Author's Note
I made a grave mistake! The dragon language is DOVAHZUL, not DOVAHKUL. A minor distinction, but still. I like to be accurate.
Also, I was surprised to discover that fans have actually created a Dovahzul to English dictionary. And it's in its third edition. Third! Anyway, for those of you interested in using the Dragon language in your own fanfiction, feel free to make use of this fantastic resource. www . thuum assets / Dovahzul%20Print%20Dictionary%203rd%20Edition . pdf
Found at www . thuum viewword . php?word=423
Thank you for all the wonderful reviews! They keep me writing. I'm going to finish this story if it kills me.
Heads up! This chapter is 50% smut.
As Therion stretched his long legs across the bed, he found his toes brushing up against something hot. Calf muscles fully stretched, he paused, sleepily trying to discern what he was touching, and whether it was hot enough to burn.
After prolonged contact he recognized the smooth flesh of someone's foot beneath his own; someone with a core temperature drastically hotter than his own.
Therion absently ran a hand through his short, disheveled hair, drawing it back, before looking around with bright, albeit groggy, amber eyes.
The sight of fair flesh brushed with auburn hair came into view.
Farengar's bare chest rose and fell, his face peaceful and his eyes closed. The Nord wizard slept without a blanket as usual, having neither the desire or need of one.
Therion smiled, reaching out and tenderly running the back of his gold fingers across the warm, pale flesh of Farengar's arm. He stared at the rounded tips of the wizard's human ears in amused fascination, trying to memorize every detail of his body.
Out of all their differences, he mused to himself, he was most intrigued by Farengar's high tolerance to cold. Not only did this allot him full ownership of his superbly warm blanket - currently twisted comfortably around his own naked body - but it consequently granted him a wonderful view of the handsome, naked Nord.
His smile widened, considering another advantage.
Farengar awoke to a hand on his crotch and someone kissing his neck. He murmured in approval, adjusting his hips to allow a better angle for the talented fingers.
Therion tightened his grip around the hardening shaft, drawing his hand up, massaging the sensitive skin below Farengar's tip and sliding a thumb across the already wet tip.
The wizard shuddered as the elf worked him up and down, alternating pressure, massaging, building up a rhythm that left him breathless and made his eyes roll back.
Therion smiled inwardly, watching Farengar's reactions with satisfaction. The sight of his pleasure was erotic, sending a thrill through his body. Therion savored the low moan that erupted from deep within the Nord's throat.
Farengar, surprised by his own outburst, quickly silenced himself.
Grinning with determination, Therion began to bite and suck at the sensitive flesh of Farengar's neck, pausing at the base of his throat, he tightened his grip and quickened the pace of his strokes.
Farengar opened his eyes for the first time when Therion stopped abruptly, switching hands. He looked over the handsome elf - naked from the waist up - his blanket only covering him in the barest of senses.
Therion raised his hand to his lips while continuing to work Farengar with his offhand. Then, slowly he slid his tongue across the palm of his hand, giving Farengar a carnal look that made him ache with anticipation.
With a lick of his lips, he returned to using his dominant hand, pumping quicker, with slick motions that sent waves of pleasure through the Nord.
Farengar felt his body moving of its own accord, caught up in the rhythm of the elf's long, golden fingers.
Therion suddenly wrapped a hand behind his neck, trapping his mouth in a kiss. As the Dragonborn forced his lips apart, Farengar responded without thinking, caught up in the moment, he acted instinctively. His higher mind was pleasantly absent for once. Free of thinking, he found himself enjoying the stimulation without question.
Moaning into the mouth against his, he grabbed a handful of Therion's short, golden hair and luxuriated in the feeling of it, squeezed between his fingers. The elf smelled like leather and musk, with a hint of cologne. He gripped him close, wanting to bury himself in the delicious scent.
Therion roughly gripped Farengar's chin between his index finger and thumb, forcing the wizard's lips hard against his own with ferocious intensity. The elf's passionate desire made Farengar's stomach tighten with need. The elf devoured his lips feverishly, his long-fingered touch nearly wrenching another moan deep from the wizard's throat, but Farengar managed to just barely stifle it, as some incessant part of his mind surfaced, bemoaning the impropriety of it all. Though part of him was sorely tempted to say to hell with all that was proper and dignified.
Therion, meanwhile, forced his tongue across the other man's lips, moving suggestively of talents not yet explored. The elf's tongue moved in time with his hand, and Therion grinned against the wizard's lips as this time, despite his best efforts, a moan tore helplessly from the wizard's throat, his internal debate forgotten.
As he grew closer, Therion sped up his movements, tightening his grip, causing Farengar to grunt and gasp as he abandoned himself to the pleasure of it, rutting against the elf.
Intense release washed over him all at once, the elf's wonderful touch driving him past the brink.
Farengar blinked, his conscious mind resurfacing as Therion broke away. He was still feeling euphoric but at the same time, slightly embarrassed. Or perhaps worried, was more apt a description. If word got out he'd had a one night stand with the hero of legend, was that potentially how he would be remembered by history? The court wizard of Whiterun, an easy lay for the flirtatious and polyamorous savior of Skyrim. Why had he gone through with it? A moment of weakness, surely. It had been a long time, he told himself peevishly. Additionally, the elf was obviously quite talented - and blatantly proud of the fact, Farengar noted.
Therion's smug grin caused him to scowl. Infuriatingly, this had its usual effect; causing Therion to smile all the wider.
"You look altogether too pleased with yourself," Farengar huffed, standing up and gathering his garments from the floor.
"Then we have something in common," Therion chuckled. He sat up sharply as Farengar approached the door. "Hold on!"
"What? Why?" Farengar asked. Startled, he looked around.
"My ward…" Therion began, but trailed off.
"There is no ward here," Farengar explained after a brief examination, cinching his robes. "I would have remembered you casting one last night. Your hands were otherwise occupied at the time."
Therion's merely continued to stare dumbfounded at the floor beneath his door.
"I always cast a ward," he murmured stubbornly, sounding thoroughly perplexed as he stood up. He took the blanket with him, swaddled up in it against the chill air.
Farengar shrugged and returned to rummaging around in search of the rest of his garments. Bending down, he retrieved his pants from beneath a desk. Placing a hand on the desk to steady himself, he pulled them on. A painting spread out beside his hand caught his eye.
Bright, fiery-red paint covered the canvas. Curious what could be so colorful, he leaned closer for a better look. The art was crude. It took him several moments to realize he was looking at an exotic tree with a trunk made of crystal or diamond, covered in leaves so vibrant the branches themselves appeared on fire.
"I'm afraid I'm not much of an artist," Therion said, just beside his ear, causing Farengar to jump in surprise. The elf could move as silently as a whisper.
"Evidently," Farengar replied, silently contemplating a way to keep Therion from sneaking up on him. Bells, perhaps. "Although, I find the colors quite striking."
Therion did up his belt, hiding two daggers in it.
"So do I," Therion agreed, while Farengar wondered at his fascination for concealed weaponry. "I couldn't do it justice though."
Farengar quirked his brow, suddenly interested.
"There's a real tree? Like this?"
A look over his shoulder revealed Therion smiling in response, but something about it rang false. Farengar could all but feel pain, grinding like a dagger in the other man's chest. He had little interest, and even less talent, in reading people's emotions. But with Therion it was intuitive. Almost perplexingly so.
"Molagleyes," Therion said with what Farengar knew was false cheer, the elven syllables beautifully rolling off his tongue. "Or, leyes, for short. They grow in Alinor. Their bark is solid crystal. Their leaves petals - soft, thin, and oddly enchanted. Just as mer hold magic in their bodies, so does our homeland. The plants, the trees, even the rocks and soil," he trailed off, looking nostalgic. "My home was surrounded by leyes trees. When the sun hits the leaves, they burn with intense light, as if they're on fire. The effect is unparalleled," he said in a low, wistful voice.
Farengar almost felt empathetically home sick, staring into the painting and imagining the reality.
"Do they shed bark?" Farengar finally asked, eyes suddenly alight.
Therion laughed.
"Always the alchemist. Yes. And they're extremely useful in numerous potions. Most of the plants in Alinor are."
"I should like to see the Summerset Isle," Farengar mused, already imagining all new reagents to memorize in happy, eager, academic anticipation. "The alchemy ingredients alone are enticing enough. What sort of libraries and colleges exist there?"
Therion shook his head and reached across him, turning the painting over, as though dismissing the idea. Farengar watched the brilliant red paint disappear, leaving the plain, white canvas in its place and the tiny initials 'T.L.' neatly scrawled in the lower right. Something seemed wrong about the initials. Therion's surname - it was Adamonest. The writing was faded, perhaps the A had lost some of its ink?
"Alinor isn't the safest place for Nords," Therion cautioned, his tone suggesting this was an understatement. "Or any race other than Altmer. And even then..."
"You mean the Thalmor?" Farengar asked, disappointment written across his face. Images of crystal bark samples and ancient tomes of magic faded away in his mind's eye. "Or the war on the horizon?"
Therion shook his head.
"It's more than that. Alinor is an isolated country - my kin don't accept foreigners easily. You could be arrested for fabricated crimes. Or attacked out of fear or hatred by the citizens," Therion said, frowning as his imagination went down darker paths left unsaid. He had seen more than his fair share of Thalmor handiwork in his long life.
Farengar recalled reading some accounts of travelers in the Summerset Isle, clearly oblivious of the protective look on Therion's face.
Therion privately wondered, as he often did, how Farengar could practically read his mind on some occasions, yet remain clueless to his every sign of outward affection. Pride and self esteem, apparently, did not go hand in hand.
"It can't be as bad as all that. I've heard of some foreigners reaching the ranks of nobility," the wizard pressed.
Therion brushed his fingers through his hair, wishing Farengar would let it go.
"There are several foreigners who have established themselves, yes… but with great dint of effort and financial connections. They remain close to the capital city and keep an Altmer nearby at all times, as guide and body guard."
Farengar looked him over, considering.
Therion winced.
"Wait… I didn't mean me," he replied quickly.
"You would prefer not to mix company with a human, in the Summerset Isle then?"
"No!" Therion snapped, offended.
"Ah, I see. Then I'm sorry to have presumed you would be interested in traveling together," Farengar surmised. "Forget I mentioned it."
"What? Stop jumping to preposterous conclusions," Therion said with an irritated frown. Wrapping his arms around Farengar, he rested his chin on his shoulder.
"There's nothing I'd rather do, than take you there. You'd love it. And I miss it more than I can say," he said, a bit forlornly. "I just don't think it's likely."
Farengar craned his head around to look up at him with determination.
"You are, as you say, nothing if not irreverent. And Nords are not known for giving up," he said.
Therion smiled a little, feeling more like himself and less melancholy the more he looked into Farengar's resolute stare. Remembering home always made him a little uncertain who he was. There were few reminders, in Skyrim, and he had been away from home a long time.
"Besides," the wizard added, "I hear the Dragonborn is intent on waging war against the Thalmor. I doubt they'll be around for much longer."
This time the elf laughed, pulling him closer for comfort. The closer Farengar was, the more he remembered himself.
"Indeed. I'd hate to have such a 'handsome elf' like him for an enemy."
Farengar scowled, searching for a retort when he heard the familiar feral cry of a dragon erupt. Its scream shook the very walls of the house. From outside cries went up. "Dragon! Dragon!"
"You have to go?" Farengar asked, looking toward the window with anticipation despite his last near fatal encounter with a dragon. Therion seemed nonplussed however, simply content to hold him close, ignoring the ear splitting cries outside from beast and man alike. Presumably from practice.
"No, the guards can handle it," Therion murmured, resting his face in the crook between his neck and shoulder.
Farengar quirked his head.
"What… really?" he asked in surprise.
Therion remained silent a moment before breaking into heartfelt laughter.
"No," the Dragonborn replied with a cynical chuckle.
Grudgingly, Therion pulled away, gathering together his weapons and armor.
"DOVAHKIIN!" they heard a deep, booming voice cry overhead. "WE MUST TINVAAK. SPEAK."