Chapter Text
She fell asleep in my arms.
I didn't want to move—Talos. I could hardly believe what was happening.
As the adrenaline from the fight drained from my veins, I felt weary and leaden, and wanted nothing more than to collapse into a soft bed. But Calla was much too fragile to transport until she was a little more healed, so we weren't going anywhere for a good while.
And my arms were falling asleep.
Carefully, I shifted my pack to the floor and then gently eased Calla's head down onto it.
Thus freed, I got up, stretching my sore arms and back.
It was a grisly scene inside the little cabin. The bodies needed to be dealt with. As quietly as I could, I collected the weapons of the fallen, then hauled their bodies into the woods out back; the wolves would make short work of their remains. Not an elegant way to return to the earth, but…well, we all need to eat.
I circled the shack until I found Thunder, resting in the woods a short distance away. I brought her up onto the stoop and brushed her, filled a bucket with snow to melt for her, and gave her a handful of carrots.
I brought in armfuls of wood from the wood pile out back and banked up the fire, praying that the smoke from the crackling pine would soon overpower the copper scent of spilled blood. The far wall was broken down and rotted, so I used the table and some old crates and the bandits’ blankets to try and shore it up against the cold. I found some mostly-still-good vegetables and salted meat in the cabinets, and melted some snow in a cast iron pot, the beginnings of a soup.
In between chores, I watched Calla. She was sleeping fitfully, circles under her eyes, her mouth turned down in a frown.
I tried to focus on the life, the wrinkles at the corners of her eyes and the small dark mole on the side of her cheek, but the looming skull, the symbol of death across her face, disoriented me.
Who would mark themselves for death? Or was she marked by someone, against her will? What did it mean? Was it just meant to instill fear, or was there something more sinister behind it?
Was it a blessing, or a curse?
When I noticed my thoughts straying to death, I took a pause to kneel in front of the fire, bend my head and pray. I reached down through my heels to the earth and thought of Talos, how his conviction made him divine. I invoked from him strength, courage, and clarity.
I prayed he would spare her life.
I don’t know how long we were there. I got up often, quietly, to tend the stew and feed the fire and check the horse, but time seemed to pass liminally as the long summer sun drifted across the sky. I laid out Calla's bedroll in front of the fire, but didn't want to wake her to move her onto it; instead, I wrapped my shiny bearskin cloak over her.
Finally, as the sun crept toward setting, I got up to check the fire and the scratch of my chair against the floor woke Calla. She turned over, her eyes searching for me.
“Lydia?”
“I’m here.”
“Oh.” The sound was a soft exhale. “How did you find me?” She sounded blurry, unmoored from the wound and the poison, and probably the wine, too. Her breaths were still shallow, moving only through the shoulders as tightness gripped the wound between her lungs.
“I saw you leaving the city, so I followed you.”
“...Why?”
“Why?” I said incredulously. “Why did you go off on your own without even telling me you were leaving?”
“Didn’t want you to…get hurt. Again.”
“Well, that worked out great,” I said, not sure where the sarcastic bite in my voice was coming from. “Look at you now.”
She tilted her head to glare at me. Anger seemed to ignite life in her eyes as she hissed, “Didn’t ask… for your opinion.” She bared her teeth at me, and air whistled through them, a soft sound of pain as she struggled to sit up.
“Careful—you’ll agitate the wound,” I chastised, even as I moved to help her, bracing her shoulders. “You should rest.”
“I’ve been resting.” She pressed a hand to her chest. The wound was no longer bleeding, scabbed over as though it was a few days old, but it clearly still pained her. “Help me with my shirt.”
“What?”
“My shirt,” she repeated, louder, irritated. “Get it off.”
I obeyed, swallowing nervously as I slipped my hands underneath the hem of her bloodstained white shirt, trying to keep my cold clumsy fingers from brushing her skin. As I tugged it up, careful not to jostle her wounds, it revealed her belly, her shoulders, her back—long stretches of soft brown skin, crisscrossed with scars.
She was naked underneath, and I felt my face heating as I tried to keep my gaze innocent, to preserve her modesty, though she seemed to have none of the same reservations. Her chest and her soft round breasts were damp with sweat. As the cold air hit her skin, she shivered, and goosebumps erupted. Matching ones danced down my skin in response.
She lifted her hands to her chest, sending that healing golden glow out from her palms again, and when she lifted her hands, the wound had aged—the edges grown together, the skin stiff and raised, a months-old scar.
She sighed and slumped back, and now she was fully flush against me, my legs on either side of her body, her naked back pressed against my chest. She was still, gazing into the fire; she seemed to have no intention of moving away from me, nor of donning her blood-soaked shirt again. A wayward wisp of her silver hair stuck against my lips, and I had no hands with which to tug it free. I tried to breathe deeply, to focus myself, but all I accomplished was inhaling the spicy, woodsy scent of her skin.
Coals of desire suddenly flared in my low belly.
Gods, gods. How did I find myself here?
I reached for words, trying to build a barrier between our closeness.
“So—my Thane…”
“Hm.” She sounded sleepy.
“What happened here? I mean—I watched you take down a dragon. How did these louts get the best of you?”
“Tch,” she scoffed, irritated. “Bad luck.”
“Bad luck is a twisted ankle or a fire burned out in the night,” I said. “Not this.”
Her shoulders were tense, and I thought she wouldn’t answer. But finally she sighed and shifted, curling up her knees as she brought the fur up to tuck under her chin, covering herself at last. “One of those bandits—the Altmer, with the blue eyes—did you see him?”
I had. Before I’d dragged the bodies to the woods I’d collected the weapons; his was a finely crafted elven shortsword. The blade was coated with blood, nearly to the hilt.
“Something about him—the way he moved—he looked just like Eldonyr.”
“Was that your mentor?”
She nodded, and my lips tickled as her hair tugged against them. “Mm.”
“I see.” I lifted my chin, trying to tug the strands surreptitiously out of my mouth. “So you saw him, and you froze.”
“For a second. Half a second. But the bastard was quick. Just like Eldonyr.” She exhaled a soft laugh, the edge of humor before it gave way to grief. “If he saw me now, he’d never let me hear the end of it.”
She stared into the fire. My arms began to cramp, and I took a deep, careful breath.
“He’s the one who gave me this, you know,” Calla said, and the fur slipped lower again as she lifted her hand to her face—to her tattoo.
It surprised me—not the revelation so much as the fact that it was freely offered.
“Why? I mean—” Words spilled out nervously. “Farengar taught me that like calls to like. If you mark yourself with death, doesn’t that mean death is called to you? Why would you—why would anyone want that?”
“It wasn’t my choice,” Calla said, a sharpness beneath her voice. “And it isn’t the tattoo that draws death to me. That’s—” her voice caught and she exhaled stiffly. “The tattoo only shows the world what’s already there.”
“I don’t understand.”
She was quiet so long I worried she wouldn’t go on. But finally she breathed a deep sigh. I felt her body soften into mine, a gentle surrender.
“I told you I was born in Hammerfell. My family were traveling merchants.” Her voice was low and monotone; the rumble of her chest was flat and trembling. “When I was a child, our caravan was attacked by slavers.”
“Slavers?” Surprise pitched my voice. “In Cyrodiil? But I thought—wasn’t that outlawed?”
“Sure it was,” Calla scoffed. “But men do what they want. The law means nothing when justice can be bought.”
I didn’t ask for further clarification, though confusion furrowed my brow. I felt suddenly small-viewed, a country bumpkin compared to the things Calla had seen, had lived.
“My brother and I were separated from the others, singled out for our magic. We were sold to a wealthy artificer outside of the Imperial City. I guess he was looking for the secret to immortality, or some other bullshit. I didn’t care much what he wanted to do, only that he was using my brother to do it—draining his body of magic, of vitality, until—” her voice broke off, and I could feel the tension trembling her spine, the force with which she was holding in her fury. Her voice was clipped when she said, “he died.”
“Then…how did you get away?”
“I summoned my blade. And I killed them all.”
“All?”
“The artificer, his family, any staff who tried to stand in my way. As far as I’m concerned, they were all responsible for what happened.”
I swallowed, as unbidden, the image flashed through my mind: Calla, a child, eyes darkened with hate and grief, sowing destruction.
How could that be the same person who huddled soft and wounded in my arms?
“That’s how I wound up in prison.” She snorted. “They threw me in the pits with the cannibals and the serial rapists. They didn’t care that I was a child, or that I was taken against my will. They found the blood of the wealthy on my hands and they threw me away. And then they called that justice.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “That shouldn’t have happened to you.”
She shifted, sighed. “That’s not what Eldonyr said.”
“What?”
He said he saw death before me,” Calla quoted, her eyes far away. “He said he saw death in my stars. He told me, most people, when they kill another, they lose a little piece of their spirit—it goes away on the spirit of the person they killed. But when I kill, my spirit remains intact. My spirit can withstand a thousand deaths—a thousand kills. He said I was born to be a servant of death. That’s why he marked my face—” Her jaw gripped. “So that I can never forget.”
“But you—” my heart ached for her. “You were just a child.”
“The spirit doesn’t age.”
“Still! Someone should have protected you.”
“Hm.” She turned her head to gaze back into the fireplace. “There’s no use dwelling on shoulds.”
The fire crackled; the wind howled outside, and beyond the cobbled-together wall, the sky was slate-blue fading to black.
“Do you think,” I mused, “that Eldonyr knew, somehow, that you were the Dragonborn? That that’s what he saw in your spirit?”
“Perhaps.” She shrugged. Her shoulders rubbed against my chest. “Or it could be any number of other things. A Daedric curse, a cloud of darkness, a path of destiny.” Her tone was bitter, sardonic. “It doesn’t change the past. And who cares, anyhow?”
“I do,” I said, and then my jaw snapped shut, my face burning with embarrassment.
“Oh,” she turned to peer at me, a smirk curving the edge of her mouth. “Is that so?”
“I mean—” I scrambled for some way to save face. “You know. I care that you’re the Dragonborn.”
“Because otherwise no one would be around to save your sorry ass from dragonfire, is that it?”
I shrugged with half a shoulder. Her head bobbed against me. “Considering I've never fought a dragon before, I'd say I did all right.”
“Your skin was charred from the bone.”
“Well,” I said with a sheepish grin, “it’s a good thing you're got those healing magicks, then, isn't it?”
She huffed in exasperation. “You might have saved us both the trouble by obeying my order in the first place.”
“I was trying to help!” I protested.
“I said, if I recall, do not engage the dragon—no matter what.”
“Yes…you…did say that.” My cheeks burned. “I’m sorry.”
“What possessed you?”
“I saw you stumble—the dragon’s breath of fire was just about to strike you.”
“My shield is enchanted,” she told me. Her chest rumbled with vexation. “It’s protective against dragonfire.”
“Oh.” A memory flashed through me: As if through a haze, I'd seen Calla's form hunker in front of the great silver beast, her shield raised, as a great circular inferno engulfed her.
And then, later, how her body had begun to glow—her bones, burning from within, as they reached for the dragon's soul. Devoured it. The fire of her soul had filled my vision until it overwhelmed me.
“Well, we’re even, after today,” she said softly. Her back hummed against me.
I grinned. “You mean, because I saved your ass from being mauled to death by a man with a goatee?”
“Now, don’t get cocky.” She reached a hand blindly around and somehow found my cheek, pinching it between her thumb and forefinger. “This was an extraneous circumstance. Next time, when I tell you to stay put, stay put.”
I let out a soft huff, halfway between a laugh and a sigh. “Yes, my Thane.”
“Good.” She released my cheek and snuggled deeper, leaning her head against my broad chest.
An instinct took over me, and without thinking, I dipped my head to the soft junction of her shoulder and neck. Pressed my nose to her skin. She was feverish, clammy and chilled with sweat.
She inhaled sharply. Her body gripped up around her neck, into the press of my nose and lips—
Oh.
My.
Gods.
What was I doing?
I pulled my face away. “I’m sorry,” I stuttered, but that wouldn't do. I needed to get away from her, before I did something even stupider.
“Wait,” she said, a husky edge in her voice.
I didn't wait. Clumsily, I extricated myself from her and rose.
Cold wind gusted through the cabin and we both shivered, suddenly vulnerable in the frigid air. I could hear Calla shifting behind me, but I didn't look at her as I came forward to kneel at the hearth, banking up the fire.
I could feel her eyes raking across my back.
“Forgive me, my Thane. Please,” I said to the fireplace. “I don’t know what—I wasn’t thinking.”
“Come back here, Lydia.” My name was sweet and sultry from her lips.
I tossed in another log. The crash sent up a flurry of sparks. “Anyhow, I shouldn’t be… I should just—keep watch. I'll keep watch.”
Now her voice held a command. Undeniable.
“Lydia. Come. Here.”
I swallowed and turned to her.
She had shifted forward onto the bedroll, climbed beneath the furs. She lifted them open toward me, an invitation. The bare skin of her belly glowed a rich red-brown in the firelight. The hair on her arms was puffy and stiff from the cold. Her shoulders, her breasts were smooth, supple curves.
I felt a surge of fire in my belly.
Still, I hesitated.
“Come on now.”Her tone was a playful hum, how I imagine a cat would speak to the mouse it torments. “I thought you swore to serve me.”
There was that wildness in her eyes again, that hungry gleam. My breath hitched.
“Y-yes,” I breathed. “I swore.”
“Good,” she said. “Then serve me.” She jutted her chin at me, eyes afire. “Come warm my bed.”
My mouth was dry. I swallowed. Her gaze was too much to bear, so I averted my eyes, but I obeyed—how could I not?
I moved back toward her on my knees, forcing my shallow breath to quiet. I tried, impossibly, to keep myself from touching her as I slipped my cold limbs into the blanket. I still couldn't meet her eyes, so instead I turned my back to her, shivering.
Without hesitation, she pressed against me, closing every small distance between us. Her soft breasts pushed against the cold leather on my back, my armor the only shield between her skin and mine. Her legs twined around mine, fitting easily there, like they were made to, and she snuggled her arms around my belly, pressing the side of her face to the back of my neck.
“Good girl,” she hummed, and blood spiked to my center, prickling desire as her lips brushed my skin. They were warm and dry. “Isn’t that better?”
No, it wasn't better. It was unbearable. The inner branches of my pleasure organ pulsed and fluttered. My stomach felt sick and tight from the way my breath held still and shallow. My body was responding eagerly to her touch—yes,it cried, yes, more—but inside, my mind resisted. I squeezed my eyes shut and curled forward, my legs and head shifting away from her, letting cold air rush in and fill the space between us.
Behind me, Calla shifted, alert to the change in my posture. “What’s wrong, my housecarl?” she said, and there was a dry note in her voice, a teasing seduction. “Did I imagine your kiss on my skin?” She was practically purring, her rolling accent smooth like velvet. Her lips, her breath was hot against my neck. “Am I imagining the little sounds of your desire?”—yes, I realized all of a sudden, I was making soft uncontrolled sounds, rapid breathy gasps as she trailed lightning down my skin.
I'd never known her voice so playful, so husky. I'd never imagined this side of her. Hungry, shameless. Her hands rubbed smoothly up and down my sides. My skin fluttered at her touch even through the thick leather of my armor.
But—
“No—no.” I was appalled at how my voice sounded, soft and broken.
As I gave voice to my discontent, Calla stilled behind me. Her lips vanished from my skin. Now she was fully alert as she came up on her elbows and leaned over me. I slipped below her, turning onto my back to look at her. Her brow was furrowed, questioning. My eyes found hers, autumn leaves framed in the ghostly white skull of death.
I couldn't unsee it, the visage of her form glowing gold, her dragon's soul shining through.
As if through water, the words bubbled up from a deep place within me—
“You’re Dragonborn,” I whispered. Tiber Septim’s statue flickered in my mind. “You’re… near a god. How could I—”
Her dark eyes widened. She reared away from me and her weight shifted to her legs, to her pelvis, pressing me down against the hard floor as she cut me off. “Is that how you think of me?” she said, her eyes bleeding hurt. “Like a god? I’m flesh and bone, like you.”
“But your spirit—you said it yourself—”
She snorted. “I’m not trying to fuck you with my spirit, Lydia.”
Desire washed me. I gripped the fur beneath my hands, closing my eyes to keep them from drifting down her naked torso as I tried to wrestle my thoughts under control.
“I saw you after the dragon attacked the Western Watchtower.” I managed to open my eyes to meet hers again. “Half a dozen soldiers lost to dragonfire, and you walked away without a single scar.”
Her narrowed eyes were boring into mine. Her lip curled into a sneer.
“You want to see a scar? Look,” she said, and gripped my wrist tightly in her fingers, wrenching it up to press the flat of my hand against the ridged scar between her breasts. “Feel.”
I could feel the scar; it was thick and ropy, and the flesh around it was hot and inflamed. I could feel the rise and fall of her breath, and I could feel the rush of blood beneath her skin. I could feel the pounding of her heart.
I could feel it the moment her breath quickened.
Her eyes dropped to my lips. She moved as if drawn by gravity, inches shrinking between us, until I could smell her breath, feel its tickle on my nose—
Gods forgive me. Desire gripped me from my root to my scalp and I moaned. My eyes softened and closed, and in my heart, I stopped resisting.
But her lips never found mine. She dipped her chin, her forehead coming to my chest, eyes closed. She exhaled, slow and controlled.
“Damn it, Lydia,” she breathed. I could feel its heat against the leather on my chest. “Damn this. Damn you.”
“I'm sorry,” I whispered. It didn't feel right, but it was all I could think of to say.
There was a long moment where the only sounds were the crackle of the fire, the wind howling outside, and the both of us breathing in the clutches of our incomplete desire.
Eventually, Calla sighed. “I wouldn’t force myself on you, but…” she lifted her head to meet my eyes. There was something ravenous there. “Fuck, Lydia. I hope you’ll change your mind.” She leaned carefully over me, and with a gentleness that didn’t match her tone, she placed a kiss on the side of my cheek.
I turned on my side as she shifted behind me, and her arms wrapped around me again, but her touch was innocent this time, her closeness for warmth only.
Still, it took a long while for my body to cool enough for me to sleep.
