They ran into some Khajiit traders, awake at some daedric hour of the night, selling some small strange artifacts that flew a short distance when lighted, and then exploded in balls of colorful light. Farkas and Njada purchased ten, and then fired them at their Shield-Siblings, at the poor Khajiit and at a passing guard who threatened to arrest them all if they didn’t offer him a drink.
That’s when Ergnir realized they were back in Whiterun, somehow, not far from the Battle-Born farm. He was covered in blood and mud and it was still dark, so something wasn’t right: a single night could not possibly be that long. He looked around for the rest of the Companions, aware he didn’t remember how they’d gotten there. He spun too fast and nearly vomited, not for the first time judging by the foul taste in his mouth.
“Where in the – Ria!”
She turned to him with a smile, not wearing any shoes, and did a dance on the spot. Too graceful to be as plastered as him, he thought.
“Ria what… what day is it?”
Someone was racing, it seemed, a couple throw stones away, but he couldn’t tell who they were. Vilkas was nowhere to be seen.
Ria laughed, doubling over. “It’s Morndas, my friend!”
There was shouting, and one of the racers, who turned out to be Aela, was punching someone in the face. They’d been at this for three days.
He limped towards the river, and found his husband sitting on a stone, a dead wolf besides him. Torvar wasn’t far off, inexplicably hollering at the ground about his sore foot. Vilkas was looking at his own hands, but he looked up and smiled when he saw him approaching. He grabbed Ergnir by the middle and held him close, burying his face on Ergnir’s shoulder.
“Well, look who decided to remember me. I didn’t know you were so fast,” he muttered against his skin. Ergnir tangled his fingers on his husband’s hair, and would have cared more about the nonsense if he didn’t have Vilkas’ arms around him, his body a comforting weight against Ergnir’s chest, his lips dragging on Ergnir’s neck. And if both didn’t have erections to kill a dragon with.
“Now, what in Oblivion are you talking about, hm?”
“The race. You beat Athis and Aela before you fell down and vomited, and they’re fast, those two.” Vilkas bit hard his neck, and he inhaled sharply and shuddered.
He looked over to where Aela was helping the Dunmer up off the ground, and their new guard friend was standing off to the side, shaking his head but not intervening. Apparently that’s how Companions decided who was second best.
The night was warm and torchbugs flittered lazily around them. Ergnir rested his forehead on his husband’s, relishing the quiet, and kissed him, biting, licking inside his mouth. When Vilkas moaned, it was low in his chest, and he could feel it too if they were naked. Ergnir straddled Vilkas for better support and attacked the clasps on his armor, wishing to undo them. To think the man he was straddling was his husband, his man, drove him wild. He groaned in frustration.
Torvar picked that moment to wander up to them, smiling. “The banner and I have reached an agreement.”
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timeasmymeasure
The Marriage of the Harbinger and the Dragonborn and its Celebration (5/7)
Date: 2013-07-17 09:40 am (UTC)That’s when Ergnir realized they were back in Whiterun, somehow, not far from the Battle-Born farm. He was covered in blood and mud and it was still dark, so something wasn’t right: a single night could not possibly be that long. He looked around for the rest of the Companions, aware he didn’t remember how they’d gotten there. He spun too fast and nearly vomited, not for the first time judging by the foul taste in his mouth.
“Where in the – Ria!”
She turned to him with a smile, not wearing any shoes, and did a dance on the spot. Too graceful to be as plastered as him, he thought.
“Ria what… what day is it?”
Someone was racing, it seemed, a couple throw stones away, but he couldn’t tell who they were. Vilkas was nowhere to be seen.
Ria laughed, doubling over. “It’s Morndas, my friend!”
There was shouting, and one of the racers, who turned out to be Aela, was punching someone in the face. They’d been at this for three days.
He limped towards the river, and found his husband sitting on a stone, a dead wolf besides him. Torvar wasn’t far off, inexplicably hollering at the ground about his sore foot. Vilkas was looking at his own hands, but he looked up and smiled when he saw him approaching. He grabbed Ergnir by the middle and held him close, burying his face on Ergnir’s shoulder.
“Well, look who decided to remember me. I didn’t know you were so fast,” he muttered against his skin. Ergnir tangled his fingers on his husband’s hair, and would have cared more about the nonsense if he didn’t have Vilkas’ arms around him, his body a comforting weight against Ergnir’s chest, his lips dragging on Ergnir’s neck. And if both didn’t have erections to kill a dragon with.
“Now, what in Oblivion are you talking about, hm?”
“The race. You beat Athis and Aela before you fell down and vomited, and they’re fast, those two.” Vilkas bit hard his neck, and he inhaled sharply and shuddered.
He looked over to where Aela was helping the Dunmer up off the ground, and their new guard friend was standing off to the side, shaking his head but not intervening. Apparently that’s how Companions decided who was second best.
The night was warm and torchbugs flittered lazily around them. Ergnir rested his forehead on his husband’s, relishing the quiet, and kissed him, biting, licking inside his mouth. When Vilkas moaned, it was low in his chest, and he could feel it too if they were naked. Ergnir straddled Vilkas for better support and attacked the clasps on his armor, wishing to undo them. To think the man he was straddling was his husband, his man, drove him wild. He groaned in frustration.
Torvar picked that moment to wander up to them, smiling. “The banner and I have reached an agreement.”