Keeping the Fire On

If there was anything that Dea-dra learned during his time in Skyrim, it was that Nords were absolutely ridiculous. And he really meant that. They could say whatever they wanted about him and other elves but at least he had the common sense not to go traipsing around in the snow and ice looking for some damned barrow that may or may not have held glory and riches. All this to prove himself to the Companions. Bah.

The only thing that was inside that tomb was a pissed off, Dragon Priest. And an ungodly amount of skeletons. At least he’d gotten a new shout out of the deal. And the mask.

Maybe Dea-dra shouldn’t complain so much - he at least did come out on top here - but that didn’t stop him from running his mouth.

“I can’t believe I let you two talk me into this,” he grumbled, arms crossed over his chest and hugging himself tightly in a fruitless attempt to still the harsh shivers that threatened to wrack through his slim frame.

At least Farkas had the decency to look sheepish as he spooned a bite of stew up to his mouth.

“Talk you into it? You seemed pretty excited when you thought there might be one of your word walls down there,” Vilkas scowled.

“And you got the mask,” Farkas pointed out.

“Who cares about an Oblivion damned mask if I’m going to freeze to death before I can even put it to use!”

“Eat your stew, whelp,” Varkas barked and Dea-dra shamelessly bared his sharp teeth in response.

“Welp… I’ll show you whelp…” he grumbled as he took the bowl and brought it to his lips, sipping carefully at the heat.

“You’ll be fine,” Vilkas continued, ignoring Dea-dra’s grumbling. “Barring any unforeseen dragon attacks, we should be safe here for the night. Safe enough to keep the fire going. And it isn’t that cold.”

“I can’t feel my fingers .”

“Sit on them.”

On the other side of the fire, Farkas scoffed.

“You’re cruel, Vilkas.” Dea-dra lamented. “Mean and cruel.”

“And you complain like a milk-drinker.”

Rather than answering, Dea-dra let his actions speak for him as he gestured rudely at Vilkas, who’s ever-present scowl only deepened in response. At least he got a laugh from Farkas.

“I’m going to sleep. If I die from hypothermia or… or frostbite, you better carry my stiff corpse all the way back to Jorrvaskr. I mean it. And then throw me in the Skyforge. I want a warm burial if I’m going to freeze to death.”

“Whatever you say, Dragonborn .” Vilkas rolled his eyes, but his brother tossed a lopsided smile Dea-dra's way.

The three of them laid out their bedrolls, circling near the fire as close as they dared without risking getting burned. Dea-dra wasn’t equipped for this. His light armor was hardly warm enough to keep out the bitter chill, and his slight frame made the cold run right through him. At least by the fire, he could keep warm enough to get an uneasy rest.

Grumbling to himself, he curled up as tightly as he could and closed his eyes, hoping for at least a moment of sleep.

He didn’t want to wake up. He was heavy and tired, and it was a miracle that he was able to fall asleep in the first place, and he was not about to let whoever was trying to shake him awake ruin that for him.

But even he couldn’t ignore a slap in the face.

Dea-dra jerked, eyes flying open and limbs flailing uselessly as he tried to reach for his sword, but strong arms held his wrists still. “By the nine, stay still Dea-dra!”

“Wha--?” He tried to speak, but his tongue felt thick in his mouth. He blinked, slowly, so slowly, and saw Farkas’ face uncomfortably close to his own. He tried to lift his arms, to push him away.

Tried.

He couldn’t feel his fingers.

“What -- fuck …” he murmured, swaying.

Cold. He couldn’t feel his fucking fingers or his toes, and by the Aedra, the Daedra, and anything else that was listening, gods were he cold .

“He’s freezing.”

“What the fuck,” Dea-dra repeated, and he heard Vilkas hum out what sounded like a growl.

“We told you, the fire went out. Were you listening?” Annoyance. Was Vilkas angry? When wasn’t he… Dea-dra shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts but all it did was make his brain feel like it was swimming around in his scalp.

Vilkas growled again, and there was a snapping sound. “I can’t get a gods damned spark!”

“Let me try, keep him up.” Farkas spoke, releasing his shoulders and Dea-dra whined at the loss of contact. He didn’t realize how warm the Nord’s hands were until they were gone, and he tried to follow them with his body.

“We need to get him warm or he’s going to pass out again,” Vilkas said as he gripped Dea-dra’s shoulder with a firm hand, forcing him to remain upright. “Fucking elves .” He spat the word, but it lacked malice.

If Dea-dra didn’t know any better, he’d say Vilkas sounded scared.

“If we don’t- got it!” Farkas cried out in victory as orange sparked from his hands and landed into the pile of kindlings, sparking up a small flame. “Bring him closer!”

Dea-dra was being manhandled, quite literally, up and over until he was as close to the fire as he could get without feeling the heat burn at his skin. He still shuddered, though, from the stark contrast from before and from the sudden and desperate desire to embrace that warmth and feel it all over.

He watched the flames and whined. With chattering teeth, Dea-dra hugged his arms tightly around his chest, looking between the two lycanthropes with a deadly scowl as he slowly came back to his senses. “If I die, Auri-El or, or M-Mara or Hircine or whoever the fuck be damned. I’m not leaving this plane. I’m, I’m ha-haunting you both. Say goodbye to rest in Jorrvaskr because I’ll-” A violent shudder wracked through him and he ended his tirade with a curse. “ Fuck .”

“You’re not going to die.” Vilkas deadpanned.

“Are- are you sure? You Nords forget that we aren’t all god damned forges, im-im-impervious to the fucking cold. Shit.” He closed his eyes tightly. “I hate Skyrim .”

He pulled himself in, hugging his legs to his chest in an attempt to bring his extremities in. Until the sun came up, he was at the mercy of the fire. He enviously thought of the wolf blood that ran through his companions’ veins. Hate it though they may, he’d kill to be able to transform into a beast with fur right about now. Not that the Nords needed it. They were both hairy enough without a transformation. The thought was nearly enough to make him laugh.

Whatever lighthearted chuckle threatened to bubble out of his chest was stifled the second he felt an entire body’s worth of contact at his left side.

His red tinted eyes flew open, head-turning stiffly to see Farkas to his left, pressed firmly against him. He’d removed his cold steel, leaving him just in the furs that he wore beneath them, and it took nearly all of Dea-dra’s willpower not to lean directly into the heat the wolfish Nord radiated.

Farkas threw one strong arm around his shoulders, pulling him directly into him and Dea-dra nearly sobbed. He was so warm, so, so warm, and in the frozen night of Skyrim’s northern holds, this was exactly what he needed.

“Vilkas.” From his position pressed so closely to Farkas’ chest, Dea-dra heard the man’s voice as more of a rumble.

“No.”

“Vilkas .”

“Damn you.”

There was the familiar sound of crunching dirt beneath boots as Vilkas moved back over to them, and then the heavy Nord plopped himself down on Dea-dra’s right, sandwiching him firmly between both brothers.

If he wasn’t so desperate for warmth, Dea-dra would have been mortified.

And maybe he still was.

“I’ll kill you both if either of you tell Athis.”

To his side, Farkas snorted.

“I-I mean it.” He cursed his stutter. “I’ll shout you off a fucking cliff. I’ve done it to a saber cat before. It’s funny.”

“Gods, will you shut up?” Vilkas said and Dea-dra decided that now might not be the best time to test his luck. He was awfully dependant on these two in order to make it through the night.

That sat that way in silence for what felt like hours, but for what could have only been minutes until in the far horizon, just over the mountain tops, the sky started to grow hints of pink.

“Thank you,” Dea-dra spat the words out before he could think about saying them.

“Don’t mention it,” Vilkas grumbled, and shakily Dea-dra laughed.

“Oh, don’t worry. I won’t mention it again.”

“I can live with that.”

Beside him, Farkas shifted, leaning out with his left hand to poke at the fire with a long stick. The flames licked upwards, towards the dual moons, and Dea-dra nearly smiled.

“...Seriously though, don’t tell Athis.”

Farkas chuckled. “Don’t worry. We won’t.”