Chapter Twenty-Nine

Northwest of Morthal, surrounded by the swampland is a strange, ancient structure, the stones rotted by time, the purpose lost beneath the weight of forgotten memories. Some say it is the impenetrable burial mound of a primeval, pre-Nordic king. Some say it was once used to measure the time and seasons by marking the position of the sun. Some say it was part of a castle that fell into the swamp.

Falion called it a summoning circle, a place where the walls between realities fade, where doorways are opened and prehistoric, extraterrestrial powers can be used once more.

Vorstag didn't give a fuck what it was called, as long as it worked to cure Gerhild of vampirism. It was dawn, the sun just rising over the horizon. Gerhild stood alone within the circle, her Daedric armor swallowing the growing light. Falion, the mage in Morthal who did indeed study the undead, stood just without the ring of crumbling arches, his hands raised theatrically as he intoned some nonsense about Oblivion and souls. Vorstag was relegated to a place even further back, where he could do nothing but pace and chew his knuckle. He had been threatened with restraints until he promised not to interfere, no matter what happened or what he thought might happen. Listening to Falion's overly-dramatic summons, watching Gerhild sway as she felt the rays of the sun touch her, not knowing what was going to happen next…

Vorstag drew blood, the little red drops looking brown in the early light.

Suddenly a sphere of blackness engulfed her, pulling her from sight. She cried out, and as swiftly as it came it was gone. Then she was falling… falling to her knees… slumping over to collapse to the stones… spinning through a void…

"It is done!" Falion proclaimed, dropping his arms. "You can approach her now."

Vorstag was already pushing past him, having started forward as soon as she cried out—promise or no promise! He caught her as she crumbled to the ground, his strong arms supporting her, bringing her onto his lap. "Gerhild?" he whispered, tugging off her helmet, no longer caring if Falion recognized her. As it happened the mage had already turned to leave, his work done and wanting nothing more to do with them.

"Gerhild?" he called again, a little louder. Finally remembering they weren't alone, he glanced around and spied Falion returning to Morthal. The man wasn't running, but he was moving away as quickly as politeness allowed. Vorstag didn't care, dismissing him from his mind and focusing solely on what was most important.

"Gerhild?" He touched her cheek and felt the flesh was warm beneath his fingertips. He looked at her neck, and saw the slight fluttering of a pulse beneath her skin. He stroked it, fascinated, reveling in the feel of LIFE returned to his love.

He looked back up to her eyes, his touch reviving her. A tiny crease formed between her eyebrows, a soft mewl of protest breathed out between her lips. He bent over and kissed her, her bow-shaped lips responsive, her breath—she was breathing!—mingling with his. He felt more than heard the sigh of contentment hummed against him. When he leaned away, he watched in rapt attention as her eyelids fluttered open…

Deep violet pupils surrounded by a sea of white stared unfocused at the new day.

"I'd forgotten what it felt like, having to keep breathing."

He gave a small laugh, not really sure what was funny, more from relief than anything else. His fingertips were on her cheek, her lips, her nose, her eyebrows, everywhere at once and nowhere in particular. She blinked once more and her eyes focused on his face.

"Hi."

There was that impulse to laugh again. "Hi," he answered, and then added, "Happy birthday."

"What?" she asked, slightly confused, feeling like she had to kickstart her mind into gear. "Oh, it is the sixteenth of Mid Year, isn't it?" She blinked again. "Helluva birthday present you got me. Thank you."

Those two perfect dimples were there, marring her cheeks, and a twinkle of dawn light sparked in her eyes. He couldn't help it, the stress and worry and adrenaline and… everything… of the past few months draining away before those deep violet orbs. He laughed, lips pulling wide to flash his white teeth, an answering smile stretching her own lips.

He kissed her again. Her eyes closed, only to enjoy the sensation more. Her hand combed his hair, pulling it away from where it had gotten snagged in the corner of their kiss. It tickled, but he didn't stop kissing her, needing to taste her, needing to claim her as his own. It was her first kiss in her new life, and he wanted it to be perfect.

She had to break it off, however, a smile on her lips as she turned her head slightly. He pursued, but she brought her other hand up, pressing the cold Daedric gauntlet against his thin lips. "I need to breathe again, remember?"

"I'll be every breath you need," he vowed.

"What about food?" she asked, her eyes still sparkling.

"What?"

"I… I'm hungry," she announced, trying to sit up.

He laughed again, too joyous to even try to hold it inside. There really was no reason to suppress it; there was only the two of them. "If I had a kitchen, I'd cook you a feast." He helped her to her feet, still grinning and staring and so very thankful she was alive again.

She looked around them as she tugged off her gauntlets, trying to get used to normal vision again, her brow scrunched against the brightening sunlight and the distance. "There," she pointed with her chin to the southwest, her hands fumbling at her sides.

Vorstag turned away to follow her direction, and in the distance could see a fort, rising up on top of a small hill. "What's there?"

"Fort Snowhawk," she answered. "Should be garrisoned by Stormcloaks, now that the war is done. But most importantly," those impish dimples flashed again as he turned back towards her, "They have a kitchen."

"You really are hungry."

It wasn't a question, but she answered it anyway, "Aye." Gerhild finished undoing the last buckle and began working the cuirass open until she could shrug out of it.

"What are you doing?" he asked, a little alarmed. Quickly he looked around them, but no one was in sight, not even Falion.

"I… I've gotta get out of this armor," she answered. "I… don't like… the feel of it on my skin." She finally got the cuirass off, dropping it to the ground just within the circle of stones. She took a couple of steps until she could lean against one of the stronger looking pillars, bending over to work on her boots, her leggings stretching tight across her butt, her sleeveless tunic showing a little too much.

He practically groaned with frustration. She presented such a perfect target… but a quick and rough fuck out in the middle of a swamp was not how he wanted their reunion to culminate. A fort full of Stormcloaks wasn't ideal either, from a privacy standpoint, but it was a better option than dank and bug infested marshes. "You, ah, can't go walking around like that, ya know."

She stood still a moment, her eyes closed, one hand resting on the pillar, her bare toes squishing in the sulfureous muck. She hummed questioningly, her head tilted, as if she was listening to something.

He came up beside her, setting a hand on her shoulder. "Gerhild, is everything alright?"

She opened her eyes, and he was relieved to see they were still deep violet. He had feared, when she started acting strangely, that the cure didn't take or something went wrong. Seeing her eyes were normal at least, he set aside that worry. But something was the matter, her expression thoughtful and slightly bewildered.

"Aye," she answered him, "It's fine, I'm fine, just… different." Her eyes came back into focus, found him staring at her, his own eyes full of concern with a slight tinge of fear. She reached up to cup his cheek, stroking the swirls of his tattoo, trying to find a way to reassure him, to describe to him what she was feeling. "It's… my soul…"

He swallowed, "You did get it back, didn't you? I mean, you didn't end up with the soul from that black gem, or one of the dragons' souls…" he referred to the way they had tricked Falion. The mage had explained that they needed a soul, a human soul, to replace the one she lost when she was changed into a vampire. Her plan had been to ignore the soul from the black gem when Falion tried to craft it to her, and instead slip her own soul back into place. She had been confident she could accomplish it, and Vorstag had no choice but to trust her, yet it had sounded so risky.

"No, no," she assured him, "I got my own soul back. But… it's changed." Her voice trailed away, her thoughts deep as she considered this unanticipated complication.

"How 'changed'?" he asked. "I mean, you are still you, aren't you?" By the Nine, that wouldn't be right, to get her back only to find she wasn't herself any longer.

She nodded, "Fairly sure. But… it was trapped for so long, with those dragon souls, I think… I might've picked up a few… well, let's say my perspective may have changed a little." Her eyes focused on his face again, and she saw he didn't understand. "I've said before, my emotions have always been so strong, so overwhelming, that I've tried to deny them, bury them…"

"Aye," he interrupted her, "I think I've noticed that once or twice."

She gave him a small smile, "Well, that's what's changed. I… I don't know how else to explain it, but these emotions… I feel them… but they don't… they don't overwhelm… they don't control me… they don't scare me… Does this make any sense?"

He placed his hand over hers, only in part because her stroking was making his tattoo itch again. "Nope," he answered honestly, "Not one bit. But that's alright. I've never been able to understand everything about you—don't think I ever will—and I'm alright with that. Because I love you, I accept you, just the way you are."

Her smiled deepened, the love warming her heart. It didn't drown her like before, or maybe it did drown her, but this time she wasn't afraid of drowning. She mentally shook her head, not caring any longer to try to figure it out, to try to explain it—because he loved her. And she loved him. "Let's get going then. I'm starving, and the thought of you cooking me a feast is making my mouth water."

He rolled his eyes, "Gerhild, you can't go walking around in a sleeveless tunic, leggings, and bare feet," he pointed out.

She looked down at herself, a little startled to see his description of her appearance was correct. "Oh! Ah, where's my pack? I think I have a spare dress in there, and some soft boots."

Again he glanced around as she negligently stripped, but there was no one to see them, except maybe a mudcrab—it could've been a rock. He tried not to watch, digging around in his own pack for a bite of something to tide her over until later.

"You are so silly," she said lightly, coming up behind him and wrapping her arms around his waist. He was thankful to see they were covered in a light linen fabric of a soft blue. "You have seen me naked before, remember? And I'm fairly sure you'll see that again, in the near future."

Gods, the promise in that statement. "Aye, but if I keep watching you strip, it'll be sooner, not later. And this is no place for that. So," he reached over his shoulder and stuffed a chunk of cheese into her mouth, "I turned away before I lost control of myself."

She made a quiet noise around the mouthful, sounding interested, her hand coming up to catch the cheese that wouldn't fit into her mouth. "That's something I'd like to see," she said archly, bending over at the waist to pick up her pack before she started walking towards the fort, "Vorstag out of control."

He growled, playfully, and started after her. She laughed, quickening her pace to stay ahead of him. They chased each other all the way to the fort.

She was out of breath by the time they reached the front gate, her mouth opened wide for air as well as for her smile, what little she could inhale quickly escaped her through laughter. It was up to Vorstag to answer the guard's hail. "Good day! I'm Vorstag of Markarth. This is Lady Gerhild North-Wind…"

"Of Skyrim," a new voice finished. "Aye, I know her, and you."

The Captain of the fort walked out through the open archway, a large smile plastered on his face. Gerhild recognized him, but again it was Vorstag who answered, "Who are you, friend? You sound like someone I know, but…"

The man nodded, smiling warmly. He held out his hand as he said, "Name's Vidrald. I was with Avulstein when, well, he went to find his brother…" His voice trailed away, suddenly unsure if Vorstag would appreciate having such a memory brought to mind.

His own charming smile was all the encouragement Vidrald needed. "Aye, that explains why the voice is familiar, but not the face. Good to meet you, Vidrald." He took the offered forearm in the Nordic fashion, and everything was smoothed over.

"You're the Captain here?" Gerhild finally managed to speak, walking between the two men as they entered the courtyard.

"Aye," he answered, "For about three months now. Been working to repair the old fort, clean it up a bit, keep some of these lazy good-for-nothings occupied between wars." He looked at her askance, "So, what brings you two here?"

She slipped her arm around Vorstag's as they entered the main part of the building. "We're in need of a few supplies, and were in the area, so we decided to stop by."

"Oh? The fort is, of course, at your disposal, Lady Dragonborn. What do you need?" His voice said her title quietly, letting them know he knew...

Gerhild shrugged aside the subterfuge. Too many people were finding out her real identity, and she was beginning not to care any longer. "First," she tugged on Vorstag's arm, "A warm meal." He tugged back, pulling her off balance, but she quickly recovered. "Then, a room to spend the night. In the morning, we'll need horses and fresh supplies."

"Shouldn't be a problem," he dropped his voice, conscious of how sound echoed inside the stone hallways. "Could I ask, how did you get here? I mean, there's hardly any travel dust on you, yet you must've come quite a ways, unless you just came from Morthal, but I thought you had gone with the Dawnguard to fight the vampires…"

"Peace, Vidrald," she said, laying a hand on his forearm. "There are plenty of things I can't talk about, but I will tell you what I can, while Vorstag is cooking."

"You're not gonna let that go, are you?"

"A promise is a promise," she stubbornly teased. "I found you a kitchen; now you cook me a feast."

He grimaced and looked to Vidrald. "How many men do you have here?"

"Fifty, give or take," was the answer.

Vorstag grunted but shrugged. "Better get started then."

Gerhild and Vidrald sat at one of the wooden tables while Vorstag commandeered the hearth and pantry, and two assistants to help him cook. Though the fire was barely adequate to warm the stone walls of the vaulted room, it was sweltering right in front of the hearth. Before he started cooking, he set his helmet and gauntlets with his pack beside hers. At the end of the first hour, he stripped off his cuirass to join the rest of his armor. Inside the second hour, his padded under tunic followed.

Gerhild exchanged news with Vidrald, telling him about the vampires while he told her about recent happenings within the Hold. She tried to pay attention, truly she did, but Vorstag was distracting her again, damn it. After a while, Vidrald gave up and left, offering some excuse about overseeing the work on the west wall. She absently waved an acknowledgment, her head turning to watch Vorstag before Vidrald had stood up from the table.

She loved the play of the firelight against his skin. Tiny beads of sweat formed at his hairline, increasing until they grew too heavy, gravity taking hold and pulling them downwards. Like snowballs on a mountainside, the beads picked up more moisture as they rolled down his neck, across his shoulders, his arms and back. The waistband of his padded leggings was soaked, his hair matted to his scalp, but he continued to work, turning a haunch on the spit, stirring the contents of a pot, pulling away a sheet full of braided loaves of bread before they burned.

He tasted whatever was in one pot, made a face and went over to the pantry to quickly chop up some garlic and elves ear. As he returned he caught her eye, gave a small smile and a wink, but kept his focus on the food and directing his assistants. The smells were warm and comforting, filling her nostrils with a delicious aroma and making her stomach growl loudly with anticipation. But she remained sitting, content to rest after all they'd been through and simply watch him toil away the afternoon.

Supper couldn't have come fast enough, in everyone's opinion. As Vorstag served his tomato soup, cabbage stew, venison chops with thick gravy, and roasted pheasant with grilled leeks, he positively beamed with the cheers and praise coming from the starving masses. He also set out platters of goat cheese and braided bread, and on a sideboard several snowberry crostatas and a tray piled high with sweet rolls were waiting to be devoured for dessert.

Gerhild consumed her fair share, feeling like she had never eaten before in her life—which was almost true, if she thought about it. She saved a seat next to her for Vorstag, who finally got to sit down after half the food was already gone. He managed to fill his plate once, which he said was plenty because of all the tasting he'd done while cooking. As dessert was being devoured, several soldiers took turns standing up and performing for everyone's entertainment, singing, dancing, playing instruments—for once Vorstag declined to even get up and dance. It was a regular celebration, a party; and with Vorstag's arm around her waist, leaning back into his chest, Gerhild couldn't have been happier.

"Happy birthday," he whispered into her ear, ticking the hairs that had worked loose from her braid.

She smiled and squirmed a little, but grew confused when she didn't feel a reaction to her closeness. "Is everything alright?" she asked, looking up at him.

"Aye," he paused to sip at his mead, "Why do you ask?"

"I thought you might be too tired, after the night and the day we've had…" she ran her hand up his thigh, beneath the table and out of sight of the others, "It seems like you're, ya know, unable to get up…?"

He slammed his mug down on the table, nearly missing the edge. "Vidrald," he called out, motioning to the Captain with his free hand. "Vidrald, it's been a long day, and we're pretty tired. Where's that room you promised us?"

He almost managed to fight off the knowing smirk. "Down the passage there, on the left. Come on and I'll show you." He picked up their packs as Vorstag picked up his armor, Gerhild following at his side. "I'll give you my room for the night."

"Oh, there's no need for that," Gerhild tried to decline, "Just an extra storeroom with a couple of cots and a door would serve us well enough."

"No, I won't hear of it," he waved aside her objections. "Especially after all the two of you have been through. The room's private, with a stout door and a sturdy lock." She refrained from rolling her eyes; the man was painfully obtuse when it came to what he thought the two of them wanted a room for. Not that he was wrong, just fairly inept at hiding it. "I even had a bath prepared," he finished with a flourish, opening the door.

Aye, he was obvious. She wondered if they were obvious, too, but then decided she didn't care. "Thank you, Vidrald."

He set their packs down on a dresser and nodded before he left.

Vorstag dropped his armor in a corner, not caring about the noise or the mess. He stretched, his muscles straining beneath his skin and his joints popping, "Ah, gods, that feels good."

"Looks good, too," she hummed in agreement, slipping out of her soft boots.

"What was that?" he asked, turning around to face her. He saw her standing beside the copper tub, her hands behind her back as she undid the stays of her dress.

"I said," she took a step towards him, but staying near the tub, her eyes sweeping up and down his form, "That. Looks. Good."

Yup, there was no mistaking that hungry look in her eyes. Vorstag felt heat rush to his groin, and cursed the restriction there. With very little effort he kicked off his boots and stalked towards the bath, not bothering to get out of his leggings before he reached her. He claimed her mouth for his own, his hands behind her and pulling her into him, molding her form to his. She melted against his body, her arms snaking around his neck, keeping him close.

That scent was there. Not the lavender of the soap she preferred, or even her natural musky sweat, but the underlying smell of dragons. Gods, how he'd missed that particular smell, the danger and adrenaline it brought to mind. The fear and excitement. The woman. He hadn't been able to enjoy the smell of it while she had been a vampire, the uneasy scent of a fresh corpse or spilled blood had always blanketed her other scents. But it was back now, and with a vengeance, assailing his nostrils, filling his lungs, remarking him as her territory from the inside out.

Gerhild had her own senses assaulted by his scent, the vinous mixture of mead and juniper and leather and sweat. It was like a toxic gas, cutting off the oxygen to her brain and making her head spin. And it was addictive, reawakening a long-buried desire to have it nearby always in case she should ever need it…

His lips pulled away from hers, causing a little whimper of protest to escape her chest. He laughed softly, knowing she was his as surely as he was hers. His hands on her shoulders, his fingers bunching the loose fabric of her dress, he asked her again. "Marry me."

"Aye," she responded without hesitation. "But not tonight."

"Tomorrow."

She smiled, thinking she was being teased. "With no temple or priest? That would hardly be a wedding."

He thought about their plans, and amended, "As soon as we get to Whiterun, then."

This time she did hesitate. "You know how I feel about it, Vorstag," she laid a hand against his tattooed cheek.

"I'm not asking for babies," he pressed, "I'm only asking for you. Marry me. Give me your self, before any more time is wasted." He dropped down to his knees, his hands at her hips, "I'm begging you, Gerhild, please, just marry me for now. Later, after everything else, then we'll discuss children or whatever. But for the immediate future, for the next few months, while you and Eorlund make your Dragon armor, before you have to leave…" he stopped, not wanting to bring up Alduin tonight of all nights! "Please, give me that time, as husband and wife."

When he looked up at her like that, his eyes so soft a brown, his brows scrunched pleadingly, his thin lips wanting to pout like a little boy… "Aye," how could she say no? "We'll marry when we get to Whiterun."

The transformation was miraculous, the smile that spread across his face, the light in his eyes, the small cry of triumph. It was contagious, too, the joy spreading to her and making her laugh. He stood up, his hands still at her hips, lifting her with him, lifting her off her feet, spinning her around and around. She laughed again, unable and unwilling to hold the joy—the LOVE—inside.

She was bent over his head, her arms braced on his shoulders, her legs wrapping around his hips. Slowly he stopped spinning, though not from dizziness so much as from distraction, her body so tantalizingly near yet still covered by fabric. Looking up at her looking down at him, she took his breath away. He staggered; she giggled. He growled; she purred. The next moment he had her back to the wall, his hands delving beneath her skirts. Stuhn's Shield, this wasn't the way he wanted tonight to start, but it was either this, or he was going to soil his leggings.

"Vorstag…?"

He didn't answer verbally, wasn't sure he could form a coherent sound just then, his need building to the point of becoming painful. Whatever body language he spoke, she seemed to understand, not protesting or fighting him, but shifting between him and the wall to make for a better angle. For not the last time he blessed her propensity for forgoing small-clothes, and worked on freeing himself. The leggings were easy enough to shove down onto his hips; it was the codpiece beneath that gave him the most trouble. He felt her shudder with suppressed humor after the damn thing finally fell to the floor with a clatter. Next the loincloth was tugged to the side, and then he was thrusting home.

Gods, it felt so good, so right. How long had it been since that night on the Northern Maiden? A year? A year-and-a-half? The act was selfish—he knew it—but it could not be helped. Part of him felt guilty for rutting like an animal, like a stud after a bitch in heat, desperate and harsh and primal. He knew he'd make it up to her, was sure she knew it too, but that didn't affect the tidal wave of desire driving his actions.

The only saving grace was that it was over quickly. Perhaps too quickly, but he didn't let himself dwell on that, either. His motions staggered to a crawl, his sweaty face buried in her shoulder, too ashamed to look up and see her reaction.

"Don't…" she panted, and he became aware at last of her own movements, "…don't stop… ah… please…"

He knew that tone, had heard her beg him before, to touch, to kiss, to release the mounting passion. He started again, kissing her through her dress, one hand now between them at an awkward angle, but his fingers light and flitting across her skin. It didn't take long—apparently she was just as starved and frustrated as he had been—before she trembled around him, her whole body practically vibrating like an over-taut lute string that's been plucked too hard.

He heard the thud as her head struck the wall.

She wasn't hurt or even dazed, not from the blow anyway. Her body did feel overly warm, her dress heavy, her skin tingling with gooseflesh. Even with her eyes closed, even as she desperately tried to hold on to that glowing post-moment, she knew he was moving, shifting their bodies, setting her on her feet, supporting her in his arms.

"Gerhild?"

She made some small sound, still enjoying the buzzing in her head. At least she was keeping her feet.

"Sorry about that." His fingers were in her hair, digging through her braids, massaging her scalp, looking for any bumps or bleeding.

"Don't apologize. That was…" she paused to laugh at herself, "Well, in my limited experience, that was one of the better ones. It definitely felt good."

"Good?"

"Aye," she nodded, his hands moving with her, "I was right; that was something to see, you out of control." She opened her eyes at last, saw the little bit of red spread over his cheeks, and teased, "Ya know, this is the first time in a long time, that I've seen you blush."

He narrowed his eyes, but seeing the impish smile on her lips, he affirmed, "I'm not blushing. I'm flushed with passion."

She allowed it, whether or not it was true, feeling boneless and weak. But not tired; sleep was the farthest thing from her mind right then. "The bath," she said the first thing that popped into her thoughts.

"What?" he asked distractedly, trying to pull his fingers from her hair without undoing every single braid.

"Is the water still warm?"

He made a face, "I'm sure it is. I didn't take that long to finish."

She grabbed his wrist before he could get away. "I finished too, ya know, fairly quickly." Now the red was spreading over her cheeks. He touched them, just to let her know he noticed, but he didn't comment.

"I think a bath would be a good idea."

"Who's first?" she asked, though she was eying the tub, anticipating him to be his usual gallant self and let her use it.

"Why take turns?" he nuzzled at her neck. He felt her sharp intake of breath, imagined the one delicate eyebrow climb her forehead, and heard the anticipatory resonance in her exhale. Aye, she was a fast learner.

He leaned away from her, his hands starting at her shoulders, pushing her dress off her body. She allowed it, her face tilted upwards, watching him with interest, the little gears in her head spinning with plans. He supposed he was going to pay for his quick start after all, but judging by the private smile tugging at a corner of her mouth, he was going to enjoy paying for it.

The dress fell to the floor with a gentle rumple, and she delicately stepped out of it. When his hands returned to her neck, to unfasten her Amulet of Stendarr, she started on his leggings, tugging them the rest of the way off his hips, giving them an encouraging push towards his feet.

She nearly shook her head in amazement, seeing as he was half-ready for the second round. She undid the knotted fastenings of the loincloth, completely removing the article of clothing, exposing every inch of his skin to the air.

He made a sound, somewhere between a moan and a whimper, his fingers now working on her braids. He wanted her hair down, loose and flowing around them both in the water, but was unable to verbalize his desire. She understood, reaching up to unwind her hair, her hands behind her head. The position thrust her chest forward, and he took the opportunity to weigh those pale globes in his hands, his thumbs brushing over the sensitive nubs. In the back of her mind, she wondered if he had done that on purpose, gotten her into this pose just so he could take advantage of her. When he bent his mouth down to suck and lick and tease, she gave up caring.

She reconsidered her hairstyle, deciding on the spot that there were too many braids taking too long, giving him too much unreciprocated time with her body. She wanted to run her hands over his shoulders, trace the scars on his chest, count the freckles across his back. She wanted to taste and nibble and suck and rub and stroke and…

Vorstag picked her up, breaking into her thoughts, making her want to laugh. Quickly she finished the last braid as he, still carrying her like he did when he took her, walked over to the tub. He lifted one leg and carefully stepped in, not wanting to lose his balance and tumble them both half in, half out of the tub. She kept still, fighting the urge to squirm and wiggle wantonly against his front, and he succeeded in bringing his other leg inside. Then he slowly sat down, the water cooled but not uncomfortable.

The tub was narrow, though long and deep, making their positioning a little bit of a challenge. Water splashed out as she tried to settle on his lap facing him, before shifting around to face away from him. In the end he had to hang a leg outside the tub, just so they could both fit.

She leaned back against his chest, her hair a heavy damp sheet between them. His hands reached around, playing with her front, teasing and tweaking. She squirmed, pressing her rear harder onto his thigh, and felt him bob in the water against her cheek.

"We forgot the soap," she sounded a little petulant, thinking that one of them would have to step out for it, and she was better positioned for such a task, but she really didn't want to leave him.

Vorstag looked around blearily, hard to focus when so much loveliness was at hand, but he was glad he did so. "Someone thought ahead," he let go of one mound to reach over to the nearby chest, snatching the course chunk of soap. "It's not lavender scented…"

"It's clean," she headed him off, turning sideways to him. "That's what I want. To be clean. To wash off the last of the vampirism, the Daedric armor, the taint and stain of these past several months…" She made to take the bar from him, but he wouldn't have it. So many times he had fantasized about this, he wasn't going to let her out of it now.

She didn't fight him, trusting him, immediately sensing that he had his reasons for not relinquishing the soap. Later, she was so very glad she had let him have his way. He made her shift around again until she was facing him, backing as far away as possible so she could close her eyes and relax and enjoy the attention. He started with her feet and worked his way slowly up her body. His touch was firm, strong, doing his best not to tickle but to massage, working the suds between her toes, rubbing circles over the balls of her feet, pressing his thumb into her instep, long fingers stroking her heels.

Of course he didn't stop at her feet, working his way up, one leg at a time, first to the ankles, then the knees, then the thighs. She squirmed when his fingers left her legs to caress the tender, sensitive skin of her groin. He teasingly slipped through the triangle of dark golden hair before he gripped her waist and spun her back onto his lap, her back to his front.

She was like clay in his hands, molded and sculpted into whatever form or position he desired. He rubbed the hard chunk of coarse soap over the soft skin of her ass, making her squirm and send ripples through the water. He brought the soap up her back, riding the ridges of her spine, his fingers spreading the suds out across the taut skin. He had to pull a heavy drape of her hair out of the way, plopping it over her shoulder, so he could finish massaging the muscles there. He found a knot beneath her right shoulder blade, didn't even wonder why she never complained about it, and spent the next several moments working it loose.

He heard her take in a deep breath, and knew she was feeling 'good' again. His hands slipped around to her front, spreading across her upper chest before, with a firm yet gentle touch, he made her relax against him. She made that little noise, something akin to a coo, her lips parted slightly but her eyes fully closed. Her head lolled backwards onto his shoulder, her arms floating lazily in the water, her throat exposed submissively. He bent down and gave it a gentle nip, just to let her know that he did indeed claim her for himself.

He got his hands as soapy as he could, and let the bar drop somewhere into the tub. Then he began working on her front, looking down at her body as he lathered her throat, her collarbone, her pectorals. She squirmed a little when his fingers returned to those heavy globes, knowing there were no muscles there to massage, but he gave them due attention anyway. He spread his hands across her ribs, down her abdomen, over her hips.

Then he was searching for the soap again, making her groan with frustration. She wanted him to touch her THERE, to tease and excite and bring her desire to fruition. Instead he made her scoot forwards until she could dunk her head, wetting her hair from scalp to ends. His long fingers in her hair, lathering the locks, working out the snarls and sweat and debris, made her breath catch in her throat, her heart skitter through its beats.

Gods, she was beautiful, he couldn't help thinking to himself. He watched the golden strands spread like a sunrise as she rinsed off, almost perfectly matching another fantasy of his from so long ago. All too soon she was pulling her head upwards, the water spilling off of her in a cascade as she turned to face him.

She didn't speak, but the look on her face was enough communication. He reached out, she took his hand. Again he put her on his lap, facing away, his lips to the sensitive skin behind her ear as his hands…

She moaned, wanting to throw her head back and Shout, at the same time wanting to continue watching what he was doing. The watching won out, and she followed his movements through the murky water, barely able to see a shadow here, feel a ripple there.

She knew he was ready again, could feel him pressing against her back, so thick and swollen like a stake. Yet he didn't press in like he did earlier, his fingers—ah, gods, he had such long fingers!—performing their expert dance across her skin. He burrowed through her hair, delved lower, touched her where only, as only, he could touch her.

One finger.

Two fingers, his thumb making small circles.

Three…

He felt her shudder within his embrace, one arm around her chest and cupping a breast, the other down where he could feel the full force of her desire ripping through her. Yet she eerily made no cry or moan, the only sound the water as it splashed with the kinetic energy of her convulsions. He rode it out with her, carefully stroking around the hypersensitive area, his breath hot against her ear.

"…fuck…" she breathed, her head pressed against his cheek. She felt sweat break out all over, even while in the water, and her skin felt pimpled, causing her to shudder again as he brought his hands up to her shoulders. She knew, even without looking, that shit-eating grin was on his face. Gods, he was proud of himself, and she grudgingly admitted he had every right to be. "Your turn…"

"Oh, no," he shook his head, but it did him no avail. She turned around, glad to be in the water as she had that deliciously boneless feeling again and the buoyancy helped keep her from collapse. "Tonight is all about you."

"Fine," she allowed, "But this is something I've wanted to try for a long time. I…" she stopped, a brief flicker of memory making her reconsider. No, this was a world away from any other experience; she was not going to let old phantoms of pain and panic ruin tonight. She gave him a confident look. "Where's the soap?"

Vorstag made a face, like he was pretending to think carefully before answering. "Somewhere in the tub. Not sure. Lost track of it a while back. Suppose you'll have to look for it."

She smiled; she was sure he had read her tells and seen the hesitation, but he wasn't going to press the issue. Gods, she loved him, loved the way he shored up her weaknesses, and allowed her to be strong. She crouched in the water, leaning forwards to kiss him while her hands explored. For the soap. Honest. She just had a little too much trouble finding it.

He shifted a few times, not far, but enough to let her know she had touched something sensitive, something charged with lust and want. She wanted more, her agile fingers taking up the soap and washing him, slowly, beneath the surface. Her fingers got tangled in his hair, slid up and down the thickened length, curled and cupped behind it. His breath quickened against her mouth, mingling with hers, until he had to pull away. "Gods! Gerhild…!"

"So close already?" she asked suggestively, pulling away only a little. "We should do something about that."

"What… ah, did you… um, have… in mind…?" He was distracted, watching her as she scooted to the far end of the tub. He felt her hands beneath his buttocks, and a heartbeat later she was lifting, raising him off the bottom of the tub. He quickly realized her intent and threw his other leg over the rim and spreading wide for her, bracing himself with his hands.

He gave a small gasp when he felt the cool air against his wet skin.

He gave a small moan when he felt her warm mouth breathe hot air against the base.

"You… you don't…" Gods, he couldn't think.

"Shut up."

Her words were muffled around a mouthful, but he understood and nodded obediently.

Fuck, this wasn't going to take long. Already he could feel it building inside him, the heat concentrating at the base of his torso, right within her mouth. Her lips and tongue continued to stroke, their moisture and heat and tightness so like that other area, so smooth, so soft, so personal. He clenched his teeth, trying to hold it off, not wanting to come so quickly again.

Her hand slipped, a thumb brushing against him, and he lost the battle. A cry tore out of his chest as his body thrust mindlessly into her. Each subsequent spasm came with its own soft moan, as he digressed from pounding towards twitching. His eyes had closed, lost in that physical sensation of expelling himself outwards, spreading of himself into her, into the woman he loved.

"Dooyooeepay?"

The words were oddly muffled, and he opened his eyes to find his ears in the water, his head floating on the surface. Her face came into view above him, a concerned look creasing her brow. He blinked when she dripped water onto his cheek, and very carefully shifted around until he could sit up. "What did you say?" he asked, looking up at her standing before him.

"Do you feel pain?" she repeated. "It's just that, when you, ya know, your face… scrunches… like a grimace of pain. I just… I worry that… I mean, if you're uncomfortable…"

"No, no, no," he assured her, smiling reassuringly. He got his legs beneath him and stood up, only so that he wouldn't have to crane his neck to speak with her. "No, there's no pain. It's intense, but not painful." He kissed her cheek. "Besides, you should see the look on your face, when you 'ya-know'."

She blushed, making him laugh. He reached over to pluck up a rough towel, and began drying her off.

"What's next?"

"Hmm," he pretended to think. "That's a good question. If I wasn't so stuffed from supper, I would probably consider a snack right about now. How about a mug of mead?"

He had turned her around, rubbing her back through the towel to both dry and warm her. "Mead? Really? You wanna take a break for a drink?" When she got a good look at his face over her shoulder, she realized she was being teased. "Vorstag!" she laughed, "You… you…"

"Aye," he acknowledged unrepentantly. He scooped one arm under her legs, sweeping her off her feet, and carried her over to the bed. He dumped her onto the mattress, rolling her out of his arms and hanging onto the towel.

She came to a stop on the far side of the bed, facing downwards, and watched him hastily dry himself, mostly. The towel was fairly saturated, but he patted it down his long legs, rubbed it over his broad chest, gave it a few quick flicks across his back.

"What are you thinking?"

She came out of her musings to focus on his face. "That you have an incredible body."

He rolled his eyes as he tossed the towel somewhere behind him. "I knew it. You only want me for my looks."

"Not just your looks," she played along, "But your skill in handling your… weapon."

He clenched his abdominals, making the weapon in question bounce suggestively. "Oh, you like how I spar with you?" He knelt onto the bed, crawling over to her. She made to roll over, but a hand on her shoulder encourage her to lie still.

"Sparring, is that what we're calling it now?"

"You mentioned weapons," he kissed the back of her neck. He settled himself over her, pressing his body along hers, their damp skin catching and causing friction.

"Aye," she sighed, "Daggers and sheaths."

He made some sort of noise into her skin. "My dagger, your sheath," he agreed. "Though you're the only person I know who can spar with an empty sheath."

She felt his hands urge her legs to spread. "Should I spar with a filled sheath?" she asked before realizing what it might mean.

Too late, he took her up on it. "Good idea."

If she was amazed he was ready again, so quickly again, it was lost under his assault. Still, one final thought managed to push past her lips, "Making up for lost time or something?"

He grunted. "I've had to wait for you, let you go, be dead to you, too blind to see you, too selfish to burden you, lost to you, and when we finally found each other, we were still unable to touch. To be together. Aye, I'm trying to make up for all that."

His rhythm was slow, but his hand snaking around her hip to tease her was threatening to take her breath away. "We were both at fault, and there was no fault. There's nothing to make up for, Vorstag. We have each other. We'll continue to have each… other… ah…"

"I'm glad you finally admit it."

"Admit what?" She was practically buzzing again.

"That we belong together."

She smiled, half of her face pressed into the mattress. "Oh, aye," she agreed. She arched her back, changing the angle slightly, and he sank in further.

Again it seemed to take no time to reach that final tipping point, where she spilled over the edge, spinning over and over into that pleasurable state of non-existence. On one level she was aware of when he followed her, ever her companion, her partner, in all things. Mostly she lay there, panting, enjoying the feel of her body shuddering and trembling around him, and his own convulsive movements in response.

It was hours later, the wicks of the candles burned low, the sheets and blankets messy and rumpled. Gerhild lay on her side with her head pillowed on Vorstag's arm, his front pressed comfortably into her back. "Vorstag?" It was hard to suppress the smile on her lips.

"…aye?" he sleepily answered, his breath caught up within her mussed hair.

"Will you marry me?"

The sound of his smile was hard to mistake, too. "As soon as we get to Whiterun."

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There was a small, deserted shack a few miles outside Windhelm. The original owner was lost to anonymity, and subsequent owners left only faint marks of their brief possession. Bloodstains on a table where an elk had been dressed. A broken shaft from a war axe in the corner. One lone shoe tucked way beneath the moldy bedding.

The shack hadn't been picked by its current owner for any other reason than its seclusion. What he was doing was risky, some would say mad, but desperate times called for desperate measures. He stood looking down at his handiwork and smiled coldly.

The semblance of a body was laid out before him. A skull at the top, freshly scraped clean, its sightless eyes staring at him as he stared at it, with various bones set out to form a torso and limbs. A heart had been placed in the corresponding location—if there was one thing he knew it was anatomy. Flesh, too, had been ripped from a victim and placed to mimic a particular form. For an added touch, the unwilling donor of the items had been a Nord girl with long, blonde hair.

The whole macabre effigy was encircled with candles, which had adversely been the hardest part to scrounge. But he had found them and placed them and lit them.

He knelt beside the 'body,' pulling his cowl off his head to reveal a stump of an ear. A knife was in his hand, and he rubbed the blade with Nightshade petals. Then the ritual began. Repeatedly, almost dazedly, he stabbed the effigy, dulling the point of the knife on the wooden floor, his whispers loud in the empty cabin.

"Sweet Mother, sweet Mother,

"Send your child unto me,

"For the sins of the unworthy must be baptized

"In blood… and fear…"

The End of 'Will of Ebony'

A/N: whew! I hope you like the finish ;D (aye, I'm a sadistic bitch, I know)

Gerhild's and Vorstag's story will continue in a week or two with the new book, 'Soul of a Dragon.' Also, if you're interested, 'Heart of Frost: Outtakes' will be posted around the same time, and will include all those deleted scenes that didn't make it into any of the Gerhild/Vorstag stories, maybe with more added as I continue.

As ever and always, thank you, all of you, for Following/ Favoriting (hey, spellcheck isn't flagging that anymore? Must've been that last update)/ Reviewing or just plain reading the stories! I love you all! *gushes uncontrollably, starts bawling*

Until the next story… *sniffs*