#Dragonborn Ralof

[m-u-n-c-h-y]

I would like to hear abojt your Dragonborn Ralof AU. Ralof sneezes and accidently fus-ro-dah's Ulfric's dinner table.

While that would be hilarious, the Dragonborn!Ralof au is actually... pretty heavy on the angst.

It's a story about self reflection, challenging viewpoints, and asking about what one wants in life... but also, it's pretty gay. A lot happens to both Ralof and Hadvar, most of it is pretty miserable and depressing, but also kinda delves into their characters and their relationship. There's also just a lot with this au just cause of how extensive the game can be when adding on more quests than just the main ones. So, I won't delve too deep into it unless asked specifically. But I can chat a little bit about some Dragonborn headcanons that go along with this AU.

1.) Like dragons, the DB has an innate sense of time. Like you could throw them in a dark cave for months and they'd still pop out and tell you the exact year, month, day, and time. Hadvar and the other kids from Riverwood would talk about never needing to read a clock because they had Ralof. The one day someone asked him the time and he went down to the minute second, and people stopped asking.

2.) Like dragons, Dragonborns seek power in some way. It's something that has to be controlled. For Ralof, while it seems rather controlled or that he doesn't care for power, Ralof in reality does lust for some kind of power. It's more territorial in nature, in that, when he perceives a threat, he feels the need to exert his power or to gain what power he can in order to meet that threat head on. Hence his initial joining of the Stormcloaks when the Thalmore really started to threaten Skyrim.

3.) Dragons and Dragonborns are semi omnipotent, even tho they're not really aware of it. They're not fortune tellers, they can't see into the future or anything. However, it's more like they have a deep sense of the inevitable and therefore are able to act accordingly. Things more obvious like Uriel Septim IV having a dream about meeting the Hero of Kvatch and dying. Or the more subtle betrayal of Paarthurnax and his role in teaching mortals Thu'um. Or Alduin's inevitable destroying of the world, even if it never seems to be the right time. I often use this one to explain why Ralof is so... different than his fellow Stormcloaks. It's as tho he's "seen the bigger picture." He knows that it's only a matter of time when everyone in Skyrim will be threatened by the Thalmore. So, it doesn't matter if you're a "true nord" or not, if you call Skyrim your home, you need to fight for it.

Honestly, I have more of a complete story, but it's hard to explain without knowing these headcanons really. Cause it's rather important to many of his future decisions throughout the narrative. As well as explain why he's so fucking miserable towards the end.

[enolezdrata]

Ralof, Breanain and Hadvar for Jesús

[spooky-donut-ghost-house]

HEY, YOU. YOU'RE FINALLY AWAKE. YOU WERE TRYING TO CROSS THE BORDER TWELVE YEARS AGO, RIGHT? SAME AS US, AND THAT THIEF OVER THERE.

[nerevar-quote-and-star]

Last Dragonborn, trying to help Ralof in the midst of battle:: To the left!

Ralof: Take it back now y'all!

[actual-skyrim-quotes]

Ralof: Hey, you. You're finally awake.

Dragonborn: Yeah, where-

Ralof: You were trying to cross the border, right?

Dragonborn: Yes, I-

Ralof: Walked right into that Imperial ambush, same as us, and that thief over there.

Dragonborn: Would you let me fucking talk?

[vodrae]

In skyrim only a few very important cities have stone walls. Solitude is the capital, Whiterun is the main hub of Skyrim, Windhelm has big docks and is the oldest city...

So these snowberries in the mead must have been a huge deal.

[wellthebardsdead]

Llewellyn: a fair haired half nord half Altmer man, gentle in nature and not at all boisterous, now seated on a cart bound for Helgen* I’m not from skyrim actually. I’m from the isles.

Ralof: summerset? Why on shors green earth would any nord want to live there?

Llewellyn: it’s a beautiful place, it was peaceful too. Until talk of the rebellion in skyrim… then every nord was rounded up to be interrogated or sent to one of their camps… my parents handed themselves over so I could escape…

Ralof: pft, damned elves. Monsters the whole lot of them.

Llewellyn: my mother is a high elf. *shifts his ears showing little points beneath his long hair*

Ralof: I-

Llewellyn: just… stop talking to me stormcloak… by rebelling against the empire you’ve played right into the dominions plan… *glares at ulfric over his shoulder before looking at the gates ahead* im sorry mother… father… I tried to stay alive…

*a few minutes and a lot of chaos later*

Llewellyn: *barreling out of the cave carrying Hadvar bridal style and Ralof on his back* IM ALIVE THANK THE GODS! *drops them both*

Hadvar: Thank y- UGH! *rolls down the hill after being dropped* HELP-

Llewellyn: SHITE IM SORRY!!! *runs after him*

Ralof: *sitting there trying to figure out what the hell just happened* Ah-

[incorrectskyrimquotes]

If the player character doesn't exist, who fills their role in each questline?

[umbracirrus]

WIP Wednesday!!! 💛

I come with not one, but two snippets today! Both are wider scenes that I've posted a handful of lines from throughout this week (screaming about Elyse and Balgruuf not kissing but it's a slow burn so no kissing yet, and the last lines tag game from this morning), and both have something in common...

Elyse and her sweet tooth.

Tagging everyone who tagged me in that last lines game whilst I was sleeping last night hehe, so that means @thequeenofthewinter, @throughtrialbyfire, @pitiable-arisen, and @oblivions-dawn. No obligations of course 💛

Seeking the Sun snippet (chapter 3)

As a weak campfire began to flicker with light in the small camp they had cleared of bandits, Elyse couldn’t help but sit in the grass by the fire and stare up at the aurora which blanketed the skies. She hadn’t even been in Skyrim for a week, and in that time had been almost executed and survived a dragon attack... But she hadn’t been able to look up at the night sky and take it all in until that moment.

“A spectacle like no other,” is what her mother used to say. “I always liked to believe that the aurora is our ancestors in Sovngarde gazing down at us. Watching as we live up to their legacies. Perhaps I have been shunned for following my own path as opposed to the one that had been set out before me, but I don’t regret it for a second. Besides... I know for certain that our ancestors would be proud of you, El, and that’s all I could ever ask for.”

She had to quickly bring her sleeve up to her face to wipe away the tears building in the corners of her eyes, the snapping of a branch under the foot of one of her current companions bringing her back to reality. Her mother had done it no justice in her descriptions of the night sky in Skyrim, and if her beliefs were true... Then perhaps Ingja was up there and watching over her at that very moment.

“There isn’t much, but it looks as though those bandits had caught some salmon to eat... I gathered some snowberries too, if fish isn’t to your taste,” Ralof sighed as he took a seat beside her, a wooden plate clattering into the grass before him with the food in question. “Hadvar is refusing to take the stick out of his backside to sit down and eat, which means all the more for-“

A tut came from behind her as Hadvar approached the fire, his decision to stand at the opposite side to Ralof possibly bring an unconscious one, but quite notable to Elyse. Those two quite obviously knew each other since before the arrests at the border.

“If I get seen in the company of a Stormcloak by any survivors from the Imperial Legion-“ There was an edge to his voice, one which almost sounded fearful, “-then both she and I are dead.”

“Helgen is already little more than ashes. Do you honestly believe that any soldiers are going to be coming up the road now? They’re no doubt in Falkreath, Riverwood, or dead.”

“... If Riverwood hasn’t also been attacked by the dragon, that is.”

There was a tension in the air which made Elyse squirm as she reached out to take a small handful of the berries which Ralof had gathered, her eyes flicking between the pair. Ralof’s fists were clenching at the fabric of his trousers, whereas Hadvar’s throat silently bobbed before he slowly sat down and closed his eyes.

After a few moments had passed, she began to eat the snowberries and found herself quite disappointed that they didn’t taste quite as sweet as a Cyrodilic strawberry... yet at the same time incredibly relieved. It was the first thing she had ate since crossing the border beyond a stale piece of bread taken from the storage room in Helgen’s keep during their escape from the dragon, and it had been growing harder and harder to ignore the pangs in her stomach.

She reached the last berry all too soon, though she certainly wasn’t expecting a quiet chuckle from Hadvar at the grumble she let out at that realisation.

“You must’ve needed that.”

The Perfect Storm snippet (chapter 18)

There was something which Balgruuf found rather enjoyable about the simple act of roaming the streets of the city as time passed and the evening slowly transitioned into night, with little more than idle conversation about anything and everything to keep them entertained. Elyse would on occasion have something catch her eye, most often little pieces of jewellery or old-looking books, though didn't actually buy anything. Whenever he asked why she didn't want to indulge, even if just for one night, she would simply smile at him and say that good company was all that she needed for the night to be memorable, not a souvenir. That books and jewellery could be bought at any time, unlike a chance to unwind.

Before long, he started to become aware of the time, and let out a deep breath. It was dark by that point, with the faint glow of candles and lanterns across the streets keeping the city lit even as night took Whiterun firmly into its grasp.

"Elyse… I must apologise, but I have something which I need to do before I return to Dragonsreach, so I am going to have to leave now," he stated, placing a hand on her shoulder and stopping her in her tracks as they strolled around the festival.

Turning to face him, he saw a clear dismay – possibly even hurt - across her features. She had clearly been enjoying herself, he had never quite seen her so lively before spending time with her that evening even if most of what they did was just walking and chatting. “Already?”

“I’m afraid so,” he sighed, bringing his hand up to “Though do feel free to stay here for longer, the festivities are set to continue into the early hours..."

Elyse’s face shifted to an expression that came across much more neutral than it had done moments earlier, before she nodded. “Fair enough... Do you have plans or something?”

“You could say so... I have something which I need to purchase before I return to Dragonsreach, and festival or no, I have business to attend to in the morning. A growing pile of paperwork that I have neglected after spending much of my time on audiences, arranging all of this, and...” He trailed off, pursing his lips together as he made a quiet but frustrated hum. Thankfully, she didn’t pry about what had gone unspoken, having been a first-hand witness to what he was referring to.

Elyse quietly wrapped her coat around herself more tightly as a particularly frigid gust of wind cut through the streets, before the smile which she had previously held returned to her face. “If you have the chance, you really should stop by the stall selling those tarts before heading back. The fact that almost nobody seemed to be buying them when I got mine was an absolute travesty."

He raised an eyebrow. "That sounds rather dramatic for tarts."

"It's hardly dramatic enough! You can’t deny that they were delicious."

He couldn’t help but shake his head and chuckle at her exclamation, not exactly in agreement with her opinion – still feeling that grainy yet syrupy texture from the fruit filling in his mouth - but finding her enthusiasm almost endearing.

In spite of his need to leave, they remained stood there for a further few moments, a comfortable quiet having settled between them. It was only broken by a distant cheer from the marketplace.

"So... see you next year then?"

Balgruuf stared at Elyse with dumbfounded confusion, taking in little more than the grin plastered across her face, before letting out an amused snort when he realised what she meant. "Yes, Elyse. I will see you next year. Enjoy your night."

After he had turned around and began to walk in the direction that they had originally come from, the strangest feeling began to creep in. One which made his gut feel as though it were twisting and churning, something which was wholly uncomfortable… He could only assume that it was that sickly tart hitting his stomach.

[archangelsunited]

Helgen sure was something, huh. I imagine it was why Ulfric wasn’t allowed out of the palace outside the Battle of Solitude/Season’s Unending

[m-u-n-c-h-y]

When does Ralof find out he's the dragonborn? At Helgen? Which faction does he side with, or is it neither? Does he have friends/companions? What are their relationships and how did they meet?

I love you Fuzzy <3

So there's a lot to go over. Ralof (and by extension Hadvar as he's along for the ride in this au) finds out he's the dragonborn in the usual in-game way, which is when he fights the dragon at the Western Watchtower. However, unlike in the game, Ralof isn't able to use his Thu'um yet, he just knows that he absorbed some kind of energy from the dead dragon. He finally believes that he's the Dragonborn when he goes to High Hrothgar and the Greybeards confirm it. Much to Hadvar's dismay...

Shock of all shocks, Ralof actually ends up joining the Empire. It's a very long story for that one. But it's mostly decided based on several quests in-game, how Ulfric STILL wants Markarth in Silverblood hands despite knowing what the Silverbloods did to Ralof in Cidhna Mines, the way Ulfric reacted to the Dossiers Ralof found in the Thalmor Embassy, and this thing I headcanon regarding Dragons and Dragonborn which Ralof comes to fully understand after a philisophical talk with Paarthurnax. Basically, Ralof came to the conclusion that, in the end, the Empire truly are the lesser of two evils and that Ulfric wouldn't be able to make a good High King. This decision actually comes to emotionally haunt Ralof for a long time, for several reasons (One of which being that Ulfric and him were kind of a thing...).

Funny enough, I tried my damnest to feasibly put Hadvar into this AU as a pseudo companion. Hadvar in the beginning was trying to capture Ralof, ended up being dragged into helping Ralof, until after the Greybeards confirmed that Ralof is, in fact, the Dragonborn. And at that point Hadvar pisses off for a while. His journey thru this au is also all over the place and wild. He eventually has to quit the Legion (they're trying to arrest him for desertion and treason for helping Ralof) and he ends up becoming a Companion. Which, then he ends up turning into a werewolf... because of course. I said it was wild. Of course, eventually, Hadvar and Ralof meet back up and they sorta kinda start this whirlwind romance cause oh no they realize their feelings for each other yadayada. Ya know, the usual 50k slow-burn plot you'd expect.

There's... there's a lot going on in this au...

[matri4rch]

High Hrothgar

🤍🐻‍❄️ AO3 LINK 🐻‍❄️🤍

THE DRAGON, SHE IS HERE. it only took like a month and a torn muscle for me to sit down and think what the fuck I wanted to do with these two eloquent noble bears, but HAH. I did it!

Galmar my beloved. *kiss*

Why am I always sick or wounded, lmao

Ik I said I'd have them tussle and beat each other up but I couldn't write the damn scene. I hate fighting scenes smh.

[omkdear]

!! wip whenever !! Got tagged by @gwilin-stay-winnin (ty bestie!) not tagging anyone directly, so opening for whoever want's to post a WIP :) Here's a small blurb from a Ralof/Dragonborn I've had sitting in my WIP folder since I started replaying Skyrim this past summer. _-_–__-_–__-_–__-_–__-_–__-_–__-_–__-_–__-_–__-_–__-_–__-_–_

The first thing Ralof notices when the Wood Elf opens her eyes is that they're black, stark against the mist and green of the forest surrounding them. For a moment, he's paralyzed by the sheer intensity of her gaze, unfocused. 

She blinks once, then twice, and winces. 

"You're finally awake," he said, realizing then that he'd been staring at her for too long. "You were trying to cross the border, right?" 

The horse thief starts anxiously jabbering. The presence of Ulfric next to the Wood Elf is nigh comical to Ralof, who, in his adrenaline delirium, wonders if she is a Thalmor spy. If she was, would she be carted off to the block? The shred of his logic intones. Her lips, full and unsmiling, frown deeper.

 "Where are we?" she croaks, her voice gravelly like someone who hasn't spoken for days. Ralof notices the injury at her hairline, quite visible through her short blonde-copper locks. The cut oozes over her pointed ear. 

"This is Helgen," he replies, rambling through his memories, hoping their utterance remains on the wind far after his lips no longer speak. 

Rays of light break through the fog, and her skin, a shade of warm tawny, seems to kindle even in the scarce light. There are worse things to see before you die, Ralof thinks to himself, then shakes his head to dispel the thought as the Imperial banners come into view. 

 End of the line.

 Ralof wonders why she's so calm. Where do Wood-Elves go when they die? As they call her name, her head inclines to the sky. He notices the scars that run under her eye to hit the corner of her mouth like a talon's mark. There is a sharpness to her jawline and a hardness in her eyes that Ralof knows songs will surely be sung wherever they go in her honor. 

She's called forward, and Ralof watches as she steps up to the block and goes to her knees––her posture rings defy even in its submission. Brodir's head, sightless now, approves as his body twitches on the ground. Her lips move subtly, whispering words no one can hear; she doesn't close her eyes as the shadow of the headsman falls over her. 

Ralof watches as her hands clench and unclench with a quiet ferocity, the strain of the rope barely audible above the sudden eerie silence of the crowd. Nirn shakes––a cacophony of chaos ensues as a winged creature, no a dragon, roars, fire, and brimstone erupting from the sky. 

"Get up!" he's screaming at her, grabbing her shoulders and pulling her away from the block. Hadvar running, sword in hand, towards the fray fills Ralof with desperate grief and rage as he seizes the Wood Elf's bound wrists again towards the keep's interior.

[nerevar-quote-and-star]

This crackship was supposed to be FUNNY but then it got really serious instead?

At least it's sweet. Or at least @elder-dragon-reposes thinks so!

Yo @incorrectskyrimquotes do you want some Leara/Ralof romance/pining?

ao3 | masterlist

She's curled in the corner of the wagon when he first notices her. Dark red hair falls in a curtain over her face, but Ralof thinks he sees the tip of a leaflet ear poking between the fallen strands. An elf, then. He doesn't remember seeing her during the ambush and the skirmish that followed. He wonders how she got there. He wonders why. Was she at the border?

When she wakes, it's signaled by strained shoulders and a near-visible shrinking in on herself. Then Ralof is met with the most startling blue eyes he's ever seen, bright and cold and thick with ice. They sweep his face, then turn to the other occupants of their carriage. At the moment, Ralof swears those eyes hesitate and widen when the elf woman spots Jarl Ulfric, but later, he isn't sure.

"Hey, you. You're finally awake. You were trying to cross the border, right? Walked right into that Imperial ambush, same as us, and that thief over there."

She stares at him again and is quiet.

She is quiet when the Imperials corral them from the carriages to hear General Tullius's damning talk-down to Jarl Ulfric.

Then, they're in line for the chopping block. Hadvar, damn traitor that he is, is standing there prim as a princess with his quill and parchment, ready to take down the names of the convicted.

Ralof wants to curse him. He cannot.

Then the elf woman is in front of Hadvar..

"Who . . . are you?" "Leara Ormand. I, I'm from Daggerfall." "I'm sorry, miss. We'll make sure your remains are returned to High Rock."

She hangs her head.

This was Imperial justice, Ralof thought. The innocent were condemned just as easily as those who fought for others' freedom. Anything that was inconvenient for the Empire must go.

They execute Snorri first, Talos guard him. Then they call the elf woman, Leara, forward. Her head no longer hangs. She walks forward with the same cool face and straight spine he's seen in other high elves.

Thunder rumbles, not for the first time since this circus began.

She kneels at the block.

All Oblivion breaks loose.

Smoke and screams resonate through the air as fire splits the skies. Visibility is lost. Ralof stumbles to the ground.

Amid the screaming, he hears a word echoing above the den and so penetrating that it chilled his soul.

Dragon.

He stumbles over something—someone. The woman, Leara.

Her hand snatches at his arm, shockingly cold amid the blistering heat.

They drag each other to the tower, making it just before Jarl Ulfric and the others close and bar the door. He turns to ask Jarl Ulfric—Could the legends be true?—and then she is gone like a dart up the stairs.

Ralof doesn't see Leara again until he stumbles into the Keep. She's on the floor, propped against the wall with her face flushed and her hands encrusted in frost. In her hands, she's clutching the hilt of a katana, but where she got it, Ralof doesn't know. Her eyes are closed, and she looks desperately like she's trying to catch her breath. But Ralof knows that soon this room will be swarming with Imperials fleeing the firestorm outside. They needed to go.

Their trip through the keep and its cave network is a blur of exhaustion and bloodshed. Her hands leave a trail of black frosted blood pools in their wake. The katana sings like hissing ice in her hands when they face the Torturer and sleeps just as easily when they agree to sneak past the bear.

He takes Leara to Gerdur. He needs to return to Windhelm as soon as possible, but it is clear as sunlight that Leara has been caught in a bad spot. When Gerdur hears about their escape from Helgen, she is only too willing to help out Ralof's new "friend."

Ralof waves Leara goodbye the morning after they stumble into Gerdur's yard. She is sitting on the porch, her katana beside her, but her face is clean from the ash of their near-death.

"Be well, Ralof!"

She says in farewell.

Ralof grins at her, not quite full, and leaves. And his mind wanders down other paths, away from his harried flight with Leara Ormand.

But he thinks of her again when he's faced with the white-blue ice of the White River biting at the ancient stones of Windhelm. When he returns to the field, he halfway remembers the song of her katana in the whistling of the wind through the pines.

But it is the dragon attack on Whiterun that eventually brings her back to the forefront of his mind. The attack is months after Helgen, but not long enough for the people of Skyrim to forget that a dragon leveled an entire village and stirred the embers of the Civil War into a full blaze with Ulfric Stormcloak's escape from the Imperials. The fighting has just picked up again after the winter lull when the news of the attack spreads like wild . . . dragon fire.

And with that news comes the murmur of Dragonborn. The Greybeards called her.

"Her?" "Some pointy ear. Not a Nord."

It is only when someone mentions that the Dragonborn carries a katana that Ralof knows that she and Leara are the same. It makes for a good story around the campfire when Ralof tells how he and the Dragonborn escaped that first dragon attack. Most don't believe him. Some do.

Then there are those who scoff at the idea of an elf woman being the Nords' hero. It's not long before Ralof finds himself in front of Commander Gonnar for brawling over it.

Commander Gonnar is . . . not impressed.

"Do you think we're out here to brawl like barflies?" "No sir." "No, because we have a job to do, leiutenant, and you can't perform your job when you're out there rolling in the dirt because someone insulted an elf to your face." "She's the Dragonborn, sir." "Well, then, she doesn't need you taking up for her, does she?" "Yes, sir."

Commander Gonnar sends him back to Windhelm soon after that. Less trouble in the camp.

Even in Windhelm, support for the Dragonborn is mixed, especially when Ralof hears about her plans to hold a peace talk at High Hrothgar. He volunteers for Ulfric Stormcloak's guard. The Jarl, at least, doesn't seem to care about What the Dragonborn is, so long as she takes care of Skyrim. That's fair enough, all things considered.

At High Hrothgar, Leara is happy to see him. Ralof is surprised when she catches his hand up in hers, a grin curving her white gold face. She seems happy . . . for someone who then proceeds to manipulate an entire table to agree to her terms while holding everyone else at their starting positions.

Yes, Leara is perfectly fine. Or so Ralof convinces himself, until he finds her in an alcove, sometime after dinner, with her katana in her hands and her face too pale. Her breathing is shallow and she's not seeing.

Ralof is crouched beside her in a moment.

"Leara—" "Elenwen. Elenwen."

Her skin is clammy. Oh.

Ralof holds Leara's hand through the panic attack beating on her. The best he can do is talk to her and rub her shoulder. Eventually, he manages to pry the katana from her death grip. Her hands soon fist in his hauberk. She falls asleep not long after that.

She is apologetic but still thankful afterward. For the first time, Ralof sees the layer of ice in her eyes give way to glimpses of spring waters.

Ralof might not know what happened to Leara, but he knows being a hero hasn't suddenly made her invincible. If anything, it's exacerbated a deeper problem. Problems he doesn't dare to tease out when General Stone-Fist sits down to talk about the Dragonborn as the Stormcloaks make their descent from the Throat of the World.

Months pass before he sees her again, and then it's on the wings of her victory over the World-Eater. She sweeps into WIndhelm and soon Ralof finds himself at the bar with her at Candlehearth Hall. He looks forward to speaking to her again but is nonetheless surprised by her turn in conversation.

"What do you know about the Butcher murders?" "Well . . ."

Ralof can't say he's kept up with the whole drawn-out tragedy, but Leara seems intent on investigating, and he commits to helping her—as much as his duties allow, that is. Later, when she brings the amulet to him with whispered descriptions of a room bathed in sinew and blood, he suggests the court wizard. Ulfric trusts the man, and from what Ralof has heard, Wuunferth seems pretty knowledgeable.

Directing Leara to speak to Wuunferth does not prevent her from being stabbed by the Butcher days later. She takes Calivto Corrium out with her own bloodied ice before collapsing in a shivering heap. She is taken to her room at Candlehearth before Ralof can check in on her. Before he can see that she's okay.

Leara will be okay. Ralof will not.

When Ralof accompanies the guards to clear out the House of Curiosities, he finds the Dibella statue modeled in Leara's likeness: White gold, small, naked, and frigid.

Rage bursts in his chest. He throws it into the wall. On impact, it shatters in a rain of pottery shards, painted and false.

From there, Ralof hurries to Candlehearth. There, he finds Leara propped in a chair; when he enters, she's half-heartedly nibbling an apple tart but, at the sight of him, sets it aside.

"Ralof! Would you like some pastry?"

Her smile is bright, if strained by the lingering pain. She half-raises the plate toward him.

Ralof takes it from her, and setting it on the table, kneels beside her chair. As he does so, he takes the cold hand in his, clasping it between both palms. He bows over her hand in his, his forearms braced against the chair arms.

"Ralof? Are you okay? What's happened?"

But Ralof can't speak. How can he? How can he speak into existence the truth his spirit has been seeking this whole time? He must tell her. He's not a coward, but a brave son of Skyrim! But the words stick in Ralof's throat, even when Leara's other hand comes to card through his hair.

When he leaves, the words are still lodged in his throat. The whole time he doesn't speak, Leara simply strokes his hair, and when he leaves, she offers another smile. Confused, certainly, but soft. Kind.

Ralof is tempted to ask Generals Stone-Fist or Thrice-Pierced to deploy him to a camp in Hjaalmarch or the Reach, but every time, he's driven to stay. All the while, Leara is recovering. Soon, she's back on her feet, and when she mentions leaving Windhelm, Ralof feels as if he'll be sick.

What will she do once she's out there, alone?

She's capable, he reminds himself. Yes, she defeated the World Eater. But then she was nearly murdered by a serial killer. All it took was one mistake. One. And Leara would be, Leara . . .

Leara would be dead.

t's that thought that drives him to Candlehearth again. He's hurrying down the hall toward Leara's room before he realizes Elda is calling him.

"She's gone." "What?" "The Dragonborn, she checked out this morning."

Bile churns in Ralof's gut. She's gone.

Again the Palace of the Kings, Ralof seeks the training yard. Hack. Slash. Stab. Leara left. Slash. Hack. Stab. Leara was alone. Slash. Swipe. Turn. Leara might not come back. Stab. Hack. What if she . . .

No. He was being dramatic.

Ralof is not given long to wallow. General Stone-Fist promotes him to captain and deploys him to the Reach, clear across Skyrim. In the Reach, there's more to worry about than the abstract until proven idea of Leara's present safety. Ralof's, for one thing, and the state of the Stormcloaks campaign in the region, for the greater.

He is in the Reach a month before reports filter out of Markarth about heightened Forsworn activity in the city. The Forsworn were already a pain in the rear out in the hills and crags. Ralof did not look forward to weeding out a potential secondary force when the Stormcloaks marched on Markarth.

Then, a report comes saying there's been a breakout from Cidhna Mine. And that Madanach is alive. Ralof has a bad feeling about this. He's pretty sure Jarl Ulfric will have plenty to say about the situation.

Whatever Ulfric would say is driven from Ralof's mind when a thin figure stumbles into camp. Her hair is wild, her eyes are wild, and in her hands is that same katana.

Ralof is running to Leara to catch her in his arms before her knees even threaten to buckle.

"It's my fault." "Shhh." "Ralof, Ralof, Markarth . . ." "We'll take care of it. Don't worry, Leara."

Soon, she's asleep in the medical tent. Ralof is sitting beside her when Commander Kottir pokes his head in.

"So, that's the one stirring up the fuss in camp." "The Dragonborn, Commander." "That's what I hear."

Commander Kottir nods, grim.

"See that she doesn't die on our hands. We can't afford the talk."

Jaw clenched, Ralof just nods. Leara's hand is in his. Over the cot, he catches the commander's eye. Kottir's eyes linger on the joined hands before slipping from the tent.

When Leara wakes, Ralof learns all the dark details of Leara's ill-fated investigation iin Markarth that turned into her incarceration and eventual jailbreak with the King in Rags and his court.

"I had no idea what I was getting into. It was like a completely different playing field from what I'm used to."

Ralof can't offer much advice, except that when the Stormcloaks take over Markarth, they'd weed out the Forsworn support. Leara's face is drawn, but she squeezes his hand.

When she leaves, she says she's heading for Solitude. Ralof wishes her well, but a feeling of foreboding seeps into his bones. She doesn't say why she's going to Solitude, but there's a particular gleam in her eye that piques him in a certain way.

Without Leara in camp, Ralof's focus goes back to the war. General Stone-Fist comes out west, and Ralof is asked to accompany him to Hjaalmarch. They have their eyes on Fort Snowhawk, but before they get there, an anonymous tip comes in that the Dragonborn is being held by the Thalmor at Northwatch Keep.

When he reads the note, Galmar's face is hard. Ralof is cold.

"We can't leave her there, General." "We might have no choice."

But Ralof can't accept that. He'll go after her by himself. His knapsack is packed and his sword is sharpened when he heads for the edge of camp. Galmar stops him.

"You're not going to Northwatch alone." "Respectfully, General, but I am. I can't just leave Leara with the Thalmor when I can do something about it." "No, Captain, you're not going alone." "But sir—" "We'll be leading a raid on the fortress."

The Stormcloak attack on Northwatch is swift and pointed. The Thalmor wizards are difficult, but they're no contest when met in the tight melee range of the halls. General Stone-Fist's battlecry rings off the stonework, rallying the rebels. This is not like their plans for Snowhawk. They weren't trying to hold the fort. Raid, disrupt, and devastate, however? Doable.

Throughout the raid, Ralof felt at turns cold and furious. Leara is here somewhere, he thinks as he leads a group down into the dungeons.

The scent of blood and bile burns his nose. Ralof pushes forward until, rounding a corner, he runs headlong into a tall golden-haired Altmer. Lightning sizzles on her fingers, burning the air and setting Ralof's teeth on edge even as he thrusts his sword deep into her stomach.

Blood curdles out of her mouth as Ralof pushes passed her into the cell beyond. There.

Her head lulled to the side and eyes heavy, Leara is strapped to the wrack, her thin arms stretched skeletal over her head. In her mouth is a heavy gag, tied tight to prevent her from using the Thu'um. Ralof is at her side in an instant, making quick work of the bindings. He pulls the gag from her mouth, tossing it to the side. Behind him, one of the battlemaidens drops to her knees, checking Leara's throat and wrists.

"Captain." "How is she, Tilda?" "Sir, I don't think—"

But Ralof has Leara in his arms, her head falling against his shoulder. She's not heavy at all. They were starving her. Feeding meant removing the gag, risking the Voice. She wasn't this light in the Reach. They starved her.

He hugs her tighter to his chest, and hurries from the keep, Tilda and another soldier on his heels.

That night, after setting fire to the keep, Galmar meets him in the field healer's tent. It's even less equipped than what they have at one of their permanent campsites, and Ralof fears it won't be enough.

Leara is incredibly small and broken under the blankets. New golden scars peak from under the collar of her waif-thin shirt, tracing the path of her veins. Sitting by her bedside, Ralof has held her hand since Tilda finished examing her, the battlemaiden's face grey. The chill in Leara's hand is different now. Unsettling. He can feel the weight of Galmar's eyes on him.

"Tilda told me." "Oh." "If she wakes, she may not be the same."

Galmar cut himself off, but Ralof didn't pay attention. His focus was centered on the slight rise and fall of Leara's chest as she breathed. Every breath was shallow, and none of them restful.

"Listen, Ralof. When the time comes, if you need to take some time and go back home for a few weeks, not a man amung us would begrudge you that."

His throat thick, Ralof only nods.

With Leara in the condition she was in, it was risky to move her, but staying meant her death. The Stormcloaks were caught in a delicate situation, especially considering that they were still in Imperial territory.

"I can give you two days."

Ralof heard Galmar say to Tilda. The battlemaiden nodded. She worked diligently with Leara, praying to Talos, Mara, and Kyne for healing while attempting to work her own arts. Ralof prayed too, though his prayers beseeched Akatosh second only to Talos. But he also prayed to Arkay, begging for the tenuous thread of Leara's life to be strengthened.

One day elapsed. The second one drew toward its close.

There was no change. Within the last hours, Ralof sat on his knees, her hand in his and clasped against his forehead as he leaned into her cot. Ralof's chest ached.

One of the soldiers appeared at the tent flap, but Ralof didn't look up.

"Captain, General's ordered the camp to pack up and head out." "Thank you, Jorvar."

Then it was Tilda's hand on his shoulder.

"Come, Ralof. We must wrap her up and get her on a horse. We've given her as much rest as we can." "She's not strong enough." "Perhaps not, but we have to trust in the Divines that she may be."

His mouth in a line, Ralof simply nodded. Sighing, Tilda turned to finish packing the medical supplies they'd brought from the Haafingar camp.

A tear stung his eyes, followed by another. They weren't the first he'd shed over her, but the fear and despair were beginning to gnaw deeper into his spirit. With trembling lips, Ralof dotted a kiss on Leara's palm, then her knuckles, and the pads of each finger. At last, he drew the thin hand to lay flat on his heart.

Please.

Leara remains stable on the trip to the Haafingar camp, wrapped in blankets and nestled in the bottom of their one wagon. Tilda keeps vigil at her head. Beside the wagon, Ralof rides on horseback, his sword and Leara's katana sheathed at his side.

They make it to the camp, and Tilda is able to administer different medicines that she did not have before. Some color returns to Leara's face, but she still breathes shallowly. Soon, Tilda grows adamant that they must take her to Whiterun, to the Temple of Kynareth. Galmar, while seeing reason in some of Tilda's arguments, is quick to remind the battlemaiden that Whiterun is not their ally. The Stormcloaks cannot step foot in the city. Tilda insists that they can under certain terms.

In the midst of them, Ralof keeps praying that perhaps Leara would at least open her eyes. One last time. During these times, he often falls asleep, his head by her arm on the cot.

It is one of these times that Ralof fell asleep that he thought he woke up. Really, he was sure in the moment that he had, but afterward could never be totally sure. As he lay in half-sleep, he watched a man with golden skin and blue-fire eyes slip into the tent. As he approached, his feet made no noise.

The man's hand passed unfelt (and yet felt) over Ralof's head before landing on Leara's arm. As if entranced, Ralof watched the man remove Leara's hand from his grip and tuck it over her stomach.

"Oh, little one."

For the rest of his life, Ralof could never remember what happened afterward. One minute he was half watching the stranger pass the backs of his fingers over and over Leara's sallow cheek, and then the next, well. The next moment Ralof knew on waking was Leara's fingers carding through his hair. He stirred, and then stared.

From her pillow, Leara was smiling at him. It was a slight smile, still touched with pain, but it was alive because she was awake and she was here.

Ralof met the summer lake warmth of Leara's eyes. And he knew. He clasped her hand in his, and once more began to kiss it. Leara laughed, small and tired, but awake and alive. So very much alive!

He grinned at her.

"I love you." "I know."

Her voice was worn, tired, and fracturing, but so soft and relieved. Hopeful. He pressed a lingering kiss to the inside of Leara's wrist. Yes, he loved her very much, and he would tell her so every day for the rest of their lives.

fin

[ehlnofay]

 The woman sits at one end of a crooked-legged table, concentrating hard on her plate of blood sausage.

It’s nice. Warm. The soldier and his family are chattering, but between trying not to drop the sausage before it reaches her mouth and the ringing in her ears, she can’t make out what they’re saying.

She overcompensates and squishes the sausage in between her fingers, the dark mince inside bursting out of the skin. Gerdur taps the table to get her attention and asks, “You sure you don’t want me to cut that into pieces for you?”

It’s the first time she’s eating something solid, that isn’t porridge or mashed-up vegetables. She can’t tip it into her mouth the way she’s gotten used to, and even that was something she often struggled with – spilling it down her front more often than not. Gerdur always asked her to use the spoon, but utensils are too fiddly.

She pinches the crumpled sausage between her finger and thumb and takes a bite. Gerdur turns back to the conversation.

She’s a little more tuned in now, and she listens as Gerdur says, “I just don’t know if I’ll be able to get away. We’re so busy, and of course this is a priority, but it’s such a time commitment, too…”

“I’d do it,” Ralof declares, “but –”

“I wouldn’t let you.” Gerdur slices off the end of her own sausage. “And I don’t know who else. There’s no-one I’d trust to ask – Frodnar, don’t eat your peas with your fingers, you’ll get sauce all over your hands.”

The child, seated by the woman, scowls and jerks his head at her. “You don’t tell her off for eating with her fingers.”

“She’s a grown woman, and you know full well that that’s different, you little rascal.”

Gerdur’s husband chews and swallows. “There’s enough mercenaries come through Delphine’s inn. I’m sure one of them could carry the message.”

“But I don’t trust them to do it right,” Gerdur counters. “I can’t ask the first hired sword I find to tell the Jarl there’s dragons afoot, Hod, why would he believe them? Would they even believe me? It should be someone like Ralof, who’s seen it with his own eyes, but it just isn’t safe, and I wish I could do it myself but I can’t leave you and the mill for so long.” She places her fork down next to her plate and drops her head in her hands. “I don’t know what to do. I just don’t know.”

She wants someone to tell the Jarl there’s dragons afoot.

The woman licks her oily fingers and says, voice gruff and husky from disuse, “I can go.”

Gerdur’s head snaps up. The end of her braid is dipping in her vegetables. Somewhere to the side the woman can’t see very clearly, she hears a fork clatter onto a plate. The child next to her whispers loud enough that she can hear through the ringing in her ears, “She talked.”

Gerdur is still staring.

Everyone is staring.

The woman picks up her next sausage.

“Did you –” Gerdur cuts herself off, shakes her head. The movement of her heavy plait flings peas over the edge of the table. “I don’t think that’s a good idea, love,” she says more gently. “You’re still mending, remember? Amantina said it could take over a year for your head to settle.”

If that, the healer Amantina had said. The effects could be with her for the rest of her life. The woman remembers. She doesn’t see how that’s relevant.

“You’re not ready for travel,” Gerdur tells her. On the blurry side, Ralof is still staring.

She is ready for this travel, though. She can’t stay in this house. It’s only right that she be the one to tell the Jarl about the dragon – she was there when it attacked, after all; it looked her in the eye; she has dreamt of it since. It’s only right, because she’s restless, getting tired of bowls of porridge and patient voices. It’s only right for reasons that don’t need to be articulated. She feels the rightness of it in her bones.

“I can go,” she repeats, and stands, chair scraping back from the table, to pack her bags.

[helgiafterdark]