The dominion of the God of Sleep still reigned over Skyrim, his divine gaze dispassionately watching over all the souls who temporarily resided in his kingdom. In Whiterun, Vilkas woke with a start, disturbing the woman next to him. It was not the first time that his nightmares had woken her; and Lucia knew full well the nature of the dream that tormented him. He had described it to her after her first such experience.
"It was as if I was frozen in place. I could do nothing except stand and watch as they tortured him."
"You were both children," she had said at the time, after he had described the actual incident, and how his mind chose ransom nights to replay it while he slept, "there was nothing you could do."
"He is my brother. It was my responsibility to protect him, and I failed. This is how the Gods choose to punish me for that failure."
"The Gods do not punish a man for the imagined failings of a three year old child. You suffered a great trauma. You still suffer from it."
Lucia suggested several times that he visit the Temple of Dibella in Markath, and the priestesses there whose skill in treating the effects of such trauma were well known; almost as well known as their skills in the physical arts. But this particular night was not a night for spoken words. Vilkas lay on his back, his heart rate and his breathing still not returned to normal, as Lucia rolled onto her side and wrapped her body around his as her head found his shoulder. Without conscious thought he began to synchronize his breathing with hers, and his heart took its cue and began to slow. A short time later they were both once again fast asleep.
A short distance away another couple also lay sound asleep, and it would take something akin to an earthquake to wake them. Manis and Saadia both knew that their time together, when they could arrange it, was short, and they were of one mind in their opinion on how that time should be spent. At those times it was only sheer exhaustion that drove them to sleep, as it had on this particular night. They were both naked as they lay in a tangle of arms and legs, Saadia's long black hair acting almost as a blanket for the two lovers. The warm air that drifted up from the stove and cooking hearth on the floor below, that became a misery during the hot months of summer, now added to their shared warmth and allowed the two sleeping figures to lie comfortably without the need of a blanket on this cold night that straddled Autumn and Winter. Some other pair of lovers might have been mortified to discover how many of the lodgers in the Inn had heard them as their rising passion echoed throughout the building, and how many of those lodgers wished that it was them in Saadia's bed instead of the muscular Breton.
The God's sight, were it to travel north and west, would land on the bed where Soran and Hellina slept soundly, also from exhaustion. But in their case it was the toil and struggle that all of the Silver Hand shared that was its cause; exhaustion, tinged heavily with joy.
"I have nothing but my love to offer you," Hellina had said as she knelt in front of Soran, both of them wearing nothing more than their nightclothes, "everything I possess resides in this room. Everything except my love for you. There is no room, no structure, no continent on the face of the world that is large enough to contain that. It started as a seed the day we met, and it has grown ever since. I lay with you at night, your scent fills my nostrils, and it grows. You whisper to me in the dark, the sound of your voice fills my ears, and it grows. I awaken in the morning, and my eyes feast upon your beauty, and it grows. There will come a day when it grows so large it will consume the world itself. On that day, and every day between then and now, I wish to live in this world with you at my side, as my Husband. Will you marry me, sir?"
Soran's face had become wet with tears during Hellina's proposal, which had coaxed her own eyes to respond in kind. But her voice had remained steady, and soft, as she knelt on the wooden floor in her shift, her eyes looking up into his, as her hands had reached up to clasp his. Soran's own voice caught in his throat as he smiled, and spoke.
"Yes, madam, if I do not die from an excess of joy; most definitely, yes."
Others slept fitfully, alone in their beds; alone excerpt for the partner of their imagination. Salama and Terek still slept apart, each believing (incorrectly) that the other preferred such an arrangement. But their sleeping minds, guided by a certain Divinity, in whose realm they wandered, found each other in that world where anything was possible; and neither of them wasted the opportunity in that virtual land to consummate their growing affection.
Vala did not dream of Farkas when slumber finally took her. It was not disinterest that was the reason, far from it. Her mind, while she lay in her bed staring up at the ceiling, was filled with images of him or, more accurately, images of the two of them as her imagination rebuilt the well worn fantasy of what could have occurred if she had stayed with him in Jorrvaskr. It was her own hands that caressed the soft flesh of her body, but in her imagination those hands belonged to him. When she slept finally, her body temporarily released from the yearning that she had felt since their abbreviated night together, she slept soundly, and if she dreamed of anything at all she did not remember it afterwards.
Hylf did not sleep well, and had not for several days. It was no longer the fear of a painful death that disturbed his nights (as it also disturbed his days). If they were going to kill him, Hylf was sure that they would have done so already. It was not the stench of the jail cell in which he resided beneath Dragon's Reach. Hylf had been confined in worse conditions. It was not the constant chatter of the other two residents of the cells just like his. Neither of them had any trouble sleeping through the night. Hylf simply could not understand why he was still alive. He had told Kodlak everything. They had nothing more to learn from him. Why then did the Harbinger of the Companions forbid any of The Circle from using him as prey for a hunt? Aela's eyes had grown bright at the prospect of a hunt when Skjor had suggested it. One of the twins (Hylf could not recall which) had looked Hylf up and down with a look that indicated what he thought of the idea of hunting a creature as pitiful as Hylf.
"I say we drop him deep within Bleak Falls Barrow and let the frost spiders entertain themselves with him," Irileth said once he had been placed in the cell where he resided now.
"What have they ever done to you that you would poison them with such a meal?" Njada asked her as the two women stared at the man on the other side of the bars.
A shiver went through the Dunmer nightblade's body.
"I detest anything with that many eyes and that many legs."
Hylf had not been sleeping well but he knew that, all things considered, things could be much worse.
It could not be said, with any amount of truth, that Krev slept. His body certainly had the aspect of a man who was sound asleep. His eyes were closed and his mouth open. His body did not move one muscle, not even his eyelids. But it was not the God of Sleep that was responsible for Krev's current state. Were that God to possess a physical head it would be shaking back and forth now, its lips pursed and its faced painted with a look of deep disapproval as it stared at the unconscious man who emanated enough fumes, courtesy of the entire bottle of brandy he had consumed earlier, that Frik thought it wise to drag his cot away from the hearth, and the fire within it. It seemed to Frik that each day that passed without producing their missing assassin ended with Krev drinking more than the day before it. No one else (in Krev's band at least) knew the cause of this behavior but, then again, none of them would have cared if they had known. That Krev spent more hours of the day drunk than sober was well known, and he was not the only man in the dwindling group to do so. That he had sent his personal spy and assassin on a secret mission was also not unusual. The length of Hylf's absence was also not yet unusual. So it was not strange that Krev's men suspected nothing.
"What will they do with him?" Frik asked Dralof two days after Hylf had departed as the two men walked back to the main house. Frik had offered to help the one armed man carry his firewood only as a pretext to speak to him.
"They will not murder him, of that I am certain. Neither Ria, nor Njada, nor Kodlak Whitemane for that matter; not the way they speak of him. But if they leave his fate in the hands of any of The Circle, his immortal soul has already crossed over into Oblivion."
Dralof's answer surprised Frik, but not for the reason that Dralof would have expected.
"Oblivion, not Sovngarde?"
"Spies do not enter Sovngarde," Dralof replied as he looked at Frik with a puzzled expression, "not spies, nor assassins, nor magistrates, nor anyone who drinks their wine with chunks of fruit in it. You are a grown man; you should know this."
Frik could not keep himself from laughing. It was a sound that was not often heard in their community, and it drew a fair amount of attention.
"We are never too old to learn new things."
Uthgerd was not accustomed to insomnia, and she could not say that she enjoyed the experience at all. She considered herself to be a simple woman, a warrior direct in manner and speech. If she desired a man she said so plainly. If he felt the same, good. They would explore each other until one of them grew bored. She never considered any mating to be permanent. Everything in Skyrim was temporary, particularly life, which could end without warning. Anyone with their feet planted firmly upon the ground, as opposed to those with their heads in the clouds, knew this as an absolute truth, and lived their lives accordingly; just as Uthgerd did. She had never had her view of the world shaken, not even by Aric, who Uthgerd considered to be far too attractive to be born of mortal woman. She secretly suspected that he was some demigod in disguise, a son of Cytherea put upon the earth to tempt women (and men from what Uthgerd had herself witnessed) into behavior that no sane person would ever consider.
No, it was not Aric's image that continued to insinuate itself into her imagination, causing her face (and other parts of her body) to become hot, and her breath to catch in her throat as her hands moved across her bare skin. Never in life would she have guessed that a simple mission would take such a strange turn.
"He will enjoy the hospitality of the Jarl for an unspecified number of days," Soran said as he read the letter that the formidable looking Nord had delivered, "they have not yet decided how best to convince him that if he wishes to live a long life he should leave Whiterun hold, and The Pale, far behind him."
No one could remember any time in the past when one Harbinger wrote or received a letter from another. It had certainly never happened to Soran. Kodlak's writing was quite elegant, if somewhat old fashioned. It was very much like Soran's mentor's, when the Harbinger of The Silver Hand was still studying to become a magistrate.
"They will let him live then," Urul said as he eyed the woman in steel plate armor who had carried the letter that was now being read.
"They discussed different ways of killing him, but only in his presence, and only to put the fear of the Gods into him. Otherwise he would already be cold, and underground," Uthgerd said as she looked back at the large Orsimer warrior and felt her heart rate increase.
"In any case, they will convince him to never return to Krev, and to avoid him in future," Soran said as he folded the letter and handed it to Dralof, "there is a post script that is for your eyes only."
Dralof's face broke into a smile as he took the letter carefully before walking away.
"What is your name, lady?" Hellina asked. It had not escaped her notice how the warrior and Urul were looking at each other.
"My name is Uthgerd. And I am no lady, just a simple warrior."
"I do not believe that for one second," Urul said as his eyes shined, "I think there is more to you than meets the eye."
"I would say the same of you, if there were not so much of you that met the eye already," Uthgerd said as she looked the large Orc up and down.
Hellina grabbed Soran's arm and began to tug gently.
"Please excuse us, both of you, we have matters that require our attention."
Soran took his cue from his future wife and simply nodded at the pair before following Hellina like a horse being led by its reins.
Uthgerd had little memory of the words that passed between her and the large orc. She could recall his name; and the sounds of his voice continued to reverberate in her mind, its deep baritone melody conspiring with the image of his muscular frame in robbing her of sleep. She had never been one to swoon at the sight of any man (not even Aric), but her brief interaction with the man who stood head and shoulders above her had been accompanied by a slight buzzing sound in her head, which accounted for the gap in her memory as to what was spoken, as well as a lightheadedness that she usually associated with a moderate sprint in full armor.
I believe I will pay them another visit, and soon, she thought to herself as she lay in her bed and gazed with sightless eyes at the ceiling while her mind painted a picture of what the two of them would look like as they allowed their mutual attraction free rein.