#zigathran

Brïka fought to grab ahold of his arm, forcing it past her face and into the ice. He yelled something at her, slurred and incoherent, and his other arm grabbed a hold of her neck. He had kicked her spear to the side, which sent it skidding across the ice, small shards flying where the blade met the freeze. Her breath seized, gasps and wheezes slipping out of her swollen cheeks. He brought her head up again and vehemently thrust it down. The back of her head, warm and wet. Her head throbbed and blood smeared across the surface of the ice like spilled paint. Red, mixed with spots that danced periodically through her vision. She thrashed wildly, trying to get his weight off her but it was no use. She smacked her fists desperately into his temples, attempting to disorient him. He brought his arm up again, carrying her face with it. She let the red blades envelope her hands, splicing animalistically into his neck. His arm brought down her head onto the ice a final time. With a burst of cold water, the ice gave out. The water enveloped the two of them, their heavy armor pulling them down. He seemed to plummet to the bottom faster than she, his armor being entirely steel. The cold numbed her body beyond use. Water filled her lungs, and she fought to climb back to the surface. Her cloak pulled incessantly at her neck, the water was bearing down on the heavy fur.  She could see a thin trail of blood blossom up through the water from behind her ear. The ringing deep in her eardrums seemed to sing.

My body is going to fester and rot at the bottom of a lake.

The ice rang like a great drum. The pounding of feet across the surface was muffled by the water. A tall shadow lurked over the surface. Her vision began to blur, her hands floated up, fingers outstretched.

He witnessed her crash through the ice. A cold vice gripped his veins. “Brïka!” He threw off his attacker, thrusting his staff upwards, smoke billowing out from his hands and creating a screen between them. It enveloped the two like a great cloud, and he took off from it, electricity crackling at his fingertips.

He rushed to the opening in the ice, snatching up her abandoned spear as he did and dropping suddenly to his knees and plunging his arm in. Shards of ice dug into the fabric on his knees and soaked in. He felt his go numb immediately, but he leaned in further. He moved his arms around, grasping for anything. Maybe she was still just below the surface. His fingers felt nothing. He began to panic, his frantic breaths creating great puffs of air. If she sunk and drowned, she would be gone. For a moment, flashes of her puffed cheeks and bloated fingers appeared in his mind, and he could almost smell the stench of a decomposing body. He shook away the thought. No gem could bring her back from the bottom of the lake. He retracted his hand and gripped his staff, pushing it down into the water as far as he could. If he could just hook her with it- Please Brï, please please please.

Brïka saw the prince slump for a moment against the confections table. His brow shone with sweat and his face looked positively green. His veins bulged in his neck and the wine in his glass began to slosh onto the white tablecloth. He glanced up, making eye contact. His lips moved. Malorn.

The crowd blocked her view from him, and she began to force her way through. The dress made it more difficult. She ducked past a few twirling couples, breaking out of the whirlpool of dancers and flashing in a swirl of maroon to the confection table. She caught his arm as he fell entirely. All elegance in his stance, gone. She scoffed quietly-as if the nobility needed some other tale to whisper through the city-the collapsing Prince was sure to become a note passed. To hang on his arm in this way was not what she desired. She shut her eyes, feeling his muscles twitch through the fine fabric. His wine spilled down the back of the table and onto the marble floor, seeping into the pristine cloth. The glass rolled carelessly back and forth on the table, leaving a line like drawn blood.

“My prince,” Brïka pressed her lips almost to his ear, tugging him to his feet, “Let us not make a scene.” He grimaced, his hair falling in front of his face. The shame in his face was apparent, plastered like a white flag of surrender. He was panting hard, his hands gripping onto her in such a way, as to hold her like a dance partner. Clumsily. Tremors ran through him. Brïka surveyed the floor, looking for the quickest way through the guests and out of the great hall. She spotted a less packed portion of the dance floor, and began to carefully escort him through. His hands, trembling and wrapped in satin gloves were damp, and she noticed how his flesh felt through them.

“Naemon who has done this to you?” She hissed quietly in his ear, walking him as elegantly as possible past the last few dancers. She worried that he would crumble again. His steps seemed to falter and drag. Overall, he best represented a sick draugr, not that of a highborn.

“I haven’t the faintest-“ He cut himself off, clapping hand over mouth. The vomit spilled between his fingers, staining the satin gloves. Brïka wrinkled her nose, the stench already rising in the air. Curse the divines, she thought to herself. Of all the nights. Brïka scanned the floor, hoping to make eye contact with the Queen. She couldn’t spot her-damn! Why had she been so stubborn as to refuse a dress? Anything that would’ve made her easy to spot.

No matter, it was in her own hands now. She hurried him off the dance floor and to the nearest corridor. Her steps were brisk, and she felt as if she were dragging the man with her.

“Let us retreat to your chambers.” She readjusted, holding him better. He was heavier than he looked, granted he did tower over her. His head bobbed, whether is was a nod or simply more tremors, she was unsure. The vomit continued to trickle down his hand, now staining his coat sleeve. The corridor was much quieter than the dance floor, predictably. The long hallway dotted by doors decorated in the utmost grandeur. Obviously, more his style and her own than the Queen’s. A silver light came in through the window, sweeping through the cracks in the velvet curtains. They seemed to loom, almost protectively, closing them off from the outside world.

“Up ahead, Malorn.” Naemon’s hand dropped to his side, and then raised to point down the hall to the great doors at the end.

“Yes, my Prince.” She huffed, pulling him forward down the hall at a steady stride. Though it bothered her some to be away from the Queen and the party, this was more of a pressing matter. They reached the bedroom door, making a joint effort to push it open. The Prince’s glove left a vomit stain on the wood. Brïka grimaced, making a mental note to have one of the servants clean it later. The room was pitch black, save the light dripping in from the windows. She pulled the door shut behind them, turning the lock once, ensuring no one would give pursuit. Brïka could make out the outline of the grand bed. She moved forward, shifting her weight under his shoulder and helping set him down on the dark blue crushed velvet sheets. She pulled off his gloves, dropping them inside out to the floor. She could find a waste basket later.

“Malorn...” Naemon reclined back on the bed, letting his head drop to one side. His hair draped over his cheeks, glued to his face by perspiration. A flicker of something ran down Brïka’s spine. Never before had she seen him so worn, so out of control of his state. Reaching into her pocket, she produced a handkerchief and began to dab at his forehead. His hand came up and met hers, taking it from her. She straightened up, touching her hand and massaging it where it had met his. For the first time in a long time, her eyes held something akin to worry. She turned away from him to look at a sconce on the wall. She stepped towards it, passing a small flame over the candle’s wick. The room was slightly more illuminated. In the light, she could see the gold vines that shrouded the white wallpaper. She heard the covers ruffled behind her. She turned back, and then immediately averted her eyes, as the Prince sat upright and slipped his coat off, as well as his dress shirt.

His chest heaved, slick with sweat. She could see the muscles of his stomach flex with the effort-no, it was not her place to stare. Her eyes slid back to the floor. She took a long stride to the door, reaching for the lock.

“Prince Naemon, I’ll call for a servant-“

“Don’t.” He cut her off, his dark eyes meeting hers. Feverish. Swollen. Desperate? Her mouth shut, closing her eyes gently and meeting his order with a nod.

“Stay here, Malorn.” He fell back on the bed, turning onto his side facing her.

“As you wish.” She bowed her head. She made her way back to the bed, kneeling to remove his boots. White, gold trim along the laces, a slight heel. Lovely.

“I must ask again, do you know who has done this to you?” Brïka pressed, lifting his foot gently by the ankle and undoing the laces.

“I do not know if it was done to me or if I am ill of my own account.” He let out in a whisper. He had begun to wipe away sweat with her handkerchief again. She finished removing his boots, and tucked them gently under the bed.

“I see. I shall keep the door locked.” Brïka sat on the edge of the bed next to him, “None shall enter this room.” He smiled weakly against the covers, “Your bravery is commendable.” His hand brushed hers, clammy yet scalding to the touch. His eyes widened briefly. She knew better than to pull her hand away. If he so wished, she would not deny him this. Perhaps her vigilance was failing.

“My lady, you’re cold as ice!” He exclaimed in a hushed gasp. She did not meet his gaze. He grasped her upper forearm, pulling her down to lay on the bed next to him. Her breath hitched, and she felt fortunate she had locked the door. A scene like this would ruin him, publicly. Forever.

Their noses were mere inches apart. She could feel the heat radiating off his face. Amber eyes to amber eyes, she looked to him. His fingers spread out over her arm, as if he was looking for a spot that wasn’t cold.

If Estre saw-

No. Estre was dead, she knew that well. She could recall the moment her blade crossed the women’s slender throat, sending blood spraying across the daedric arches, her atronachs dying around her.

And now, laying with her husband.

The one she brought tea to with bloodstained hands.

The one she would kill again for.

‘You’ll catch your death of cold.” His hand released her arm, trailing over the tattoos on her bicep.

“My lord.” She tucked a strand of hair behind his ear, tenderly, “It’s only the winter.” She was inside, and the servants kept the castle very warm. He was right, something was very wrong. Her fingers felt hard to flex, and her ears burned, even as she laid against the velvet.

“Malorn, I’m serious. I’ve never felt a being as cold as you.” To her very bones, she felt it as well. Behind her eyes and throughout her skull. She shut her eyes tightly, and when she opened them again, she bit back the urge to throw up.

In front of her, decomposing, was the prince. His eyes sunken, his chest sliced open and maggots creeping inside. His lich crown slid off his hair as it fell away from his scalp. Her own hands dripped with blood, flowing down from where the ghostly crimson knife lay lodged in his all too thin stomach. Too grey and blue, bruised beyond recognition of the lovely tan it once had been.

Even this followed her here.

His teeth dropped out of his mouth as his shriveled lips moved.

Wake up.

Brïka broke the surface, the cold air hitting her face, freezing water droplets immediately.

“Brïka! Brï!” Zigathran hoised her away from the hole in the ice, gathering her limp, frozen frame in his arms. His hand met the back of her skull, blood smeared over his glove. She was heavier than she looked, and the heavy coat and leather was not helpful in the least. The other attacker was nowhere to be seen, thank Akatosh. She was unconscious, and her eyes stared blankly up at the darkening overcast. He could feel her heart beat, slowly, faintly. The quietest drumbeat. He moved his arm under her legs, supporting her low back and tucked her face under his fur coat. He looked around, his mask shielding him from the bite of the wind.

He had to find somewhere to lay low. There was no way he could hope to ride back to the gate from here, and the weather was setting in and blocking visibility. He got to his feet, careful to avoid any of the major cracks stemming out of the hole in the ice. He felt the slightest shivers run through Brïka, and his hands were numb from the water seeping from her cloak. He took off towards solid land, looking for a safe haven. Every step. She was dying in his arms.

In the distance, it was dark. No bigger than a bear’s den, a pitch black hollow in the side of the hill. She had gone completely still in his arms. He lifted the edge of his cloak. Her dark eyes stared at nothing. Frozen, snow catching in her eyelashes. Stray strands of hair caressed her face. Blue lips. He pulled the cloak back over her face, it could be fixed, but she would still be frigid. He headed towards the den, as quickly as his tired legs would let him, his boots slipping with every step deeper into the snow. Upon making it to the entrance, he dropped to his knees, bowing his head under the opening of the hovel.

It didn’t smell of bear, thank the divines, but the ground was cold and damp from the snow trickling in. He pressed on further in. He was careful not to bump her head against the close walls, and was pleasantly surprised when he found that further in, the cave opened up a bit more. Supporting her body as much as he could, he used his hand to guide him further into the cave. At soon as he found the space was wide enough, Zigathran set her down, leaning back against the wall of the cave to stretch out his legs. He shut his eyes briefly, feeling weary beyond belief, and with the task at hand being less urgent, he remembered he hadn’t eaten yet that day. He tilted the edge of his mask up, letting his eyes wander over the cavern. Anything besides hunger. He didn’t need to feel this famine. He pinched the bridge of his nose. It was painfully apparent now. Not good. He didn’t have any blood in his water pouch, nor had he fed on their attackers. His teeth ached where they met his gums.

He shook the onslaught of hunger away, distracting himself as best he could. He hunched forward onto his knees, taking his staff and planting the sharp end firmly into the ground. He did the same with her spear, and was pleasantly surprised when it cut into the ground as if it were butter. No wonder she treasured that gift from the Prince. His mahogany staff seemed cheap in comparison. He rubbed his hands together and clutched the top, and watched a flame bloom forward and flicker atop the elegant spire. The small cavern was lit up dimly. The top of the hole now was only about a foot above his head, and would result in a nasty headache if he were to stand up too quickly.

He sat back, fishing through the pouches and pockets adorning his belt. He began to panic as the item eluded him. One mishap after enough. Damn it. There’s no way he left with out one. She would rot in this hole if- His hand brushed over his stock in the last pouch. The cold surface was welcoming to the touch. He breathed a sigh of utter relief. Soul gems. He had them. He pulled Brïka’s body towards him, raising the soul gem over her eyes and down past her chest. Her limp arms dragged across the ground, collecting dirt on her maroon gloves. The gem glowed cerulean for a moment, and faded fast. Brïka inhaled sharply, then rolled over immediately, away from him, puking up copious amounts of water. Her retching was horrendous, as were the tremors that shook her form.

“Brïka!” He placed a hand on her shoulder, pulling her hair away from her face. Her vomiting ceased, and Zigathran took great care to turn her towards him. Her lips dripped with blood, and it dribbled down her chin. Her eyes met his, dilating wildly.

“It’s so very cold.” She continued to mutter something else he didn’t quite catch, and her eyes drifted up to his face. He ran a gently hand over her cheek, wiping the blood away from her chapped lips. She stared pupils wide among the amber, directly at him, her mouth dropping slightly open.

“I know, Brï.” He answered back, taking off his cloak and draping it over her. She said nothing else, and he searched her face for a minute, before realizing she was extremely still. His brows knit together, before fear gripped him like an iron vice. She had died again. Right in front of him, she’d slipped away. He had another gem, but what if the same fate arose. Her face, lifeless once more. Those same eyes, dull, like a fish’s. Her clothes were still wet. Of course she couldn’t get warm. She would continue to freeze to death until she was. He pulled her as close as possible, feeling his entire body writhe in terror. He could smell her blood.

“I’m sorry Malorn, I’m running out of gems.” He whispered into her unhearing ears. In the pit of his stomach, he felt the utmost guilt and shame. This was all he could think of. He began to work off her belt, stripping the soaked leather and cloth away from her body. He pulled her pants off her ankles, laying them out under his staff. He left her undergarments completely alone, doing his best not to look below her stomach. He got to work on her jerkin, unbuttoning the front and undoing the neck clasps. He pulled it off her shoulders and dropped it next to her pants. Her chest was obscured by tightly wound bandages, much to his relief. Her tattoos, her soft stomach, her toned arms, they were all bared to him. His teeth seemed to grow hot, the pain stabbing into the roof of his mouth. He could just take a sip, from her should or her neck-

No. Not an option. He stopped himself from looking and undid the front of his jerkin, and then the soft shirt underneath, removing both to drape over her shoulders before pulling her in close. He tucked her head under his chin and reached for another soul gem. As he held it over her eyes once more, he uttered a prayer to any gods that could possibly hear him.

“Please don’t let her kill me.” The light flared, and dimmed. The gem lost its shine.

Brïka’s eyes fluttered open. It was warm, and quite dark. She felt something twitch against her nose, and realized she was wrapped in a few shirts and a cloak, and pressed extremely close to Zigathran’s bare chest. Her face lay against his neck, and she could feel every breath he took. For the first time in a long time, she felt extreme confusion. Still, it was better than a corpse.

“Thran?” She placed her hand on his chest and pushed back slightly, the shirt and cloak slipping delicately off her should. She met his gaze, stone cold and staring at her skin. She knew that look. His scars seemed to dance over his face in the faint firelight. His fangs pranced every so slightly onto his bottom lip, as if he were chewing ever so slightly. She felt a draft from the cave’s mouth kiss her shoulder. Her eyes slid over to her armor on the ground. It looked almost black. It must’ve been soaked. She pulled the cloak back around her shoulders and tucked her face back into his neck.

“You’re so hungry, aren’t you?” She whispered quietly. She felt his neck tense as his head dropped back against the cave’s wall. A loud exhale through the nose was her only answer. He shifted his arm, shifting her to look at him. He could only do so for a moment. She met his gaze, and did not let her focus fall.

“Are you any warmer, Brï?” He asked quietly. In the dark, she could still see the rose over his cheeks.

“I am.” She whispered back. She placed her hand over his collarbone, above his heart. She felt it skip a beat, almost. His skin felt feverish under her fingertips. Alive, warm, with a beating heart.

She knew his hunger would drive him, and there was no letting him go out in the storm to find something else to eat.

She knew exactly what she was doing. Letting the cloak fall away from her arm, she saw his eyes snap to it, winding down with her tattoos to where it met his chest. Every dip and line in her muscle, he drank it in. He was starving. She knew this. Her fingers trailed up his neck, passing over his bottom lip. Brïka felt his jaw tremble and twitch, begging to bite down. She pressed her wrist against his soft lips, laying the palm of her hand on his forehead and spreading her fingers out. His pupils dilated with hunger, wide and dark. His lips parted, the light dancing off his fangs as the yearned to pierce her flesh. She could see with every second that he tried to fight it, with every breath he grew more frantic.

“Go ahead,” she urged, pressing her fingers into his skin, “Drink.” Zigathran wasted no time. His hands clasped under her wrist, and his fangs sunk in. Pain shot up Brïka’s arm, scalding and yet electrifying at the same time. Blood dripped down her wrist, and his tongue flicked out, running over her skin and catching ever drop. There was some relief in the pain, bringing heat back to her frozen wrists. His eyes were hooded, shooting back and forth between her form and the puncture he made on her wrist. 

The sight of him stuck with her. His eyes, wide and black, blocking out all of steely-blue. His features seem to soften by the second, the bags under his eyes lessening their appearence. His grip tightened, clearly it was exactly what he needed. He drank it in quickly and deeply, feeling the chilled blood run down his throat, making sure none escaped his lips. His head spun. He was drunk on her, the metallic smell of her blood, the smell of the lake water, and yet still the scent of baking she always carried on her. She was intoxicating. She dug her fingernails in, pressing her wrist more forcefully into his fangs. She brought her other hand up to his hair, almost resting her head on top of his. Her whole body was so close to him now. She pushed the mask completely off his head, all of his long blond hair spilling down and falling gently around him. He removed his teeth and he pulled her closer to him, so his face pressed against her neck now. He opened his mouth, and she could feel his fangs scraping longingly at the delicate skin, wishing to break the surface. His hot breath came out labored, his hands moving to hold the back of her neck and her waist. Her tugged at the base of her hair, his fingers curling in the wet brown locks.

She ran her nails through his hair, feeling the fangs prod at her neck. She could feel his shivers. Flickers of light showed the beads of sweat that formed on his chest. He was to be the one kneeling, the one yearning for her blood-for her. Brïka felt light headed, but oh, was there power in it.

Dead, but not decomposing.

A heart, cold yet pumping blood.

“You’ve had enough.” Brïka crooned into his hair. She felt his lips shut, and heard him sharply inhale through his nose. Brïka pulled back from him, collecting the heavy winter coat around her once more. Zigathran looked into her eyes, his own dark and clouded. She could still see some blood on his lips. She could see the gears turning in his head, the realization of what he’d done, the guilt, the inward directed fury. His eyes held something, and she knew it in that moment. Drowned in shame, and yet-