Stupidly. He raised his eyebrows.
"Yeah, I did." He put a hand to his face and felt where his skin was now smooth. "Figured I should. Was starting to feel like a wild mountain-man." She didn't answer him, and he smiled. Leered, more like. "What, you don't like it?"
No, she most definitely did. He looked so much younger without facial hair. And so much nicer.
"No, I do. I mean, well, you don't look like a bandit anymore." His smile widened.
He normally had a bit of hair on his face, but it was short and it didn't really suit him. Imperials couldn't pull off beards as well as Nords. Whenever he got the chance he'd usually shaved a bit off, but never this much. Never all of it.
She liked it.
He didn't answer her, but he stepped aside to allow her into the room. He had on the clean clothes she'd given him.
"And your skin. I can actually see it. It's not the shade of dirt and blood after all, I see." She set the plate of food down on the little bedside table and he shut the door, laughing. "You clean up well, my Thane."
"Yes, well, one hardly has time for hygiene while fixing all of Skyrim's problems. You know how it is."
"I do," she smiled. "No one gives enough credit to the Dragonborn, great Hero of Skyrim, brave Thane Cato – ah. Hm."
"What?"
"It just occurred to me I don't know your last name."
Cato smirked, crossing his arms as he leant against the doorframe. "Lydia. We've been partners in crime for, what, like five years now?"
"Not quite three months, but close."
"Right. And you still don't know my last name?" He tutted like an old lady, shaking his head. "Lydia Battleborn, I am simply ashamed of you."
"Right."
It was sort of embarrassing. A lot of Nords earned their names. Simply didn't have last ones. It had honestly never crossed her mind before now that there might be more to him than simply Cato.
"It's Cato Vitellas. Cato Aurelius Iovianus Donatue Vitellas, in full."
Lydia blinked. "Wow."
"Yes, quite a mouthful. Imagine a sprite young me learning to spell my name once upon a time."
She smiled at that. "Yes, well, I'll just stick to Thane Cato Vitellas if you don't mind."
"Not at all." He nodded to the food on the nightstand. "I say we eat. Leave all that nomenclature tripe in Cyrodiil."
He sat down on the bed beside her, watching Lydia as she sliced the bread with the knife Keerava gave her. Better her than him. He'd nearly taken off his own hand the last time he tried to cut himself some food. How he ever survived before her was a mystery only the gods knew.
She handed him a slice of bread and a chunk of cheese. "Keerava offered to make me something hot, but I didn't want to wait, so I just got this. Sorry."
He shoved the food into his mouth rather ungracefully. "I don't even care. I'm starving," he muffled out.
She smiled, and they ate their food and ale in silence, listening to the fire and being happy they were inside and warm and together. His arm kept brushing against hers, his fiery skin almost burning against her own, but he didn't say anything or move it, so she didn't either.
When Lydia was nearly full she stole a careful glance at Cato's face. She couldn't believe how fine he looked when he cleaned up. Trimmed and washed, he no longer looked like a dusty, tired traveller. He looked like a shrewd Imperial merchant, or scholar, or lawman. Nothing like a hero, really. And definitely not like Dragonborn. He looked smart, proper, like he should be poring over documents at a desk, not shoving his face full of food in a dinky Skyrim inn.
He caught her staring at him again, but this time she didn't look away.
She'd always liked his eyes. They were not a cold blue like most others, just a simple brown. But they were bright and warm and she liked the way they glinted in the firelight and how the skin around them crinkled when he laughed. How they narrowed when he was thinking. Her eyes wandered from his, down past his nose, slightly bent from being broken once or twice before, over his mouth bent in the tiniest of smiles, across the yellowing faded bruise splashed across his cheek and jaw, marring his otherwise striking features. She winced a little, remembering the fight with the fat Nord back in Windhelm, and the stares and jeers and hate.
"You still have a bruise there, you know" she smiled sadly, reaching out to trace along the discoloured skin of his jaw. He was too warm and his freshly shaved cheek felt a little strange under her fingertips. But still, it felt… nice. "Does it still hurt?"
He smiled, his eyes softening. "Your concern is endearing, Lydia, but yes, I'm fine. Hurts a bit, but I've had worse." Then his eyes flashed from hers to the hand on his face and back up again, hesitant, sparkling with mirth.
"Oh," she breathed, pulling her hand away from him, her face burning up. "I'm – I'm sorry. I wasn't thinking. I didn't – "
He caught her hand mid-air, his fiery hand darting out so quickly she hadn't even seen it. "It's okay, Lydia," he laughed, the sound reverberating so deep in his chest she could almost feel it. "You can touch me, you know. I won't bite."
"You don't fool me, Cato," she said, attempting to pull herself from his grasp. "You're mostly dragon."
He chuckled low, vice-like grip on her hand surprising her. She didn't know he had that much strength. "No. I'm mostly man." The pitch of his voice had sunk sharply, the sound almost husky, and it sent a shock of electricity up her spine and put the hair on her arms and the back of her neck on end.
She froze.
Oh. Oh.
Was he…?
No. He wasn't. He couldn't be. He knew the rules.
He must be joking. That's all he ever did anyway.
But the hand on her hand, the fiery look in his eye… This close to him, she could feel the heat coming from his body, the unnatural dragon-fire coursing through his veins, could even smell the soap he'd used and the ale on his breath. Her every sense was buzzing and alive and filled with him, and she felt dizzy and constricted. It was near intoxicating.
But… Even if he wasn't joking, someone like him… Dragonborn, Thane, Companion, Blade, a hero, a smart man from the warm southlands, near-drowning with coin and influence and power, could never want someone like… her. A nobody from nowhere. Nothing to offer the world, not even her looks.
Someone like him… an outlaw, an outcast, an outsider, an Imperial – that last one alone made the lifetime of ingrained bigotry rear its ugly head inside her and swiftly, involuntarily reject this… advance. Or whatever it was.
She'd either read him wrong or he was toying with her. Both of those possibilities made her heart sink, made her a little angry. At him, but mostly at herself.
She frowned, her face and ears positively burning now, sitting there like an utter fool, mind utterly blank except for that pinprick of heat that was his hand on hers, so hot it might have been made of dragon-flame.
Dragons.
"What happened today, Cato? With the dragon, I mean?" she croaked awkwardly, clearing her throat.
He let her hand go, and she wasn't quite sure whether she was relieved or disappointed when the spark left his eyes. But her hand was cold, now, and she almost wished he'd put it back. Almost.
"The dragon? I… I don't really know, Lyds." She remained silent, waiting until he was ready, watching his face as a hundred different emotions flickered across it, try as he might to cover them all up: yearning, hurt, humiliation, fear. It was all there. She could not help but feel a little bad at putting them there. "I'm not sure what happened. How it happened. He spoke to me, though. Yolyuvonmaar."
"Yolyou- what?"
"Yolyuvonmaar," he repeated. "Fire-Gold-Terror. That was his name."
"Oh."
She knew it. She knew Cato had spoke with the beast earlier. She didn't know what they had said, and she didn't know Cato could even understand. But he did. "What did he say?" She tried to keep the interest out of her voice, to no avail.
He moved his hands into his lap unconsciously, tilting his head to stare into the hearthfire. "Not a lot, really. He just told me his name. And he said he was sorry."
Lydia's eyes narrowed. "Sorry? Sorry for what?"
"I don't know." He stood up from the bed and walked over to the fireplace, placing a hand on the mantle above and leaning against it. His eyes were firmly locked on the fire.
His back was facing her, but she could tell by his posture, by the way his legs were placed and the angle of his shoulders, that something was off. She didn't say anything.
"I think…" he started, hesitant, unsure whether to continue or not. "I think Alduin is making the dragons fight. I think he's forcing them."
Lydia blinked. "Forcing them?"
"I think so. Yolyuvonmaar said he was sorry. I don't think he wanted to fight us."
She didn't know what to say. She opened her mouth dumbly, shut it again. Honestly, she was quite skeptical of this whole situation. A dragon? Not wanting to burn and kill? "How could a dragon be forced to fight, Cato?"
"I don't know," he bit, irritation or frustration in his voice, she couldn't tell. "He did, though. But he was sorry."
A stiff silence lingered in the air, heavy, uncomfortable.
"Are you sad you killed him?" she dared to ask.
He sighed and lowered his head. "No. I mean, maybe. He did try to kill us, though. It's not like I had a choice."
"No, you didn't. You had to, Cato. Don't feel bad."
He laughed dryly. "It's funny though, isn't it?" He turned his head to gaze back at her. "I'm the Dragonborn. The prophesised dragon-slayer. Hero of Skyrim!" He snorted. "Right. Some goddamned hero. Here I am foolishly worrying over a stupid dragon." He turned around again, leaning against the fireplace, staring within. "I don't know."
She stood up from the bed and walked over to stand beside him. "You don't have to know. But it's not stupid if it means something to you."
He looked up from the flames and into her face again. His eyes weren't soft or playful anymore. They were hard and severe, and they darted from side to side as if searching for an answer in her gaze.
"I just… I'm a little worried, I guess. I know I have to kill them, but I don't really want to. They're beautiful creatures. They are so intelligent, Lydia. So clever. It's such a shame."
Her heart ached to see such sorrow in his usually shining eyes. Such seriousness, too.
This hurt him. And it hurt her to see him like this.
She put a hand on his shoulder, squeezing gently, letting him know she was there. "I know. But you can't let them go. They're killing people, Cato. You're doing the right thing."
"Am I? What if they all don't want to fight? What do I do?"
She smiled warmly. "You do what you were meant to do, Dragonborn."
He smiled back.
She jerked her head to the side. "C'mon. Let's get some sleep. I'm tired."
"Yeah. Good idea."
"And Cato?"
"Yeah?"
"You're sleeping in the bed tonight, or I'm going to poison your next meal."
"Alright, alright. If you insist."
"What does it feel like?"
"Hm?" he mumbled groggily, right on the verge of sleep.
"Absorbing a dragon soul. What's it like?"
He inhaled sharply and turned onto his side to look down at her from the bed. She could hardly make out his face in the darkness, but she could tell his eyes were barely open.
He let out his breath. "I don't know. Hot."
She snorted and took her eyes off the ceiling to look at him. She shifted her position on the ground to get more comfortable, pulling the furs closer. "Hot? Really? Thanks."
"Well, what do you want? You woke me up." His voice was thick with sleep and more than a little irritation.
"No I didn't. We were just talking a minute ago."
He sighed, obviously too tired to argue. "I don't know, Lydia. It's hot. It hurts. I don't like it."
She was quiet for a moment, contemplating something.
"Alright," she started. He turned over again on his back, thinking the conversation was over.
"But can you feel the dragons inside you? Right now, I mean? Or do you ever feel them?"
He groaned. He was obviously not getting out of this one anytime soon. "No. I can't feel them. Not now. I do whenever I kill one, though."
She was silent again, thinking.
"It's like, you know when you're about to fall asleep, you're almost there, and your whole body all of a sudden feels like it's falling? Like you're falling off a cliff or something? It's sort of like that. The whole world lurches and spins and it feels like I'm falling. Then the other dragons inside me, it's almost like they get angry and want to get out. It feels like they're breathing fire inside, and it hurts. And the dragon I just killed doesn't want to go with them. And it gets harder every time."
He let her consider that for a moment. "There. That good enough?"
She answered after another moment's contemplation. "So, it's like falling, and it's hot. And it hurts," she probed slowly.
"Mhmm."
"I still don't get it."
He groaned again. "You don't need to. You're not Dragonborn. Go to sleep."
She heard him turn over on his side to face the wall, and she smiled to herself.
"You sure you can't explain it better or someth-?" She was cut off as a pillow was thrown onto her face from above. She took it off.
"Hey, that wasn't nice." There was the slightest trace of amusement in her voice.
"I said go to sleep."
"That's fine. I needed another pillow anyways."
"Gods help me."