Elsie was helping her mother in the kitchen when the alderman went from door to door, announcing that Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak himself was touring the hold. After the mysterious calling from the Throat of the World, the alderman explained, Jarl Ulfric wanted nothing more than to assure his people that they would be kept safe under his leadership.

Of course, it didn't stop Oma from muttering, "Now there's a roundabout way of recruiting people." When the washing up was done, they donned their furs and cloaks and made their way to the tightly packed Braidwood Inn. Every family had come to see the Jarl, who so rarely ventured out of his palace in Windhelm. Elsie wondered if his recent capture had made his legs restless, wanting to see the hold after so long. Eastmarch may not be the prettiest part of Skyrim, or so she had been told, but it was the oldest, and most storied. She could see how a Jarl could be proud of the fact.

Amidst the crowd, she found herself next to the hunter's daughter, a girl she knew Onmund had fond feelings for. "Hello Tsuna," Elsie said, holding Frigga closer to her chest. "Do you know what's going on? My Pa rushed us all out of the house."

"Hello Elsie, Frigga."

Tsuna was a very pretty woman; even Elsie couldn't help but stare in envy at her looks. Her hair was so blonde it resembled strands of spun gold and she had eyes so green they could almost look blue in the right light. She suited her delightfully plump figure, with its ample curves and an elegant gait. Even her cheeks always seemed to possess a healthy, natural flush. Elsie didn't know much of love or romance, but she could see why Onmund had been so foolish around her.

"I don't know why we were all called out, it must be very important if we're all made to fit in here." A worried look flashed over Tsuna. "I… wonder if it's bad news. Surely, it can't mean anything good if the Jarl himself is here."

"Maybe he has good news instead?"

Tsuna smiled at that, but Elsie knew she didn't believe her. That was fine. Elsie always liked her, regardless.

"Let's hope— Oh, look, there he is."

Gasps and murmurs signaled the entrance of the tall, regal figure that strode in. His guards helped remove the heavy fur cloak as he stood atop a raised dais. Before all of Kynesgrove stood Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak. Legend made flesh, awkwardly hunching just ever so slightly so as not to hit his head on the low rafters. Even Jarls had to duck, it seemed.

"He's so handsome," Tsuna whispered to Elsie, leaning over. "Don't you think so?"

"I suppose… if you like old Jarls."

Tsuna clamped a hand over her mouth to stifle her giggling, sobering only when a hush had fallen over the gathered villagers.

Elsie watched curiously as Jarl Ulfric began to speak.

"People of Kynesgrove, I have no doubt that you have heard the Greybeards call. These are strange times for our lands. For too long, we as Nords have stood idly by as a sick and dying Empire held our leash and signed away our gods in one single act of cowardice. And now? The dragons have returned." The villagers all swapped excited, anxious chattering between themselves. Jarl Ulfric allowed them a moment before signaling for silence once more. "I survived the destruction of Helgen at the hands of those very dragons. I have seen firsthand how The Imperials want nothing more than to give our freedom to elven overlords who will no doubt eradicate us all one by one. Now, the Divines seek to test us with the Greybeards' summoning. To whom, or to what they have called, we may never know. But now more than ever, we must gather our strength, as Nords, to battle our oppressors and I will not rest until I see Skyrim free. Our ancestors were the first men who had stepped foot on this land from Atmora, and we will not bow down to the whims of cowards and concordats!"

A raucous cheer went up from the gathered villagers. Elsie and Tsuna looked around, holding onto each other as the men began to yell, calling for justice and action.

A Stormcloak officer then made his way to stand beside Jarl Ulfric. Tall, blond and handsome, his eyes moved around the inn, as though looking for someone. But whether he found them or not, Elsie couldn't tell. She wondered if he knew someone from the village.

"Kynesgrove, I ask that you spare me your young and your willing, so that we may take this fight to free Skyrim! My trusted officer, Ralof of Riverwood, will be stationed here to recruit your finest men and women. Sons and daughters of Skyrim, lend what you are able to defend and liberate your home. Our home!"

There was no hiding the anguish in the mothers, wives and sisters as the men in the room stood up straighter and muttered excitedly to one another. Beside Elsie, Tsuna craned her head towards her brothers, the pain on her face clear as the moonlight.

As the Jarl and his officer continued addressing the villagers, their words washed over Elsie; all she could think about was that war was coming. War. Such a simple word with such terrible weight. Something she had only heard about in the stories Onmund read to her from his books, or the tales Pa would regale the family with as he spoke of his small part in the Great War.

But now it had come to Kynesgrove, in all the splendor of the Stormcloak clan. Elsie couldn't help but weep at the thought of Svana and Onmund. Still lost, still so far away from home.

She clung to Tsuna as she prayed to Talos. Please bring them home. Please. Dragons and wars, I don't know what to do with that. Please bring Svana and Onmund home. Please bring my family back together. The tears came soon after, as did the sobs. A hundred terrible thoughts ran through her mind, and all she could do was sit there and listen as the adults around her cheered and cried, growing restless by the minute.

"There, there, Elsie." Tsuna's hand carded through Elsie's hair. She looked up and saw that even Tsuna's own tears had begun to fall, yet her words were still so encouraging. "It'll be alright. You can come to me if you need anything, even for some company."

"I don't know… I don't know if anyone could do anything about this."

"We'll do what we can. I know your sister… and your brother. I know they're still out there." Her voice cracked at the mention of Onmund. "But we'll see it through, just us girls, alright?"

"Alright, Tsuna." She returned her smile with one of her own. "I… I trust you."

xxx

Onmund wasn't quite sure how to describe it; the unfamiliar feeling of walking into his room after what felt like an eternity away. But sure enough, there it was. The warm inviting bed stacked high with furs, the mound of books and trinkets that his friends had gifted to him. And a familiar fat wisp that floated over to the pillows and settled down for a nap. Onmund wasted no time unpacking— he remembered the old Nord proverbs about idle hands, after all.

He heaped his traveling clothes into the laundry basket, pulled out his notes and journals, sorting it all back onto the desk where he worked. He opened the closet doors and cleared some space to put away his newly fat coinpurse and… then his fingers brushed against something cool and something familiar.

Onmund swallowed a lump when his hands found his family amulet.

Lothgar. Ulla. Svana. Elsie. Onmund.

The sapphire embedded in the center of the amulet sparkled so bright even in the magelight. What am I doing? He made his way to the small mirror over the wash basin, and pulled his hood down. What am I doing? He placed the amulet around his neck and stared at his reflection. Why am I doing this?

He was the lone Nord among his friends; the way the mirror hung below his brow was proof enough that even Winterhold didn't expect the likes of him. But he had the wintery pale skin, the braids that all decent, Divines-fearing men wore. He sang his prayers to the Nine Divines and drank mead. He knew the value of hard work: never a day went by when his muscles didn't ache from labor, when the dirt just wouldn't budge from under his nails. He was a Nord until lightning sparked at his fingertips, and then he was branded an outcast and a thing to be feared.

But after Saarthal, he wondered if Winterhold was the place for him after all. How easy it had been for scholars to enter the ruin. How easy it had been for a pair of conjurers to undo the runes his ancestors had laid carefully so many centuries ago. It had been exciting seeing the way the ancient Nords lived, the simple honest tools and furniture that were so like his own back home. And yet…

Three sharp knocks ripped Onmund away from his thoughts. Just as well— he was beginning to fear the self-doubt he had planted in his own mind.

"Sorry, w-who is it?" He pulled his robe's sash tighter around him, securing it into place. Wouldn't do to petrify his visitor with immodesty.

Mirabelle's voice was muffled by the thick, heavy wood of the door. "Apprentice, a word, please?"

His heart beat against his chest. Had he done something wrong? Onmund hurried to open the door, then gestured meekly for the Master Wizard to enter.

She glanced around, inspecting every corner.

"S-sorry, I-I was unpacking."

"I won't take much of your time then." She strode over to his desk, idly inspecting the neat stacks of books and journals.

"Is s-something the matter, ma'am?"

"Our esteemed Arch-Mage, Savos Aren, has heard about the discovery that you helped uncover at Saarthal."

"The Eye of Magnus…"

"Exactly the one. The Arch-Mage would like to have a word with you first thing tomorrow morning."

Ice ran through Onmund's veins. "Am I in trouble? D-did I do something wrong?"

"I cannot say for sure. I was only told to arrange for a meeting between the two of you."

"W-What about Alrek and Tolfdir? They were there too."

"I've already scheduled their appointments, you needn't worry about that, Apprentice."

Onmund laced his fingers anxiously.

Mirabelle, thankfully, took the gesture to excuse herself. But before she left, she said, "Regardless of what the Arch-Mage intends to discuss with you, do not be late. Do I make myself clear, Apprentice?"

"Yes, ma'am."

She left without another word, politely closing the door behind her. Onmund released a long-held breath when he heard the click-clack of her heeled boots disappearing down the long, winding hallways.

The Arch-Mage was something of a legendary ghost among the apprentices. During Onmund's stay at the college, he had only seen him a handful of times. Always too far away to truly discern his features, standing high above or faraway, hands folded neatly behind his back as he watched the college and its students with a piercing, all-knowing stare.

He wondered what sort of man this Savos Aren was. Nobody he knew at the College had met him personally, and Tolfdir had only very nice things to say about him. Which was not much of an assessment, given Tolfdir had very nice things to say about anyone who asked.

What would the Arch-Mage think of the one Nord apprentice?

"Are you awake?" Another voice called through the door, whispered and honeyed.

Onmund smiled as he made his way to open the door again, practically beaming when he saw Alrek.

He answered with, "I was unpacking."

"Ah, I was worried you were asleep." Alrek rubbed the back of his neck.

"N-no, Mirabelle stopped by."

Alrek flashed him a charming smile. "Did she?" He immediately closed the distance between them. "She spoke to me too, about the meeting with the Arch-Mage. I'm surprised he wanted a meeting with an apprentice."

Onmund shrugged. "I don't know what he wants either. Do you think we're in trouble?"

"I imagine if we were, we'd all be in his quarters by now. Perhaps he simply wants our own personal accounts to form a more reasonable idea of what happened at Saarthal."

"I… I see."

"Don't worry, if you do get in trouble, I'll take the fall with you."

He watched as Alrek's hands traced up his chest, fingers inspecting the amulet around his neck. What did he think of it? Was it trash to him? Or some strange facet of Nordic culture? He desperately wanted Alrek's approval, that his people and culture and customs weren't barbaric and off-putting. That he might even find it fascinating or worthy of his curiosity.

"S-sorry, did you want something?" he stammered, discomfited, and unable to read Alrek's expression.

Alrek smiled. "The sapphire's beautiful. I didn't see you wear this to the expedition."

Onmund's fingers curled over Alrek's on his amulet. "It's… from my family."

"Ah… I see." But Alrek was ever the scholar, of course he was, because he asked, "Is it… something traditional? I've never seen anything like this in all my studies."

Onmund pulled the amulet from his neck and showed Alrek the inscriptions. "The names of my family members." He smiled when his fingers traced over Elsie. "They give this to you when you become a man. Or sixteen. Whichever came first." It sounded silly now that he said it out loud. Nordic traditions always felt that way, so big and boisterous for the smallest occasions.

Alrek's eyes met his. "Do you miss them?"

"I… don't know." He broke his gaze away, casting it downwards, almost in shame.

Alrek, thankfully, changed the subject. "Well, I don't know about you… but I'm so tired I can't sleep." He smiled, and his hands found Onmund's again. Every touch was like fire in his soul. Warm and coiling, like every dream and fantasy he had read about in books, nipping at his thoughts, picturing those lips against his neck and over his— No, stop.

"Me too," Onmund added after what seemed like too-long moments.

"The Observatory's cleared out, and I've got some spiced wine."

"I've got classes in the morning."

"Just a drink or two, something to help put us to sleep, to relax a little. Just us, the stars and the wine."

Alone with Alrek? Onmund couldn't say no. But he was still an apprentice. "Okay, just… until we feel tired enough to sleep."

"Yes, yes, of course!" Alrek wore a large grin, no doubt pleased with his small victory. "Come on then, and grab some blankets while you're at it!"

xxx

Svana didn't remember much of what happened after the battle at the western watchtower. All she could recall was waking up in Farkas's arms as they rode towards Ivarstead. She had rarely ventured that far south when she was still in Eastmarch, but there was no mistaking the pretty red forests that covered The Rift in eternal autumn.

At first, the journey had been a calm affair. They came across very little opposition as they rode through the gently sloping pathways in easy silence. But then the nightmares came, and she would burst into violent fits. Something had changed her since that encounter with the dragon. She could see the terror and despair as the soul, or spirit, or something, that had been absorbed into her. In those moments where she hadn't been herself, she felt the fear of death at the tip of her tongue. It was the same fear and anger that had roiled within her, fighting against her compliant state when she faced near-death at Helgen. That same fear and anger had been now unleashed against whatever poor soul had the misfortune of standing in her way.

And then she would wake up, teary-eyed and angry, as Farkas held her steady and begged her to calm down.

"What happened?" she would ask, hardly remembering when the dragon had taken hold of her. It had to be the dragon, or the spirit of it; what else could it have been?

Farkas would always patiently explain, "You had another… episode. You got me good." And he'd show off the newest bruise Svana had inflicted on him. "But I'll be fine. The sooner we get you to the Greybeards, the sooner we can get help."

Farkas had told her the guards at the watchtower called her 'Dragonborn'. Svana could never muster the arrogance to fashion herself as a hero from Nordic legend. The Dragonborn was a myth, a character in children's songs and stories. Stories weren't real, but the dragons and the destruction they wrought were. Who had time for stories when people were burned alive and eaten whole?

Gods, she felt sick thinking of it all.

Still, if what Farkas had said was true, then the Greybeards had summoned her for a reason. She wasn't so sure they did have an answer to what afflicted her, but she was desperate enough to try just about anything.

She lifted her eyes as they rounded the path, and Svana couldn't quite place the anxious relief she felt when they finally arrived at Ivarstead. The rushing of the river water, the crunching of the leaves beneath the horses' hooves, the smell of the forest surrounding them, it felt like home. And yet it will all burn away if I don't figure out what to do about this dragon business. No, she couldn't think that way. She tried her best to quiet down the voices within her as they made their way through the main road of the town.

"Inn's just up ahead." Farkas pointed the way with a jut of his chin. "Remember there bein' real good food there too."

She smiled for him, but truthfully, the thought of food just made her stomach upset. Her whole body was out of sorts, though she supposed sucking up the soul of a dragon would do just that to anyone.

Still, as they dismounted the horses and pulled off their belongings, Svana tried to see the best of the situation. At least there'd be a bed, maybe even a bath. Her bones ached terribly after the ordeal at Whiterun, she hoped that with a bit of rest, she might even feel well enough to eat.

"Lots of pilgrims today," Farkas noted as they entered the inn. True enough, there were groups of priests and acolytes, all with heavy packs and detailed maps.

Svana had heard of the devout who sought to journey up the Seven Thousand Steps, many of whom didn't make it. The stories were curiously morbid; how some corpses had been used as markers to those travelling up to the higher paths, all from clumsy accidents like slipping on ice or falling over a ledge. She wasn't sure how true any of those stories were, but already the journey ahead felt more daunting in her mind.

Well, you've come this far, are you really going to complain now of all times?

Svana watched as Farkas dealt with the innkeep, and it wasn't long before he motioned for her to follow him to their room.

They had been given one room, with one bed. It was like a living cliche, from all the stories the girls in her village adored; where there was one bed and the two were forced to share the space. She would have blushed at the thought had she not felt so exhausted, at that point she was ready to fall into the mattress, regardless of who shared the space beside her.

"Heh, kinda awkward, huh?" Farkas rubbed the back of his neck.

Svana still felt so far away, barely tethered to the real world. The dragons all yelled at her to kick him out and take the room for himself. What she wouldn't give to slap them all into better behavior.

"Tell you what, you've been through way worse than me." He moved over to their belongings and pulled out a sleeping roll. "I've got this, I'll ask for more furs or something."

It was a struggle to speak, and her voice felt strange after staying silent for so long. "Thanks, Farkas." She sat on the bed, kicking off her boots. The weight of her predicament finally began to settle on her shoulders, causing the aches in her back to flare up in sharp, throbbing pain.

"You gonna be okay?" Farkas asked over his shoulder, making quick work of unpacking his things.

She didn't answer.

"Want me to get you anything? I'm heading out front."

Svana shook her head.

Farkas gave her a little hum. "Well, if you change your mind, come find me, alright?"

She gave a one shouldered shrug and stared out the window. She didn't move from her spot, even as she heard his heavy footsteps leave the room and close the door behind him.

It felt like serpents coiling her mind. She had felt so helpless. Twice now she had faced a dragon and lived. Yet the last encounter had changed her completely. Now the Greybeards had sprung back up after years of isolation, calling out for her specifically. Nonsense, pure utter nonsense. But Svana didn't exactly have an answer for her affliction, and if Farkas believed the Greybeards had the solution, well… what more did she have to lose?

It had been hours, yet Svana hadn't moved from her position on the bed, still gripping her satchel as she stared out the window. It was only when she heard the familiar thump thump thump of heavy, armored boots, that she realized she had forgotten to unpack entirely. And that the room, and the sky outside, had grown darker.

"The innkeep's readied a bath for us," Farkas said as he reentered the room. "You wanna go first?"

Svana eventually found her voice. "If it's all the same, I… think I'd rather just sleep."

"You sure?"

Svana wasn't sure, even if the thought of slipping into hot water was tempting. But with her own episodes becoming unpredictable, Svana didn't trust herself to not hurt someone else. What if it was bad enough to kill? Gods, she couldn't stand the thought of it. At least if she was in the room, Farkas could take the blow. Or at least calm her down.

"I… I don't want to be alone," she said.

"The episodes."

"Yes."

Farkas nodded. She was glad he was the one to have accompanied her. He seemed the most grounded of those she had met at Jorrvaskr. "Good call. I don't mind keeping an eye on you."

"You shouldn't have to."

"I know, but the last time you were… well, not exactly yourself."

"I didn't mean to hurt you. I'm sorry." She cast a guilty glance at the horrifying bruises and cuts she had given him. Gods, what had she done?

Farkas laughed. "You throw a pretty mean punch."

She couldn't muster a smile in return.

"You wanna talk about it?" Farkas asked.

"About what?"

"About what you see when you have one of your fits."

Svana looked away and scoffed. "What good will that do?"

Farkas took a seat in the corner chair, the wood groaning against his broad, mighty frame. "Sometimes it helps to… I dunno, get it out there. Better out than in. Works for gas and personal problems both, as Kodlak would say."

Alright, that made her laugh a little, and she turned to face him once more. "I don't know how to explain it. I don't think anyone would understand."

"Try me." He leaned forward onto his knees, a confident smile on his face.

"It just feels… like I'm not myself. Like there's something else inside of me that's just tearing apart to get out." She couldn't read the steely gaze he met her with. So, she continued. "At night I dream about… being different people. But it feels real, like I'm remembering old memories from someone else."

"Oh yeah? Tell me about them."

"I…"

"Better out than in, remember?" he offered with a smile.

This time Svana couldn't keep the grin off her face. Gods, it was endearing how much he was trying to comfort her. She could try, for him. "I dreamt I was… somewhere fancy? Like a castle or a palace, but nothing like I saw in Whiterun. It was different. Everyone wore masks and big beautiful clothes." The more she spoke, the more she sounded unsure. Perhaps it had just been a dream after all, a silly flight of fancy. "And all I could remember thinking was to smile and never drink the wine, or something."

"Wine?"

"I know. Who drinks wine at a party?"

Farkas laughed, a low, rumbling growl that wasn't unpleasant to hear. "I understand what you're feeling though, like something is just inside of you."

"You do?"

Farkas hummed in confirmation. "It's just… part of being a Companion."

Svana had a feeling he wasn't telling the whole truth, that there was more to the story than he was letting on. Or maybe she was just very, very tired.

"Is it the training you go through?"

"Something like that."

"Does it bother you?"

"More than I let on," he smiled, "but I can manage it. I don't know if yours is the same, but you're… not alone in this, I guess."

"I guess."

"No one's called me the Dragonborn though, so you'll get credit on that."

"Hah! Don't start, please. Dragonborn, what nonsense!"

"It could be true."

"It could also be a load of nothing." She shrugged. "But… I… I think I might just take up the innkeep's offer on the bath." She bit on her bottom lip, chewing on it thoughtfully before she asked, "Could… you come with me?"

"The bath house is right out back if you're lookin' for it."

"No, I mean…" she sighed, clutching onto the sheets and blanket in a tight fist, "I just… don't want to be alone again. In case, you know…"

His eyes widened with understanding, "Ah." He got up and offered her a hand to take, "I'll wait with you, alright? I promised to help, after all."

Svana took his hand and looked up to Farkas with a warm, tender smile. "Thank you. I guess they call you lot the Companions for a reason."

He helped her up, and together they walked out of their room and into the back gardens of the inn. "We're named for the Ysgramor story, not the friendliness. I just happen to like you."

Svana laughed. "I dunno, don't Companions do whatever jobs they get paid to do?"

"We can reject them, you know."

"Really? So if I wanted to pay somebody like— I dunno Vilkas, to accompany me to the market, you'd do it?"

Farkas gave a thoughtful little hum. "Maybe if the pay's good."

"How about with a foot rub at the end of a long day?"

"Alright, that's pushing it." He said with a laugh. "That's kind of like making nails for somebody at the forge and then having to deliver it to them on a big fancy pillow."

"You'd be surprised at some of the requests I get."

As they walked over to the bath house, they never stopped chatting. Farkas sat outside, arms folded, while Svana slipped into the pleasantly hot, scented waters. Their eyes respectfully turned away from each other, separated only by the wooden wall of the bath house. They never stopped. They talked about everything and nothing, about their childhoods and stories of valor. Of smithing techniques and the art of rearing chickens.

But not once did they speak of dragons again that night.

xxx

Onmund and Alrek found themselves in a small alcove overlooking the Sea of Ghosts, high above the towers of the college, small baubles of magelight serving as their only illumination. Pillows and blankets turned the stone benches into a comfortable area to talk the night away, as Alrek and Onmund cradled mugs of hot spiced wine in their hands.

"That's not true!" Alrek laughed with disbelief. "You didn't say that!"

Onmund gave a small, smug smile before he took a sip of his drink. "I did."

"You cheeky thing!"

"And you know what the worst part was?"

Alrek leaned forward, eyes bright with curiosity.

"She believed it."

Alrek fell back into his seat, laughing so hard he kicked his feet in delight, nearly spilling his wine all over what was, no doubt, a very expensive robe.

"Oh! Oh, that's terrible! And you haven't told her the truth?"

Onmund gave a guilty grimace. "I dunno, have you tried going up against a Nordic woman in her fifties?"

"A grand point!"

"Oh gods." Onmund shook his head, eyes scanning the inky, turbulent sea beneath them. "Gods, I haven't had to think about that in so long." Though his laughter sobered, his smile remained bright.

"I think, given all that you've told me about her." Alrek took a sip of his wine. "I think your mother would take your confession in good humor."

"I'd like to think so."

Silence fell between them, though whether it was awkward, Onmund couldn't be sure. He remembered telling that same story to Elsie, and she'd had the same delighted reaction that Alrek had. He felt his own smile dim, and his tongue begging for more of the wine.

"You miss home." It was a statement from Alrek, not a question. Still, Onmund felt compelled to respond.

"It's a weird feeling. Wanting to be home but… not wanting to leave either." He turned to face Alrek, whose expression was unreadable but utterly beautiful. There was something in the pointed features of his face, the small traces of elven ancestry that made the Bretons so beautiful and strange. Masters of Magicka, his books had described them, and Onmund remembered how he had fantasized in that cramped family home in Eastmarch about what meeting one would be like. "Do you miss home too?" he asked.

Alrek responded with a small, sad smile, and swirled the wine in his hand before finishing it off. "I'm in the same boat as you, alas. I understand the temptation to leave, I miss my family terribly but… after everything I've experienced, I'm not sure it'd be wise to just pack up and leave for High Rock all the same."

"What was your mother like?" Onmund had always been curious about where Alrek had come from. He had shared some stories of High Rock, the land of knights and ancient forests shrouded in mist and mystery. But Alrek rarely spoke of his family.

"My mother?" Alrek pursed his lips thoughtfully, and poured more of the spiced wine. "My mother is the very picture of an elegant woman. Never a hair out of place or a pose ungraceful," he smiled. "She loved the arts, though she didn't have the skill for painting, but she always invited artists to our home. The walls of which are littered with paintings she collected."

"My mother loved painting," Onmund recalled. "She had these little hand-painted bowls and things she'd sell at the market."

"Did they ever do very well?"

Onmund shrugged. "Sometimes it was enough to buy a nicer meal for dinner. She usually made the most when she could bid for a place at the Windhelm markets."

"Did you ever go?"

"Hm?"

"To Windhelm?"

"Sometimes. It's… miserable. I never liked it much. But it's… important to us. To Nords."

"It's the heart of your people's history, I can understand that."

"Well,"—Onmund stifled a small laugh—"would it have killed my ancestors to decorate a little bit?"

Alrek's hand flew over his mouth. "Shocking!"

"I am a storm mage, after all." Onmund gestured to himself. "Shocking's sort of the gimmick."

"Divines, you're too much!"

It was easier and easier to just… sit and talk with Alrek. It never took long for them to joke around, to tell each other one dumb thing after another. It felt natural. Real. Onmund always struggled with small talk when he was back home, even with those he was friendly with. But with Alrek? He hardly had to think about it. He didn't have to dance around his words; he was free to be himself, utterly and shamelessly so.

Then, Alrek spoke. "You know, speaking of shocking, I do have a bit of a shocking confession."

Onmund watched as Alrek put his mug down and knelt before him, a ringed hand soon finding its way onto his knee.

"I… have a confession," he repeated. "And I think we've… we've both felt it."

Onmund gave a slight nod of his head, a gesture for Alrek to continue.

"Alright… well, I suppose it's best to say it plainly then, I…" Alrek took a breath. "I… I've fallen for you, Onmund."

"…What?" Was all he could dumbly respond.

Alrek. Alrek had fallen for him. That had to be obvious, of course it was. What on Nirn could the other possibility be? The moment in Saarthal, before the runes. The healer's tent, before Brelyna, J'zargo and Camille burst in. The moments on the journey back to Winterhold, with small, tender touches as they walked alongside each other on the road.

Alrek took Onmund's hands in his, fingers lacing together with such confident motions that he wondered whether Alrek had practiced this in a mirror.

"I don't… I don't know how else to say it. We've been dancing around this, haven't we? This… this spark between us?"

Onmund still couldn't quite believe what he was hearing. It had been easy for him to think back on all those barely-there touches and merely dismiss them as a misunderstanding. He almost kissed you twice, you fool.

Gods. What would that have felt like? Someone so charming and beautiful and worldly pressing his lips upon Onmund's?

"I want you, Onmund. Do you want me?"

It was then Onmund realized he hadn't responded to anything Alrek had said. Too lost in his thoughts of the possibility that Alrek's feelings were not only genuine, but mutual.

A million words ran through his mind, all poetic. He wondered if he should share words of endearment in his native tongue, for the weight of 'jeg elsker deg' meant something so utterly loved and adored it might not even be appropriate to say at all. Did he just respond with a simple 'yes'? Would that perhaps be too simple?

What could he say?

What could he do?

A flash of inspiration hit him. He put his mug away and knelt down with Alrek on the cold, stone floor. He saw that pretty face raise a curious brow. He knew just then how to answer his question.

He cupped Alrek's face and leaned forward.

"Onmund?"

He closed the distance between them, resting his forehead against Alrek's, and his thumbs gently caressed his cheeks. How had he been so fortunate, that the gods had deigned to give him a man like this?

He let his eyes flutter shut, mustering what courage he had within him. He felt the tips of their nose touch, felt Alrek's breath against his skin as Onmund whispered against his lips, "I want you."

It was like nothing he had ever experienced. The touch of Alrek's lips against his, the way his fingers tugged at his braids playfully. Onmund pulled Alrek close against him, tightly and desperately as he leaned into the kiss.

"You're mine," Alrek whispered as he pulled away to catch his breath, his rings cool against Onmund's burning, blushing skin.

And all Onmund could do was respond with a lovestruck whisper, "I'm yours."

They found themselves in a small alcove overlooking the Sea of Ghosts, with the inky waves crashing against the shore, drowning out the sounds of lips meeting lips, and affirming, loving whispers.