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It had been an exceptionally long day for Thessalia; from cutting a deal with Belethor (as much as she disliked the sleazy Breton, he always bought the jewellery she forged in her spare time) to raiding – and slaughtering – a bandit camp, and finally fending off an ancient dragon from the sky, she was decidedly exhausted. She huddled a little closer to the fire to protect herself from Skyrim’s fearsome mountain winds, chewing on the hunk of bread she’d stolen from off the side of one of the dead bandit’s nightstands earlier.
Across the fire, seemingly uncaring of the snowflakes drifting down from the night sky, J’zargo sat cross-legged where he toasted a hunk of skeever on a skewer. Thessalia watched as he pulled the skewer free from the fire, inspecting it briefly before tearing off the meat with a single bite, despite it probably still being burning hot. The fire reflected off his fangs, making them gleam as he took another bite. Silence – the norm, for the most part – drifted between them peacefully. It was a calm scene, despite the blood that caked their matching ebony armour.
“J’zargo can feel you watching him,” the Khajiit said suddenly. His slit pupils bounced up to hers, and Thessalia looked away, embarrassed to be caught staring so blatantly. “Does the elf have something to say?”
“The elf has a name,” Thessalia huffed, adjusting her position wearily. The armour she wore, despite it having saved her life on a number of occasions, felt like a small mountain at the moment. She’d taken off her helmet, to ease the small headache that was building between her temples. “I’m just tired. I’m glad we found this camp. I couldn’t even imagine trekking to an inn right now.”
“J’zargo understands,” said the Khajiit. His eyes returned to the skeever; he eyed the tail lazily before snapping it up decisively. “J’zargo had a lot of fun, but Khajiit is also weary.”
Thessalia let out a small hum of agreement; J’zargo had certainly enjoyed dispatching the necromancer who, an hour ago, had tried to murder them upon approach to this camp. His body was currently resting at the bottom of the mountain, where she had kicked it off the side of the slope. She turned her gaze to the heavens, wanting to find the stars, but only saw the thickening snow clouds.
“I’d kill for a hot bath right now,” she sighed instead. J’zargo raised a thick, furry eyebrow at her.
“J’zargo continues to not understand your desire to go into water willingly,” he muttered. He put down the skewer, now finished with his meal. Thessalia listened to his tail swish through the snow, and fought the weight of her eyelids closing.
“I know,” she huffed, unable to hide her amusement. “But if it wasn’t for me, you’d be fifty percent less Khajiit and fifty percent more mud.”
J’zargo lets out an affirmative growl. Over the course of their year travelling together, Thessalia had slowly started to be able to categorise his more feline noises; to know when a yowl was of annoyance rather than pain, a growl of protectiveness rather than of anger. She’d heard him chuff, and hiss – but, she slowly realised, eyes coming back to rest on her faithful companion’s face – she’d never heard him purr.
“Can I ask you something?” she said, and J’zargo paused from where he had begun to clean underneath his claws with his sword.
“Thessalia can ask,” he returned slowly. “And J’zargo might answer. Or, I might not.”
Thessalia resisted the urge to roll her eyes at the typical cryptic response.
“Do Khajiit ever purr?” she asked, taking out her own sword. She inspected the dried blood along the edge in the firelight – the blade seemed a little duller than usual, and she made a note to visit a blacksmith in the next town they passed through to have it sharpened.
Silence came from the other side of the fire. When Thessalia turned to look, J’zargo seemed to have frozen in the midst of cleaning his claws, the crackle of the flames and the snowflakes the only movement. Even his ears, usually flickering this way and that to listen for incoming enemies, had stilled.
“J’zargo?” she asked, a little concerned. If he didn’t want to answer, her friend would usually at least communicate this to her – she had never seen him freeze up like this.
With a twitch of his nose, J’zargo came back to life, but he turned his head away, looking out at the dark mountainside. Thessalia noticed his fur, which usually laid flat against his head, seemed to have poofed out a bit in the way it usually did when he was embarrassed. It was a very rare emotion for the Khajiit, who typically exuded confidence. When he finally spoke, his words came slowly.
“Khajiit can purr,” he answered, still not looking at her. “But this does not happen very often. J’zargo has not purred since he was a kit.”
“When does it happen?” she pushed, curiously. J’zargo’s tail swished again, his form otherwise tense.
“Khajiit purr when they feel very content, and safe,” he eventually said. “They purr when they are with the people they love.”
“Oh,” Thessalia replied, not knowing what to say. She felt the tips of her ears begin to burn. J’zargo had never mentioned anything about love to her ever, although she knew Khajiit had the capacity for romance. How else would the caravans that they occasionally traded with form, otherwise? New Khajiits had to come from somewhere.
“And there has never been anyone you’ve loved?” she persisted, unable to help her growing interest despite her worry at her friend’s obvious discomfort.
At that, J’zargo sighed, looking back across the fire at her and catching her gaze. Thessalia couldn’t help but widen her eyes in response, unused to the emotions flashing through the slit pupils.
“J’zargo has never been interested in other Khajiit,” he said, then abruptly stood up, dusting the snow off his armour. “And we are tired.”
Thessalia nodded, accepting the end to the conversation for what it was, and stood too.
“Let’s put out the fire then,” she said, unable to hide the distasteful twist to her lips at the prospect. It would be a bitterly cold night without it, but it was better than an unsuspecting dagger to the back if someone caught sight of it. J’zargo seemed equally displeased, whiskers fluttering, but kicked snow over the fire. Thessalia watched the flames sputter valiantly before extinguishing, plunging them both into the little light let through by the moon. She wasn’t too worried about the blackness though – J’zargo had excellent night vision as well as hearing and sense of smell, and he would alert her if anybody approached.
She debated sleeping with her armour on briefly, but decided it wasn’t worth it. The metal armour would only chill her further, and it was beyond uncomfortable to sleep in. Gritting her teeth against the icy wind, she stripped off her boots and gauntlets, before reaching around her back, struggling to reach the snaps on the back for the chestplate by herself.
Claws, pressing lightly against her shoulder, made her stiffen.
“J’zargo will help,” the Khajiit whispered softly behind her, voice almost indiscernible under the howl of the wind. Letting her hands fall to her sides, Thessalia nodded gratefully. She felt the hot breath of her companion against the nape of her neck as he deftly undid the straps for her, unable to stop her groan of relief as the heavy plates came undone and slid to the ground.
Behind her, she felt J’zargo stiffen, almost imperceptibly, but Thessalia was as well tuned to her friend as she was her magicka. She glanced over her shoulder, but J’zargo was already setting down her chestplate with the rest of her armour, avoiding her gaze.
“Do you want help with yours?” she asked before she crawled into the makeshift tent, but J’zargo shook his head, settling down back into his typical cross-legged seat at the tent’s entrance.
“J’zargo will take first watch,” he replied. Thessalia frowned at the back of his head.
“I thought you were tired?” she prodded. “It’s unlikely that we will need a watch; I doubt anybody will find us up here, now that the fire is out.”
He looked back at her over his shoulder, unimpressed. The wind swirled his fur around gracefully from where it peeked out over his armour.
“Sleep,” he said. “I will wake you up when it is your turn.”
Unable to fight the biting cold any longer, Thessalia conceded with a huff, crawling into the leather bed roll and drawing it around herself tightly. Despite the frigid temperature, she felt herself slipping into sleep almost immediately, exhaustion winning out over her discomfort. The last thought she had, before succumbing to unconsciousness, was that J’zargo had never really answered her question.
***
Cold – that was the only thing Thessalia registered when she was shaken awake. She jerked out of her sleep with a violent shiver, barely recognising J’zargo’s concerned face before another spasm wracked her body from where it was curled up into a ball. It was as if ice had been injected into her bones, and her veins had frozen.
Dimly, she registered that the howl of the wind outside had turned into a scream. Peering beyond the tent’s entrance she could see the flurries of snow hurtling past in the dark, swarming together like a pack of angry bees. The tent shuddered as another blast of wind hit it, bringing another icy blast to wash over her. She gasped as she shuddered in pain. It felt like getting hit with frost magic; she couldn’t feel her feet or fingers.
It was clear that within a couple of hours, the snowstorm had turned into a blizzard, and brought a temperature drop with it – Thessalia cursed herself for being lazy and not getting to an actual inn before nightfall. This was a terrible scenario.
Golden light suddenly flooded her eyes as a furry finger touched her forehead, and Thessalia actually moaned as a wave of warmth and comfort flooded through her, chasing away the frigid feeling encasing her body. She peered up at J’zargo, finally registering the Khajiit kneeling over her. He had his eyes closed in concentration as he reached for his restoration magicka, the source of the heat. It wasn’t too long though before the glow dimmed and then winked out, and she eked out a whimper of pain as the cold once again rushed in, gripping her body in its icy embrace.
J’zargo opened his eyes, fur fluffed up against the wind, giving him protection that she didn’t have access to against the winter elements. He was panting slightly, and when she met his gaze, it was clear he was panicked.
“J’zargo does not have enough power,” he whispered, and she almost missed the tremor in his voice. “What do I do?”
“Fire,” Thessalia uttered through chattering teeth, “can you build a fire?”
He shook his head frantically. “We already tried, but the wind blows out its heart before it lives.”
He wasn’t lying – next to him lay a small circle of blackened, charred wood, completely lifeless.
Thessalia closed her eyes again, desperately trying to think through the pain. She could use her own restoration magicka to chase the cold away, but despite being arch-mage she wasn’t a deity; her own magicka was as limited as J’zargo’s was, and she had stupidly not bothered to bring any potions with them. Leaving the limited protection of the tent was equally useless. She wouldn’t even be able to make it down the mountain in these weather conditions.
She gave up, opening her eyes to gaze up at the billowing tent roof, blinking away the frost on her eyelashes. At this rate, she was going to die of hypothermia.
“Well,” she said bitterly, ignoring the way her voice cracked, and the tears gathering in her eye ducts. Something ached miserably in her chest. “Not a very heroic death for the Dragonborn, in the end.”
“No!” J’zargo exclaimed, but she ignored him.
“Do me a favour and don’t let them inter me in one of those crypts, okay?” she whispered. “In fact,” she rolled over as best as she could to face him. Her heart pounded in her chest, aware that it might be beating its last rhythm. “Take me to Elsewyr. I’d like to see those warm sands you always speak of, even if it’s in death.”
“J’zargo will not let this happen,” was the hissed response she got, and she saw his ears were completely flattened against his head, claws extended like he was ready for battle.
“Well, do you have ideas?” she snapped. He opened his mouth to respond, but hesitated, flicking his tail. Propping herself up on one elbow, Thessalia leaned towards him, hope sparking in her chest.
“You do,” she breathed. “Well, what is it?”
J’zargo sighed heavily. Thessalia frowned, watching as he slowly moved his hands to his armour, and started undoing the snaps.
“We have an idea,” he admitted. “But J’zargo does not know if Thessalia will like it.”
“I’m sure it’s better than freezing to death,” Thessalia mumbled, perplexed about his actions. She watched as he methodically removed his gauntlets, and finally his boots. With hesitant, shaking hands — she had never seen him shake — he gripped the top of the undershirt he wore and took that off too, leaving him in just his leather trousers. It was only when he reached forward, pulling the corner of the bedroll down, that she finally realised what his idea was.
“Wait!” she blurted, and he stilled immediately, slit eyes flicking towards her. His ears lowered, and although Khajiit were hard to read at the best of times, Thessalia thought he looked nervous. “Are — are you sure this will work?”
“J’zargo does not know,” he admitted. “But we do not think there is much choice, anymore.”
Slowly, she nodded. Then she shifted over as much as she could in the bedroll, trying to make as much room for him as possible. J’zargo watched her intently, his eyes gleaming in the darkness. Only when she stopped moving did he once again pull down the top of the bedroll; and with a frustrated grumble, attempt to slide in with her.
It was extremely awkward. The bedroll was clearly not made to fit two people. He twisted and squirmed as he tried to fit, and Thessalia sucked in her breath as every available space was taken up by his body, fur brushing cold skin. The effect of it however, was undeniable. The Khajiit was practically radiating heat, and with a gasp she stopped trying to make room, and plastered herself along him, sliding her arms around his well-muscled chest to bring him closer. His fur was softer across his torso than the rest of him. Thessalia buried her face there happily, almost crying at the relief it brought to her frozen features, any discomfort she had felt gone in the face of his soft heat.
He grunted, and then she felt two warm arms encircle her in turn, like iron bands that kept her secure in their grip. She wiggled closer, entwining their legs as well, until they were practically one being. She couldn’t tell where she ended and J’zargo began if she tried.
She breathed him in, and was pleasantly surprised to find he smelled not of blood and sweat, but something spicy and comforting, almost like Sujumma left in the sun. He brought his head down, and rested his chin on her hair, and they settled into the embrace together. Thessalia could feel all her muscles slowly relaxing as they thawed, thankful for the relief he was providing.
“Thessalia is better?” J’zargo murmured, after a moment, and she nodded against his chest, gratitude welling up in an overflowing spring.
“Thank you,” she whispered, and he let out another one of his affirmative growls. This close, Thessalia could feel it rumble through his chest and down her body.
It was easy, now, for sleep to pull at her once more. She felt as if she was lying in the sun, on a fluffy fur blanket. J’zargo shifted, and one of his hands threaded through her hair, claws gently scratching at her scalp, to hold her head against him. Warmth blazed through her, and the blizzard outside was a distant memory.
Slowly, she realised he wasn’t just resting his chin, but rubbing it gently against her hair as he continued to run his claws through the strands; first the left side, before she felt his nose skim her forehead, then his chin rubbed on the right side, and then he would repeat it. She remembered a cat, from when she was younger, butting its head around her ankles and syrupy heat pooled in her stomach as she realised he was scent marking her.
She swallowed deeply. The thought of him marking her was strangely appealing, made her shiver in a way that had nothing to do with the snow outside, and everything to do with how dry her mouth suddenly was. Gathering her courage, she shimmied up his body slightly, ignoring his muffled protest in favour of tilting her neck to show to him.
“You can do here, too,” she whispered, and he barely even hesitated before shoving his face into the gap she had left with a happy growl. Thessalia felt a hint of teeth against her skin as he nuzzled into her, and had to shove her face into the fur of his neck in return, so he wouldn’t see the ridiculous heat suffusing across her cheeks.
“You never answered my question, earlier,” she finally whispered, the sense of panic completely faded now that the emergency had passed, but a new tension gripping her muscles instead. She felt as though she was balancing on a tightrope, and one step would plunge her to her death. J’zargo made a small questioning noise, but she couldn’t bring herself to raise her head to look at him when it felt so nice to keep her face where it was.
“About love,” she clarified, “I asked you if you had ever loved anyone, and you said you weren’t interested in other Khajiit.” She took a deep breath, and continued, voice shaking: “But you didn’t answer my question.”
J’zargo was silent for a few long moments; moments where Thessalia held her breath, fingers twitching around the fur she had intertwined them into. Then, like the shaking in her chest she experienced when she used her Thu’ums, he exhaled and she felt, rather than heard, a purr start to fill the quiet. It was a low, throaty sound that emanated through them both, irrevocably changing everything she knew existed between them. She listened to it reverently, clutching him tighter to her with trembling fingers and pressing the tears in her eyes into his fur.
“Oh,” she realised, “Oh, I see.”
And they slept.