Work Text
"A kiss in public."
The Retching Netch was unusually crowded when Neloth and Teldryn descended the stairs. The noise level alone had Neloth casting an auditory muffle spell with a scowl.
“What in the blazes is going on here?” he demanded.
“I’ve not a clue,” said Teldryn, his voice through the spell sounding as though he were under water.
Patrons gathered around the bar, crowding around tables and barrels, the air smelling of fermentation and incense. Geldis had even decorated: strings of red lanterns illuminating the modest establishment, Redoran tapestries fluttering along the walls.
“Let’s leave,” said Neloth, beginning to turn on his heel, but Teldryn caught his elbow.
“Hang on, now. I want to see what this is all about. You can wait outside if you really want.”
“Trying to turn me out to pasture like an old guar, are you? You won’t be rid of me so easily.”
Teldryn wore his usual armor, but Neloth could hear the smile in his voice. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”
“It’s Saint Seryn’s Day!” Geldis said to Teldryn over the din, a wide smile stretched across his face.
“Of course! How could I forget?” Teldryn shouted back with a grin, his helmet propped against his hip beneath one arm. He looked over his shoulder at Neloth, still smiling, and Neloth’s traitorous heart fluttered as if he were seeing him for the first time. “Can I buy you a drink?”
Neloth offered a non-committal nod in response, crossing his arms and looking away. Someone bumped up against him while trying to walk past, smelling of body odor and ale.
“My house brew of the night,” came Geldis’s voice.
“Many thanks, my friend,” replied Teldryn.
Neloth only looked back as Teldryn nudged him with an elbow, a drink in each hand. “Find us an unoccupied corner, will you?”
Using his height to his advantage, Neloth scanned over top of the bobbing heads of the patrons, squinting in the low light of the tavern. He wordlessly jerked his head for Teldryn to follow before setting off through the crowd. The sea of bodies parted naturally for him, like oil cutting through water, patrons throwing curious and wary glances over their shoulders before returning to their business.
The unoccupied corner was simply an upright barrel that had been temporarily transformed into a makeshift table, a lone candle burning in a holder in the center.
“Romantic,” Teldryn said.
Neloth scoffed. “Hardly. Unless you find the overpowering smell of yeast romantic.”
“Ah, you grumpy old s’wit.” Teldryn set one of the drinks down in front of Neloth. “Take the staff out your arse for one night, maybe.”
Neloth wrinkled his nose but plucked the glass off the table. He smelled the liquid cautiously: sweetness, a little spicy, something earthy beneath it. Teldryn was already knocking half the thing back.
“Damn, that’s good,” he exclaimed, licking the foam from his lips. Neloth tracked the movement of his tongue and Teldryn caught him staring. He grinned. “Want a taste?”
“I have my own,” Neloth replied.
“Not what I meant.”
Teldryn stepped into his space, pushed Neloth back against the wall, ran a hand up the center of his chest. Neloth jerked his head to the side at the last minute, and Teldryn redirected, placing a wet kiss against the hollow of his throat.
“We are in
public,
Teldryn. Can you not control yourself for a single evening?”
“What’s wrong?” he goaded, reaching back to set his drink down before snaking his arms around Neloth’s waist. “There’s a certain—hmm—intimacy in public spaces.” He placed another kiss in the dip beneath Neloth’s jaw. “Disappearing into a crowd.”
“We haven’t disappeared; people are staring.”
“Let them, then.”
Neloth let out a shuddering exhale, closing his eyes as his head was turned away from the rest of the room and he was guided down for a kiss. He could taste Geldis’s drink on Teldryn’s lips, sharp and bitter. He ran his free hand up Teldryn’s arm, grasping at his shoulder, the other still clutching the glass of
something.
Heat burned behind his sternum—a too-ripe pressure, like a bloated, festering carcass. Yet he parted his lips and let Teldryn slide his tongue into his mouth. He was grateful for the clamor and noise, as he was certain he let out an undignified whimper in response.
“Thank you,” Teldryn said when he pulled away, his smile suggesting he was far too pleased with himself.
“Why are you thanking me?” Neloth asked, his cheeks flushed, ears burning hot.
This earned a shrug and a smirk as Teldryn grabbed his glass from the barrel-table. “I’m just thankful.”
Neloth huffed, finally taking a sip of his own drink. It was… Ah, damn, it
was
a good drink. Neloth supposed he was thankful as well.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
"A kiss goodbye."
“Always the same with you, Gallus,” said Enthir, crossing his arms and leaning against the bedroom door. “In and out; no pleasantries.”
Gallus flashed a winning smile as he knelt to stuff the freshly procured amulet into his pack. “Now that’s just a bold faced lie. I pride myself on my pleasantries.”
“Right, yes, of course. I feel so very valued as you hastily shove my hard-earned treasure into your ratty little napsack.”
Gallus got to his feet, swinging his pack over one shoulder. “Come now, Enthir. Don’t be so sour.” He sauntered over, leaning his forearm against the door next to Enthir’s head. “Are you feeling neglected? Do you need some attention?”
Enthir couldn’t help but sneer up at him. “I’m sure Karliah wouldn’t approve–”
“Karliah knows,” Gallus said, then shrugged. “I’ve told her about you. About us. She gets it.”
“What a saint she is, then.”
“Hey,” Gallus whispered, still smiling that infuriating, cocky smile. He leaned down until their noses brushed, his breath smelling of Blackbriar mead. “Thanks for the amulet.”
He tasted like Blackbriar mead as well. Enthir groaned before he could stop himself, but kept his arms firmly crossed over his chest.
Gallus bit at his lips, let his pack fall from his shoulder in favor of raking a gloved hand through Enthir’s hair. He pushed a knee between Enthir’s legs, procuring a gasp and a curse. Enthir uncrossed his arms, hands shooting forward to grab onto anything he could—one fisting the front of Gallus’s cloak, the other gripping the back of his neck, digging his nails into the soft skin there.
“Always the pain with you,” Gallus said breathlessly. “Would it kill you to show a little tenderness?”
“Yes,” Enthir growled, then kissed him again.
It escalated in the way it often did—neither of them fully undressing, Gallus ending up on his knees, Enthir confessing vulnerable things that would haunt him days later—and after they both found themselves satisfied, they sat shoulder to shoulder on the floor of Enthir’s bedroom, passing one of his coveted cigarettes back and forth. Cyrodilic tobacco. Hard-earned.
“Where’d you say you were off to next?” asked Enthir, exhaling smoke through his nostrils before handing the cigarette to Gallus.
“Ah, somewhere just north of Windhelm. Off the map. An old Nordic ruin.” He took a long pull, turning thoughtful as the silence stretched between them.
“Nightingale business?” Enthir asked after a moment of hesitation.
Gallus nodded, but said nothing else.
Enthir put the cigarette out on the floor next to him before getting to his feet and buckling his belt. “Well, don’t get into anything you can’t get yourself out of.”
Gallus smiled up at him and allowed Enthir to pull him to his feet. “You know I never enter a room without an exit plan.”
“Oh, of course. If I recall the first time we met, your exit plan involved picking apart my research long enough for me to forget to kill you.”
Gallus just laughed, then leaned down to give Enthir a final kiss. “Until next time,” he said.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
"A kiss to gain something."
“I’m sorry, but the answer is still no.”
Ancano lifted a brow as he took a sip of wine, gazing half-lidded over the brim of his cup. He dabbed his lips on the back of his glove and offered a delicate shrug in response. “I understand, Arch-Mage. My apologies for… haranguing you.”
They sat opposite each other in Savos Aren’s quarters, a bottle of Firebrand wine between them (Ancano’s gift), barely touched. Aren wore a look of pinched suspicion, which Ancano supposed was fair. He hadn’t really made an attempt at being pleasant thus far, but supposed after two months living at this wretched college that he might as well make an attempt to forge a connection. At least superficially.
More than connection, however, he wanted access to Saarthal.
“You have to understand it from my perspective,” Aren continued, gazing curiously into his own wine cup.
It’s not poisoned,
Ancano wanted to say. “We already walk a delicate tightrope with the locals. Allowing a Thalmor agent to enter a revered Nordic crypt—
especially
considering the history of said crypt—it would shine unwanted attention on the College. We are
neutral
in this conflict, and many might see it as–”
“I might remind you that the Thalmor are also neutral in this conflict, Arch-Mage. Our presence in Skyrim, as with any other country under the Empire’s rule, is simply to enforce order and aid in upholding the agreements of the Concordat. I might also add that
I
am not a Justiciar. I am not here to root out Talos worship, though it is my
duty
to report it.” He paused, taking another sip of wine, letting his words linger. “But it is not my main concern. My role here is to act as an advisor and ambassador to
you,
Arch-Mage. And staying abreast of the College’s curriculum, including all relevant expeditions,
is
my concern.”
At long last, Aren took a sip of his own wine. He made a pleased noise, then picked up the bottle to inspect the label. “Quite nice.”
Ancano nodded, tilting his cup in Aren’s direction in silent cheers.
Aren sat back in his chair with a sigh, pushing the hood from his head. His long, black hair was streaked gray and pulled back into a low tail. His features were severe, even for a dark elf: high cheekbones and hollow cheeks, his deep red eyes slitted like a fox. The point of his beard only served to make his face appear far too long and narrow. Ancano always found the dark elves to have an unnatural, uncanny appearance to them—Daedra-cursed through and through—and rarely did he find himself in such close quarters with one. He couldn’t help but stare.
“You were a student at this college once, correct?” Ancano asked.
“Yes,” Aren answered, his nervousness returning.
“What was your area of study?”
He seemed to relax marginally. “Oh, well, I had a variety of projects in my time. This was close to a century ago, mind you, but–”
And he was off, jabbering away about various lines of research and artifact recovery. No wonder he’d initiated the Saarthal expedition. Savos Aren seemed particularly fascinated with what basically amounted to
grave robbing.
Ancano smiled into his wine.
“What’s so funny?” Aren asked.
“Funny? No no, you mistake me. I simply find your…
enthusiasm
to be charming.”
An indigo flush crept up Aren’s neck and darkened his cheeks. He took a sip of his own wine and averted his fox-like eyes.
Ancano made a mental note of the reaction. “Please continue,” he urged. “And let me–” He reached forward to lift the wine bottle, motioning for Aren to hold out his cup to be refilled.
“Thank you.”
“Of course, Arch-Mage.”
He listened patiently as Aren continued to ramble, the Arch-Mage’s shoulders becoming looser, his gesticulations more enthusiastic. Ancano continued to fill Aren’s wine cup when it ran low.
“And I just
feel it;
a mage’s intuition, if you will. There’s a missing piece to the puzzle in Saarthal. Why would our ancient brethren risk it all otherwise? The Nords dug too deep, I say. They found something that they shouldn’t have. Something worth fighting for. I just know it.”
Ancano’s entire body blazed with victory, satisfaction curling in the pit of his stomach. He hid his excitement behind a placid smile. “You’ve dared to do what many have not. And for that, I commend you. I have no doubt your efforts will prove to be most fruitful.”
“I appreciate you saying so,” said Aren. “And thank you for the wine. It’s been most delicious.”
“Of course.” Ancano rose to his feet, rolling his shoulders and stretching his neck. “I believe I must retire for the evening. It’s grown late.”
Aren got to his feet as well. “Ah, I’ve rambled on for so long. My apologies.”
“No need to apologize. I inquired, after all.”
Aren’s gaze was slightly unfocused—dulled from the wine and lulled by the companionable conversation—yet his gaze lingered on Ancano’s face for a moment too long. “If–” he began, then seemed to second guess himself.
Ancano relaxed his posture, crossing his hands patiently in front of his waist, waiting.
“I might accompany you to Saarthal, if you’d still like. Though the excavation has only just begun, I can show you our progress. If–” He gestured to Ancano’s robes. “–only if you promise to wear something a little less…
flashy.”
Ancano laughed, and to his own surprise it was a more genuine laugh than he intended. He cleared his throat and regained his composure. “I believe that’s a fair request.”
Final play. Are you so sure of yourself?
Yes,
he answered his own query.
Ancano was young by Altmeri standards, but he had grown up among politicians and kinsmen, breast-fed on the social dalliances of subterfuge and subtle manipulation. He knew the signs. He knew the game.
Aren smiled a little too genuinely, and Ancano offered a slight bow in return, crossing his hands behind his back.
“I would be honored, Arch-Mage.” Then, stepping forward, he leaned into Aren’s space, tilting his head to place a soft kiss against the dark elf’s cheek.
Aren sucked in a breath, but otherwise remained stock still as Ancano’s lips lingered.
Then, Acano stepped away with another bow, passing the gesture off as Altmeri formalities. “I eagerly await your invitation.”
“Very good,” Aren said distantly.
Ancano’s smile felt razor-sharp on his lips. “And I’ll make sure to dress for the occasion.”
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
"A kiss out of necessity."
It was a necessary evil, he reminded himself. War itself was little more than a necessary evil upon which the axis of the world spun. The threat of destruction, sweetened by the promise of an end to it all. If war could end at all, he was sure it would have ended by now. Every day, as new recruits marched into Solitude, young men and women, pink and callow, he signed their lives over to the cause. He could not read their names, his eyes glazing over the myriad lists with practiced detachment, but he did look into their eyes, finding optimism, righteousness. He prayed the volunteers would continue to trickle in, as drafted soldiers carried no such spark behind their eyes. A necessary evil.The gold skins that patrolled the roads were ghosts haunting his steps. He would see the faces of long-dead soldiers beneath their hoods. Flashes of expression devoid of humanity. Unquestioning loyalty; perfectly molded indoctrination. Despite it all, he found their cause both tenacious and baffling. How could one, with centuries of life left to live, march unquestioningly into their own death? Then again, to express doubt was a vile and mannish quality, or so he’d been told. “You question your own cause, even?” “I do not question my cause. My cause is much narrower in scope.”Elenwen tutted, sliding a hand along his bare chest, her long fingers trailing through the sparse graying hair. “Having your own agenda in these times is unwise, but I’m sure you already know that.”She was beautiful and hideous—elongated features and too-large irises that reflected his own expression back at him like a warped mirror. One of her long, smooth legs moved against his, her knee hitching along the inside of his thigh. Every muscle in her body was lean and coiled, and he wanted to sink his teeth into her until she begged. Yet he was often the one begging when all was said and done. He’d invited a predator into his bed, and he found that he couldn’t stop. She pushed upright to straddle his hips, her pale hair framing her face like a halo as she leaned over him, the kohl around her eyes smudged like war paint. The heat between her legs pulsed against his own, and he groaned, tipping his head back and gripping her thighs. Her mouth was on his throat, one hand sliding between them to guide him in until they were joined. She used her height to her advantage. He felt like a moth pinned to a board when she rode him—helpless, his hands fluttering anywhere they could reach, tracing the lines of her stomach, cupping her breasts, pulling her down for kiss after kiss after kiss. She’d always pull away when he was close, finishing him with her hand until he spilled across his own hips with a shudder and a sharp gasp. Then she’d settle herself over his face, and he’d devour her like a man starved until she was shaking, holding onto the headboard like a drowning sailor clinging to the wreckage of her ship. He shoved his tongue into her mouth when they kissed next, forcing her to taste herself. See what you do to me? Was winning the war not enough?Tullius hated her. He hated himself for allowing any of it. Yet somehow he’d wandered too far off the road, lost his sense of direction, and the hatred had turned to worship along the way. And he supposed that’s exactly what the golden elves wanted out of men. A necessary evil, he reminded himself.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
Blue eyes flashed in the light of Hadvar’s torch like a nocturnal animal. He could only stare, momentarily paralyzed, his sword hanging limply at his side as the sounds of battle raged behind him in the darkened forest. Ralof was tugging futilely at the chain of a bear trap, the bend of his ankle wrong. He wore a defiant snarl on his face beneath the layers of mud and grime. Beneath that, there was fear. “Hadvar!” someone called from a ways off. “Clear!” he yelled, turning and tossing his torch far enough away to hide Ralof in the shadows of the forest. He took two calculated steps towards him. “Stay. I’ll be back.” He hurriedly raked leaves up and over Ralof’s legs to camouflage him. “Stay hidden.” “Hadvar,” Ralof wheezed. “Don’t–” “I’ll be back.” Hadvar repeated with finality, before turning and sprinting off towards his torch and returning to the battle. He cut a gash in a nearby tree and oriented himself as best he could before returning to his comrades, leaving Ralof in the deep and quiet darkness of the forest. It took him an hour before he was able to return. The woods smelled of petrichor and blood as he crept along the forest floor, his boots muffled by wet leaves. He found the gash in the tree and hazarded a whisper:“Ralof?” Leaves shuffling in response. Hadvar moved in the direction of the noise, finding a pale-faced Ralof breathing heavily. “Help,” he gasped, his hands shaking and bleeding where he’d torn at the bear trap. “I can’t…”Hadvar stuck his torch into the ground, kneeling to inspect the trap. It was rusted around the hinges, jammed but not immovable. “Bite down on something,” he said. Ralof faltered before taking the heavy wool of his cloak between his teeth and giving a nod. Hadvar wrenched the trap open and Ralof let out a long, low groan of pain, his raw fingertips digging into the soft earth. “We can’t take the boot off yet,” Hadvar said, his voice steadier than even he expected. “They teach you to be a healer in Imperial training?” Ralof asked through clenched teeth.“Close enough,” said Hadvar. He pulled his pack from his shoulders and pulled out a healing tonic. “Drink this. It’ll take the edge off at least, until I can get a better look at it.” Ralof took the tonic without hesitation, either easily falling into old patterns of trust or so overcome with pain that he couldn’t comprehend that Hadvar might have ulterior motives. Fortunately for him, Hadvar’s only motive currently was saving that foot. “I staked out a nearby clearing,” Hadvar said as he lifted one of Ralof’s arms over his shoulder. “Not too far. Don’t put any weight on that foot, just lean on me.”“Aye,” Ralof grunted. “You could be walking me into your damn camp and I don’t think I’d care.”Hadvar’s stomach squirmed with nervousness and guilt at that. Yes, that’s what he should be doing. Ralof was an easy prisoner, and more practically, he’d be able to treat his wounds more efficiently back at the camp, (if his superiors allowed him to). But having already seen his friend’s head on the chopping block once before, Hadvar’s constitution on the matter had been permanently altered.“Not too far,” he repeated. “Nice and easy.” He winced at his own words— to the block, prisoner— but shook off the memory and forged ahead. Ralof was heavy, throwing his full weight against Hadvar as they attempted to shamble forward. By the time they reached the clearing, both of them were wheezing, sweat trickling down the back of Hadvar’s neck. The night forest was deadly silent around them. A small stream trickled through the center of the clearing, the soft babble of water reminiscent of sunnier days in Riverwood. Masser and Secunda had already begun their descent towards the horizon, but peeked over the treetops like curious onlookers, bathing the clearing in a ruddy twilight. “Slowly,” Hadvar muttered as he lowered Ralof to the ground. He helped him adjust, propped against a boulder that jutted out of the ground like a cyst.“Shor’s bloody bones,” Ralof cursed, panting as he tried to catch his breath. “Just my fucking luck.” “I would hope the irony isn’t lost on you, old friend,” Hadvar said as he began to dig through his pack. “Aye, and what do you mean by that, exactly?” Hadvar paused and lifted a brow. “A bear trap? Perhaps the gods are trying to tell you something.”Ralof let out a wheeze of a laugh. “Leave the signs and symbols to the priests, Hadvar. Let’s just get the damn boot off.” “You’re going to want to bite down on something again.” Hadvar undid the laces of Ralof’s studded bracer first, then gently prodded his ankle through the soft hide of the boot beneath. Ralof snapped at him like a wounded dog, cursing and balling his hands into fists. He bit down on the bracer, his forehead slick with sweat as Hadvar pulled the boot free. Ralof’s growling scream was muffled by the leather between his teeth, muted by the babble of the brook and the dense wood that surrounded them.“Kyne help me,” Hadvar muttered. Beneath the wrappings Ralof’s foot was startlingly red, purple mottling around his ankle, his toes swollen like small sausages. “Let’s see if I can do this.” “You’re not instilling me with faith, brother,” Ralof said, chest rising and falling steadily, his eyes gone glassy as they stared sightlessly up at the night sky.Hadvar remained silent, focusing as he drew the spell forward, scrambling through the foreign Imperial vernacular as he held the shape of the tendons and ligaments in his mind’s eye. Superior extensor retinaculum, connected to the medial malleolus, inferior fibula.
“With that memory of yours, boy, you’d make a fine field medic. Stop wasting all that space on those damn Nordic poems.”
Hadvar shooed away the memory to concentrate, the warm glow of the healing spell pulsing through his palms and into Ralof’s body. He shuddered at the connection, feeling a momentary spike of pain into his own ankle. Don’t take it into you. Ralof let out a long hiss that turned into a sigh. Hadvar guided the energy, knitting the ruptured tendons together, then braced a hand on the bottom of Ralof’s foot and pushed the ankle back into place. “Mother Mara!” Ralof yelped. “You fucking– ohh…” He tipped his head back, groaning as Hadvar finished the spell, clearing away as much of the inflammation as he could before sitting back on his heels with a heaving breath. He felt thoroughly drained. “There.” “Where in the name of Ysmir did you learn that?” Hadvar laughed weakly. “Field medic training.” “I had no idea you had talent for spellcraft.” Ralof shed his gloves and reached down to gingerly wrap his hands around his ankle. “Kyne’s blessings.” He looked up at Hadvar as if seeing him anew, his expression filled with awe. “You knew how our parents were with magic,” Hadvar said with a shrug. “The whole village for that matter.”“Aye, but Skyrim could use more healers.” Ralof sat back against the boulder with a huff. “Kyne knows, she could use more healers…”Hadvar moved to sit beside him, hesitating for only a moment before settling down, their shoulders touching. Silence stretched between, long enough for an owl to hoot mournfully in the distance.“I wondered if I’d see you again after Helgen,” Hadvar said at last, his eyes trained on his own knees.Ralof nodded in his periphery, his gaze turned to the sky. “This some form of penance? After almost sending me to the block?”Hadvar let out an amused huff. “So what if it is?” He picked at a loose thread, then added under his breath, “I doubt I would have been able to live with myself.”Ralof rolled his head to look at him, but Hadvar kept his eyes downcast, still picking at the thread. Ralof’s hand came to rest over Hadvar’s, stilling his restless fidgeting, and Hadvar turned to meet his friend’s gaze at last. It felt like mere seconds and also an eternity as the silence lingered, their eyes locked. Hadvar wasn’t sure who moved first, but they both leaned in and the levee broke.Ralof’s mouth was warm and soft. His beard scratched against Hadvar’s face, smelling of oil and earth and exactly as it had in Hadvar’s memory—that distinctive scent that Hadvar could only identify as home. Ralof cupped the back of Hadvar’s head, the exhale of his breath hot between their faces. Hadvar let out a pitiful noise, somewhere between a whimper and a groan, and shifted, fisting the front of Ralof’s tunic, straddling his lap without breaking the kiss. He pressed Ralof back against the boulder, slid his tongue into Ralof’s mouth. Whitehot arousal shot through his body, his cock beginning to stiffen with an aching throb that beat in time with his pulse. When Hadvar broke the kiss Ralof’s mouth was on his throat, his hands sliding beneath the leather pteruges of Hadvar’s armor like a teenage boy’s beneath a skirt. They didn’t undress fully, rearranging enough only to get their pants down and their cocks out. Hadvar rocked into Ralof’s fists, breath ragged as he braced his forearms on either side of Ralof’s head against the boulder. Their cocks slid together just shy of painful, slick with their combined spit and determination. Ralof’s teeth pressed against Hadvar’s clavicle, his breath hot and moist against his skin as he curled his hips to match the rhythm Hadvar had set. The sounds of their effort meshed with the babble of the brook as if the water wished to protect them.When Hadvar spilled first, because he always did, he let Ralof milk his softening cock against his own, whimpering against the pain and overstimulation as he sank his teeth into Ralof’s shoulder and his friend came with a long groan through a clenched jaw. Hadvar pressed their mouths together before the spell of the moment wore off, kissing Ralof again and again until his momentum faltered and he slumped to the side, resting his head against the boulder to regain his breath. They sat in silence for another long moment, sticky and spent, before each shambling silently to the stream to wash off. Ralof favored his injured foot, but seemed able to put weight on it fine enough. They rebuckled their armor from an awkward distance away, eyes downcast. Hadvar’s gut had turned to stone.“So, you’re not taking me prisoner, I take it?” Ralof finally asked.Hadvar sighed and shook his head. “I’d rather not.” “You commit treason for me.”“I could only hope you’d return the favor, were the situation reversed.” Ralof’s expression was grim, but he stepped over and put a firm hand on Hadvar’s shoulder. “It’s not too late, brother. To join me.” He let his hand slide from Hadvar’s shoulder, coming to rest over the center of his chest. “I know your heart.” Hadvar just shook his head, reaching up to take Ralof’s face in his hands. “I’ll find you when it’s all over. I promise. Either here on Nirn or in Sovngarde, I’ll find you.”Ralof matched him, taking Hadvar’s face into his own hands and bringing their foreheads together. “Aye,” he agreed, his voice low and rough with restrained emotion. “Come find me.”