AN: Hello hi, apologies as always for being gone so long, hope I haven't lost too many of you with the wait. As I've said before, I won't abandon this, I just find prompt collections in a different tense a bit easier to write these days, but anyway. This chapter gets a bit steamy again, and I'm hoping I've improved a bit since the last one (only way to get better is to practise I guess) so feel free to let me know what you think~


Chapter Twenty Seven

heat and temper

"Just how long do you intend to stew yourself in that tub?"

Dalla stirred with a yawn, opening one bleary eye to find Vilkas had returned, closing the door to their room behind him. She stretched her arms above her head, savouring the feeling of clean skin as warm droplets landed on her nose.

"As long as the water remains warm," she murmured, settling back in the tub. "Did you learn anything?"

"Nothing of substance," he sighed, pulling at the straps of his cuirass. He'd been eager for news and an ale the moment they'd reached the inn, whereas Dalla had wanted nothing more than a hot bath. In truth it was her second, the first had taken little time to turn murky with the grime she scrubbed from her hair.

"Mostly rumours," Vilkas continued. "The war is ongoing, there's some nonsense about a spectre at the barrow, complaints of bears. They all seemed more interested in hearing me talk about the damned Greybeards."

"And what did you tell them?"

"Nothing they wanted to hear," he replied with a satisfied snort. "A dull group of old men, praying in a dull monastery. The truth, in a manner of speaking."

She frowned slightly, but said nothing, causing Vilkas to chuckle.

"Would you rather I reveal their secrets?" he teased, lowering himself onto the stool beside her tub. He'd stripped to his shirt and breeches, the pieces of his armour bundled neatly against the wall.

"Something a little less dismissive might have been kinder," she suggested, receiving a scoff in return. "Of course I wouldn't want them knowing… everything."

The innkeeper had been pleasant enough, if a little surprised to see their return – "Been gone so long, thought perhaps you'd gotten lost" – quickly recovering to offer a hot meal and a room before either had the chance to ask.

"Aye," Vilkas agreed. "Probably best to keep that to ourselves for the time being." He hesitated. "So long as you can control it."

"As much as anyone can control what they say," she replied irritably. "I don't see anyone else uncontrollably spitting out words in a language they don't really understand."

"I meant nothing by it, love," he soothed. "I just, I don't understand it."

"I don't entirely either," Dalla sighed, sinking lower beneath the water. "So much has changed. I don't feel ready for it, but I don't know what else there is to be done."

"We'll worry about each step as it comes. For now, savour the bath while you can."

She gave him a sidelong look, a smile tugging at her lips.

"It wouldn't hurt for you to have one too."

His brow rose.

"Are you implying that I am unclean?"

"Not at all," she laughed, "but a bath is much more enjoyable than a basin."

"Perhaps," he replied slowly, eyes fixed on hers in a way that made her far too aware of her bare skin. A pleasant flutter tickled down her spine as his gaze wandered along her body.

"Are you sure you don't want to join me?"

"Somehow I doubt we'll both fit in that tub."

Despite his objection, his hand had found itself in the water, calloused fingertips skimming against the skin of her breast. Watching her reaction, he traced circles across her flesh, stirring a warmth in her belly that had nothing to do with the waters heat. Her breath caught as his thumb brushed her nipple.

Rising hurriedly to her knees, she eagerly brought her lips to his, arms circling his neck to pull him closer, wet breasts pressed to his chest. Water sloshed over the lip of the bath, but Dalla spared no thought for the mess, not with his hands on her, roaming the curves of her body, his fingers pressing down the small of her back. Gods it had been so long, seeming almost a lifetime ago. The monastery offered little to encourage intimacy, the end of each gruelling day bringing nothing more than the desire for sleep. But now, she needed him, and the way he clung to her suggested he needed the same.

His shirt now soaked, Vilkas tugged it over his head, tossing it aside before crushing her to his bare chest. Parting her lips with his tongue he kissed her, long and deep and savouring every moment. She was like butter in his hands, desperate for his touch, for his taste, heart pounding so hard that surely he felt it against his own.

The stool toppled over as he broke away and rose to his feet, discarding his breeches and stepping into the water.

He'd been right about the tub.

Dalla folded her legs awkwardly, pressing her back to the tubs edge to make room for him. A moment of impatient adjustments and she was in his lap, sighing in pleasure as she slid herself along the length of his cock. He growled into her ear, whispering filthy promises as he grasped her thighs. Though his grip tightened, fingers digging into soft flesh, he let her set the pace, each slow roll of her hips bringing her closer to taking him in. He groaned with every stroke, as she teased at the tip before sliding back down. In retaliation he turned his attention to her breast, claiming her nipple between his teeth as his tongue drew a breathy moan from her throat. Stubble prickling against her tender skin, his mouth closed around it, lips tight as he tugged it with a wet smack. Apparently satisfied, he turned to the other, quieting her soft sound of protest as his thumb took over where his tongue had left off. She could feel his lips curl against her flesh, smile widening as her back arched and her fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him closer.

Finally she let him in, slowly sinking onto his cock until he filled her. She bit her lip as she adjusted to his size, slowly building the pace as the discomfit faded into pleasure. His hands returned to her thighs, his mouth finally abandoning her breasts to mark a hot trail of kisses up her throat.

"Gods I've missed you," he purred.

Fingers clenched, he pulled her down hard to meet each thrust, her name a rasped mantra on his lips between each panting breath.

Taking hold of the bath edge, she matched his pace, grinding deliciously against his groin, heat building as he pushed her higher and higher. Legs quivering, insides fluttering she finally tumbled over the edge, riding out her climax with a cry. She collapsed against his chest a trembling mess, gasping as he continued to thrust. It was too much, sensations prickling across her skin like an electric pulse. She buried her face in his neck, teeth clenched. He followed soon after, holding her close as he came with a hoarse groan.

Both finally sated, breath still shaking, Vilkas kissed her, pushing her wet hair back from her face. His hands were warm against her skin, rough pads stroking her temples.

Slowly her breathing calmed, and with one last sigh she lifted herself off of him, settling back into his lap. Gently, she touched the deep scar on his shoulder. In a way she supposed that wound had been the spark that ignited the fire between them, on that long ago night she'd truly feared for the first time that he wouldn't return home alive, and perhaps worse, just what that would have meant to her.

"Where are your thoughts?" he asked softly, looking down at the fingers still pressed to his shoulder.

"The past."

"Huh," he grunted. "Odd, when the present is so much sweeter."

"Perhaps," she laughed, as he ran his hands sluggishly down her back.

Warm and wholly satisfied she leaned into his chest, closed her eyes, and found herself agreeing with him.


They departed at first light, just as the sun peeked out above the distant mountains, reaching golden fingers across the surface of the lake. It would take some time before its warmth spread, but in comparison to the sharp chill of High Hrothgar, the climate could be considered quite pleasant.

Her furs bundled with her pack on Ally's saddle, Dalla nudged her into motion, the horse appearing to share her appreciation for the warmer weather, stepping forward with her ears raised and a whinny. Vilkas strode beside her on foot as always. He had perhaps been the most eager to leave the monastery behind, his mood rising with every step. Now, however, it seemed his tension had returned, face dark and his thoughts apparently elsewhere. Though he didn't appear to be aware of it himself, Dalla took note of the way his hands flexed tightly.

The day passed uneventfully, the road mostly empty. They passed a merchant on horseback before midday, the mercenary stalking ahead of him offering a curt nod while the merchant himself barely acknowledged them. The only other traveller was a farmer headed to Windhelm, whom they overtook perhaps an hour before stopping to make camp for the night in the shelter of a small copse.

As the sun set it took the warmth with it, the sky above glinting with the nights first stars. Dalla found a small part of herself missing the monastery; grey and draughty as it was, at the very least it was a roof above her head. She couldn't deny the beauty of the sky sprawled with stars, moonlight filtering through the cover of trees, but given the choice she would always pick the roof and a warm bed.

She took first watch, sitting with her back to a tree as Vilkas settled into his bedroll. The night passed much like the day, the quiet broken only by the snuffling of Ally as she grazed, and the occasional mutter from Vilkas, talking in his sleep. The words were too slurred to make out, but his tone was clearly agitated. Caught in a bad dream, perhaps.

He was quiet the next morning. Again he seemed preoccupied, barely responding with more than a grunt, absently muttering in agreement when Dalla suggested that the weather was so fine they might as well continue their journey without clothes.

"All right," she said at last, pulling Ally to a halt. "What is it?"

"Hm? What's what?"

"Your mood. You've been brooding all day, barely paying attention to anything I've said."

He had the decency to look uncomfortable, glancing away from her stare.

"Nothing, love."

He would say no more, and Dalla had no choice but to continue with a sigh. She soon forgot his sullenness when Whiterun came into view on the horizon, Dragon's Reach proudly surveying the plains. The scent of wildflowers caught on the breeze, and more strongly than ever she longed for the comfort of home. Tilma would be setting out lunch by now, scolding Torvar for making a drunken mess of the table, and refusing offers of help from Farkas. The thought brought a smile to her lips, and she almost found herself heading for the gate. She halted Ally suddenly, who gave an irritated snort, and turned to look back at Vilkas.

His earlier mood was even more apparent than before, his arms held stiffly by his sides.

"There's still time before dusk, love," was all he said, avoiding her eyes and Whiterun both.

She hadn't expected the lure of home to hit her so hard, pulling at her heart like a fisherman's line. There was little doubt that Vilkas would be happy to forget the whole thing, return home and pretend like nothing had happened. But Dalla could no longer do that. She'd made the choice to pursue this path, hadn't she? Despite her own limitations, she had made it this far; she wouldn't turn away now.

With one last longing look towards the gate, she nudged Ally forward.

The swiftest way to Ustengrav, they'd discovered, was to pass Whiterun and continue west, before turning north to cut through the mountains separating the plains from Hjaalmarch. Despite this, Vilkas had insisted that the mountains were too dangerous. There were strange ruins in that pass, riddled with trolls and a strange atmosphere that had set his hair on end. After poring over the maps, they had decided instead to pass north of Whiterun, journey through the Pale and approach Ustengrav from the east. Slower, perhaps, but there was a road to follow most of the way, and nothing more dangerous than ice spiders if they were lucky. Dalla wasn't fond of the prospect of returning to the cold, but it seemed there was little choice.

It felt odd, having home so near and yet out of reach; the familiarity of the air, the yellow clad guards nodding – "Companion" – as they patrolled the road. The Battleborn farm seemed unchanged, the cows chewing their cud passively, paying them no mind as they passed.

By the afternoon Whiterun was well behind them. Ahead lay a small farmstead, a horse and cart stopped on the road. Dalla's eye was immediately drawn to the man standing beside the cart, kicking at it irritably and talking quite loudly to himself. Absurdly, he appeared to be dressed as a jester of all things, the twin tails on his patchwork hat swinging as he assaulted the wagon.

"Argh! Bother and befuddle! Stuck here, stuck!" he shrieked, apparently yet to notice them.

Vilkas watched the stranger warily, his lip curled, attempting to nudge Ally as far to the other side of the road as possible.

"I think he needs help," Dalla whispered, starting at the look Vilkas shot her way.

"Leave him for the farmer to deal with," he growled. "He smells of trouble."

Biting her lip, she glanced back to the jester, now moaning pitifully under his breath.

"My mother, poor mother. Unmoving. At rest, but too still."

"Don't you think he would've-"

"Dalla." Vilkas' eyes flashed dangerously, the warning clear.

Something about the stranger seemed… off, truly, but she found she couldn't just ignore someone so clearly in distress, no matter how strange they her heels in, she ignored Vilkas' bark of protest as she approached the stranger. He finally turned, and she almost faltered when he met her gaze. Something about that smile and those glittering dark eyes made her skin crawl.

"Is- is there a problem?"

The smile slid off his face in an instant.

"Poor Cicero is stuck," he whined, "can't you see? I was transporting my dear, sweet mother. Well, not her. Her corpse." He giggled as Dalla's eyes darted to the cart, only now noticing the large crate it carried. "She's quite dead."

"What are you doing with a corpse, fool," Vilkas snarled, stepping between the stranger and Ally.

Though Dalla frowned at his back, wishing fruitlessly that he would snap out of whatever mood he was in, the jester met Vilkas' glare with an amused quirk to his lip, dark eyes shining.

"I'm taking mother to a new home. A new crypt. But…" He shrieked again suddenly, starting Vilkas and Dalla both. "Wagon wheel! Damndest wagon wheel! It broke, don't you see?"

He kicked it again, hat tails swaying.

"A sad tale," Vilkas drawled, reaching up for Ally's bridle, "but not our problem."

He fumbled as Dalla pulled Ally around, swearing loudly when she stubbornly asked Cicero if he was in need of help. Cicero ignored Vilkas completely, eyes on Dalla as he excitedly began to dance on the spot.

"Oh!" he cried, clapping his hands together. "Oh yes! Yes the kindly stranger can certainly help! Go to the farm – the Loreius Farm. Just over there, off the road." He pointed to the farmstead. "Talk to Loreius, he has tools. He can help me, but he won't. He refuses. Convince Loreius to fix my wheel! Do that, and poor Cicero will reward you, with coin! Gleamy, shiny coin!"

His shrill voice followed as they made their way to the farm, Vilkas fuming beside her.

"Godsdammit Dalla, you need to listen to me."

Stubbornly, she refused to look at him. "I can't just pass by when someone is in need of help. I thought you Companions of all people would understand that."

"Don't test me, love," he growled. "That demented fool is dangerous, whatever he is, and you know it. He frightens you."

"All the more reason to get him on his way then, rather than leaving him in front of this farm for someone else to deal with."

He said nothing, instead spitting onto the dirt with a scowl.

They found Loreius tending to his crops, straightening at the sound of Ally's hooves. He gave both a quizzical look as they approached, clearly in a foul mood.

"Hello there," Dalla called. "We don't mean to bother you, but that man down by the road? He needs help with his wheel."

Instantly the farmer's face soured, and he turned back to his crops.

"That Cicero feller?" he scoffed. "Tell me something I don't know. Crazy fool's already asked me about five times. Seems he's not satisfied with my answer. Why can't he just leave us alone?"

It was Dalla's turn to scowl, as Vilkas shot her a vexing look, brow raised as if to say, see? Lips pursed she ignored him again, turning back to Loreius and forcing a smile.

"He mentioned gold; I'm sure he'd be happy to pay you for your trouble."

"Pay me?" Loreius cried, and Dalla's smile faltered. "You think this is about money? Have you seen that man? He's completely out of his head. A jester? Here in Skyrim? Ain't been a merryman in these parts for a hundred years."

"He seems rather odd, yes, but-"

"And he's transporting some kind of box. Says it's a coffin, and he's going to bury his mother. Mother my eye. He could have anything in there. Weapons. Skooma. Ain't no way I'm getting involved in any of that."

"If that's your worry, set a guard on him," Vilkas muttered, earning another glare.

"Shall we not give him ideas, perhaps?" Dalla hissed, so quietly that only Vilkas' ear would catch her words. Praying for patience, she tried again.

"He's in need of help. Would you really turn away someone in need?"

"What? And just who in Mara's name are you anyway? Hmm? Come here, telling me business, and for what? To help a… a fool?"

"Watch how you speak to her," Vilkas warned quietly, turning to the farmer. Loreius seemed to only notice now just how large the Nord was, his eyes flicking to the great sword strapped to his back. Not entirely fond of his persuasion tactic, Dalla again tried to appeal with words.

"You know you should help, if for no other reason than to see him on his way."

Loreius glanced between the two of them, licking his lips nervously when he looked again at Vilkas' sword.

"Look, I… I… you're right."

Dalla sighed – to think a sword was more compelling than a plea for help – but was grateful nonetheless.

"You're right," Loreius continued, with a sigh of his own. "Feller might be nutters, might not. Fact is, he needs help. I turn him away, what kind of man am I, hm?"

He didn't wait for a reply.

"Look, um… thanks. And I'm sorry for my unneighbourly reaction." Another nervous glance at Vilkas. "If you talk to Cicero, you be sure and tell him I'll be down to help soon."

"I hope you're pleased with yourself," Vilkas murmured as they made their way back to the road.

"I could say as much to you," she replied, somewhat bitterly. "We'd have gotten nowhere if he didn't think there was a chance you'd cut him in two."

"If gold won't sway a man, not much else will."

"Must everything be resolved with bloodshed?" she muttered to herself, though she had no doubts he heard her.

They found Cicero where they'd left him, worriedly whimpering to himself again.

"Poor mother… her new home seems so very far…"

He looked up expectantly as they approached, his dark eyes intent on Dalla. She swallowed nervously, reaching for her braid.

"We spoke to Loreius, and he's agreed to help. He should be down shortly."

The jester smiled wide, practically bouncing on the spot.

"You did? He has? Oh stranger! You have made Cicero so happy! So jubilant and ecstatic! But more; my mother thanks you."

Dalla smiled nervously, again glancing at the crate – coffin? – on the cart. She wondered briefly if he was taking it to Falkreath.

"Here, here, for your troubles." He drew a small pouch from his belt, his grin stretching even wider. "Shiny, clinky gold!" He jiggled the pouch, as though for added affect. "A few coins for a kind deed."

"We don't want your gold, jester," Vilkas snapped. "Just be on your way once the wheel is fixed."

Grin still in place, Cicero looked to Vilkas. His smile no longer touched his eyes.

"What he means to say," Dalla interjected, resisting the urge to give her husband a sharp kick in the rump, "is that while we appreciate it, it isn't necessary. We wanted only to help."

She settled for a quick poke at the small of his back with the toe of her boot, earning a disgruntled frown. Cicero took no notice, returning the pouch to his belt.

"Well, thank you. I will wait for Loreius! Oh yes, mother and I will wait right here until he fixes our wheel."

With one last nervous glance at the jester, Dalla nudged Ally forward, leaving the strange man and his cart behind them.

They continued in silence, Vilkas' sullen mood unchanging, and Dalla's thoughts back with the jester. His dark eyes and shrill, sing-song voice seemed to be caught in her mind, even now unsettling her. She couldn't be sure she'd done the right thing, though it seemed right at the time. She didn't doubt Vilkas' instinct, nor even needed it to sense that something about the man was off. But still, he'd seemed harmless enough. Not that it mattered now, what was done was done. So long as Loreius kept his word.

By late afternoon they reached the edge of the Pale, the road ahead dusted with snow as it disappeared into the forest. Dalla stared with wide eyes at the camp just off the road, nestled beneath a rocky outcrop. A lone giant sat beside a roaring bonfire. It was her first time seeing one so close; it was even larger than she'd ever imagined.

Ally snorted, sensing her unease, and the giant looked up at the sound. She started at the touch against her knee.

"Easy, love," Vilkas murmured, eyes on the giant. "Keep your distance and they'll do you no harm."

Trembling hands clutching the reins, she was more than happy to do so, and before long it appeared to lose interest, turning its eyes to the pair of mammoth wandering near its camp. It wasn't until they'd followed the road into the trees, and the giant was out of sight that Dalla felt she could breathe again. She looked quizzically at Vilkas, who merely shrugged. All that fuss over a jester, yet the giant had barely fazed him.

"It'll only get colder from here," he said. "Best get those furs out again."

They followed the road a while longer – if it could even be considered a road, mostly buried in snow as it was, with only the occasional stone peeking through – before stopping to make camp. Dalla insisted on taking first watch again, despite Vilkas' objection. She didn't mention his foul mood, or the thought that some decent sleep might remedy it, but rendered him silent after accusing him of doubting her capabilities.

"I'll wake you the moment I think anything is amiss."

He met her gaze, jaw tight and an argument brewing before letting it go with a sigh, instead setting out his bedroll.

Again the night was quiet, the twin moons hung low and heavy above them. Huddled by the fire, Dalla watched until his breath slowed, chest rising and falling to a steady rhythm. It didn't last for long.

In the distance, a lone wolf sounded a long, mournful howl.