#loves of big gruff men being soft! come get y'all juice!

[bysithis]

TESfest22 - storms

my belated entry for day two of TESfest22, on the theme of storms. hope you folks enjoy! tagging @tes-summer-fest once again.

faelen is actually a new character of mine, and this was my first time writing for him. still getting to grips with his voice, i think, but this was fun to write nonetheless!

ao3 link

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When Faelen awakes, face-down in the dirt with a mouthful of mud and grass, the first thing he knows is the cold. 

When he came to Skyrim, that cold took him unawares. He’d known nothing like it in Valenwood, with its humid mangroves and their damp, smothering heat. Skyrim’s icy winds were sharp, unforgiving, tearing at any inch of exposed skin. It was unbearable, but he had adjusted. Adapted.

Or so he thought. And yet, here he is, soaked through and shivering on the forest floor, teeth rattling in his skull. 

The crack of thunder. Faelen pushes himself up with a start, hands planted in the dirt, chest heaving with every ragged breath. Gods, where is he? He doesn’t recognise this place. The trees are strange to him, almost frightening in the ghostly half-light filtering through the leaves. Here and there, trunks have been smashed by the storm, splintered into shards red with sap.

Another rumble. Faelen turns his head up towards the sky, waiting for the next flash of lightning to split the clouds. And when it does— 

When it does, his gaze catches on something momentarily illuminated in the treeline. A face painted in white, in the incandescence of the storm.

“Who’s there?!”

His voice is swallowed by the howling of the wind. Instinctively, he reaches behind him for his bow, only for his hand to close on empty air. With a hissed curse, he reaches for the dagger at his hip instead, gripping at the hilt with frozen fingers. 

“Who is there?!” Already his throat is raw from screaming—yet, in this wind, he might as well be speaking in a whisper. “Come out, damn you!”

His eyes, beginning to adjust to the darkness now, are drawn to a sudden movement between the trees. Bracken stirring, bending, snapping. The glint of a blade. Faelen grits his teeth, wishing for his bow, and readjusts his grip on the dagger.

“I’ll kill you! I promise you that! Come one step closer, and I’ll—” 

Another flash of lightning. It splits upon the figure before him, broad and strong, decked out in heavy steel armor. Dark hair falls choppy around a fierce, pale face. Faelen can make out a strong, square jaw. Brows drawn in a frown, lips pressed tightly together. Warpaint smudged around pale eyes.

“Vilkas?” Faelen’s voice comes hoarse and croaky, torn and ragged. How long has he been out here? His throat is so dry it feels as if he’s swallowed sawdust. “Gods. It really is you, isn’t it?” Finally, he lowers his hand, the dagger all but forgotten.

“Yeah. It’s me.” Vilkas wastes no time in closing the distance between them, sword lowered, his free hand already reaching out for Faelen’s shoulder. Before the elf has time to say anything else, he finds himself pulled into a crushing embrace, rough lips pressed to his brow. A shaky breath leaves him, swallowed by the storm, but he knows Vilkas feels it; his grip around his shoulders only tightens, and Faelen is all too happy to sink into it.

“What happened?” Vilkas asks, pulling back just enough to look at him. A callused finger curls beneath his chin, tilting his head this way and that to check for cuts and bruises. “You were with us, and then you were gone. Even Aela didn’t see where you went.”

Faelen shakes his head. “I—I don’t know. I don’t remember. I—” He remembers running with the others by his side. Remembers the vicious rain stinging his eyes, the wind ripping through his fur. Ahead of them, the Silver Hand fort loomed above the tundra, dirty orange light glinting through arrow slits in the walls. And then— 

Then, nothing. Then, darkness. Then, waking to the rain pelting his skin and the wind tearing at his armour.

He shakes his head again. “I don’t remember. I just woke up here.” 

Vilkas tries to hide it, but Faelen knows him well enough to catch the look that passes over his features. A shadow of worry, dark and gloomy. But then, Vilkas looks away, off between the trees.

“I’ll get you home. Can you walk?”

“I—I think so.” Looking down at himself, Faelen takes a step back on unsteady legs, hand hovering over Vilkas’ arm. “Yes, I think so. I’m a little shaken, but not hurt.” That’s not entirely the truth: he hurts all over. But he has his pride, at least. He won’t have Vilkas carry him all the way back to Jorrvaskr.

“Alright. Then we’ll—”

Abruptly, Vilkas cuts off, head turning sharply towards the edge of the clearing. Faelen follows his gaze, feeling a sudden icy dread prickle up his spine, the back of his neck, the base of his skull. Breath coming sharp and shallow, he looks up and down the treeline, but can’t see anything. Can’t see anything, or hear anything, or smell anything, but— 

“Get behind me.” 

“What is it? Who is it? Vilk—”

“Faelen—”

“Looks like we found ‘em, boys!” The words are punctuated with another clap of thunder and jeered applause. Taking a stumbling step back, Faelen looks around for the source of the voice, but it’s no use. In the midst of the storm, all is sound and confusion, bolts of lightning shuddering through the sky like so much dragon fire.

But then, the speaker emerges—and with him two others. Three. Four. More? The forest is alive with shadows innumerable, some perhaps in the shape of men.

“Quite the adventure you led us on, mutt.” Faelen can just make out his features in the gloom: a broad, crooked nose, and a balding head of straw-like hair. In his hand hangs a wicked-looking scimitar. “And what’s this? Led us to a friend of yours, did you?”

“A pup!” Supplies another voice in the dark. The first man laughs, barks his agreement.

Through it all, Vilkas remains quiet, steady. When finally they fall quiet, he takes a moment to look them over, the whole lot of them, and slowly says, “I will give you one chance to turn and leave. But only one.”

Another raucous chorus of jeers. The leader is saying something, mocking them in that nasally voice of his, but it fades to little more than background noise as Faelen watches Vilkas drop his sword with a dull thud. As he watches the dark fur sprout from the back of his neck, his hands. Vilkas’ form hunches over, limbs growing long and well-muscled, sharp claws sprouting from his fingers. Past him, still standing in the shadow of the treeline, the man with the scimitar stands quite still, his grin now frozen in a grimace, his face pale.

When Vilkas lunges forward, his roar is louder than the sound of the storm.