Work Text:
after your time of wandering
along this lonely road
there will be many voices calling
mine will say, "Welcome home."
==
After Sovngarde, Elloren stands on the top of the tallest mountain in Tamriel and feels incredibly, infinitesimally small.
As he is about to take off, Odahviing pauses for a moment, his great black head tilted in a draconic expression of curiosity.
"Dovahkiin," he rumbles. "Would you like me to carry you down the mountain? You are weary."
It's true. He's more than just tired; he is aching, somewhere down in his bones, in his skin, behind his eyes. The snow whips in circles around them both, and all he can see is dragons, dragons. So many dragons, flying.
"No," he says, distant as a star. "No, I think I'd prefer to walk."
So he goes down. Down the treacherous slope of the Throat of the World, boots slipping a bit on the powdery snow (these boots were made for sneaking, not snow-walking, and they slid about but they were still silent as ghosts), down into the courtyard of High Hrothgar. He pauses for a moment, thinking about the beds within, the food and drink, all safe and open for the Dragonborn.
But he thinks, too, that it will be silent. Silent, cold, and alone.
He continues on.
Down the steps, then. He has yet to count whether there really are seven thousand of them, but he has traversed this path enough to trust them like old friends.
(He thinks of Ulfric Stormcloak, taking this path on his own power, not simply because he'd been summoned. He thinks that there are many things he would not have done, given the choice, and how strange and horrible it has been, to have such honors thrown at him, rather than truly earned.)
He watches the sky deepen behind the stars, the stormclouds left behind at the top of the mountain, and by the time he reaches Ivarstead, night has truly fallen. The guards are not making their usual rounds - he sees little huddles of torchlights, clustering on either side of the mill. Word has already begun to spread, then.
Alduin is dead.
==
There are a number of ways to make his way home from Ivarstead. Many times, he turns his steps east, following the road to Riften and the warm welcome of his brothers in the Guild. From there, he can take a carriage to Morthal, or perhaps up to Dawnstar to stop by Nightcaller Temple, or Markarth, his solitary retreat. Other times, he winds his way north around the base of the mountain, to Whiterun, or Riverwood, where friendly faces are never in short supply.
This time, he heads south.
He knew, theoretically, that the path around the south side of the mountain was shorter, but Helgen had always loomed like an uncomfortable knot in his memory, one he had not been willing to revisit. Now, he figures it's about time. He wants to remember how this all started.
It is desolate, now. Something about the wanton destruction lifts a little of the darkness in his heart - other dragons, though naturally destructive, have never burned an entire settlement for nothing but hatred and pleasure. Alduin did this, the countless bodies that litter the ground are his in the making, and now he is dead. This is a good thing.
When he'd first arrived in Skyrim, he was a wreck.
He'd been living on the streets for the most part, working his way slowly north from Valenwood - putting just that much more distance between himself and the Summerset Isles. He had never been politically-minded, or particularly aware of what was going on in Tamriel - but his father, the man who raised him at any rate, had been slain in the night by a Thalmor spell. All because he'd asked one too many questions, about why Falinesti had stopped walking.
So he pushed on. North, and north again, until he tried to cross the border into Skyrim and found himself rounded up with a bunch of Nord rebels, a horse thief, and a king.
Not that he knew that, then. All he'd been thinking about was how to survive.
Now, he traces his steps through Helgen. He stands in the courtyard with the chopping block, with the crumbled ruin of the tower Alduin had perched on. He acknowledges, now, that the dragon was indeed looking right at him, curious and piercing and fathomless, at this scrap of a wood-elf in rags with the blood of dragons within him.
Elloren shivers, and not with cold.
Here is the keep he followed Ralof into - Hadvar had seemed like a sweet man, a good person, but he still preferred to avoid the Empire's authority, knowing who was pulling their strings. He doesn't trace the exact path - can't, really, he remembers how paths had crumbled behind them - but he thinks of the kindness he was shown, of how he learned more about Nords in that one day than he'd learned in all his life.
He had followed Ralof to Riverwood, quietly listening to his rambling. Elloren walks the road again now, feeling intensely the magnitude of all that had passed since then. All he had become.
He is no longer the boy who needed rescuing. He is no longer running away.
Riverwood rises out of the trees, and while he remembers how it felt, back then - relieved, shaken, worried - now it only makes him glad, so glad. It seems like such a slice of perfection, of a quiet, happy village in a world so easily broken.
If Sovngarde were truly to be paradise, it would look like this.
He sees the door to the Riverwood Trader open, and isn't surprised at all to see Faendal slipping out, the armor Elloren gifted him with bundled away in favor of his plain green clothes. A smile lights his face.
"You made it!" he says, and Elloren feels his mouth move - he's smiling, that's a smile, he's smiling back. "I knew you would. They're all talking about the death of the dragon, but of course no one could tell me if you'd actually returned."
Faendal had been the last living man to see him, Elloren realizes. He'd stood at the very edge of the balcony at Dragonsreach, watching his friend fly off on a dragon, and if he knows Faendal - and he does - he'd remained there long after, until Jarl Balgruff would have called him inside.
It begins to feel like he has come home.
Reaching out, Elloren clasps Faendal's forearm, grips the leather bracers he can feel under his clothes. Gods, but he knows this man, knows that he might have put his tunic and trousers on to woo his lady love, but he still has daggers in his belt and boot, still keeps his bow in easy reach. He is always waiting, always ready.
"Come with me?" Elloren asks, and Faendal grins, both of them knowing there isn't the slightest chance of him saying no.
==
They take a carriage from Whiterun, due to the sudden realization that he hasn't slept since before literally going to Sovngarde. Elloren has never been more thankful for Faendal's calm, uncurious nature - he simply slumps over, drifting off, trusting his friend to watch over him and not ask questions.
He comes awake to his shoulder being shaken, gently, and his eyes feel bleary when they open.
"Already?" he mumbles, his mouth full of cotton, and an amused chuckle from Faendal makes him realize that he'd said that in Bosmeris, not Tamrielic. Goodness. He hasn't spoken his home language in years.
"Yes, we're here," Faendal murmurs, back in the more prevalent tongue, and Elloren wonders, not for the first time, if Faendal was born in Valenwood, what twist of fate might have led him to a lumber mill in Skyrim.
But he doesn't ask, and Faendal has never asked him the same question, and what difference would either answer make? Whatever they might have been before, it does not change who they are now.
Morthal greets him like an old friend. It is a small town for a Hold capital, and it boasts no mage's college, productive mines, or famous graveyards. Elloren had loved it from the first moment he'd set foot there. The swamps are treacherous and dreary and curiously beautiful - so, too, are its people, plain on the outside, but holding quiet worth inside.
He sighs, this time from happiness, and feels another layer of weight slide off his shoulders.
"Let's go home."
==
Windstad is a massive place, compared to most homes in Skyrim. But then, that is the entire point of buying empty land to build on - one can do whatever he likes, and create something uniquely perfect for their needs.
Elloren wants to savor this moment, every bit of it. The sun starting to sink at their left-hand side as they trail up through the swamps. The sounds of insects buzzing, of the horses and chickens and all the other little noises of home that begin to filter through, to grow and grow among the trees. When, almost from one step to the next, the house itself seems to melt in out of the mist - much like its owner - and the steady glow of its lanterns, welcoming him home.
Elloren pauses just before the front door, and Faendal, beautiful, perfect man, says nothing. Just waits, for Elloren to take in a deep breath, let it out slow - and open the door.
Sounds and sights swirl around him. The fire's sudden warmth makes him realize how cold it was outside; the sudden silence as Sonir's hands falter on her lute; the little gasp and the patter of small feet as Lucia thunders down the stairs.
"Papa!" she cries out. "You're home!"
Suddenly, without any conscious thought, he's on his knees, pulling his little girl into a hug - and she seems surprised, gods, she should not be surprised. He has been so alone for so long.
But it's only a moment before she hugs back, tight and hard, her little braids pushing into his long face. "Papa," she breathes, so happy, and he looks up -
Leaning against the side of the table, smiling at the scene, he meets his husband's warm red eyes.
By Y'ffre, he is home. Riverwood may have the picturesque perfection of the ideal life, but this, here, all its history and imperfection, is real.
I have seen Sovngarde, he thinks, and I choose home.
==
Lydia and Valdimar don't give Lucia too much time to monopolize him - they come at him from both sides, hugging (Validmar) and punching his shoulder (Lydia), speaking over each other in a mess of you did it! and my thane and he supposes he'll let it slide this time. Lydia is the first to greet Faendal, as usual - and as usual, Faendal is courteous and utterly unmoved. If he had eyes for any other than Camilla, well - Elloren supposes his life would be very different, then, and Lydia would still not have that honor.
But life is not different, and Elloren doesn't regret a bit of it.
Valdimar detaches Lucia from his arms; Elloren stands up slowly, his eyes fixed on his husband, who has yet to move forward. He notes how heavily he leans upon the table - his leg, injured during a kidnapping attempt, must be bothering him more than usual. Still, he would have waited. Made Elloren come to him, that half a smirk on his handsome face, because Revyn Sadri never gave up anything without some semblance of a fight.
"Are you going to tell me you don't deal in stolen goods?" Elloren murmurs, smirking right back, as his hands come up to cup the sharp planes of his Dunmer's face.
Revyn snorts. "You're my husband, you're the greatest stolen good I'm ever going to get," he says, and for that Ell has to kiss him, deep and hard, because he loves this great poncy arsehole, and getting him to admit anything close to affection in return is usually like pulling teeth. From a dragon. While it's still alive, and actively breathing fire.
He doesn't push him away, either, and for a long moment they stand there, framed in the firelight, Elloren reaching up just a bit, because even in boots with Revyn barefoot, he's still that slightest bit shorter. His Dunmer lover sighs, put upon, but he's stroking the back of Ell's head with his fingertips, and it tells him all he needs to know.
We missed you, those fingers say. I missed you.
==
Before the peace conference, he'd come home to sort his gear and regroup, feeling an unshakable sense of dread.
Surely, this was going to be a good thing for Skyrim - but it felt heavy, portentous, dangerous in a way that none of his previous adventures ever had.
It was just a feeling, but he was certain that it would be a long while before he saw his home again. If ever.
"Why in Nirn are you wearing that?" Revyn said, lounging in the doorframe, looking disdainful and lovely as always.
"Because shut up," he replied, knowing precisely how much his husband cared about the actual answer. He looked down at himself - the Blades armor felt ill-fitting and far too heavy, but something urged him to wear it, like it would make him feel more like the Dragonborn and less like a street rat.
Erandur, coming out from the bedroom after changing at Elloren's request, shook his head. "Mara's sake, you look ridiculous."
"Did I ask for anyone's opinion? No. I did not." He could hear Revyn's snicker as he turned to get back to his bookkeeping, shaking his head.
The old priest came closer, his face quiet and serious. "You have me back in Mara's robes for a reason. You should be going as yourself, not... whatever you think it is they need you to be."
Elloren looked down at himself again. Erandur was right, truly. He wasn't going to be fooling anyone, at any rate.
"I've no idea who I am anymore," he whispered, but his dear friend didn't seem to believe a word of it - he simply tipped his head, nodding in the direction of the armor mannequin across the hall. It had been holding Elloren's Guild leathers for a while now, ever since he'd picked up some enchanted stuff that gave him better protection.
He sighed, long and deep. "You know me better than anyone," he said, perhaps a bit dryly. "Perhaps even than myself."
"Oh, now," and Erandur had a grin on his face, warm and bright with humor. "I'd wager Faendal would agree with me as well. And that mercenary in Markarth, what's his name?"
"Vorstag." He took the leathers down off the rack, traded them out for the heavy Blades pieces. "He looks after Vlindrel Hall when I'm elsewhere. So, most of the time."
"And yet, he would know who you are as well as any of us." Erandur reached out, helped him do up the buckles of the armor, and in a jarring moment Elloren wondered what would have happened if he'd met him first, before Revyn. If the lovely old priest would have loved him. "There you are. That's the Dragonborn I know." He tucked a stray lock of Ell's blond hair back into the hood. "The one I'll follow anywhere."
Yes, he thought. He would have. And yet, perhaps things were as they should be, because Elloren couldn't take that kind of intensity for long, couldn't see love as this grand and serious thing. "How's this?" he called down to his husband, and Rev tipped his head back, eyeing up the stairs.
"Much better," he said. "As an added bonus, that hood hides your face. I'm sure the people of Skyrim will be thankful."
"You are such a twat," Elloren sighed, but he ghosted silently down the stairs to pop a kiss to the top of Revyn's fluffy head. "I love you dearly."
In return, he simply snorted. "Of course you do. We're the only people in Skyrim worth loving, after all," but Ell could read between the lines, and he heard, I love you too.
He made to pull away, but a sudden hand gripping his made him stop, frowning down at the elf he'd married.
"What's going on?" Revyn said, low and quiet. "You're acting strange. Like you don't expect to come back."
Elloren swallowed, feeling those red eyes slice right through him. "... Do you really want to know?" he whispered.
A long moment passed between them. Finally, Revyn sighed and let go, shaking his head. "No," he murmured. "I'm sorry - "
"Don't," and he reached up, brushed his gloved knuckles over the line of Revyn's jaw. "It's all right. I understand. Ignorance is bliss, is it not? I would shield you from all of it, if I could."
Someday, he thought. Someday I'll be home to stay.
Rev nodded, and his head tipped just the slightest bit towards him - a small motion that spoke volumes, that meant everything. After the bandit attack, he'd been shell-shocked, helpless, but refused to admit to it - to the notion that he was, in fact, not nearly as strong as his partner, that he was not made for the same sort of thing that Elloren was. He had tried endlessly to convince him that it was okay, that he didn't think less of him - rather, that his merchant husband and innocent daughter were the very refuge of normality that he so desperately needed. And he had not truly accepted it, until now. That head tilt said it all - that he finally admitted that he did not want to know, did not want to share in it, as long as Elloren came home. To him.
"I love you," Ell whispered in his ear, wrapping his arms protectively around him. "I love you, my dark star. I love you."
It should have been, I'll be back, but Ell had promised himself a long time ago that he wouldn't lie to the people he cared about.
==
He explained everything to Lydia and Valdimar, because that was what they were there for. Lydia had offered to come with him, emphasizing his Thaneship of Whiterun - but he'd declined, telling her instead to look after Lucia, and Revyn, and to keep working on the alchemy tower. To Valdimar, he entrusted the defense of the property, a serious responsibility after the bandit attack. (There had also been a giant hanging around outside the front door, once - thankfully Elloren had been coming in from the woods and had gotten off a few excellent shots, killing it before it even knew he was there. Why the normally peaceful things had taken offense to his house, he would never know, but he was just glad Lucia had not been playing outside at the time.)
And then, he'd left, and only news of the Dragonborn had made its way home, until now.
==
"Is that Elloren I hear?" a familiar voice comes in from the guest rooms, and he looks up from the kiss, pleasantly surprised.
"Erandur?" The priest had taken his leave after the peace conference, wanting to stay and chat with the Greybeards, but apparently he'd come back to Windstad, finally, instead of holing himself up in Nightcaller Temple.
"Thought I'd drop in. There's all manner of rumors about you flying about through the Pale, by the way."
He groans. "Don't tell me. They're probably true."
Dinner is a raucous affair, as it often is, with the Manor this crowded. Lucia plants herself firmly between her two fathers, who share a look of fond exasperation over her head. Sonir gets about halfway through the Song of the Dragonborn before Elloren begs her to shut up, please, and won't she sit with them? Engar, the carriage-driver, is already tucking in; Sonir takes the seat next to him with a tiny glance and a blink-and-you'll-miss-it blush. Elloren meets Revyn's eyes again - oh, he caught it, yes indeed. And his smirk promises more to the story.
Gods, Elloren wants to hear everything.
He insists on helping with the dishes, though Lydia and Valdimar both literally try and fend him off with forks and knives. He evades them easily, and soon he's up next to his daughter, washing out the ceramic and wood at her direction. He looks at his hands and thinks, this is what I want to be doing with them. Not killing bandits, or dragons, or even picking pockets, though he loves the Guild without question. He is simply tired of always being the one to leave, to see the world but miss everything that happens in his own home.
He tucks Lucia into her bed, sees the guests to theirs, and heads for the second floor, east side.
"Hello, love," he murmurs, slipping in beside the drowsy Dunmer. He mumbles, something about buying and selling, and Elloren laughs, helplessly content.
"I'm staying," he whispers, knowing Rev won't hear him, but it's the truth all the same. "I'm home for good this time."