Skyrim Husbando

Farkas, high ranking member of the Circle in the Companions. Married to my Nord Harbinger and dragonborn, Nelvyr.
He just calls her "Nell."

Farkas (c) Bethesda Studios.

~*~

Nothing helped.

Not sleep, not mead, and certainly not the bite of northern wind that swept through her bones with tiny pricks and shards of pain, hair tie all but helpless as the blonde strands whipped across her face and neck. The frozen earth beneath her gave ache to her back and legs, a begging for movement that she was too exhausted to oblige.

Near a small and dinky fire she sat in silence opposite her companion, who made no attempt at conversation—he was no good for it, and knew this only too well himself. There was no real use for prattle now. Her eyes kept drifting up into the constellations, the wilderness about them breathing around and shifting in airy white puffs.

Days, hours, lifetimes they’d walked together for this, it seemed—this deed to be done that both anticipated and strove for. A master’s laugh, a hunt, a prowl to be ceased; this was all they wanted, now. The wolf’s blood had robbed her of sleep and peace of mind, her body strained and sinking inward from the “gift.” She was hollow, listening to the beat of her companion’s heart from her place amongst the blankets and smelling the blood that coursed in his veins.

The hunt.

Always the hunt.

But it was nothing compared to the guilt.

Over the howling of the cold wind, the flecks of snow falling and catching to hair he said her name.

“Nell.”

She’s surprised at the low, concerned syllable. She raises her eyes and knits her brows together, giving an inquisitive look that encourages him to continue.

“You look sad, Harbinger. Is something troubling you?” He asks gently, kindly, a thing which comes new to her. She’s used to the sour remarks, the names, the pokes and the prods—not just from him, but from all of them. Even as a member of the Circle she felt like an intruder, an unwanted outsider only allowed in by the grace of the well-loved authority figure.

The one she’d left to die.

Her ribs ache when she sighs, warm air escaping her lungs to be replaced with a breath as sharp as knives. Her cold fingers tighten around the neck of a thick fur cloak that does little to keep the bitterness out. It could just be her, though—the way she feels exposed.

Laid bare.

So, so tired.

Suddenly her throat is dry and she doesn’t want to respond. She is supposed to be strong for him; a leader. Farkas had told her “congratulations” when it’d happened. He said he’d never question her. That he trusted her.

Against her better judgment she nods. Divines forbid the others learn of this admittance.

The lines around his mouth follow it down as he frowns, blue eyes sympathetic and hair wildly tossed about in the gales. Not knowing what to say, he studies her and tries to think of a way to continue.

She knows what he’s feeling, or at least believes so. He knows she wasn’t attatched to Kodlak, nor Skjor—yet in part she’s responsible for their deaths.

When the word “guilt” tumbles from her dry lips, he’s close to understanding.

Her head and heart beat the rhythm of the hunt, ears drumming in such constancy that she wonders what silence is like.

Silence that Farkas will know soon.

She turns her head to the general direction of Ysgramor’s tomb, her heart aching to join him in purity and knowing that she can’t. At least not now.

Harbinger.

The one who is to lead the pack, to bring honor and uphold the name of Companion. Eyes drooping into a weary close, ears filled with the sound of wind and her hands all but numb to the crackle of fire, his hand on her cheek actually startles her. How he managed to move to her without notice is uncharacteristic, but she puts it out of her mind—his hand is on her cheek, cold fingers moving into blonde locks, gently leaning into her until they hear the quickening in each other’s hearts—cold dry lips press in inexperience, sincerity, grief and affection.

This, it seemed, was helping.