Extremely short, I'm sorry! Next chapter won't be for a while as well, but hopefully not too long.
This chapter is dark, and it comes with a big trigger warning. So I'm posting the rest on the Kink Meme only. You can skip that bit without losing much, as I think the foreshadowing is enough to lead you to the proper conclusion, and this will continue as a theme to define their relationship and therefore be hinted to enough for you to get the idea later as well. Anyways, thanks and enjoy!
Defile
Illusion never changed
Into something real.
I'm wide awake and I can see
The perfect sky is torn.
She awakes from Sovngarde, coughing as she rolls on her broken ribs. Her head buzzes, and she cradles it in her trembling hands. The world is dark, but she cannot tell if it is due to night or loss of sight. She does not hear Alduin, and so she relaxes, waiting on reality to catch up to her fractured mind.
Her fingers weave through her tresses, but they comb easily, as if freshly washed, not matted with dirt and sweat and blood. She checks her scalp for wounds, perhaps from the rock she fell upon, the tree she crashed into, the edge of Alduin's talons. But there are none, no blood, not even the dimpled flesh of a scar. She realizes then that she is breathing easily as well. Her ribs do not crackle. Her muscles do not ache. She rises, confused, and the lack of protest in her legs worries her. Her wrist bends.
She calls fire to her palm-a weak spell-and holds her fingers near her face. She can feel the heat, but cannot see the light. Even temporary blindness would provide a flash of whiteness, yes? Is her vision completely gone?
She stumbles, but the ground is smooth beneath her. As her bare feet guide her, she feels only a soft slickness, like polished stone. There is not dirt, no little rocks or blades of grass to tickle her ankles.
She is scared now, lost. Her state cannot be processed. This world cannot be mapped in her mind. She cannot see. There are no particular scents to guide her. She screams, or so she believes, because the cry never echoes back to her. She is deafened. And so she runs.
She does not know how long she runs, nor how far. She does not even know when she stops, but suddenly there is a bright light that swarms her vision. A high-pitched roar grows and dies in her ear. She smells water. Her eyes blink and something takes shape in the distance. The source of the light. She approaches, cautiously, and trudges despite feeling no heaviness in her limbs. As she grows nearer, the pure, white light, unlike even the strongest ray of sunshine through a cloudless sky on the top of the Throat of the World, splits.
It is a rectangular hole, empty, a house high, a river wide. Fanning out from behind the perfect shape is the light, reaching to encompass as far as she can see in nothing but total whiteness. Even her skin is illuminated, a dark shadow cast below her. She turns to face the world behind and surely there is nothing but darkness, though she cannot even tell where the white and black meet. They just… merge suddenly and without warning. No line of grey. She turns to the gap in the light and approaches. Perhaps this is the gate to eternity?
But when she goes to step through, she is met with coldness. The white light reaches into the gap. A smooth, silver barrier blocks her way. Her palms run over the surface, and her fingerprints stain the purity. Curious, she presses harder against the metallic wall, until her knuckles bleach and her fingers blush. Slowly, something appears. A line traces the curve of her hand, and stretches down to follow her wrist, her arm. But as she leans down to examine, she watches as her form appears, her reflection growing as if from her touch. She gasps and steps away, but the reflection continues to manifest, slowly, her arms and shoulders, her thin throat, piece together. She is at once horrified and intrigued as her naked form appears opposite her. And although it is an exact and perfect replica, it is no mirror image, for the eyes of her reflected self are still closed. Her heart explodes within her, a sudden, terrified beating. Something is wrong. She pants, desperation choking her. Her shaking hands find her face, and dig into the flesh below her eyes, pulling down down down. The reflection does not move, but slowly the lids part and its eyes open…
They are golden, dark blue rays bursting from the horrendously large pupil. She shudders, steps back from her reflection but cannot look away. Her brain screams, "Go, move, stop." Her legs try to spin and take off. Her fingers itch to cover her eyes, but she cannot look away. Escape is not so easy.
Her reflection remains emotionless, does not represent the fear and confusion of her expression, the bumps across her shuddering skin, the tightness of her throat.
A darkness sprouts from its head, and she wants to turn and face whatever shadow is behind her, casting that reflection. But she can hear nothing, and her body does not have the acute awareness of another presence as it has been trained to find from battle and betrayals.
The shadow grows, on either side of the expressionless face, curling up, twin spires protruding from its skull. And she can see now, that they are horns.
A horizon appears in the mirror, dark and thick. It grows, spreads, like ink dripping from the hard pressed 'good bye' of a last letter. Wings morph and hang limp on the reflection.
She reaches up, impossibly slow, terrified to feel the cold, splintered horns. Her fingers shake, crawl over her skull. And she feels nothing.
She clutches at her back, frantically feeling her shoulder blades. But there are no wings.
Tears flow and the reflection seems to summon her, call to her. She tries to resist, bitterly refuses, nails dig into her thighs as she tries to hold herself still. But the reflection, silent and immobile, demands her. She steps, heavy, anxious footfalls on the smooth black ground. Her hand raises, on its own accord, and traces the grey surface, the only thing separating her and the fucked up vision in her mind.
Her chest rises and falls with every shaky breath, her eyes dart around the empty world. For an eternity, nothing happens.
But then the reflection smiles, slow and delicate, just the softest curl to the corner of its mouth. And then the pink lips spread, the teeth bare, the smile gapes and splits and her own lips tremble, as if understanding the pain. Blood pours down its chin and pools in the hollow of its collarbone.
The reflection's head tilts, curiously, yet all knowing, and its hand rises.
Until their fingers touch.
And suddenly silence is gone. Her scream rips through the void. Her body erupts in a fiery inferno. She can smell the acrid stench of her own fear and pain as her skin dries and cracks and hardens into midnight blue scales. They fly up her arm, her flesh slicing open to accommodate the sharp, ragged protrusions. The reflection laughs and the mirror drops to the ground, melts away into the floor and disappears.
She turns to flee, screaming, convulsing, bile in her throat.
But all the terror in the world cannot push her as she stops dead in her tracks.
Alduin is there. Stony, solid, shadowed. Huge. Cold. Despising.
His wings unfurl, his nails scrape into the perfect, slick floor. His maw opens, and she can see the thick saliva drip from his fangs. He lunges without warning and she screams, turning away but he swallows her whole. His tongue, rough like a cat's, curls around her form. His teeth graze her skull and extremities as he closes his jaw around her and flings his head back, the throat wide open as she falls into him. She is tumbling, sliding down the thick corded muscles of his esophagus until she can smell the acid of his stomach, and her tears and nose and ears burn. She is devoured by the darkness and prepares for the melting and singing of her flesh but instead a dagger appears in her hand and she doesn't even think she just stabs and stabs and stabs and the blade slices through his muscle and veins and catches in his bones. He shatters into millions of razor pieces and as she falls she can see her reflection, fractured and laughing, pass her by.
She lands, but not on the unforgiving ground. Strong, warm arms wrap under her knees and neck, lifting her.
The man cradles her to his chest and she looks up immediately, confused and scared and oh so grateful. His face is pale (like slate) blue-veined, and perfectly smooth. Lips thin and stern. Nose straight and sharp. Cheeks hollow. Dark, wavy hair tumbles down his shoulders. But she is transfixed on his eyes. Brilliant amber, with shards of blue. And there is something so haunting in their gaze.
Alduin, a man, holds her in his grasp with all the delicacy of a new husband, but she knows he will kill her.
She claws and kicks and strains in his grasp but it only tightens, his face stony and unaffected by her struggles. When she stills or tries to shift, he releases his hold enough for her to move, but as soon as she attempts an attack or escape he squeezes her so tight she is scared her lungs may burst. He gives her such freedom only to stifle it.
A predator toying with its next meal, Alduin is sure to show his strength at every opportunity. And that pathetic, fleeting mercy.
She stills in his mock embrace, the blood rushing in her veins. He takes the opportunity to slide his gaze over her body, and it is sick in an entirely different way. His eyes show no lust, no perverse appreciation of her form. In fact, he picks her apart, her imperfection. Her softness, her frailty, the smooth slopes. There is no strength, no geometry to her form. Her skin marred by scars and black dots. And she is so, so small. Improper. A failure. Disgusting.
And she feels anger rise. How dare he seem so passive, so disapproving? Yes his eyes still rake her form, and he cannot look away.
He passes over her naked body again, his eyes stop at her chest. He watches the way her breasts rise and fall, her nipples hard in the cold air. They are so foreign, so bizarre, but he remembers the way Krosis's mind prickled when he gazed at her in the bath house. And he is curious for the feeling once more.
She has seen this look before, directed to barmaids and pretty little things. But it is full of purer evil.
He will do so much more, so much worse than taunt her, hurt her, kill her.
He will defile her.
She suffers. She suffers and suffers and suffers until he grows tired and retreats quietly. No apology, not even a haughty remark.
She gets up, wipes furiously at her thighs until the skin reddens and dies and scrapes away. Then she runs.
She runs until she is exhausted and even then she steps onward, until her knees lock and then crumble beneath her. She lies on the ground, gasping for air, muscles twitching, eyes stinging. Her legs squeeze tightly together and she doesn't relax until they burn from fatigue. Only the darkness is there to comfort her, melting over her and, she prays to whatever god will have her, giving her protection from Alduin's prying eyes.
She does not hear him in the wide, open silence. And so she curls up, and she cries.