A/N: Y'all I'm so sorry I did my best. (Not that anyone's holding me accountable lol.) I'll try to do better though.
The theme for this chapter is the great underuse of italics and the word "fuck" in literature.
…
"'Let's go to Whiterun,' he says. 'Riften smells like fish and sadness,' he says."
"In my defense, it does smell like fish and sadness—"
"Good Gods, who cares?!" Marcurio shouts, his body whirling around in his husband's direction. "I didn't move all the way out here to become your damn housewife."
Dalamus crosses his arms, staring the mage down. "Marc, you're overreacting, and you know it."
"You are leaving me here!" Marc slams the pestle he's holding down on the table to his right, a hint of desperation sneaking into his tone. "You're climbing on a fucking dragon and flying off to Gods-know-where and you're leaving me here. You need me!"
"I do need you," the Dunmer lowers his voice, lowers his eyes, deferring to Marcurio's point. He attempts a step closer, reaching out for his husband's hand. "And that's why I need you to stay he—"
"Bullshit," Marc snaps back, yanking his hand out of the silverhead's reach.
"Marcurio, what do you want me to say?"
"That you're taking me with you."
"I'm not—" Dalamus takes a breath, calming himself before he goes on. "I really don't want you to go. And I wish you could respect that."
"You want me to respect your death wish? I think not. Remember last time you decided to fight on your own? Remember almost bleeding out in my fucking lap because you had an arrow clean through your middle? Because I do. You need me to go with you."
"Yes, I do remember. I also remember that entire day being a disaster, but that's beside the point. And isn't that why you taught me that healing spell?"
"It doesn't matter what spells you know; you have the magicka of a field mouse. You'll fuck around and end up dead because you want to be a damn glory hog."
The Dunmer recoils as if hit, disbelief scrawled clearly across his face. "Is that why you think I don't want you to come?"
"Why else would it be? We bought this house because you didn't want to live with me in Riften, or was it because people weren't addressing you properly there, Harbinger?" Marc punctuates the title with a bow, his voice deepening mockingly.
"I'm not even going to address that 'glory hog' nonsense, because you already know with one hundred percent certainty that that isn't true. But let me ask; where, exactly, were we supposed to live in Riften? You lived in a fucking inn!" Dal knows that isn't fair, but they'd already had this conversation, and if Marc wants to start saying dumb, untrue shit about him, then all bets are off. "Were we supposed to rent that room indefinitely? Spend every night squished up together in that narrow-ass bed?"
"There are houses there, Dal. At least if you'd decided to ditch me in Riften I'd be able to see my friends there."
"Talen-Jei and Keerava weren't your friends; they were your landlords!" The Dunmer starts to gather his things, throwing them into his bag as his voice grows in volume. He doesn't even take a breath before he continues, his chest growing uncomfortably hot, "I am so sorry that I yanked you out of Riften, since you obviously loved it so much. Because I didn't, and you know that, because we fucking talked about it before we decided to buy this fucking house. But did you actually want to stay in Riften or are you just being an asshole? Because getting robbed every two days sounds like a lot of fucking fun!"
Marc opens his mouth to respond but Dal keeps talking right over him. "And, yes, I do remember that time I almost bled out in your lap. Frankly, I'm insulted that you think that's the best I can do on my own considering the fucking Forsworn ambushed our camp in the middle of the night. But that's also beside the point. Do you remember the time before that when I had to fight on my own?"
The Imperial just nods, stunned into silence at the ferocity of Dalamus' response.
"So you remember how that went, right? Lydia died, Marc. She followed me into Alftand because I needed her, and now she's dead," he slings the bag back over his shoulder, taking a breath, and his voice drops to a murmur as he wills away the heat crawling up his throat. "I dragged her into all this and she lost her life in my service. I won't do the same to you."
"I've survived this far. What gives you the right to tell me to stay home now?"
"This isn't just some dragon on the road, or a fort we've decided to clear on a whim. I'm going to Sovngarde to kill Alduin; it'll be the hardest thing I've ever done."
"Sovngarde?" that gives Marcurio pause. "All those Nords from generations past? Do you really think they'd jump up to help an elf do anything?"
"Well, they'd better, if they want the living to keep living," Dal shrugs, "But that's the thing. I live here, there are people I like here, but I don't give a damn about this country, and plenty of the people who live in it would be happy to say the same about me. I don't care about any of them."
His hand lifts to Marc's face, thumb brushing just under an amber-colored eye. "Give me something to come home to. Please."
"I don't like this," the mage murmurs, turning his face into Dalamus' hand. "What if you get hurt? I won't be there."
"Then I guess I'll have to be careful."
Dal had smiled a little at that, but Marcurio didn't find it particularly encouraging. He takes the Dunmer by his shoulders, fingers squeezing a little bit. "Alright, listen. You have to protect yourself on all sides now, so keep your ears open. You favor your left, so make sure you look over your right shoulder more often since I'm usually there. Don't try to kill everything you see; just make sure you get back here alive, you hear?"
"Marc, everything's going to be f—"
"Dalamus, please." It's the elf's turn to fall silent at the fervor in his husband's voice. "I want you to come home to me; I'll never forgive myself for not fighting this harder if you don't come back."
"I know. I'll be back as soon as I can."
"Good. Oh, um, here," Marc says, releasing Dal's shoulders to turn and grab a few invisibility potions from the table behind him. "Take these."
"I thought they were for Amren?" the Dragonborn protests, but still turns to put them in his bag.
"They were, but since I'm not going anywhere, I'll have the time to make more." He lets out a sigh, giving Dalamus a long look, then sweeps him up suddenly in a tight hug. "Be careful, Dal, please. I love you."
"I love you, too," Dal breathes, gripping his robes tightly at the sudden realization that this could be the last time he gets to say it.
…
"Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck—"
Dalamus sprints down the corridor, with five or six Draugr loping after him. His back is still a strange mix of freezing cold and burning hot, all thanks to the spell one of the helmeted undead had cast against him; thank the ancestors that it had tried to freeze him instead of lopping off his unsuspecting head.
Suddenly there's a growl on his right side, far too close, and he feels something cut through the numb feeling of frozen flesh, a line trailing from his spine up to his shoulder. Panic is a hot fist around his throat and he spins around, barking out a desperate "Fus ro dah!" and sending the Draugr flying back up the narrow hall. He's still catching his breath as he reaches back for his arrows; the shots are clumsy since he can't really feel his right arm, but they land, and now there's a pile of bodies where formidable-enough foes once stood.
Dal drops to his knees, taking a moment to get himself together. The chill at his back is beginning to fade, giving way to a sharp sting that he immediately knows is a problem. His arm practically screams in protest as he reaches up to unhook his quiver from his back, enough that he uses his left hand instead. As the weight falls from his back a whimper slips, unbidden, from his lips, and the panic returns. He reaches up with shaking fingers, finding a knuckle-deep gash at the back of his shoulder. His finger touches what he's afraid to assume is bone and the entire region flares up in pain; his teeth almost meet through his tongue.
When he finally regains control of his faculties he rifles through his bag for the healing potions he'd hoarded for the trip with his left hand while being very careful to keep the right still and close to his chest. He splashes the first over his back with bloodstained fingers, shivering as the cold liquid seeps down the wound all the way to his spine. The second and third he drinks, and it's all he can do to keep quiet through the sensation of flesh stitching itself back together.
…
Marcurio, meanwhile, is suffering through a fitful sleep when his right shoulder may as well go up in flames. He rolls out of bed with a shriek, blankets turned to ashes in his grip as he searches for his attacker with wild eyes. When he finds none he reaches up, trembling fingers touching the skin over his shoulder blade, and lets out a breath that also trembles.
…
It's well into the night when Dalamus trudges up to Breezehome, six days after he'd left. Even after spending nearly two of those days traveling—rushing—down the Throat of the World, his throat burns, each breath tearing down into the hollow chill of his lungs with sharp claws. It's the opposite of how he feels when he's preparing to shout; instead, that's a thick, heavy heat, like fresh, honeyed mead.
The Dragon Priest at the mouth of the portal had fought hard, and in trying to get some distance between them with his arrows he'd aggravated the barely-healed wound dealt him by the Draugr. Felldir had healed him more thoroughly, but that was almost immediately rendered moot when they went on to fight Alduin, and instead of wasting his magicka again the old Nord had made him a sling with cloth found in the Hall of Valor and told him to let it heal on its own.
So he unlocks the door with his left hand, the right held close to his chest. When he takes the first step into the house, panting breaths rough in his throat, he almost sobs in relief at the familiar sight of the firepit, the weapons on the walls—his home. He's walked the path laid for him since he set foot in this country, he's won… and now he's home.
The first thing he does is bathe, because he's been gone for almost a week and nobody deserves to wake up next to him while he smells and feels and looks like this. He's happy to take his time, and the water is dark and cloudy when he's finished, but he's clean and dry and more than satisfied.
He moves up to the bedroom, arm tied up close to his body with a quick approximation of the sling Felldir had made for him, and his heart actually swells in his chest when he sees Marcurio.
The Imperial is sprawled across their bed, a low snore rumbling in his throat, with one hand clutching… is that Dal's shirt? He smiles, sitting at the edge of the bed in the space between Marc's elbow and knee, and gently shakes the man's shoulder. "Love?"
All he gets is a little grumble in reply, so he tries again. "Marc, let me in the bed."
Unlike him, Marcurio is actually capable of waking up when someone wants his attention, even if it's only a little bit. He rolls over onto his side, reaching out for the Dunmer. "Dal, why're you up so late?" he slurs, eyes still shut. "C'mere."
Dal is happy to slip into the space provided him, curling up against the mage's front on his left side. Marc's arm comes down to rest on his hip, hand nestled in under his ribs where they meet the mattress. "Love you," he murmurs, burying his nose in the soft, damp hair behind a pointed ear.
"Still want to move back to Riften?" Dalamus tries, smirking as he gets comfortable.
"No moving; sleeping," is the reply, and the arm around his middle squeezes gently.
That sounds about right.
…
A/N: and the rest is history, you know. Next up is the Soul of a Dov rewrites. I may have to push my schedule back a month if life is gonna keep me from doing a chapter a week. But I'm gonna do my best! I'm aiming to get Soul1 up by Monday but don't have high hopes. If that doesn't work, I'll try to have Soul1 and 2 up by the next Monday. Basically they'll be up when they're up, lol.