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In his dreams, they meet again.
In his dreams, he is himself. He is not Antonius, the Champion of Cyrodiil, whose name the Elder Council lied about to serve their own agenda. He is not the grieving fool who mantled a god. He is not the Dragonborn's pet project born of pity.
In his dreams, his vision does not blur. His eye is hale and whole, not drooping and unfocused.
He is only himself, in bed, with his lover.
He turns to him. His own eyes meet the clear blue of his lover's, and though he cannot see them he knows that they are normal. He knows they are the same hazel-green he lived with for thirty odd years, not the yellow-and-black he was cursed with for two hundred. He knows his pupil must be round, not slitted like that of a cat. He knows it the way he knows the sky is blue and snow is cold.
He meets his lover's eyes and watches the corners crinkle. His lover's smile is as soft and sweet as he remembers, that quiet look of fondness he had so kindly blessed him with. They are each as naked as the day they were born, and he does not notice that this never happened in life. He merely presses one knee between his lover's furrier legs and enjoys the sensation of skin and hair touching. He presses his lips to his lover's stubbled throat and wraps his arm around his lover's soft middle. His lover had always been softer than him, in every possible way. The life he had lived left no room for softness. Constant running hardened his body and his will.
They are in bed, always, but the bed changes. Sometimes it is his lover's ornate bed in Cloud Ruler Temple, keeping each other warm in those frigid mountains. Sometimes it is a bedroll in a tent, or a hay-stuffed mattress in an inn. Sometimes it is the Dragonborn's awful, cold tower, their little haven barely kept enclosed by privacy screens. Sometimes it is even his own bed in the Waterfront, the lake crashing against the shore outside, the late night hollering of his neighbors ever-present. He finds he likes those nights best.
They are never, ever, in the Isles. He isn't sure why that is. He might call it a mercy from whoever sends him these dreams, but in all his years in Oblivion, he knows he did not earn himself any favors. Vaermina has no love for him. Besides, these dreams aren't the Dreamweaver's style. Perhaps it's simply the fact that, as a god, he had never needed to sleep. He had no reason to be abed. The years all blur together, and he isn't sure he ever even owned one then.
Either way, he is glad of it. That place does not deserve to see the kind smiles his lover gives him.
Tonight, they are in Benirus Manor. As with many of their nightly locations, his lover never knew this house, this bed. As with their nudity, he takes no notice of this fact.
The covers here are softer than any other he had ever owned. The silk slides against their skin where they lay, against his lover's hair where it rests on a pillow. He raises a hand to card his fingers through that hair. Shorter than his own, darker than his own. They were always opposites in all ways. Perhaps they were destined to be.
His lover's eyes crinkle again, and a hand, calloused from farmwork rather than combat, raises to meet his own. Their fingers intertwine, and his lover speaks. He can never hear what he says, can never make out his words with the same clarity he hears his own, but the slow, low timbre of his lover's voice soothes him nonetheless. He speaks in turn. Though he can hear himself perfectly, he's never quite sure what he's said once he's said it. He supposes it doesn't much matter. His response is not of as much importance as his lover's voice. He would do anything to keep him talking.
Outside, the sea churns. The docks are filled with drunkards and travelers and cawing gulls chasing the last bits of food the people drop. The lanterns are lit for the night. He knows this from his time spent here, in this house and in this city, just as he knows the sound of his lover's heartbeat when he lays his head on his chest. The wind rattles his windows. Or maybe that's just his ghosts.
In his dreams, he does not have to be the Champion of Cyrodiil. He does not have to be the Divine Crusader or the Madgod. He is not the Grand Champion who murdered his predecessor, or the Listener who never believed, or a thief and a fighter who abandoned his guilds. His crimes are far away, and when he touches his lover's brow, his hands leave no blood.
In his dreams, he is only himself.
In his lover's arms, he is only Antony. And, perhaps, he can be his Hero.