A/N: In which Rannve explains.
Forty Three | Clear Skies
She couldn't remember ever feeling so awkward around Onmund, even as they gathered a portion of the fish and packed them away, packed up the rest of their belongings (few as they were), and made their way to the lift that would hopefully take them back to the surface. The air between them was tense, and it got tenser by the minute. Worse still, Rannve had no idea what to do about it.
What could she possibly say to him that would make everything better? That would explain her need for distance? Even as she pulled the lever of the lift and felt the floor drop away from them, vaulting them back up to the crisp mountain air, she could think of nothing.
Thankfully, the lift was in perfect condition. It spat them back out within minutes, and suddenly it seemed as though Blackreach and all that it encompassed had never existed to begin with. She squinted at the brightness of the clear sunlight, which had eluded them for weeks now, and had to rub her eyes as a headache began forming behind them. The sudden onslaught of light was ultimately what had them stumbling out of the lift, pushing the bronze gates open blindly as their eyes adjusted to the world around them.
After spending so many weeks in darkness, where the air itself seemed close and each inhalation was filled with dust and stone, breathing in the crisp mountain air was incredibly satisfying. Rannve took deep breaths of it, filling her lungs with the cold breeze, enjoying the snap of snowflakes that brushed over her cheeks and mouth. It tasted like freedom – the one thing she had been trying and failing to grasp since finding out about her apparent destiny. And, as ever, it did not last. The weight of the Elder Scroll against her back was a constant burden, effectively dragging her from the illusion of her own freedom before she could truly take hold of it.
As their eyes adjusted, they began to look around. There was no way of knowing where they were, exactly. From the icy wind and the far reaching peaks that spiraled high above them, it seemed as though they were still on the mountain. The question was, what part of the mountain, and how far were they from civilization?
The good news, at least, was that there was a camp set up nearby – some long abandoned site that had clearly not been used for years, if not longer. There were a few tents set up in a half-circle, covered with furs and tied to stakes set into the ground. A circle of stones, mostly covered in snow, hinted at the ancient remains of a fire. And, to Rannve surprise, there was a wooden chest in one of the tents, pressed to the edge of the interior and filled with furs.
"Thank Talos!" she exclaimed, pulling the furs out with already frozen fingers. Even their Nordic blood wouldn't stand a chance in these cold temperatures for long. She pulled them all out. Even their musty smell wouldn't dissuade her pleasure at finding them.
Onmund entered the tent just as she was rolling them up, tying them together with a few cords that were laying around the space. He raised his eyebrows at the furs and wondered, "I don't suppose you've found anything else in there? Maybe some flint?"
Rannve just scoffed and arrogantly patted the small leather satchel she always wore at her hip. "Please. No adventurer in their right mind would keep their flint in their packs. I've got plenty left."
Onmund just gave her a dry expression and snapped, "Well good. Then why don't you make a fire? I doubt I can cast with my fingers frozen." As he ducked angrily out of the tent, Rannve pursed her mouth. He was still upset, then.
She didn't make a fire, though. Instead, she began taking apart one of the tents for their return journey, knowing that they'd be thankful for the protection later on, despite the extra carrying weight. Then when she was finished, Rannve nodded forward, and Onmund sighed and followed her lead as they began to walk.
They walked for hours, until the dusky sunset began to trickle over the landscape and the sky began to darken. And only then did Rannve stop, tired and hungry from their long trek through the mountainous terrain and quite ready to get some sleep. Onmund said nothing as he helped her get their borrowed tent up. They worked in total silence, with only the blustering wind as company, as if the other did not exist. Once the tent was staked into the ground and the furs strewn inside, Rannve began hunting for some firewood. They had made it far enough down the mountain to find some without much trouble, and had a fire going soon after with the help of the flint Rannve kept tucked into her small satchel.
Onmund busied himself with preparing a few of the fish they had lugged down the mountain with them, staking them on a few sticks he'd found beneath a nearby pine tree and propping them up by the fire to cook. Then, with nothing else to do, he fell silent and gloomily stared at the fire as the sky darkened to night and the constellations began to stretch out their stories amid the light of the twin moons.
Rannve fell silent, too, waiting for the fish to cook so that she could at least do something instead of awkwardly sitting a stone's throw away from the man she happened to find extremely attractive (for reasons she still didn't fully grasp). It was a torture in and of itself. She honestly had no idea how their relationship had fallen so low in such a short amount of time.
As she considered this, Rannve slowly said, "…Onmund – "
But he just skewered her with a sharp look and said, "Don't bother, Rannve. You don't have to explain yourself to me."
She stared at him with raised eyebrows, and he just returned his glower back to the fire, hunched over against the cold winds. With a frown, she turned to look at her hands. From the sound of his voice, she thought that she very much did need to explain herself, thank you very much. She didn't much want to, but he didn't deserve the cold brush off she was inadvertently giving him with her continued silence.
"It isn't as though I don't want to see where this is going – " she began, searching for the words that might rectify the present situation, or at the very least offer some balm to his smarting feelings. Feelings that she had unwittingly bestowed upon him with her gentle rejection deep in the heart of Blackreach.
But Onmund truly did not want to listen to her explanation, for he adamantly said, "I understand. You're the Dragonborn and I'm…I'm a fool." He grasped his hands together so tightly that his knuckles blanched white. He didn't look away from the fire, and as such, he didn't see the surprised look that Rannve sent him, as if she could hardly believe his words.
With a wry twist of her lips, Rannve murmured, "Well, I am the Dragonborn, and you are a bit foolish, sometimes." She meant the words as a joke, really – nothing more. She didn't happen to deal with honesty very much, and didn't have much experience when it came to speaking of her feelings from any level of sincerity. That said, she opened her mouth to go on, thinking that she might claim that it was his foolishness that captured her interest in him from the very start, and that she happened to love that part about him most of all, but Onmund did not give her the opportunity.
He scowled and muttered, "I'm glad we're in agreement."
The tone of his voice made her falter. She rubbed a hand over her forehead and cleared her throat, silently berating herself from her callous words and wishing she could take them back.
"You don't understand, Onmund," she said staunchly, spearing him with a look that she wished he would return, but he didn't. He merely stared at the fire as if he hoped that this entire conversation would just fall away so that he could retain at least a little bit of his dignity. She wasn't trying to take his dignity though – she was trying to make him see.
"Well then explain it to me, if you must," he snapped, finally breaking his gaze from the fire to glare at her. The expression was so intense that Rannve stumbled, swallowing her words as she studied the angry splinter of his eyes. The crystal blue of them seemed dark and foreboding in the light of the flame, storming with errant emotion that lingered on hurt.
She didn't like to see it there, in the crease of his eyes.
With a sigh, she murmured, "I'm the Dragonborn. The savior of Skyrim. Alduin waits for me, and when I find him, I – "
"You're the Dragonborn, yes I know that!" he ground out, expression turning even darker. "As if you'd ever let me forget! When you defeat Alduin, you'll be the hero of Tamriel. You'll be more famous than you are now." He clenched his hands in his lap and spitefully muttered, "You'll have kings falling at your feet, wealth beyond measure. Well don't worry. I won't get in your – "
She couldn't explain why her anger suddenly roiled up from the darkness of her soul, why it crackled into the air as Onmund spoke. Only she knew that suddenly, she couldn't hope to contain it. It blistered through her like a wound, and suddenly Rannve was on her feet, cutting him off as she spat, "I'm going to die, Onmund!"
And the words were so sudden and so loud, their meaning far more serious than Onmund had anticipated, that he could only stare at her with his mouth hanging open, shocked at the barely contained emotion that splintered through her face and leaked into her voice.
"When I find Alduin, I'm going to die! I'm not a hero. I don't care about the rest of humanity! I'm not cut out for this saving the world business!" she snarled, hands clenching at her sides. She wished she hadn't lost her sword to the denizens of Blackreach, for it would at least give her something to hold onto right about now, if nothing else. But as it was, she felt helpless and hopeless, as if she was floating in a void of nothingness, forced to come face to face with the very demons that had plagued her for longer than she cared to admit.
"No," she laughed cuttingly, staring down at Onmund with hard eyes. "There is nothing that awaits me upon defeating Alduin. No kings or riches. If I am lucky, and die with some honor, then the only reward I will receive is entrance into the halls of our forefathers."
Onmund stared at her. She stared back. And then her anger drained away at her outburst, leaving her exhausted, as if she had not slept in months. In a begrudging voice, she muttered, "Don't you understand? I cannot give you what you want, Onmund. It isn't mine to give." She paused, and added, "I belong to a prophecy, and once that prophecy is fulfilled, there won't be any part of me to give away anyhow."
She turned to the tent, hoping for some privacy to rebuild her scattered mind and put some of her wild emotions back in order. But before she could disappear, Onmund quietly said, "You don't know that."
She stiffened and looked over at him, only to find that he was staring at her with soft eyes. It was such a startlingly different expression from the one he had only just been wearing that she felt her legs shake, as if she was seconds from falling. It occurred to her, then, that perhaps she had already fallen. Perhaps she just hadn't realized it until now.
Onmund stood up and turned to face her fully. The firelight cast over his expression with gentle ambiance. His voice, too, was gentle when he said, "Your death isn't a part of the prophecy, Rannve. You don't know what will happen."
She was shaking her head before he had even finished, though, and responded with a dull, "I told you already. I'm not a hero."
But he just crossed his arms and challenged, "And does the prophecy specifically say that the Last Dragonborn will be a hero of men? What makes a hero, anyway? How do you know that you're not one?"
She stared at him, a little baffled at his sudden line of questions. He was speaking as if he was unraveling some arcane mystery back at the College, when they used to meet together in the Arcanaeaum to do their assignments. And, like before, the depth of his words was lost to her. She was black and white, but he was a tumble of overlapping realities, all grey and endless.
She shook her head at him and responded, "It doesn't matter. I've never had any delusions that I'd survive the battle with Alduin. He's…far too great an enemy."
His wings were storms that beat upon the earth like drums. His voice fire and chaos too ageless to overcome. Her own Voice would fall like rain upon him, so far outmatched they were. He, the First-Born; she, the Last. An age separated them, and with the long stretch of time brought an inconceivable expanse of inexperience and callowness. She was a child compared to him; a mere barrier that would be thrown away with an errant breeze.
But Onmund – he shook his head and adamantly said, "You're the only one who can defeat him, Rannve. You're the Dragonborn, which gives you a distinct advantage against him." She sent him a raised eyebrow and he leaned in to impatiently say, "Your mind, you stubborn woman! You're human and dragon in one. You have two worlds to draw form. He only has one."
She only sighed, not understanding, and muttered, "It doesn't matter. I've already accepted my fate. I'm only telling you this because – Onmund, if I wasn't the Dragonborn, if I had the chance at a normal life…I would want you to be a part of it. Somehow, in some way. You must believe me."
The sincerity behind her words seemed to take him aback. He stared at her in surprise, and she stared back at him as she waited for him to grasp her honesty with that clever mind of his. She knew he did, when a quiet smile, humorless but peaceful, spread over his face. The sadness of his eyes counteracted that smile, but even despite it, it made Rannve's soul – human and dragon – warm like a blaze of embers.
"I believe you," he quiet told her, and stepped forward.
This time, she did not stop him from pulling her into his arms. He pressed his face against her hair and inhaled the scent of her, as if he was trying to press his understanding into her skin.
And Rannve – she just grasped him tightly, shivering. She wasn't shivering because of the cold, but rather from the desperate wish that she could have been with him, somehow, if only she did not have such a heavy burden of fate cast upon her shoulders, dragging her down with terrible force and reminding her that her heart was not hers to give away.
