A/N: I'm back from vacation, feeling refreshed and inspired! I'm gonna do a chapter or two for my other stories, before coming back to focus mostly on this one, but here's a nice little smutty chapter to tide you over.
Chapter Ten
Vorstag was still wearing his dragonplate armor, though he had at least removed his helmet and gauntlets and weapons. He sat leaning backwards on the bed he'd been given in High Hrothgar, his face flickering between being deeply troubled and pleasantly amazed. Hamming was sitting up—somewhat—on his lap supported by his hands. The babe was calm, either unconcerned over the strange new armor or used to it, and his attitude reassured his father.
So did his smiles. Hamming was making faces at him, tucking in his chin and attempting a fair imitation of Vorstag's shit-eating grin, though toothless, while moving his fists around in chaotic circles. Every time Vorstag's gaze focused on his son he would smile back—it was almost impossible not to, despite his heart being heavy with worry and angst. Then his eyes would falter, his thoughts return to his love, and his expression grow worried.
He didn't think it was fair. No matter how many times they parted, it always seemed harder for him. Gerhild—wherever she was and whatever danger she was facing—at least was keeping busy, her time filled probably to overflowing. Undoubtedly she had no idle moments, no time to sit and wonder and worry, no seemingly infinite amount of waiting. She would be traveling, planning, plotting, battling, winning—please, Stuhn, let her win. He on the other hand, had nothing to occupy his time but to sit there and wait, twiddling his thumbs, minding the babe, all the while never knowing what was happening.
Had she already reached Sovngarde?
How long would it take to find Alduin?
How long would they fight?
Did time have any meaning in Sovngarde?
The knock on his door made him jump, startling him from his brown study. He didn't immediately assume it had anything to do with Gerhild; the Greybeards had left him alone for the most part, only coming to his room when it was time to summon him to dine. Indeed, his stomach chose that moment to make a small rumble; so it was with very little concern that he looked up from Hamming and called out, "Come."
He had hoped to see Arngeir, the only one with whom he could speak, opening his door. Instead, one of the non-talking Greybeards was standing there; Vorstag could never remember their names as they never spoke to him. He stifled his frustration and disappointment and smiled pleasantly. "Aye, is it suppertime already?" he asked, hoping the man could somehow answer yes or no without speaking in Thu'ums and knocking Vorstag on his ass.
The Greybeard did answer, though not in the way expected. He made an inviting motion with his hand, beckoning Vorstag towards him, a smile peeking out from beneath his massive bearded chin.
"You want me to come with you?"
He nodded, gesturing to them both with each hand, his movements turning hasty and excited.
"Both of us?" The only reason to summon both himself and his son in such a hasty manner would be if Gerhild was returning. Now Vorstag allowed his heart to do a little flop, hope making him want to jump to his feet and race out of there. He didn't, trying to act dignified, as the husband of the Dragonborn should act. He stood slowly, his movements deliberate, taking his time to make sure Hamming was warmly bundled against the cold before turning to face the Greybeard. "Lead on."
In silence they left the ancient keep for the chilly courtyard beyond.
He was glad he had wrapped Hamming so securely. Outside the air was bitingly cold, nothing of concern for a Nord certainly, but Vorstag always preferred a warm fire and a stiff drink to the frost and freeze of the outdoors. He shivered and allowed himself a brief moment of regret over not wearing his helmet or gauntlets, his long brown hair whipping around his face, buffeted on all sides by a wind that twisted and twirled around the mountain. Then he looked around.
He didn't know what to expect, first looking to the archway over the start of the trail that led to the top of the mountain. No one was there, but before he could feel disappointment over Gerhild's absence, a supernatural roar echoed through the air above him. He lifted his face to the sky, and his jaw dropped to the hard-packed snow.
The top of the mountain, the very Throat of the World, was usually covered in clouds and snow. It was visible today, or at least more visible, the clouds blasted out of the way by the downbeat of wings of countless dragons.
"Stuhn's Shield," he breathed. He didn't know, he couldn't tell at first, whether to be alarmed or elated. He stared closely, nervously, his mouth filling with saliva and fear. Yet the longer he stared, the more he could see: the dragons were simply circling above him and didn't seem to be in any sort of attack pattern. He began to relax, even got himself to where he could close his mouth and swallow down some of the apprehension. The sight above his head continued to cause him to stare, trying to take it all in, instinctively knowing that this day was important. This day was historic. This day would make a legend.
There was a flash of light and pure Power from the very top of the mountain. The gathered dragons roared, crying out in awe, belching flame and wind and ice, proclaiming her the victor even before she spoke.
"I AM DOVAHKIIN!"
Vorstag heard Gerhild—he was sure all of Nirn had heard her—and his heart gave another jump for joy. "She won," he whispered. Barely able to pull his eyes away from the display overhead, he lifted Hamming higher and turned him so he could see, whether or not he could make any sense of it. "Your Mother's won! She's defeated Alduin!"
"But… at what cost?" Master Arngeir's voice was thick with sadness as he came up beside Vorstag. "Dovahkiin has taken that which cannot be taken. She has destroyed the eternal. She has killed the immortal."
"And she's saved your skinny ass," Vorstag countered, though under his breath, not wishing to upset the old man. He was a guest, after all, and an uninvited one, dropped off suddenly by a hostile dragon without explanation or even a change of clothing.
"Yet perhaps that was ever her fate," sighed Arngeir. Apparently he hadn't heard Vorstag's comment. "Alduin was misusing his power, wielding his Thu'um in a purpose for which it was not meant. Perhaps, that is why there was one Last Dragonborn, to also disregard the proper Way of the Voice, so she could use her Thu'um in the same manner as Alduin—and save the world." He turned towards Vorstag. "I'll leave you to wait for her. The rest of us will be inside, preparing supper."
He nodded, feeling only a little guilty for thinking so poorly of Arngeir only a moment before—but Arngeir did say he regretted Alduin's death. Looking upwards again, he wondered if the dragons were regretting Alduin's death, or celebrating it.
It wasn't much longer before the dragons began peeling away from the mountain to fly off, disappearing into the distant horizons, their cries fading into the ether. At long last the skies grew quiet, of all but the constant wind. Vorstag didn't move to go back inside, knowing she'd be coming down the mountain, coming back to him. He jealously counted each moment longer they had to remain apart, wanting the separation over, needing her once more by his side. This time, never to part!
After a few more moments he heard her Shout—such a minimal thing compared to her triumphant proclamation earlier—some Thu'um that pushed back the weather. He waited, barely patient, bouncing Hamming in his arms, his eyes eagerly delving through the swirling snow to catch the first sight of…
"Gerhild!"
"Vorstag!" she acknowledged, hardly more than a shadowy form emerging from the white. Then she was running, stripping her helmet from her head before she crossed the arch at the beginning of the trail. He was running, too, though aware enough to carefully cradle Hamming. When they came together it was with a clash of dragon armor, and a happy-sounding squeal from Hamming. Holding the babe to one side, his other arm clamped down on her and held her fast. His warm lips pressed into her chilled flesh, somehow finding her nose instead of her mouth.
She laughed, too elated and exhausted and relieved to protest, and tilted her head to kiss him back.
She couldn't have said how long they stood there, but another happy squeal from Hamming reminded her that they weren't alone. She pulled back as far as Vorstag would allow, and smiled at her son. "Hamming! Oh, I've missed you. Have you been a good boy for your Papa?"
"He's been fine," Vorstag answered, letting her take Hamming from his arms. He bent and picked up her helmet, still trying to hold on to her waist, as they walked back towards the temple. "Hardly ever fussed, except at mealtimes."
"Aye, well, you know growing boys. Oh, Vorstag," she sighed, tears suddenly filling her eyes. Her steps faltered, her free hand groped at his chest, her words flung from her mouth like the dragons from the mountain just a few moments before. "It's over. It's done. It's all done. It's finally finished…"
"I know, love," he kissed her hair, settling the hysteria before it could take hold, "I know. We saw the dragons from here, circling and Shouting. Were they talking?" Questions always seemed to help her hysterics, getting her to speak coherently, to have to think before she answered.
"They were… lamenting Alduin's death," she answered, sniffling away the tears, getting her emotions back under control. Vorstag was sure there were more tears coming, as well as other emotions, but he would weather those storms as they came. "That part was eery, their keening, even for a dragon most of them feared. And then Paarthurnax…" she glanced over her shoulder at the sky one last time before stepping inside the darkened keep, not speaking until the heavy doors closed behind them. "He… he's left, to try to speak with the other dragons, get them to accept him as their leader."
"And if they don't?"
The corner of her mouth made a little rueful curl as they descended into the main hall, "Then they will have to answer to me. I'm not worried about it, though. Paarthurnax will keep them in line." The smile faded into nonchalance, her attention more for their son than for the dragons.
Vorstag, however, needed more reassurance. "So… all this 'stuff' is over?"
His insistent question made her look back up at him. Then she smiled, and it was like the dawn breaking the sky after a stormy night. "Aye."
She reached up on tiptoe to steal a kiss, and her stomach chose that moment to make an embarrassing noise. "Oh! Excuse me, but I'm starving. Could we have something to eat? I'll tell you all about it over lunch, or breakfast. What time is is? What day is it? How long have I been gone?"
"Barely a full day," Vorstag answered her last question first. Again the mania returned to her voice, her emotions swiftly swinging. He wisely decided to take Hamming from her arms before she started shaking.
"Only a day…?" she sighed, blinking up at him somewhat numbly. "It seems like it's been a week."
"You have physically gone where only souls and gods tread," Master Arngeir spoke, stepping out from a side archway, "Doubtless you should expect some oddities. Come. We will dine together, and you can give us a great honor: allowing us to be the first to hear your tale."
She nodded, "Seems like a fair trade. Better than singing for my supper, surely."
"I'll second that," Vorstag teased, "You can't carry a tune in a bucket." He winced when her elbow dug into his side, but as they were both wearing armor, the pain was faked.
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Farkas leaned against the counter, drumming his fingers. Though he no longer had the wolfish senses granted by Hircine, he still could all but smell the sweat coming off of Athis, easily telling him the Dunmer was nervous, even if it wasn't for the incessant pacing and stroking through the short hairs of his goatee.
Farkas could sympathize, he supposed. He also didn't like waiting, the inactivity making him itch to hit something. He didn't like having to ask questions, either, but that was why Athis was with him. The Dunmer would do the talking, find out what they needed to know, and then he would tell Farkas where they would go next, probably to ask even more questions. Eventually, however, they'd be all done with the talking and Farkas would—at long last—have a target to hit.
But for now, there was too much waiting.
"Ah, Companions, I was told you wanted to speak with me?" Mallus Maccius, the owner of Honningbrew Meadery, stepped out of the backroom. He had been in possession of the Meadery ever since the last owner, Sabjorn, had been accused of trying to poison a customer.
Farkas idly wondered if the meadery was cursed, what with all the repeated poisonings seeming to take place here.
"Good evening, sir," Athis spoke. "Excuse our haste, but this matter is very important. We were wondering if we might ask you a few questions."
"I'm always willing to help the Heroes of Jorrvaskr," he wiped his hands on his apron. He couldn't help a guilty swallow, fearing that the Companions had somehow found out he was working for Maven Black-Briar. He didn't think the Companions would involve themselves in business takeovers, and though the events leading up to his gaining control over Honningbrew weren't exactly illegal, they weren't exactly ethical, either. He schooled his features and prayed that they were here on other business. "What is it you want to ask me about?"
"About the special keg of mead you sent to Lord Vorstag?"
Mallus blinked at him. "What special keg?"
Athis blinked back. "You brewed a special batch of mead just for Lord Vorstag, in anticipation of his and Lady Gerhild's victory over Alduin. You had a small keg sent up to Breezehome yesterday, just after they left, so it would be there when they returned."
"I did no such thing…" Mallus shook his head, his confusion easily negating his earlier nervousness. "Does this have anything to do with…?"
"We're asking the questions," Farkas growled, his rough voice thrumming like a predator. Mallus immediately snapped his mouth shut, his anxieties returning in full force. Everyone knew the larger twin was more even tempered than his brother, so if Farkas was upset, then something was seriously wrong. He again grew nervous and tried to school his features into something approaching helpfulness.
Athis did his best not to look at Farkas. After the events of last night, tempers were high enough already, especially among the Companions, who still thought of Gerhild as one of their own. A tragedy striking her and her home, was as good as an attack on Jorrvaskr. Athis kept his reprimand to himself; he didn't want to add fuel to the fire by disrespecting a member of the Circle in front of an outsider. But—damn it!—he wished Farkas would simply stand there and look menacing. "Please, good sir, we only wish to ask you a few questions about one of your employees. You see, we know there was a stranger in town yesterday evening, someone who made a delivery to Breezehome. We spoke with the guards at the gate, who said this stranger claimed to have a keg from Honningbrew for Lord Vorstag. We talked with one of your other employees, ah," he hesitated as he tried to remember the name, "A Nord by the name of Eimar. He said he was talking with a fellow worker yesterday—he couldn't remember the man's name. Anyway, this other employee claimed he had to make a delivery into town. Said it was a keg of some special brew just for Lord Vorstag."
Mallus swallowed again; though his apprehension was easing in Athis' reasonable presence, his confusion continued to grow. "I know nothing of that," he honestly denied. "There is no special brew; you can check my inventory if you don't believe me." He gestured behind him, seemingly granting unlimited access to the Companions.
"We'd rather check this mysterious employee," Farkas growled again, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, settling his greatsword against his back.
Mallus gave an abbreviated laugh, attempting to act calm and unconcerned as if he was trying not to provoke a predator. "So would I. I know who you're referring to, a man by the name of Benor. I hired him a few days ago, to do odd jobs, make deliveries, sweep the floors, those sort of things. He skipped out of work early yesterday with my other workers to watch what was happening up at Dragonsreach. Oh, I don't begrudge any of them the chance to see the Dragonborn at work, but Benor never came back afterwards. Not yesterday. Not today."
"Benor," Athis repeated, committing the name to memory and praying Farkas would keep his mouth shut. "Any idea where this Benor is from? Where he might have gone?"
"No, I…" he swallowed one last time. It seemed the Companions were after his wayward employee, and wanted nothing to do with him. "I heard about the fire. It was at Breezehome, wasn't it?" When neither of them answered, he pressed, "And you're asking questions about Benor. You suspect him? You think he used a fictitious delivery as an excuse to get close enough to Breezehome to start that fire?"
"No," Athis admitted. "We think Benor poisoned the mead."
Mallus was confused again. He had seen the smoke still smoldering this morning, and had heard rumors it was the Dragonborn's house that had burned, but no one had yet to mention, "…poison…?"
"Yes. We don't know what caused the fire, but there are survivors. One of them showed symptoms consistent with being poisoned, but came around long enough to mumble something about the mead. Near as we can tell, this… Benor, you said… yes, this Benor was the one who delivered the mead to Breezehome. And we think he poisoned it as well."
"Then… it wasn't an accident, was it? I mean, the fire might have been, but with the mead poisoned, and meant for Lord Vorstag, then Benor was intending to commit…"
Again Farkas' voice took on murky depths darker than ebony as he finished, "Murder."
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"Oh, Vorstag…" Gerhild sighed, setting her cuirass on a handy trunk. She was exhausted, her stomach full of warm food, her limbs aching with overuse, but her mind was whirling as if she had used a Shout to speed herself up. "I… I wish I could describe it to you. The valley. The sky—and its colors!"
"Aye, love," he intoned, only half listening to her rambling words. He made her sit on the edge of the bed so he could pull off her boots. She had started getting a little glassy-eyed towards the end of supper, and he had declared it was time for bed, guiding her to the room he had been given. He got her out of the last of her armor while she babbled on.
"I saw Tsun, the brother of Stuhn. I didn't see him, Stuhn that is, but I know I felt his presence during the battle. But Tsun was guarding the bridge to the Hall of Valor. Oh! The Hall—Vorstag, you should see it! All the rooms. All the heroes…"
He continued to listen to her describe the sights and food and singing, while he removed his own armor.
"There's room after room of long tables filled to overflowing with food and feasting heroes. I didn't go too far, the people I was looking for were in the first room. I had to take a peek into the next room, however, and I saw…" she paused, taking a moment to bite her lip in an effort to hold back her tears.
"Let it out, Gerhild," he advised, sitting down next to her to kick off his own boots. She didn't respond right away, wrapping her arms around herself and scrunching into a tight little ball. He sighed and looped an arm across her shoulders, but she apparently didn't or couldn't notice him. Not giving up, he leaned back against the wall, pulling her with, his large warms hands stroking her side. "What did you see?"
She unwound just enough to curl up against him, the top of her head tucked beneath his chin, the fingers of one hand bunching the fabric of his sleeveless under tunic. "I saw… Mama… and Papa…" Her voice was small, as if she was a little girl once more, staring with adoring eyes at her infallible parents. "She was just as beautiful as I remembered her, as if the fire never touched her. And Papa! He was whole, like I'd never seen him, no scars, no limp. They were happy to see me." She paused to give a little laugh. "I told them they were grandparents, and… Oh! Hamming!"
Vorstag lifted his head to glance at the basket their son was using for a bed. Hamming was quiet, tucked safe and warm across the other side of the room. "Hush, love, he's still asleep."
"No, not our son—his namesake," she lifted her head to look at Vorstag, but her eyes didn't see him so much as they saw her memory of Sovngarde. "Your friend, Hamming. I saw him in the Hall of Valor, too. I know I've never met him, but as soon as I saw him, I knew who he was. He wanted me to tell you something…" her voice grew strange, quiet, almost trancelike as if she had to fight to remember, "It was important… to him… he wanted you to know he never meant to leave you alone…"
Vorstag couldn't breathe. Though he was glad that his friend had made it to Sovngarde, hearing Hamming's message brought back far too many painful memories. It took several heartbeats before he could re-inflate his lungs, and a few more staggered breaths before he realized she had remained oblivious to his reaction and had continued talking.
"…a few others in the valley, mostly faces I remember from the war. There was one, a Nord in a Legionnaire uniform—I thought I should know him. He seemed to remember me, but he was confused. Oh, and Ogmund was there, only he wasn't in the Hall of Valor…" her voice trailed off as her brow scrunched. "He was also lost in the mist, the fog that Alduin created to cover the valley. Every soul trapped by that mist seemed to be confused, lost mentally as well as physically. I tried to get him to follow me—I tried to get all the lost souls to follow me—but Alduin was hunting them, and they kept scattering whenever they'd hear the dragon coming." She inhaled sharply and gripped his tunic once more. "Kodlak!"
"Kodlak?" Vorstag repeated. The name was familiar, but Gerhild traveled so much and knew so many people, it was hard for him to keep track.
"Aye, Kodlak. You remember him? He was Harbinger of the Companions before Vilkas. A good friend, like a father to me, or a grandfather. I saw him in the mist earlier, but later when the heroes and I started attacking Alduin, he came to help fight. A lot of the lost Nords came to help; I suppose as the mist cleared, so did their minds. Maybe Ogmund fought, too, I'm not sure. And I think… I think Maeganna came, as well, from the Hall, but…" Her words broke off suddenly, her face falling to hide against his warm chest, her words muffled by fabric and groaning under the weight of frustration. "Stuhn's Shield, but I… I'm losing it. I had it all clearly in my head just a few hours ago, remembered it so well, but now it's fading…"
"Let it," he said softly, caressing her spine, encouraging her to let go and relax. "Let it fade. Leave the dead to their feasting in Sovngarde. We'll be there soon enough." He kissed the top of her head, her intricately braided hair smelling of her unique scent: feminine sweat and lavender soap and dragon blood. "You're alive and victorious… and back with me."
"Aye," she sighed, the single word holding a mountain of longing, her emotions mercurial. "Oh, my love, I'm tired. I want to go home."
"To Riverwood? Don't think they're done fixing the house, yet."
She made a small mewl of protest. "Then I suppose we'll have to go to Whiterun. Only I don't want to take the time traveling there. I want to be home right now."
"Right now?" he asked. "That seems kinda hard to do. We don't have our horses, so we'll have to travel on foot. It'll take at least a day to reach Ivarstead, then a good week, maybe two, to reach Riverwood…"
She waved his concern aside. "I can call a dragon and get us there in a few hours."
"Tonight?" he asked, not sounding at all enthused. The flight on the back of Odahviing was stressful enough; he didn't want to repeat the experience.
"Well," she playfully turned her head and nipped him through his tunic, "Maybe in the morning."
"Hey!" he laughed, trying to move his skin out of reach of her teeth. Aye, he could see her emotions were still swinging wildly. "What was that for?"
"I've been gone a week."
"It's only been one day," he argued, staring into the depths of her midnight blue eyes.
"Aye, fine, for you, but for me it's felt like a week. And…" she arched her body pleasantly against his, "I've missed you."
"I, ah," he cleared his throat, "I've missed you, too."
"Have you?" she asked, the two words sounding both wanton and challenging.
Vorstag cleared his throat again, feeling things beginning to thicken up. "Aye. You sure you're up to this? A moment ago, you seemed on the verge of exhaustion…"
She kissed him. It was strong, a pressure of lips against lips, but immobile, no movement against his mouth, no tongue demanding entrance. It was merely a meeting of flesh and skin. After a moment she inhaled deeply through her nostrils, seeming to take in the scent of him, as if filling her lungs with his essence.
When she pulled back and looked down at him, he really couldn't have said why in Oblivion he had been stalling.
She gripped the front of his tunic in her hands and pulled it out of his belted leggings. She all but ducked her head into the shirt, delving beneath the fabric, while her fingers ran over his skin, circling his navel, combing his chest hair, lightly pinching.
He moaned.
"Shh," she whispered as softly as a butterfly's wings, an impish smile tugging at one corner of her mouth. "Don't wake the baby."
Don't wake the baby, he thought to himself. That was easy for her to say; she hardly ever made any noise louder than the soft mewl of a kitten. He, however, sometimes found himself gasping during sex, especially if that moment came upon him suddenly. He grit his teeth in an effort not to make a sound as her tongue joined her fingers.
Fuck this, he again thought to himself. If she wanted sex, he'd give her a night to remember.
Vorstag grabbed her wrists and pulled them to the sides, away from his tingling skin. He planted her hands very firmly on the bed, her body kneeling above his, his thin-lipped expression warning her to keep her hands where he left them. Her eyes widened with innocence, trying to promise she'd behave and do what he asked, but he didn't believe her. If she moved, he would have to deal with her. Until then…
He touched her. He touched her with the hands of a master, the hands of a man who owned her under the authority of the law of love. He possessed the feel of her, the milkiness of her skin, the steady throb of a pulse at her throat, the heavy weight of her dangling above him, the softness of her firm abdomen. He pulled her tunic upwards toward her shoulders, revealing the flesh he knew better than his own. Though there was evidence on the fabric of an injury or two, the body underneath was as whole and smooth as before she left, a fact he found reassuring. It was a comfort knowing she had several Nordic heroes fighting by her side, that she hadn't been alone against Alduin as he had feared—but he wished he could have known that at the time.
He pushed away the last thoughts of the battle. It was over, her doom completed. Her life was now her own—free to be spent with him. Very reverently he unclasped her amulet of Stendarr, sending yet another silent prayer of thanksgiving, unable to count the number of times that her god, Stuhn, had saved her—saved them both! He set the amulet carefully on the trunk and turned back to focus completely on her.
He craned his neck to take in the tip of one milky orb, her sensitivity in a heightened state. He held it within the warmth of his mouth, flicked his tongue back and forth across it, massaged it with his lips. He felt her tremble, her elbows nearly buckling, but for now she remained kneeling over him. He pulled off of one and allowed himself a brief, though satisfied smile, as he moved to the other.
Again he felt her reaction, a deep breath, her chest expanding and dropping a little more onto his face. His hands held the sides of her ribcage, his fingers stroking her heated skin, his thumbs beneath her chest. When he pulled off and blew cool air across the wet skin, his hands were there to support her and keep her from collapsing onto him.
She shuddered, unable to control her body, fully beneath his spell. That he knew her so intimately was something she never disputed, but it always amazed her how easily he could assert his ownership. At that moment, she couldn't realize just how much the ownership was reciprocated—how deeply she owned him heart and body and soul—she was too far gone, lost in his touches as much as those souls had been lost in the mists of Sovngarde. Her arms buckled, her strength swept away before the force of his love, but he supported her, holding her above him even as he proved himself the master.
By the Nine, but she loved this man.
Having given that one area due attention, his aim moved lower. He started at her cleavage, the tip of his tongue leaving a long wet trail over her skin all the way to her navel. She twitched. It was a slight reaction, barely noticeable, but he knew her so intimately by now that he could tell she'd held back a giggle over being tickled. He thought about tormenting her that way, but didn't want to take the chance of her making too much noise and waking the baby. He left her navel and continued onwards and downwards.
He had slid along beneath her body until his face was looking up at her. The impish smile was now on his lips, as he began undoing the fastenings holding her leggings in place. She panted, once, as if she wanted to ask a question but at the last moment stopped herself. His smile turned into that shit-eating grin as he finished with her belt and pulled it free. Then slowly, so slowly he was sure she felt every inch of skin being touched, every minute change in pressure from his fingers, he began to peel back her leggings.
He wasn't able to go far, her legs spread to either side of his shoulders, but he got far enough for his purposes. He slid around her contours, his heart giving a momentary twinge at the scars she still bore. He ignored them as always, loving HER and not her skin, until the waistband of her leggings was stretched tight across her thighs. Above him lay the patch of dark golden hair, so ripe and primed, like a field of wheat ready for harvest. He could smell her arousal, even if he hadn't seen the moisture. One hand gripped her hip to steady her while the other…
Again there was that heavy breath, that voiceless sigh, her body leaning into him, wanting more. He withheld any more for now, stroking her, his agile fingers running along her skin, spreading her desire to cool in the air.
She barely kept herself from moaning, the feel of his fingers so satisfying while at the same time frustrating. She loved what he was doing, but she wanted so much more. She felt empty inside, hollow and bare and she KNEW he could fill her, he could complete her, he could drive away the emptiness and make her whole. She tried, she honestly tried to kneel there above him and trust and wait and endure…
Deftly his fingertips swept upwards, brushing against that secret place, that outer core, that hub of sensitivity. She shuddered, her breath staggered, and her elbows at last gave out. She collapsed face first into the mattress, threatening to suffocate him beneath her, her thighs still held fast together by her leggings. He rolled her off of him, chuckling softly and ignoring her indignant huff over being treated so roughly.
He continued to roll her until she was once more facedown on the sheets and pillows. She turned her face to stare at him, one golden eyebrow lifting questioningly, but he only smiled in response. Then he moved slowly, on his hands and knees, behind her out of sight.
By the Nine, but he loved this woman, this treasure, this miracle. Never in his life had he imagined that he would find a woman so rare, who would love him as fully as he loved her. Yet it happened. Though it had been a long journey, painful, dangerous, and with more than its fair share of frustration—he now held her heart in his hands. He cradled it gently, protected if fiercely, gave it room to grow and a safe haven during the storms. Exactly how he had succeeded was still a mystery, but the fact was obvious: Gerhild loved him. And he did his best every day to be worthy of her love.
He sat across her lower back, keeping most of his weight off of her, and leaned forwards. Again he faced her scars, the reminders she kept of her hatred for the Thalmor. A jumbled mass of lines crisscrossed her back, from just beneath her shoulder blades to—he knew—partway down her thighs. As always he ignored them, refused to trace them, denied them a part in their life together. Instead his hands started at her shoulders, rubbing and kneading tired and overtaxed muscles, working out knots of tension, easing the exhaustive trembling into stillness. He watched her closely, saw her close her eyes, felt her take a deep breath, heard her purr like a large cat.
"You falling asleep?" he asked softly.
"No." Her voice was muffled by and mumbled into the pillows, but he could see the corner of one eye crinkle slightly. "You're not getting off that easy."
He chuckled soundlessly. He truly did love her with all his being.
Gerhild had lain there, like clay in his hands, her whole being coming into existence at his touch. The only issue was her scars: every mark, every ridge, every line and curve stood out not because she felt them, not because he felt them, but because she DIDN'T feel. Each smooth expanse of pale flesh was a nerveless inverted groove that blatantly left her momentarily untouched. And she hated it. She jealously hated every minutiae of sensation her scars stole from her, every featherlight touch, every gentle caress, every warm pressure of her husband's hands. And the worst part was: she could not blame the Thalmor for it. Aye, they had given her the scars, but she had kept them. She could have—should have—gotten rid of the scars long ago, but she had stubbornly, foolishly insisted on keeping them.
Well, it wasn't too late.
With her mind made up, she was able to relax, still not as completely as she wanted, but far enough for the tension to ease, for the memories of battle to fade, for the adrenaline to bleed away. When he asked her if she was falling asleep, she heard a playful tone to his voice. She could just imagine the boyish grin stretching his thin lips, and had to fight the impulse to twist beneath him and seize those lips for a kiss.
Vorstag's touch changed, moving away from massaging and towards caressing. His calloused fingers were tender as they roamed over her skin, dipping along her ribs to brush against her side, sliding up her spine to tickle a few loose hairs at the nape of her neck, delving towards the small of her back and lower, stroking himself in the process. She wiggled suggestively, her eyes still closed but a flirtatious dimple marring one perfect cheek.
He obliged. Shifting backwards, he took hold of her waistband and finished pulling her leggings off, revealing her long and graceful limbs. Toned muscle flexed and bunched beneath him as she tried to stay still—however badly she wanted to switch their positions and straddle him. He figured he could hold her off for a little while longer, though he wasn't going to last too long himself. Only slightly clumsily he kicked out of his own leggings, shaking the bed and making her look back at him curiously.
He shrugged and climbed back up behind her.
Her brow scrunched and her lips parted, asking a silent question, wondering what he was up to. He didn't answer, not verbally at any rate, but settled his weight along her body, spooning her from above, his breath hot against her neck. One of his hands wormed its way between her stomach and the bed, the fingers reaching her navel, stroking downwards, the going slow due to the lack of space. She tried to lift herself up and give him more room, but his weight kept her pinned, his body refusing to give her any leeway. Giving up, she lay still once more, her eyes closed and focused on what he was doing.
He was swelling against her, poking at her from behind. Briefly she wondered if he was going to attempt something new that night, but her concern was unwarranted. A moment later and he pressed his legs down between hers, spreading her open, angling his hips so he could reach a better target. When his fingers, still assailing her from the front, at last came to that tiny bud of pleasure, she shuddered. He took that as his signal to finally slide himself home.
He heard her silent moan when he sheathed his dagger, and inhaled the unique scent of her as sweat began to bead across her skin. He pressed his nose into her tightly braided hair, his mouth open to fan his breath across the back of her ear. He wasn't going to be able to do this for long, pinning her as he was, impaling her yielding flesh, taking her from behind as if he was using a different orifice. He strangled the groan in his throat and tried to hold off, tried to think of something else as his fingers danced and teased and brought her towards…
Their bodies were pressed so close together, it came over them almost as one. She reached it a fraction of a moment sooner, that unmaking, that rebirth. Her body shook violently, rocking against him, drawing him in even further, trembling and convulsing around him, bringing him to that moment when emotions became physical. He gasped—damn it—and forced his mouth against her neck, trying to suffocate his sounds against her heated skin as he mindlessly spent himself within her.
At last their bodies grew still, skin slicked with sweat, muscles lax after exertion, hearts pounding like hoofbeats, lungs gasping for a steady breath. Vorstag barely managed to roll their bodies to the side, not wanting to suffocate her, but still wanting to remain with her, within her, a part of her and her a part of him. He closed his eyes, sated for the moment, and idly allowed his fingers to stroke and pet her sweat-slicked skin.
Gerhild gave a breathy, soundless laugh. "You want to go again? So soon?"
He hummed into her hair. "Aye, love, I'm not satisfied yet."
"Neither am I," she sighed, her hand slipping behind her to find his coarse, short hairs. She felt his abdominals clench, the muscles strong and well defined, as her fingers played across his skin. An idea came over her, one that caused that marring little dimple to reappear on her cheek. The first round had been all him, all his ideas and touches and ministrations. Now it was her turn.
She pulled forward out of his arms, heard his small sound of protest, and saw the boyish pout on his lips. She kissed the pout away, tweaked his nose for good measure, and made him lie on his front.
Vorstag was built like a mountain, all massive muscle and controlled strength. She loved that about him—she loved so many things about him: his gentleness despite his size, his acceptance of what he couldn't change, his acceptance of her and her little quirks and idiosyncrasies. He never forced her to be something she wasn't, never made her out to be more than she was, never turned away out of fear or disgust. He was her mountain, her anchor, her love.
And how she had ever been so blessed to have him in her life would forever be a mystery to her.
Her hands splayed out over his back, feeling his muscles taut beneath his skin. She wanted to sit there and count the freckles across his shoulders; she wanted to lie over his form and feel him supporting her. It seemed so long since the last time they were together—the night before capturing Odahviing—because so much had happened from her perspective. She had missed him so much it hurt.
Much to her chagrin, a tear slipped past her lashes, trailed down the roundness of her cheek, and dripped onto his back. She stared at it reproachfully, wanting to scold it, wanting to take it back and make it disappear. The teardrop, towards the edge of one shoulder blade, sat there and merely reflected the candlelight, without malice or intent. It simply existed.
She was sure Vorstag must have felt it, but he made no reaction. Thinking the tear might go unnoticed if she ignored it, she bent over him and kissed the salty drop away. As she did so, more tears escaped from her closed eyes.
Now he moved. Now he rolled over to face her, though her eyes remained squeezed shut. Now his lips kissed her cheeks, kissed away the bitter evidence of her weakness…
Now his arms enveloped her and protected her and supported her.
"I don't know why I'm crying," she whispered, due in part to her emotions, and in part to not wanting to wake Hamming.
"Doesn't matter," he breathed into her hair.
And there it was: his acceptance. Forever and always, like a mountain. No matter how far she went, or how long she was away, her mountain would always be there for her, waiting for her return, ready to love her and accept her and complete her.
When her tears dried, she realized that his fingers were in her hair, that they had been working her braids out for some time. She continued to lay there, sprawled across his chest, as he finished freeing the last of the dark golden strands. His fingers were tender, loving, as they combed the locks, spread them down her back to fall at her sides. The featherlight ends tickled her, making her squirm, making her smile.
"You alright?" he hummed.
She gave the question serious consideration. Her emotions were still in turmoil, like a swift current flowing deeply beneath still waters. But there was nothing threatening to boil to the surface at that moment, "For now, I think."
Vorstag smiled, brushing an errant strand back from her face. She pushed herself up onto her hands and knees, and proclaimed, "I'd like to try that again."
His smile deepened, making her want to blush. Instead she punched him, playfully, on the thickest part of his bicep. He pouted again, also playfully, and rubbed the spot like it was very sore already. She rolled her eyes and leaned over to kiss it. His skin was slightly salty, the sweat from earlier dried and leaving behind the thirsty taste. She lifted her face up only a little as she whispered, "Your turn to lie still…"
Hours later, they at last lay sated in a jumbled mess of limbs and sweat and rumbled bedclothes. His head was heavy across her stomach, her fingers combing his hair, in a near perfect reversal of their earlier positions. Indeed, her fingers began to idly play with a long lock about a finger's worth in thickness, toying with braiding the strand. She remembered how lanky and oily his hair looked when they first met, before she convinced him of the benefits of regular bathing. Now he had a thick mane of dark brown hair, healthy and soft and surprisingly easy to braid. Briefly she wondered why he didn't wear any braids, as most Nord men, instead leaving his hair long and free. There was so much about him she didn't understand, like why he kept the scars from the troll…
"I want to go to Riften."
Vorstag was surprised enough to lift his head, pulling his hair—and the half-finished braid—from her fingers. "What was that?"
"I…" she licked her lips, but though she couldn't have said where those words had come from, or why she had said them, she knew they were the absolute truth. "I want to go to Riften. It's time. It's past time. I need the scars to be gone. Now."
He wanted to ask her if she was sure. He wanted to know that this was honest and not some wayward impulse of her continuous emotional upheaval. Looking into her deep blue eyes, however, was all the answer he needed. "Alright, but in the morning. And we go to Riverwood first. Drop Hamming off with Gerdur and Ralof, or even Lydia in Whiterun."
"You don't want to take him with us? Afraid he might follow in his father's footsteps and get a tattoo?" she teased.
Vorstag didn't answer verbally. Instead his fingers dove mercilessly into her sides, making her laugh and buck and twist…
Hamming woke up.
"You woke the babe."
"I…?" Gerhild sputtered, trying to stifle her laughter, "You… he… it was…"
"Your turn anyway, to take care of him." He rolled off of her with a grunt and pulled the pelts up over his shoulder.
Hamming wasn't crying outright, but he was fussing, and the fussing was getting louder the longer he was ignored.
She pushed herself up onto her hands, staring down in disbelief at her husband. "My turn?"
"Aye," he deadpanned, adding a yawn for good measure, "You've missed a whole week with him, remember? That's a lot to make up for."
"But I…" She looked over at Hamming, and could see him moving beneath his blankets. The babe's fussing was getting more insistent, and would soon be loud enough to wake the Greybeards if she didn't attend to him quickly. "It was just a day…" She looked back at Vorstag, but his eyes were closed and his face reposed as if he were already asleep. Then she saw the corner of his mouth twitch.
"You… you… oh!" she huffed, but it was without heat, as she found herself more than willing to attend to their son. Hard pressed not to laugh over the silliness of the situation, she eagerly left the bed and approached Hamming's basket. She sighed as she lifted him into her arms, cooed as she cradled him, and smiled while she rocked him back to sleep. For the first time in a long time—perhaps ever!—Gerhild was content.