skyrimkinkmeme | Meme Announcements!

Meme Announcements!

ANNOUNCEMENTS: UPDATED 12/16/2017

Happy Holidays, fellow Kinkmemers! I have returned and have no reasonable excuse for my absence except LIFE. I will be working on updating the archives. If anyone sees anything amiss, please let me know.

I am also hoping to find another Mod and an Archivist.

The more dedicated people we have in this Meme the less chance of it dying. I admit that being the sole keeper of the Meme is not great for the fandom. If something were to happen to me, for good, this place would go the way of the Fallout Kink Meme. Let's not let that happen! If anyone would be interested in Modding/Archiving, please drop me a line. Thanks! <3

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Useless, I have loved this couple and I still hope!

Therion let out a half conscious groan in protest, as he was lifted onto a horse behind Farengar. The wizard stiffened as Brynjolf rested the Dragonborn against his back and went about tying him in place, so as to secure him against falling from the saddle. As the Nightingale tightly cinched the mer’s torso, Farengar heard him utter a low, cry of pain, conjuring to mind his recently healed broken ribs. With only the barest trace of sarcasm, Therion muttered, “Kill me,” into the wizard’s shoulder.

“Though it would make my ride considerably more enjoyable,” Farengar said, craning his head over his shoulder to observe the mer slumped against him, “I suspect your entourage would have some rather strong words with me.”

Therion said nothing back.

Already asleep again, Farengar thought, looking at his closed eyes and even breaths falling against his blue robes.

The wizard shifted uncomfortably under the watchful gaze of what seemed like an absurd amount of people. The 8,000 septims worth of jewels had not been worth so much hassle, that much was certain. However, freeing the Thalmor captives from the keep, and ridding Skyrim of a den of justicars, had made the trip more than worthwhile.

General Tullius rode up beside him on a powerful looking war horse, his unit of soldiers awaiting him by the road, each on their own mounts. The General was a regal looking figure with an air of authority about him. His shortly trimmed, white hair, stood out against his tanned skin and leather armor. Though his face was wrinkled, his muscular physique was unmistakable, leading Farengar to suspect that anyone who fought him with the expectation that he was past his prime, would have a rude awakening in store.

“Where are you heading?” the General asked, addressing Farengar directly for the first time since he had arrived.

“Riverwood,” Farengar replied. The little rural town on the water was not far, making it the logical choice, though Farengar was all but itching to return to Whiterun. Traveling and dealing with people were two of the activities he loathed most.

“We’ll provide an escort for you,” the General said. From his tone, he gathered it was neither a request nor a suggestion. “Running into a pack of bandits on the way would be a terrible way to start your morning.”

“Or Thalmor,” Farengar added pointedly, watching the Imperial’s reaction.

The General glanced back at his soldiers, safely out of hearing, then leaned forward in his saddle, the morning light reflecting the gold trim of his officer’s armor.

“Between you and me,” he said, looking directly into Farengar’s eyes, “I wouldn’t mind having an excuse to kill some Thalmor. Even if it means causing a diplomatic incident.”

“A sentiment I can relate to,” Farengar replied, thinking of the prisoners from the Thalmor keep. His anger brewed, wondering how many more Nords were locked away while he was casually conversing with the general.

“I haven’t put an elf to the sword since the Great War. Twentysix years…” the General said, a hint of longing in his voice. He spared a curious glance at the slumbering Therion. “Where do you suppose he fits into all of this? The Thalmor are his kin.”

“I have never asked, and he has expressed no opinion on the matter, but I would hazard that the Dragonborn is not an enthusiastic admirer of the Thalmor,” Farengar said with obvious sarcasm.

“Remarkable, that of everyone here,” General Tullius said thoughtfully, ignoring the cynical remark. “Therion preferred entrusting you with his safe keeping.”

Farengar was inclined to agree, especially given that the General had an entire army at his command.

“Well, enough talk. Let’s get my Legate to Riverwood,” the General said, turning his horse around.

“Legate?” Farengar echoed.
“Yes,” the General replied, nodding at the Dragonborn. “You didn’t know he was an Imperial Legate?”

Farengar spared a curious glance at the sleeping mer. Dragonborn… Legate… Thane… How many more faces did the mer have, he wondered.

General Tullius spurred his horse and Farengar followed, his second rider jostling awkwardly in the saddle with him. They made good time, arriving in Riverwood just as the sun finished cresting the horizon.

The citizens of Riverwood stopped their morning tasks to look at the Imperials in their leather armor and red cloaks with curiosity, trying to catch sight of the two men at the center of the riders. Stopping outside the Sleeping Giant Inn, the General dismounted and helped Farengar with his slumbering charge.

Farengar watched in weary annoyance as a murmuring crowd of people formed around them. Embry, the local drunk, cracked open an eye and looked up from his stoop before the inn, shading his eyes as he squinted up.

“Hey! I knowsh that elf! That’sh the Dragonshborns!” the blonde man shouted, slurring his words. “What’sh wrong with my favorite drinkin’ buddy?!”

The Imperials gently moved Embry aside as he tried to pry his way closer, and Farengar hoisted one of Therion’s arms over his shoulders, supporting his weight. A little girl with braided, brown hair crawled up to them, scurrying to avoid getting stepped on by the soldiers. Farengar glared at her as she grabbed a handful of his robe and tugged on it to get his attention.

“Hey! Hey, wizard! What’s wrong with the Dragonborn?” she shouted, jumping up and down.

Farengar glanced around, hoping one of the soldiers would pluck her off of him. Finding himself alone, he tried to shake her away.

“Get off of me,” he ordered her through grit teeth.

She frowned at his unhelpfulness, but let go of his robes none-the-less, much to his relief. Instead, she took Therion’s limp hand and squeezed it.

“Hey! Dragonborn!” she shouted, shaking his hand. When this had no effect, her face clouded.

“Dorthe! Get yer hide over here now!” Farengar heard a man shout, and the little girl stiffened.

She looked up at Farengar to give him a final look of disdain, before she gave Therion’s hand a quick kiss, in what she seemed to consider a manner too subtle for the wizard, or any other observer, to detect.

Her father shook his head as she rejoined him.

“Don’t go running into packs of soldiers!” Farengar heard her father yell, as General Tullius helped him move the Dragonborn into the inn.

“...probably a dragon,” he caught part of the conversation as they moved away.

“No, Papa! He was cut up real bad, like… like he fell in a mill or something!”

The door to the inn closed behind them, cutting off the din of conversations outside, but was quickly replaced by an all new group of spectators. Farengar felt his head spin, as they seemed to press in from every direction; crowds of gawking, gossiping, people.

A no-nonsense looking man with a cleaning cloth in hand approached them, apparently the innkeeper.

“We got rooms and food,” he said gruffly.

Farengar was about to ask about the lodgings when the innkeeper leaned forward, jutting out his chin.

“Follow me,” he said, opening the door to one of the small rooms.

Farengar felt a great wave of relief wash over him as he walked inside, leaving the voices and press of bodies behind.

“I’ll bring some food,” the innkeeper said, turning to leave, as Farengar laid Therion on the bed.

“How much for-”

“Ain’t no charge,” he replied, tossing his cloth over a shoulder. “Delphine’d kill me if I took your coin. You like skeever liver?”

“I’ve never had the pleasure. And I’d prefer to keep it that way,” Farengar said, rubbing his eyes in exhaustion.

The innkeeper left with a ‘hmph’.

Farengar sank into the chair facing the bed, already half asleep. He started as General Tullius entered.

“We’re heading out,” the General informed him. “Anything I can do for either of you before we leave?”

“Apparently food rations would not go amiss,” Farengar said, dropping his hand from his eyes to his side.

General Tullius chuckled. “About the only edible thing Orgnar makes is mead. So long as you don’t let him open the bottle,” he said, nodding to the bottle of Black-Briar Mead on the table beside Farengar. An all mead diet, Farengar thought ruefully. Well, it wouldn’t be the first time.

“I’ll leave a few men posted outside the door. I need to return to Solitude to attend to some important matters. Like why the hell the Thalmor kidnapped and tortured the Dragonborn. Take care of my Legate, wizard,” the General said with a final glance at Therion. With a nod to Farengar, he left, closing the door behind him.

The wizard sighed, wishing he was back at Dragonsreach, about to settle down into his own bed. Each time he closed his eyes and began to imagine he was home, the cursed lute music seemed to drift through the door and dispel the illusion. He shifted around in the hard, wooden chair, but he only seemed to become more uncomfortable. Grunting, he folded his arms and tucked his chin against his chest. After a few minutes, he snapped his head up in irritation and futilely rearranged himself with a sigh of aggravation.

Farengar’s eyes fell on the Dragonborn, his chest rising and falling silently.

The color had returned to his skin somewhat, though he was still a terrible sight to behold, covered in bruises and lacerations. Farengar’s healing magic had reconnected his broken bones and replenished his blood, but the rest of his injuries would take a day or two. His body would need some time to adjust before it could take any more restoration magic.
He closed his eyes, wondering how he had wound up in such a troublesome position. Despite everything, a part of him wished the Dragonborn would wake up and smile. Therion’s face, emotionless and empty, was somehow completely unnerving to Farengar.

When Therion finally awoke, the room was quiet and still, lit only by the dull flame of a single candle. His breath caught in his throat, as he took in the small chamber, unsure where he was. Pulse quickening, his wide amber eyes swept the place, searching for Thalmor. The sight of Farengar, sitting stiffly in the chair beside him, took him by surprise. The tall Nord was sleeping awkwardly in his seat, his frame bent so uncomfortably, Therion surmised he could only have achieved sleep through a combination of sheer, prideful, determination and exhaustion.

Therion inhaled awkwardly, his breathing becomingly increasingly difficult. He tried to breath normally, but found his chest was tight. Each time he drew breathe, his upper body responded with aching violently, forcing him to breath in quick, shallow breaths, lending him to anxiety.

Wincing, he remembered his final evening with the Thalmor. Though he quickly tried to dispel the memory, he could still recollect the violent, forceful blows of justicar boots kicking his chest with, what seemed to be, remarkably boundless enthusiasm. Ondolemar had found them and intervened, shouting in outrage. An argument had passed between them as he had laid gasping on the floor, something about rank and status being yelled back and forth, when they were interrupted by a sudden commotion within the keep. Shortly after, he had awoken to find what seemed like half of Skyrim shouting in disagreement.

Rubbing his fingers together, Therion tried to summon his magicka. A weak, golden light, flickered erratically in his palm, refusing to obey his weary command.

Farengar’s head drooped forward and slid from his shoulder, causing him to wake with a start.

“What do you think you’re doing?” he asked sleepily, looking disapprovingly at Therion’s vain attempts at restoration. The wizard extended his hands, enveloping the mer in shimmering, gold light. "Apart from trying to kill yourself with exhaustion, I mean."

Therion relaxed slightly, a small sigh of relief escaping his lips as he felt the tightness in his chest begin to give way to the soothing warmth of the magic washing through his aching body. Farengar paused momentarily, letting his magicka regenerate, then Therion heard the spell resume with its familiar soft chimes. The wizard was clearly unsuited to healing magic, regularly pausing to recover his energies.

Therion was just able to comfortably draw a full breath of air into his lungs when Farengar stopped. Opening his eyes, he slowly pushed himself up to sit on the edge of the bed and look at the mage.

Farengar had slumped forward in his chair, leaning precariously to one side, dark circles evident beneath his closed eyes.

"Hypocrite," Therion said softly.

Startled, he watched Farengar drift slightly too far to the side, and dashed forward, catching the man just as he collapsed. He held the unconscious wizard in his arms, momentarily dazed.

Farengar's lean frame was sturdy and strong, unlike any other wizard he had ever encountered. That was the Nords for you, he thought, even their mages seemed to be built for warfare. Even through his thick, blue robes, he could feel the remarkable warmth of the Nord's body, compared to his own. Had Farengar been mer or any other race of man, he would have thought him feverish.

Reluctantly, he took one of the wizard's arms over his shoulder, and gently laid him on the bed to rest.

Therion stared into Farengar’s face, suddenly unsure of himself... perhaps he was simply over tired and troubled from his recent experiences. However, as he gazed at the sleeping wizard, an overwhelming wave of protectiveness gripped him, the ferocity of his feelings catching him by surprise.

Of all the humans in Skyrim, Therion had always enjoyed Farengar's company most. The wizard's humorous, sharp wit and thoughtful nature, found Therion returning to Dragonsreach often. At first he had wondered if he simply found Farengar similar in attitude to his own people, but in time, he had found Farengar was uniquely, well, Farengar. Skyrim was a lonely place to be mer, but teasing the proud mage always made the days more pleasant.

Therion rubbed his forehead, baffled and slightly worried by the direction of his thoughts.

Developing legitimate feelings for a human was not a thought he had ever seriously entertained; his life was complicated enough.

He shook his head and laughed.

Well, he thought to himself with a low chuckle, it hardly mattered. Whatever his feelings were toward Farengar, more than likely, Farengar would be the last person in Tamriel to be aware of them. He was surprisingly dense about such matters. Furthermore, Therion would not remain in Skyrim much longer; he had a war to wage on his kinsman.

After a final glance at the sleeping wizard, he quietly left the room, emerging into the main room of the Sleeping Giant Inn, his folded Nightingale armor in hand. The Imperials beside the door turned to face him and, as they recognized his identity, saluted. One was a young man with short blonde hair, the other a more experienced looking veteran woman with braided, black hair.

“At ease,” Therion said, closing the door behind him. “How long have I been out?”

“Only since this morning,” the young man replied quickly, eager to please Therion. “Is there anything you require, Sir?”

“Yes,” Therion replied, keen to get away from both of the soldiers and be alone. “A bath. You’re both dismissed. Eat a hot meal, enjoy your evening, and return to General Tullius after you’ve rested.”

“Sir!” the young man replied in protest as Therion turned to leave, “The General was very adamant that we remain at your side.”

“What he means,” the woman chimed in, “Is that the General will have both our arses on a platter if you walk out that door and get mugged. No offense, but you look like death warmed over. Sir.”

Therion ran a hand through his short, gold hair. He detested relying on others and was in no mood for pointless social pleasantries, but he had to admit that even a mudcrab could give him a run for his money in his current state. Between thieves, Thalmor, vampires, and Gods forbid, dragons, walking down the street was taking one’s life into their own hands. Little wonder Nords were the most stubborn, resilient race on the face of Nirn.

“Fine,” Therion agreed, gesturing to the young Imperial. “You may follow me. And I will do my utmost to stay alive so the General doesn’t toss you both from Castle Dour. You,” he said, turning to the older imperial, “May stay here and see that my sleeping friend isn’t disturbed. I’ll return in a while.”

Therion swiftly turned away and left the inn before either could argue, emerging into the night air of Riverwood, as the young Imperial soldier scurried after him to keep up. A light rain began to fall as they made their way toward the Riverwood Trader. Therion enjoyed the cold drops and open sky, having been cooped up indoors far too long, and happily let the rain fall on his bare skin. The soldier beside him kept staring at the him with such intense fascination Therion finally stopped in his tracks.

“Spit it out,” he said more plainly than he meant to, too tired to muster his usual charm. Nothing like a week of semi-conscious torture to make a mer peevish, he thought to himself with bitter sarcasm. “What is it...?”

“Lorgren,” the auxiliary replied, introducing himself. “I… That is… Everyone calls you ‘Dragonborn’. I only just transferred here from Cyrodiil. The Nords in the Imperial City say you have the soul of a dragon and can shout words so powerful, they tear the sky apart! That you can shout a man to death, or bring them back to life!” Therion stared flatly at the boy as they resumed their walk, partly amused by the rumors and partly regretting letting him play bodyguard; his enthusiasm for talking seemed to know no bounds. “Some say you’re Tiber Septim, reincarnated! We all thought they were embellishing, but then we found out the tales of dragons proved to be true, we started to wonder, what else could be? Well, when I arrived in Skyrim, many of the other auxiliaries confirmed a lot of the stories. And, well, I never thought I’d meet a living legend.”

Lorgren grinned a bit sheepishly, watching the Dragonborn.

Therion stared at the eager faced child for a moment before he began to chuckle, then burst into hearty laughter.

“Sorry,” the Dragonborn finally said to the confused Lorgren. “I’m just trying to imagine the- the old Imperials in the Elder Council, choking on that rumor… An Altmer reincarnation of their precious “Divine” Emperor… Oh that would be rich, I don’t know who would want me dead more, every mer on Nirn, or the entire Empire,” he held his sides, concerned that he might re-injure his ribs. The most delicious irony, he kept quietly to himself. He doubted Lorgren would appreciate hearing that he had personally sacked the Imperial Palace during the Great War. Cyrodiil was still rebuilding the palace.

“My soul is mer, Lorgren. Not Imperial. Not dragon. I am mer,” Therion said firmly. Though he hated the Thalmor, he was still Altmer, a fact that many seemed to prefer to forget or ignore. “And I cannot raise the dead. That’s necromancers. And the results are less than desirable.”

Lorgren mumbled something and looked at his boots, walking with a bit less spring in his step.

Therion stopped.

After a moment, Lorgren turned back to look at him.

Taking a deep breath, Therion lifted his head up, shouting “Lok… VAH KOOR!” toward the sky. His thu’um echoed loudly, the force of his words creating a ripple of light as the air around him exploded in a loud ‘crack!’.

The rain slowed, and stopped, and as Therion walked on, the dark clouds overhead dispersed, revealing the constellations and the shining twin moons.

Lorgren ran after him with a large grin on his face.

Lorgren opened the door to the Riverwood Trader, Therion following behind him. Camilla looked up from her seat next to the hearth, giving the uniformed Imperial a lingering, appreciative look. The young, blonde smiled shyly at her, earning him a scowl from Camilla’s brother, Lucan, as he looked up from stocking the counter.

“Welcome to the Riverwood Trader- Dragonborn!” Lucan exclaimed as he spotted Therion, his eyes wide.

Camilla gasped, leaping from her chair.

“What- Oh,” Therion said, examining himself for the first time. He had given little thought to his appearance, driven solely by the desire to get supplies and bathe. His chest and tattered clothing were both smeared unpleasantly with dried blood. The other soldier’s ‘death warmed over’ comment suddenly seemed almost generous, as he examined his half-healed cuts and bruises. “Pardon my state of undress. I’m in the market for new clothing, as you can see.”

“Of course…” Lucan said, looking dazed as he nodded and went through his shelves.

Camilla stared openly at Therion’s body in mute abhorrence.

“This is dreadful,” she finally said after recovering from her initial shock. “It was the Thalmor, wasn’t it?”

Therion nodded.

“This is too much!” Camilla shouted, looking enraged. “We left Cyrodiil after they ruined everything, and now they’re determined to do the same to Skyrim!”

Lucan looked at his sister nervously. “Camilla…” he said gently, trying to calm her, knowing her self-preservation instincts went out the window when she became righteously angry. Therion accurately guessed her brother was picturing Camilla grabbing a sword twice her size and running off to the nearest Thalmor embassy.

Therion walked over to Camilla, gently taking her chin in his hand and lifting her eyes to meet his.

“Nothing will ruin Skyrim,” he said softly. “On my honor.”

Camilla looked convinced by his words, her ire subsiding, and a faint blush forming on her cheeks.

Beyond confessing to Farengar that his honor, and his word, were dubious at best, few people were aware that he swore oaths indiscriminately. Also, that he employed allurement and seduction whenever possible to achieve his own ends… although results varied with Nords.

Therion removed his hand and turned to Lucan, who merely looked irritated with the flirtatious Dragonborn. Laying out a set of clothing on the counter, Lucan paused, noticing Therion’s lack of coin purse.

Setting his Nightingale armor on the counter, Therion turned the chest piece inside out and moved his thumb across one of the seams. From a hidden pocket in the lining, invisible to Lucan’s eyes even as he watched the mer reach into it, he produced a sapphire and set it between them.

“I’ll take soap, towels, and any food you can spare. Tasting Orgnar’s Skeever pot pie once was one time too many,” Therion said sincerely. In retrospect, it had been the worst drunken decision of his life, and that included stealing goats with the Daedric Prince of debauchery.

“I have some bread and dried meats,” Lucan said, gathering his order. “Say, any thoughts on the moot? The country is rumbling with excitement over it.”

Therion had completely forgotten about the moot and said as much. Broadly speaking, he had no interest in the convening of Skyrim’s Jarls to select the next High King or High Queen of Skyrim. The meeting would be so much pageantry, followed by the selection of Elisif. Therion knew the only thing that would change in Skyrim from her appointment, was the type of crown she wore on her head. Whatever her short comings, Therion appreciated that she was a known quantity. Whatever the Empire wanted, she would do. The only trick then, was telling the Empire what to tell her.

“Elisif has been traveling Skyrim, garnering support from the Jarls,” Lucan went on, enjoying sharing a tidbit of gossip. “She’s currently in Markarth, discussing ways of bolstering the city’s defenses against the Forsworn with Jarl Igmund.”

Therion suppressed the desire to curl his lip in disgust at the mention of Igmund, feeling his detest for the man. Instead he gave Lucan an intrigued ‘hmm’. Skyrim would never have had a civil war in the first place, if the Jarl of Markarth had possessed a spine.

“Maybe the moot will choose the Dragonborn?” Lorgren wondered aloud, speaking for the first time since he entered the shop.

Camilla, Lucan, and Therion gave him mirrored looks of disbelief.

Lorgren stared back at them in confusion.

“Ah, no,” Therion explained, “Skyrim chooses its succession from the monarchy. And if there is no one available from the monarchy, then from the jarls. And, not to put too fine a point on it, but the moot would sooner set fire to the country than let a mer to rule it.”

“Oh…” Lorgren said, a little surprised. “Even though you’re…?”

“I’m mer, Lorgren,” he said, echoing his earlier words to the young soldier.

“But if you were a Nord?” Lorgren asked curiously.

Therion laughed silently at his complete lack of tact.

“Then I would probably be considerably less attractive and I would have been dead ages ago,” he said with a wink, avoiding the question.

Therion bid Lucan and Camilla farewell and left.

He hurried to the White River. At the bank, he impatiently stripped out of his repulsive, ragged clothing as he ran, leaping gratefully into the clean water. He swam out into the center of the river and, with crack of magic from his right hand, let himself sink beneath the surface. Closing his eyes, he surrendered to the cooling relief, only moving occasionally to resist the pull of the current. With a relaxed sigh, he ran his hands through his hair, shaking his head until his hair dampened and floated in the tide. He lay blissfully on the bottom of the river bed for a minute, looking up at the rippling surface of the water, until he suspected his water breathing spell was close to done. He settled his feet into the sand and pushed himself away from the river bed, swimming back to the surface, where he saw Lorgren charging into the water, still in his armor.

Treading water, Therion chuckled at the soldier, waist deep in the river.

“I thought you were drowning!” Lorgren called out to him, looking relieved.

“So you decided to sink to the bottom and drown with me in your armor. How thoughtful of you!” Therion answered with friendly sarcasm. “Toss me the soap.”

Lorgren returned to the shore and dug through Therion’s belongings, obediently tossing him the bar. His aim was off, and it went wide to the right. Therion stretched out his hand, and Lorgren saw it stop in mid air, then float over the the mer’s open hand.

“That’s amazing!” Lorgren called. “I always heard mer were really good with magic. I wish I could do that. Maybe I could use it to stop arrows?”

“You’re from Cyrodiil, and you’re impressed by telekinesis?” Therion asked in surprise, moving closer so they wouldn’t have to shout back and forth while he scrubbed his body and hair clean.

“I’m from western Cyrodiil,” Lorgren said, sitting down cross legged at the edge of the river. “Not many Imperials from the west can cast magic. At least, none that I ever met. They say it’s because we’re descended from Nords.”

“Well, mer aren’t born knowing magic. Altmer learn basic destruction, restoration, and illusion magic as children. And as for telekinesis,” he said, rinsing the soap from his hair, “if you can see an arrow coming at you, it’s probably too late.”

“Guess I’m not missing out then,” Lorgren said, selecting a flat stone and throwing it across the river, watching it skip several times before sinking.

Therion emerged from the water, retrieving his Nightingale armor, and set to work scrubbing it clean in the river.

“Couldn’t you heal those cuts, with your magic?” Lorgren asked, eyeing the jagged marks on Therion’s chest.

“You are full of questions, aren’t you?” Therion asked. There seemed to be no end to the number of things the boy asked about.

“Yep!” Lorgren exclaimed with a grin, as if he heard the comment often.

“There are limits to what a body can take,” Therion explained dispassionately, tossing aside the washed armor as he emerged from the river and dried himself with a towel. “And even if I could absorb any more restoration magic, I saw stars just trying to levitate that bar of soap. So I probably ought to avoid casting magic. But, old habits,” he said with a shrug.

Lorgren quietly skipped rocks on the river and Therion enjoyed the quiet. The peace lasted less than a minute.

“How old are you?” Lorgren asked.

Therion looked heavenward, silently asking Auriel to grant him patience.

“Why do you wish to know?” he replied with disdain, slipping on his new small clothes and trousers.

“Well, if you were human, I’d say you were, mmm, early to mid twenties? And some people say elves live to be a thousand!” Lorgren said. “So, how do you guys age, is my question, I guess.”

“I’m cutting you off,” Therion said, buttoning his shirt. “You get one last question, and then I’m no longer obligated to answer anything. Are you sure you want to use your question on mer aging?”

Lorgren thought for a moment and then nodded.

“I’m one hundred thirty four. If you raised a mer and a man side by side, they would reach puberty and adult life with no difference. Once a mer reaches adulthood, their body ages dramatically slower to what you’re accustomed to. You could liken your decades of life to our centuries, but only in changes of outward appearance. Mentally we develop the same as men, which is to say, a thirty year old mer is every bit as mature, as a thirty year old man, and he is treated as such. As for living to a thousand, it happens as rarely as a human lives to a hundred. It isn’t impossible, but it’s unlikely. Living to eight hundred is a grand achievement. Disease, war, violence, and just plain bad luck are likely to strike a mer dead long before old age has the opportunity.”

Therion shook the water from his armor and tossed it over his shoulder.

“Speaking of age,” Therion said as they began their walk back to the inn. “I have a difficult time believing you’re old enough to be in the Imperial Legion. Did you sneak your way into the army?”

“I’m just short,” Lorgren protested, folding his arms and scowling. “It’s completely unfair. Everyone thinks I’m a kid.”

“Maybe if you didn’t sulk like one,” Therion began with a smile when his ears suddenly perked up. “Move,” he said, pushing Lorgren aside as he stepped back from the dirt road. A rider tore around the corner a moment later, pushing their horse at full speed.

The rider dismounted outside the inn, quickly nailed a paper to the door, and then was off again. Lorgren ran over to investigate the document, Therion following quickly behind him.

“There’s been a Forsworn attack on Markarth!” Lorgren read aloud, eyes wide. “The Jarl of Solitude, Lady Elisif the Fair, is dead.”

I love this still!
I can only imagine just how jealous Aela would be if Reljir had Lydia for a housecarl!

Vilkas wanted to just run into the cave and find Ariella as soon as possible. He didn’t even know what he’d do when he found her, he hadn’t thought that far. He didn’t have any supplies to help her and he still had no idea about how his wolf would react seeing her again.

The wolf was what pulled the boy to his senses. He took a few steps into the cave before the wolf growled at him, causing him to pause.

He listened to it’s warning and drew his sword, proceeding far more slowly. The cave stunk of troll and blood; human blood.

Vilkas walked through the tunnel that would probably lead to the main section of the cave. Small handprints were smeared along the walls at uneven intervals and upon inspecting one closer his nose quickly identified the blood as Ariella’s.

Vilkas continued moving until the narrow walls expanded into a large area. Vilkas scanned the room, there were nothing other than the space he was standing in. He scanned the room, with eyes, nose and ears.

Nothing.

He stepped into the centre of the room and sniffed. He was drawn towards one part of the cave, the darkest area. Vilkas had wondered how caves like this seemed to always be lit.

Vilkas took care to not step on any bones as he made his way over.

His heart was pounded harder with every step he took. What first caught his eye was the glint of steel. Vilkas lowered his own sword and felt his throat tightening as he cleared away some of the snow that had blown in and covered the metal.

Ariella’s sword was instantly recognised. What made Vilkas fall to his knees was the dried blood on the blade and the fact it was no longer whole. The blade was fragmented as if it had been shattered in battle.

Vilkas looked around: bloody pages scattered, bloody robes ripped, bloodied bandages, a torn pack which was also bloody.

Vilkas felt sick.

He ran his hands through his hair as he looked around, every piece of bone catching his eye, the skulls in the room all seemed to stare at him.

He couldn’t get enough air, he had to breath but he couldn’t. He felt like he was drowning, desperate for breath, for life.

He lost track of everything in that moment; where he was, where his weapon was. He was sure he couldn’t have even remembered his own name.

Ariella consumed his thoughts like a tidal wave. She had died here, her bones were here, she had sought salvation here and a troll had killed her. He couldn’t not look at the flesh around him, bits of her.

His body acted on its own. He picked up the bloodied robes and held them to his face. They still smelt like her; like her blood. She had tried to defend herself and the dull, skyforge steel sword had betrayed her, broken.

He couldn’t think straight, not knowing what emotion to fall to. Not knowing what emotion would be best for him to act on.

He had been so sure she was dead yet at the same time still believed she was alive; but here it was. Proof, all that remained of her scattered throughout a cave. He didn’t know what to do.

A grunt and a pounding pulled him from his thoughts.

Vilkas’ head snapped towards the sound; his thoughts becoming oddly focused yet so out of control.

Whatever the monster had been expecting, it hadn’t expected the nord to run screaming into it.

Vilkas let out a shout as he dashed across the cave, fingers tightly holding the hilt of Ariella’s broken sword. He crashed into the beast, rage aiding him.

The creature fell back and Vilkas punched with his left hand before driving the fragmented sword into its chest. He shouted curses out, rage filling him as he continued to stab the monster in the chest; the white fur quickly staining with thick black blood.

The horrid troll tried to fight but was losing blood too quickly as Vilkas continued to plunge the weapon that had failed Ariella into its chest over and over and over again.

The Beast stilled long before Vilkas let up his efforts. His arms grew sore and as the adrenaline filled rage left him he wished he had a beast to blame for it. Yet the wolf had not been seen during that entire interlude.

Vilkas regained his composure and collected the broken sword and bloodied material remains. Aela said they should have things to burn and Ariella needed a funeral.

He didn’t want to pick up any body parts though, the thought of carrying her broken, bitten bones made him find it hard to breath. So he collected what he could handle carrying; her robes, the pages, the pack, the bandages and her sword.

It was a rather Nord thing to do, but before Vilkas left he lopped the head off the murderous troll. It would burn to bring her peace.

I love when people comment! Thank you! It makes me happy to know people are enjoying this. I could not make a Lydia, Reljir,Aela triangle fit because Lydia is in love with Farkas. I wonder if Najda is going to give up so easily? Update coming soon.

Magnificent! Vilkas thoughts are great! He now feels guilt and the weight of this! but he loved her and she kept alive his human side! Poor guy ....! I really hope that at the end of everything Ariella is alive and can clarify their affection!

Clarify their affections?! He treated her horribly, called her names, told her to leave Skyrim, said that nobody would sink so low as to actually want or care about her, and started bringing other women to the room they had shared within days.

I don't believe that this a!a would write a reconciliation based on a few "I'm sorrys" and "clarifying affections". If indeed Ariella still lives, Vilkas has much to atone for. A!A has shown no reluctance to break our hearts, part of what makes this such a great read is the uncertainty. I don't expect or want this to be neatly wrapped up. I would love a happy ending, but it needs to be a very difficult path for Vilkas to get there.

When I wrote "clarify affection" .. I meant to address what was between them, and do not necessarily lead to a happy ending, and in this I agree with you! I'm sure the writer will know how to wrap the plot in one way or another .... whatever happens! The atonement is just passing through pain, and I do not think that is enough words to clarify! You are right he treated her so well too over the top ... but a woman would react not lowered her head, and run away! Maybe things would have been different!The idea that there is a close-up of the thoughts and feelings of Vilkas in this, I love it! The beast makes wild and full of uncontrolled feelings ..... I wonder how it will all of this!

Oh my god, this is so good. Please, do not stop! Fresh and intriguing story line, your Dragonborn is very much likeable and what a character! I am enjoying every bit of your fill.

passerby!anon will happily read anything more you have written about these two!

*gleefully skips away*

amg thank you, I'm glad it turned out good for you xD I was about overwhelmed with fluff as I wrote it lol

If you like them so much I may even do some more fills of them ouo

Cicero loves his brothers and sisters. He truly does. He loves Mother and the Dread Father. He loves his Listener and would do anything for the smiling Khajiit with blue summer sky eyes. Even if he doesn't love her the way she loves him, he is happy to make her smile. He holds her close and nuzzles her cheek and lets her lick his cheek and leave her scent on his skin. He did not say no when she licks under his jaw and purrs all pressed up close.

He doesn't say no when she takes him to her room and carefully disrobes him, kissing as man and mer do and licking his skin with her rough tongue. He is gentle as he disrobes her, fingers deft and gentle, massaging and soothing as she purrs and goes to putty in his hands. He is good with his hands. Decades of practice with deftness and tricks.

They lay on the bed together and he says nothing as she lays on her back and spreads her legs for him. He is experienced enough to know how to pleasure a woman, though not as good as he had once been long before the solitude had destroyed his mind. He does not have the rough tongue of a male khajiit, nor the sinuous one of an Argonian, but he has no need of it when he had been graced with a knowledge of anatomy and physiology. He has neatly-trimmed nails and soft hands that stroke and massage as he licks and tastes his sweet Listener until she tenses and cries out.

Then he will lay and begin to pleasure her anew, filling her and making her cry out again. He does not relax well, feeling dirty as he continues to pleasure her. He cannot orgasm inside her no matter how she wants and he is ashamed for that bit of unwilling disobedience. But if he cannot truly enjoy himself, how can he relax enough to do as she desires?

He is Keeper and he will keep his Listener happy, but there are some demands even he can't fulfill.

Wow. Short and sweet, and completely punched me right in the feels. Subtle and amazing read, really well done!

Yay! I'm glad you like it. Updating today.

Author's Note: Dragon language translation at the end (in case like me, you have to stop what you're doing and look up Dragon when you see it!)
-----------
Farengar awoke the next morning to find some dried meat and bread sitting on his bedside table. Glad to fill his stomach with something other than mead, he ate the food quickly, eager to leave Riverwood. Although the terrible lute music was no longer playing, he could find no peace of mind. In its stead was the much louder roar of a crowd, noisily discussing things in near pandemonium, their booming voices intruding through the thin walls of his room. He did not bother trying to determine the source of their discontent, uninterested in discerning of the opinions the loud and inebriated.

Finished with his breakfast and bracing himself mentally, he emerged into the great room of the Sleeping Giant Inn. The cacophony of voices was worse than he had anticipated, making the corner of his mouth twitch at the assault. His sea green eyes swept through the inn, searching for any sign of the Dragonborn.

As his eyes fell on the Innkeeper, Orgnar met his gaze, waving him over. The surly man jerked a thumb toward the exit, shouting to be heard above the din, “The Dragonborn said to tell you he’d be at the blacksmith!”

Farengar needed no further prompting and quickly left, inhaling deeply once he was standing outside in the clear morning air. The sun was already high in the sky, casting warm light over the small Nord settlement. An insistent bark caught his attention, and he turned to see a dog grinning happily at him from beneath a bench, on which sat a young boy in a brown tunic with platinum blonde hair. The child, presumably the dog’s owner, examined him, or more precisely his blue and gold robes, with a haughty sneer.

“Pa says magic’s for milk drinkers,” the boy taunted, giving Farengar an insolent stare as he waited for the adult to react with sputtered indignation.

Farengar answered swiftly with practiced ease. “He sounds like a modest man with much to be modest about,” the wizard said, turning an impassive gaze on the boy, still puzzling over Farengar’s remark. “Do you have any insults that weren’t thought up by a goat brained farmer?”

His mouth hung open while his dog barked happily, wanting to be a part of the conversation.

“I didn’t think so. Well then, keep working on it, maybe someday with enough practice you might even surpass your father and come up with something better than a rot brained Draugr could,” Farengar said pleasantly, as he walked down the stairs to the main road.

“You…! You’re… You’re a snow-back!” Frodnar shouted after the mage.

“I think the dog could have done better than that. Keep trying, lad!” Farengar said with an indifferent wave, not even turning around as he left the boy glaring after him, red faced.

A brown chicken ran across his path, making Farengar miss Dragonsreach all the more. He felt out of sorts, being away from his research and his home. He preferred to spend his time reading; not surrounded by loud crowds, wandering livestock, and insolent children.

The Divines must have heard his thoughts, he guessed, as he came upon another child at the blacksmith’s - the little girl with brown hair from the previous day who had latched onto his robe.

Dorthe looked up from her anvil where she was shaping a horseshoe, and frowned disapprovingly at Farengar as he paused in front of her porch.

Splendid. She remembers me too, it would seem, Farengar thought cynically.

Dorthe set down her hammer and walked over to the wood rail, and Farengar watched with curiosity as she hoisted herself up to stand upon it. Using a wooden beam for support, she reached up into the hay thatching of the roof and grabbed hold of an all but invisible black boot, giving it a good shake.

“Therion!” she called sharply. “Wizard’s here,” she said, adding a note of distaste to the word ‘wizard’.

Farengar heard a deep yawn and watched as the Dragonborn slowly emerged from the thatch, clad once more in his black leather armor. Therion stretched lazily, extending his lithe body with impressive flexibility. With a sigh of satisfaction he dropped his arms and, as his gaze fell on to Farengar, he let a sly grin form on his lips. In one nimble motion, he grabbed the edge of the roof with his hands, and flipped forward, agilely landing before him.

The wizard looked at him inquisitively. However he had expected adventurers, or at least the Dragonborn, to move, it had certainly not been like this.

“You’re covered in hay!” Dorthe said with a laugh, breaking Farengar’s trance.

“Am I?” Therion replied, trying, without success, to dust himself off.

“I told you to sleep inside,” Dorthe chided, snickering at the impressive amount of hay in his dark gold hair. In response, he tossed a handful of it over her head, causing her to shriek at him amidst laughter.

“As I said, I’ve had enough of being indoors for awhile. And I prefer to sleep where no one can sneak up on me,” he replied, retrieving his pack from behind the forge.

Farengar wondered how safe Therion could ever feel sleeping again, after his most recent encounter. Even Whiterun, which had always felt invulnerable to outside forces such as the Thalmor, had proven vulnerable. At the thought of the Thalmor, he felt his blood begin to boil again, thinking of the Nord victims held captive in their keeps.

“You’re leaving? Already?” Dorthe asked sadly, watching Therion retrieve his things.

The mer snorted. “Spare me the guilt.”

“But you’re still hurt,” Dorthe protested.

“Farengar will take care of me,” Therion said, turning his most charming smile on the wizard.

Farengar countered with a disparaging look, determined to show his immunity to the Dragonborn’s trite routine of flattery. The elf was used to getting his way by gaining the adoration of those around him; using his charisma to charm every guard, cook, maid, and member of the court in Dragonsreach. Even Irileth, (well, to a certain degree). He would have none of it.

As Farengar continued to stare reproachfully at him, Therion’s smile seemed to only intensify, as if purposefully vexing him. The wizard could not remember why he had ever wished that the elf would reawaken and wondered if it would really have been so bad if he had remained in an exhausted sleep, at least for a little while longer. Why had he been convinced seeing him smile would be anything other than infuriating?

“I am returning to Dragonsreach. I assume that it is also your destination?” Farengar asked.

“Indeed it is,” Therion said, placing his arm through a strap attached to a quiver of arrows and slinging a bow behind his back. “Shall we be off?”

The Dragonborn bid farewell to Dorthe and the two men set out through the town and finally onto the main road, leading deep into the wilderness.

Despite his recent injuries, the Dragonborn looked more than capable of handling trouble, making him a useful asset as a traveling companion. Adorned with his weapons and armor, he even looked rather formidable. Curious, he concentrated, tilting his head to the side and letting his eyes unfocus. As he suspected, there was a faint, dark green tint about the edges of his armor. Probably a form of stamina enchantment. He shifted his gaze to the Akaviri dai-katana on his belt, which had a curious red hue to it. Farengar could only guess at its purpose, possibly health related, or perhaps a fortification to his sword skill. He rarely bothered with sword enchantments, finding martial weaponry in general to be entirely tedious.

“See anything that interests you?” Therion asked, smirking at the wizard.

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