skyrimkinkmeme | 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

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

From: (Anonymous)

The next morning Freyja startles to wake beside another body, rolls out from beneath his arm before she remembers how it got there. He doesn't stir. One corner of her mouth ticks up fondly. The clear morning reveals all of the bruises and dirt on his skin, but Eitri looks less drawn in sleep, less like a blade rusted down to a ragged shadow of itself.

The ashes of their fire were cold hours before. Freyja doesn't bother to start it again, merely pulls on her clothes and buckles her armor. She eats a strip of last night's venison with her fingers, follows it down with the icy water in her skins. Settles back against the stone wall of the cave. Above the hills, the sky is a wash of palest blue. She can hear the sweet hollow trill of a thrush somewhere in the forest.

The bird or the breeze - or the hum of her thoughts - wakes her companion. Eitri sits up, drawing the bearskin around his hips. He glimpses her, strapped back into her armor, and offers a tentative smile. They're both strangely shy in the light of the morning. "Hungry?" Freyja asks, voice still husky with sleep.

That seems to put him at ease; he scoots closer, reaching out to take the cold meat and the last of her apples. He trades her a firmer smile in return. While he breakfasts - like a civilized person, this time - Freyja contemplates the forest in silence.

"What are you thinking?" Eitri murmurs, finally.

She bites her lip.

"Freyja?" He sounds concerned.

"Just making travel plans," she says, breaking out of her reverie.

His face relaxes. "I never asked what you were doing, before you got distracted with saving my life."

"Nothing of consequence. I'm between jobs."

"And what do you plan to do, now?"

Freyja takes a deep, slow breath, still looking out over the tops of the hills. "First," she says, "I'm going to climb down to Dragonbridge and find you something to wear that doesn't scream escaped Thalmor prisoner. Then we're going to find a mage."

"What do we need a mage for?"

"Your hand, fool."

He looks mildly alarmed. "You've already--"

"Do you ever want to forge steel again?" Eitri opens his mouth, then closes it sharply. For the barest instant he looks frightened, and Freyja curbs her tongue. "We're going to find a mage," she says more softly, laying a hand on his arm. "And then we're going to find your cousin."

His lips part. The look he gives her is raw, incredulous. Naked, she thinks, far more so than she saw him last night. It's too intimate. She looks away. "You would...why...?"

"Why not?"

"People don't just - just stop what they do and--"

"This is what I do," she reminds him. "Delving into crypts, finding lost relatives. I get hired for that sort of thing all the time."

His voice is soft. "But I can't pay you."

"Elven armor fetches a fine price," Freyja quips.

Eitri gives her a long, hard look. He appears to have a host of further questions, but after a moment he shuts his gaping mouth. "Thank you," he says, simply.

Freyja stands, stretches. Her fingers tap a brisk rhythm against the stone wall of the cave. She looks east over the crags, over Dragonbridge hidden below them, over the Karth River and the mountains beyond. One way or another they'll discover what happened to his cousin, and then she'll deliver him back to Ivarstead.

And then, she thinks, I'm going to climb a mountain.

From: (Anonymous)

Damn A!A DAMN!!!! So glad I was waiting in my bunk. :D

That sex scene was so emotional, descriptive and down right awesome. It was amazing. Now I really can't wait for the rest of the story. You've created an interesting dragonborn and Eitri is just awesome. Keep it up please.

From: (Anonymous)

Your compliments are to me what celebratory post-rescue the-Thalmor-aren't-actually-going-to-murder-me-today Nord mead is to Eitri. Thank you!

From: (Anonymous)

This is so beautiful and well-written, holy talos... I really, really love this. Please continue!!

From: (Anonymous)

Thanks! I'm a painfully slow writer and it'll probably be a while, but I definitely have more plans for these two.

From: (Anonymous)

*sets up camp patiently*

A!A, this is wonderful! It's so well written and lovely and the sex was hot and Eitri is adorable (please don't kill him) and I really like Freyja. It can be really hard to write Nord DBs and keep them from becoming walking stereotypes but you've really given her depth.

Awesome story, I really love it!

From: (Anonymous)

I think Nords make for fascinating Skyrim characters, because they've automatically got such a personal stake in the story's outcome. But I know not everyone feels that way, so I'm terribly glad you think Freyja works, and I'm more relieved than you can imagine to know someone thinks the sex was hot. I've never actually written it before, and if there's one thing I've learned it's that nothing sounds sexy anymore after it's been edited a few times. Thank you so much!

And I'm glad Eitri is receiving so much love. If you're already interceding for his life then either you're fond of him, or I strike you as the merciless anyone-can-die type. :)

From: (Anonymous)

Where do I start? The writing, the emotion, the way Freyja feels like a real person with a history and not a character who sprang into life in a cart outside Helgen, the way you created a character out of a throwaway line by random faceless stormcloak npcs, the fact that Eitri, who in so many ways is utterly average, gives the Dragonborn lessons in courage. This is awesome! I can't wait for more.

(And I laughed at the part about Freyja following the guy who wasn't helping to execute her, because that was basically my exact thought the first time I was in Helgen.)

From: (Anonymous)

Thank you so much, that's a lovely comment!

I really like Hadvar, but from a roleplay standpoint I have a hard time imagining anyone with a basic set of self-preservation instincts following him out of Helgen unless they already had a stake in the civil war (or unless they were terrified and went with whoever was closest in the chaos, I suppose).

From: (Anonymous)

Wow. WOW. *pitches tent*

From: (Anonymous)

I am a bad person. Massive, massive apologies for taking so long, I had an attack of real life. Also an attack of having to write the end of the story to ensure that the plot would come together properly in the middle. Also, computer problems.

If anybody is still interested in this, Chapter 2 is on its way, ETA: tonight.

From: (Anonymous)

It’s mid-morning by the time Freyja returns from Dragonbridge with a simple set of farmer’s clothes, and Solitude is nearly a full day’s walk. Eitri protests when he realizes where they’re headed. “The Thalmor are headquartered in Solitude – even I know that.”

Freyja shrugs. “In theory. But they don’t like sharing Castle Dour with the Legion any more than the Legion likes sharing it with them. All the times I’ve been in Solitude, I’ve seen maybe two or three justiciars. Besides, we’re not going to walk in the front gate. There’s another way in.”

His brows shoot up. “Into Solitude?”

“There’s a passage under the cliff – not hard to find if you know it’s there.”

“Don’t they know there’s a war on? Why haven’t they blocked it off?”

“That’s exactly why they haven’t blocked it off. If the city were under siege they could use it to lead a sortie out behind enemy lines, and it’s a good escape route to the harbor, if it came to that. Besides, you couldn’t bring an army through there, they’d be massacred. And whatever you care to believe about Ulfric Stormcloak, I get the impression that hired assassins aren’t his style – too subtle.” She shrugs again. “They do keep it locked, but you don’t spend ten years fetching family heirlooms out of bandit camps without learning how to pick a lock. It’ll be past nightfall by the time we make it to the city. With any luck, the only person who remembers your face will be the healer, even if the Thalmor do come searching.”

Eitri agrees, reluctantly, and they set off. Freyja steers them quickly away from the road. She’s no desire to meet any more Thalmor patrols, so they follow the steep slope of the land downhill, toward the Karth River. It's her favorite kind of traveling weather: clear and bright, with the teeth of autumn in it. There's a breeze in the river valley, but the sun is hot after a night spent in the foothills of the mountains.

“So how did you find this secret passage?” Eitri asks.

“It pays to remember old stories, now and again. High King Erling had it built for discreet business with a privateer.” Freyja grins. “What kind of business is up for debate.”

Eitri smiles, rakes his fingers through his hair. It’s a sweaty, dusty mess, filled with the grime of a forced march across miles of rough Skyrim roads, and he succeeds only in making it stand on end. But something about the motion calls up a vivid sense-memory of those fingers running over her skin. Freyja flushes.

She's no idea what made her fall into bed so readily with a man she barely knows, even now. It's true she felt his story like an exquisite ache in every bone, but she's heard a lot of sad stories in her life; everyone in Skyrim seems to have one, these days. A daughter lost in battle, a Markarth father trampled in the lord's game of greed and power, an uncle caught between two sides of a war and crushed as it grinds into motion, like a glacier marching toward the sea. Was it mere loneliness? The sudden camaraderie, the closeness within the warm ring of the fire's light? The world seems very open in the sun, and their huddle of raw emotion and clashing bodies very foolish. Yes, she was impressed by his simple courage, but she's known plenty of brave men - in far less intimate physical detail.

It had been, she reflects, a very long time. The thought prompts a twinge of guilt - she did not give herself to Indros so freely, and he was far more than a chance acquaintance - but perhaps it's as simple as that. At any rate it won't happen again. She has learned her lesson about sleeping with traveling companions.

“Right,” she says, to arrest that line of thought. “Your cousin – how did he go missing?”

Eitri drags at his hair again. “Brokkr’s a hunter by trade. We work together a lot, actually: he sells me pelts at a discount, I fix up his gear for free, that sort of thing. A few times a year he heads into the city to trade. Falkreath, usually. It’s smaller than Riften, but it’s about the same distance, and there’s less chance of losing your coin purse – plus he was sweet on a girl there. He was late getting back, but I didn’t think much of it. Good hunting between there and Ivarstead, and sometimes there are snowstorms in the pass."

"What changed your mind?"

"Helgen," he says. "You know about Helgen, right?"

From: (Anonymous)

Freyja feels a chill. "Mm," she says, noncommittally. "Hard to believe."

"I wouldn't believe it myself, but I passed by on my way over the mountains. It was still smoking." His voice is hushed. "Even the ground was hot - like the fire was still burning itself out, underneath. Like something out of a nightmare. Dragons." He shakes his head. "When I heard I was afraid he'd been caught up in that somehow, so I went looking. But it was when I got to Falkreath that things started to look bad. As soon as I asked after him the innkeeper threw a fit. Said he'd left in the middle of the night, and without paying his tab."

Freyja frowns. "And you thought it was the Thalmor? Why?"

"I didn't know what to think. At first I thought he might've joined up with Ulfric - he was always claiming the man had the right idea - but he wouldn't have left without telling me, and cheating the innkeeper isn't like him. I tried to find if she knew where he might've gone, but she just grumbled that she'd had enough of pinchpenny customers to last her a lifetime. And when I asked her what she meant, she said there'd been a Thalmor agent spending a lot of time there, claiming he was on official business and refusing to pay. 'Drank plenty of mead, too, for someone who thought he was so above us all,' she said. 'He left me high and dry about the same time your cousin did, but I say good riddance to bad rubbish. At least he's not scaring off my business anymore.'"

That, Freyja can agree, does not sound good.

“The thing about Brokkr – he’s been known to shoot off his mouth,” Eitri says. “Soon as I heard that I had a bad feeling. Started asking around. Turns out Inga, the girl he’s sweet on? She’s missing too, and the reason no one’s gone looking is because everyone thinks they ran off together. Not many noticed – she was a hunter as well, only came into town for supplies – but the other huntsmen just assumed they’d gone to Riften and got married. Well, I knew damned well they hadn’t, because I’d have heard no end of that plan. Even if they decided on the spur of the moment, I would have heard something by then.” Eitri shakes his head. “That’s when the priest of Arkay pulls me aside and tells me Inga’s mother died three months past, and she was upset because they couldn’t have a traditional funeral.”

“With offerings to all the gods,” Freyja murmurs, catching on immediately.

“Exactly. And then he looks around and whispers, ‘Now that I know she’s missing, I’m terribly worried. You haven’t any reason to trust me, but there’s a shrine on the south shore of Lake Ilinalta.”

“Did you find it?”

“Oh, I found it.” Eitri looks pained. “Found two bodies, too – Inga, or at least I assume it was Inga, and the justiciar who caught them making their offering. He had a letter in his pocket from one of his superiors. Apparently he’d been looking for the shrine for quite a while; they were just unlucky enough to be there when he finally found it.”

“But no sign of your cousin?”

Eitri swallows. “Traces of an old blood trail,” he says. “That’s all. Riverwood was the closest town, so I headed that way. That’s when the Thalmor grabbed me. They must have put two and two together just like I did, and come looking.”

"I still can't believe they didn't kill you."

"I think they would have," he says. "But they found the letter. I had it on me. A Thalmor agent goes missing while searching for a Talos shrine, and a Nord prisoner turns up with his orders in his pocket - it wasn't hard for them to guess I knew where it was. They tried to beat it out of me, but by that point I was so worried about Brokkr that I was too angry to tell them a damned thing. So they said if I wouldn't explain how I'd come by a piece of the First Emissary's personal correspondence, I could visit the Embassy and return her property in person." Freyja winces. Eitri shrugs. "They dragged me halfway across Skyrim, and then you showed up."

From: (Anonymous)

Freyja bites her cheek, thinking. "Your cousin, though," she says. "If he wasn’t at the shrine, and the Thalmor hadn’t found it…he could’ve gotten away.”

“That’s what I hoped, at first.” Eitri shakes his head. “But there was something they said. If the other one won’t talk, maybe this one will. I’ve had a lot of time to think it over, and I don’t know who that would be, if not Brokkr. And they were looking for me by name. They had their weapons out as soon as they laid eyes on me. Why else would they be so eager to arrest me, if not because I’d been asking after him?”

It’s a fair point, but Freyja’s not sure where that leaves them. Nor, she realizes, does she actually know what the Thalmor do with their captured prisoners, except that it likely involves a grisly end. Security at their embassy is tighter than a miser’s purse strings; their headquarters in Solitude is too small and too close to the full strength of the Legion to hold a host of unlucky Talos worshippers, and – as she’s already explained – it’s not exactly a bustling hub of activity. The justiciars are rightly feared for their skill at making men vanish without a trace, but where do they vanish to?

She can think of several ways to find out, but none of them sound appealing.

As the day wears on they follow the river north, watching it broaden from a quick, mountain-fed torrent to a channel nearly half a mile across. The ferns and spruces crowding its banks give way to patches of open marshland where hawks drift overhead. Occasionally one plunges toward the water to rise with a thrashing salmon gripped tightly in its claws. By the time the sun sinks behind the mountains Freyja and Eitri are clambering over a rocky shoreline, and the cold air seeping up the riverbed sometimes carries a whiff of salt.

Masser and Secunda are slung low in the sky when Freyja finally hears the telltale creak and splash of a sawmill. A breeze stirs the pines around them. Freyja pushes a branch aside and beckons with the torch. “Solitude,” she murmurs.

The capital towers above them, a silhouette of high black walls against the deep blue twilight, torches trailing in the wind like red banners. A few stars wink on the horizon, beneath the great prow of the crag. At the end of its span the Blue Palace glitters. Eitri doesn’t say a word, but he cranes his neck up at the arch and whistles, soft and low.

They hurry along the waterfront, past the East Empire Company’s Warehouse and a party of dockworkers straggling home late, talking eagerly of the tavern. A single lantern hung beside the road forms an island of ghostly light, and just beyond it Freyja snuffs out the torch and steps into the weeds beside the road. She feels her way over the rocks. Finally she finds a crevice in the cliff face, just big enough for a man to slip through, but soon it widens and reveals a battered wooden door.

A long tunnel sloping upward, a set of jagged steps, and then a passage of stone that has been cut and mortared rather than hewn, stairs built in an elegant spiral rather than hacked into solid rock. When they reach the ground level of the tower light flickers outside – a guard on patrol. Freyja waits for him to pass by and then pads quietly down the hallway. A moment later the lock gives a well-oiled pop and they step into the fine, cool night air of Solitude. Conveniently, their destination is just down the street. In six strides Freyja is tucked around a corner with Eitri close behind her, rapping at the door to the Hall of the Dead.

From: (Anonymous)

Styrr has a book in hand when he opens it; he looks as though he’s been enjoying a quiet evening by the fire. “May we come in?” Freyja murmurs.

“Of course!” says the priest, as soon as he’s gotten over his surprise. “Of course, my child, what a pleasant surprise. All of Solitude owes you a debt after that terrible Potema business. And who is your friend?”

“He injured his hand,” says Freyja, carefully. She knows Styrr petitioned for Roggvir to have a proper Nord burial after the execution, but that might speak more to the man’s kindly nature than to his political sympathies. He’s certainly not going to turn them over to the Thalmor, but he might refuse to help them. “I’d have taken him to Angeline’s for a good strong potion, but it’s late, and the shops are closed.”

“A healer can do more good than a potion, at any rate,” the old man says, carefully marking his place in the book and laying it down. He gestures to a chair in the corner, and Eitri sits while Styrr gathers his own supplies, lining them up on the low table with the methodical grace of a man practiced at his profession. When he unwinds the bandage, however, the priest stills. "Where did you get this?"

"I – had an accident at the forge. The--"

Immediately Styrr draws back, face hardening. "I know what a cut from a sword looks like, young man," he says, with a trace of anger. “Why did you really come to my door so late in the evening?”

"You're a fair man,” says Freyja. “A healer. What does it matter how he got it?"

"Of course it matters!"

"You said Solitude owed me a debt," Freyja presses. "I had hoped you included yourself."

It's a ruthless blow, and the old man sags under it. His hands rub weary circles at his temples. "Of course," he says. "I - of course. I'm sure you have your reasons. I simply don't want to find that I've helped a fugitive escape the dungeons."

"You won't."

"I have your word?"

"On my honor as a warrior," she says. “He’s done nothing wrong.”

Styrr sighs. "I never had reason to doubt it in our brief dealings – I suppose that will have to be enough. Let me see it, son."

As he starts to prod at Eitri’s hand, Freyja ducks back towards the doorway. “I’m getting dinner,” she says. “I won’t be long.”

Outside, however, she doesn’t head for the inn. Instead, with a quick deep breath and the sedate pace of someone who has every right to be there, she points her feet up the hill and strolls into the courtyard of Castle Dour. She climbs the stairs, takes a turn around the ramparts, gets a feel for the rhythm of the patrols. Then, without allowing herself to fully contemplate her actions, she slips a lockpick into the door of the Thalmor Headquarters.

From: (Anonymous)

What in the name of Aedra and Daedra are you doing, Freyja? she thinks, in the distinctly Dunmeri tones that her inner voice always takes when she's being an idiot. It's an old argument. Are you trying to get yourself killed? Indros would rage. You're already going to die centuries too early, the least you could do is not charge into every battle screaming "Victory or Sovngarde" before you've had a chance to size up the odds. She used to tease him for it. I'd say you sound like my mother, but she has more guts than you.

I'm not going to be in Sovngarde, in case you've forgotten, he'd scowled once. That had put a stop to her teasing.

But I'm not the one who died too soon, am I? Freyja thinks viciously, and then stifles that line of thought. Her current position is literally the last place in Tamriel for indulging in pointless reminiscence.

It seems to take forever; the squeak of the pick seems loud enough to wake the entire city. When she finally closes the door behind her Freyja presses her back against it and takes a moment to breathe. Waits until she can listen for footsteps without the distraction of her own heartbeat thudding in her ears. She feels like a green youth preparing to collect her first bounty, not a warrior approaching her thirtieth year. As well you should, barks that snide inner voice. The Thalmor are not some half-wit crew of incompetent bandits.

As it turns out, however, her fear is baseless. The place is empty. Eerily so; it could be another wing of the Blue Palace, apart from the black and gold banners on the walls. There’s a kitchen in the basement, books on the shelves, neglected flowers in fine glazed pots. A ledger detailing shipments of alto wine and fresh fruit from the East Empire Company. Otherwise there are no files or documents, not even a safe where documents might be hidden. Freyja supposes she should have expected it – whatever else they may be, the Thalmor are no fools. They probably keep their intelligence locked up in the Embassy. She rifles the books, searches for hidden compartments in the desks, but the only thing that might be of interest is the large map laid out on a spare table.

Freyja leans over it, bracing her palms against the wood. Clearly the elves are keeping an eye on the war; little red and blue flags are scattered over the parchment, thrust deeply into the boards beneath. Hold capitals are noted, along with some of the larger towns and many of Skyrim’s scattered forts. A black flag marks the Embassy, and another marks a fortress to the west.

She cranes her neck, curious. It’s on the far northern coast, nearly on the border with High Rock, tucked between the mountains and the sea. A strange place for a garrison. Defensible, to be sure, but as far as Freyja knows there is nothing of strategic value nearby; Skyrim’s northwest coast is barren and remote, hardly even populated. Freyja leans further over the map. A fine, flowing hand names the fortress Northwatch Keep.

She turns back to the ledger, energized now, flipping pages until she finds an entry marked NW. An outgoing shipment – food, mostly, enough for a small detachment. There are more entries like it, dated roughly a week apart. They’re unimpressive: cured meats, sacks of flour, root vegetables, occasional weapons and smithing supplies.

Unimpressive, that is, except for the potion ingredients. Freyja is no alchemist, but she knows what nightshade and deathbell are used for. Gotcha, she thinks, and pulls out her own map. Feeling rather flushed with victory, and mindful of her promise to bring back dinner, she raids their kitchen cupboards on her way out.

From: (Anonymous)

She slips outside and makes her way back to Solitude’s residential section without a hitch. She has just begun to relax her guard when a body collides with her own, so hard that Freyja puts a hand on her sword. “Oh,” says a voice, as she whips around. “It’s you.”

That greeting does nothing to calm her nerves, but the flyaway blond hair and round face of the little girl does. It’s only Addvar’s daughter, dashing home for bedtime; the fishmonger lives just across from Styrr. “Hi, Svari,” Freyja says. “You’re out late.”

“I guess,” says the little girl, listlessly. “Ma doesn’t really notice if I’m a little late anymore.”

Freyja frowns. While she’s fairly certain she’d make an atrocious mother, she's always had a soft spot for children - and especially for this one, with her bright smile and sad eyes. She's not sure she'll ever forget the ugly scene she walked in on the first time she arrived in Solitude, shopkeepers and fruit vendors clamoring for the death of their neighbor. She is accustomed to dealing with bandits and cutthroats, and far from squeamish about a few rolling heads. But the fury directed towards a man many of the townsfolk had known their whole lives startled her. The fishmonger ordering his daughter home while the little girl protested her uncle Roggvir's innocence was the icing on that particularly unpleasant sweetroll.

"Is your ma still going to temple?" she asks.

"Yeah," says Svari. "She's still sad a lot, though."

"You may just have to give her time."

"That's what Papa says."

"You look a bit sad yourself,” Freyja says, carefully.

"I wanted to play dragonslayers, but Kayd says there aren't any more dragons." Svari kicks at a stone, viciously enough to send it skittering away along the cobbles. "OR any dragonslayers. Except I heard a dragon attacked Helgen and saved Ulfric Stormcloak right before the soldiers were going to chop off his head."

It's not terribly hard to see why the child likes the story. Freyja’s heart twists.

"And Minette said that dragons are only stories for babies, and then Kayd told her to shut up because his ma said he had to be extra nice to me, and everyone feels sorry for me and whispers about me and I hate it!"

"Svari--"

"Go away!" The little girl ducks her head, scuffing at the street as though searching for another hapless stone, but not before Freyja sees that her eyes are brimming with furious unshed tears. "I don't want to talk anymore."

From: (Anonymous)

"All right," Freyja says. "If you don't want to hear about the dragon."

Svari stares up at her. "Dragon?"

Freyja hesitates. She avoids talking about her encounters with dragons, especially in Solitude; technically she's still a fugitive from Imperial justice, after all. But she bulls forward before she can let herself change her mind. Apparently, tonight is a night for daring. "I was in Helgen when the dragon attacked," she admits.

"Really?" The little girl stumbles over her questions, eyes huge. "Was it big? Did it breathe fire?"

Freyja chuckles in spite of herself. "Yes, yes, and yes. Oh my goodness, yes."

"Oh wow, I knew it! I knew they were real!” The girl bounds up the stairs to her front door. “I have to remember to tell Papa!"

Just don’t tell General Tullius, Freyja thinks ruefully, as the girl dashes inside. Then again, maybe the man wouldn’t care. At the time he seemed too busy with Ulfric Stormcloak to take notice of anyone else; it was one of his captains that actually sentenced her to death, and Freyja returned the favor almost as soon as she was free – with a smaller axe, but much more success. Likely the general has too much on his plate to worry about a single escaped prisoner.

She wonders when she grew so close-lipped about her own past. There was a time, when she was nineteen and eager to prove herself, when Freyja would have boasted for anyone to hear that she’d escaped one dragon and helped to slay another, regardless of the consequences. It’s not that she’s afraid to die. If that were the case, she would be staying far, far away from any actions likely to anger the Thalmor. Death is the currency of her profession, and Freyja is at ease with the notion that she will die with a sword in her hand, likely before reaching old age. But there is a terrible responsibility in being the sort of character that children play at being: a dragonslayer, a hero marked by the hand of fate. Even the idea makes her feel like a child herself. A girl, dressed in her father’s borrowed armor. An imposter bearing a wooden sword.

Freyja shakes herself, pushing open the door to the priest’s dwelling. When she enters Styrr is handing Eitri a tall reddish bottle. “I can’t make any promises,” says the old man. “These things have to be attended to quickly, or even the best healers can only do so much. You’ll have quite a scar. Drink this potion, exercise it every day, and it may not always be crippled, though. You’ll have to wait and see.”

It’s nothing she didn’t expect to hear, but Freyja still winces in sympathy at the word crippled. She can’t imagine taking such a wound to her sword arm. Eitri seems to be in good spirits, though, and he has apparently won Styrr over; the man offers them his guest room for the night. “How’s the hand?” Freyja asks Eitri, as they climb the stairs.

“Better,” he says, flexing it with a wince. His fingers don’t hang so limp and clawlike now, though the movement is terribly stiff. “The old man did a good job. He owes you some kind of favor?”

“I…took care of a necromancer problem.”

“That’s what – when you said we needed to see a mage, I thought you meant…you know. Wizards. Not a priest.”

She forgets how suspicious she used to be of magic. “They use exactly the same healing spells, you know.”

“I suppose,” Eitri says, with a little wrinkle of doubt between his brows.

There’s a pail of water and a basin in the guest room, and they both make grateful use of it to wash up before Freyja starts pulling bread and fruit and fine aged cheese out of her pack. After the long day’s journey they are both famished, and for a time they eat in silence, kneeling on the rug beside a little table. “This is good cheese,” Eitri finally says.

Freyja toasts him with it. “Courtesy of the Aldmeri Dominion.”

He stares at her. “What?”

From: (Anonymous)

“I broke into their headquarters,” Freyja says. “They had a very well-stocked kitchen.”

“Are you insane?” he barks, with a heat that surprises her. “You could have been killed!”

“I could have been killed rescuing you from those justiciars, but I didn’t hear you complaining then,” Freyja says, annoyed. She hopes he’s not going to be the sort of man who treats her like glass simply because he took her to bed. “How else would you suggest we start looking for your cousin?”

“You could have said something—”

“What, in front of Styrr?” She scoffs. “I can take care of myself.”

Eitri probes absently at his bandaged hand. “Obviously,” he says, after a moment. “Sorry. I just – I know what they’re like. The Thalmor.”

That’s fair enough, Freyja supposes. She chews on her apple.

“Did you find anything?” Eitri asks.

“Not much. The headquarters is nothing but the end of their supply line – and a way to keep some of the Legion’s spies busy, I assume. All they’ve got in there are shipping records.” His face falls. “Don’t give up yet – you can learn a lot about someone by where they get their bread and mead. You need to bag an elk, you stake out its food and water. People aren’t much different.” She unrolls her map, weights down one edge with a tankard. “All their supplies come through Solitude, but they’re only distributing them to a couple of places. One is the Embassy, and we're not getting in there - that place is locked up tighter than Cidhna Mine. The good news is it's unlikely they keep anyone but high-priority prisoners there. Not even the Thalmor can maintain that kind of security if they have to open it up for every poor bastard they accuse of worshipping Talos. Ever hear of Northwatch Keep?"

"No."

Freyja taps a finger on the north coast. "Neither have I, but I'd be ready to bet half my purse that it's where they keep the rest of their captives. It's remote, it's defensible - just the fact that we haven't heard of it says they try to keep it discreet. According to the records they send a cartful of food out there every week or two, along with a fair amount of nightshade and deathbell."

"Poison?"

"Mm. And given how remote the place is, I’d say it’s getting used for interrogation, not assassination."

Eitri flinches a little. Insensitive, Freyja thinks, chewing her lip, but it can't be helped now. "Even if I'm wrong, the Thalmor have the most efficient intelligence network in Tamriel - during the Great War they made the Blades look like children playing cloak and dagger. A network that big doesn't function without written records. Well-guarded ones, but still. If there's one thing we don't have, it's information. They'll have it."

“So the plan is to just – what, storm the keep? With two of us?”

“Even I’m not that crazy. A few justiciars I can handle, but a garrison of them would take me to pieces. Hopefully there’s another way in; a lot of these old castles have wells, hidden tunnels, that kind of thing. Either way, we won’t know until we scout the place out. We’ll just have to play it by ear.” Freyja rolls up the map, stuffs it back into her pack. “Get some rest. I’d say we’ve got eight, ten days journey, and that’s if we don’t run into trouble on the way. Men tell strange stories about the Sea of Ghosts.”

From: (Anonymous)

She lays down her sword and shield within easy reach of the bed, starts shedding her armor while Eitri peels off his shirt. From the corner of her eye Freyja catches sight of the solid wedge of his back, the pull and flex of his shoulderblades like two broad axe heads as he shucks the garment over his head. When he turns back to her she quickly averts her gaze. He shakes his head. “I still can’t believe you broke into their headquarters. You’re a brave woman. Gods only know what they’d have done if they’d caught you.”

“There was no one inside.”

"Still. You shouldn't have done it."

"I specialize in doing things I shouldn't."

He smiles a little, takes a step forward. Brushes a strand of hair off her cheek. Freyja jerks back. "No."

He looks startled by her abruptness. Truth be told, he probably has a right to; half a moment ago she was aimlessly admiring the play of muscles beneath his skin as he undressed. Most men would take that as an encouraging signal. And she can't deny that she does want him, in the most primal of ways - that her body liked the way they fit together. He cocks his head at her. Freyja grits her teeth. She has her reasons - complicated ones, and she’s not about to explain them to him.

"A man told me once that there's nothing like a woman after a good fight," she murmurs, searching for a simpler explanation. "My tastes run to men, but I'm as much a warrior as he was." Even as she says it, she winces. She’d never call what they did making love, but it doesn’t feel right to dismiss it as an inconsequential tumble, either.

"Of course you are." Eitri‘s tone is so fierce that she raises an eyebrow at him. He shifts, ducks his head. His voice is gruff. "You saved my life, I'm not like to forget that," he says.

“You’re welcome.”

There’s a long silence. “If I offended you--”

"You haven't offended me," Freyja says sharply. "I don't sleep with travelling companions, is all."

That furrows his brow. "Let me get this straight," he says. "When I was just some stranger whose life you’d saved you were happy to have me in your bed, but now that we’ll be sharing the road you want none of it.”

"That's about the shape of it.”

He looks at her curiously, scrubbing his beard, and then shrugs. “I – fair enough.”

He handles rejection well, she’ll give him that. Freyja crawls into bed. “Good night.”

Eitri hesitates. “Do you - that bedroll--”
“Oh, don’t be an idiot,” she snaps. “I’m not going to make you sleep on the floor like some blushing maiden. We’ll be sharing a tent for the next two weeks - it’s not much bigger than this bed, I promise you.”

He pulls his shirt back on before climbing in beside her, which Freyja finds quaintly endearing in spite of herself. Soon, though, she’s wishing she’d taken him up on his offer. It’s not the first time she’s shared a bed with a fellow traveler - crowded inns, lack of funds, sheer safety in a hostile place. A number of those beds were significantly smaller than this one. Still, she spends the next twenty minutes excruciatingly aware of the rise and fall of his broad chest beside her. Only natural, she tells herself. You did sleep with him, you’re not just going to forget. And it has been a long time.

She wonders if he’s facing the same struggle.

From: (Anonymous)

Loving this and Freyja and Eitri's complicated little dance! I'd like to know what the actual reasons are....

Looking forward to the next chapter!

Re: Songs For Nomads 2.9

From: (Anonymous) - Date: 2013-07-26 03:26 pm (UTC) - Expand

From: (Anonymous)

Aw, come on Freyja, you know you want to. And I think I detect a bit of a crush from Eitri.

I'm very happy to see more of this. :)

Re: Songs For Nomads 2.9

From: (Anonymous) - Date: 2013-07-26 03:28 pm (UTC) - Expand

From: (Anonymous)

passerby!anon loves this story very much and is happy to see you continuing. :)

Re: Songs For Nomads 2.9

From: (Anonymous) - Date: 2013-07-26 03:29 pm (UTC) - Expand

From: (Anonymous)

This anon has read the first part of the story multiple times, and is elated that you are continuing!!!

Re: Songs For Nomads 2.9

From: (Anonymous) - Date: 2013-07-26 03:31 pm (UTC) - Expand

From: (Anonymous)

Oh my, are you a good writer! I'm just going to lurk and keep checking this story now~ (I'd really like to know what hurt Freja so much though--it governs her every move, practically.)

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