Companions

"So, what is she like?"

The question comes in the night, in the middle of their chat, from a kind-hearted Vilkas who helps her kill time while she waits for her return. Jorrvaskr holds a nice family, even for a guest – but his words crackle too sudden in the warmth of the fireplace, and her lips, taken by surprise, cannot move.

Mjoll feels she would answer much better if she could speak images and sounds.
The first thing she would say is her eyes – her beautiful eyes and that fire nothing ever extinguishes, the eyes that burned so strong when she knocked at Aerin's door and entered her life with Grimsever tight in her hands. She was trapped in them from that day on; in danger or joy, they became her map.

She would tell of her hands, cold as ice, when she moves like an hunter and chases a prey – she once told her she was born to find the joy of others, and how her suffering can nothing against her determination. She proves it when she fights – the fear strikes her as well.

She would sing for the warmth of her smiles, in the moments when she opens up and talks to her like no other. When she comes out of her shell, everything feels even better. Mjoll has the privilege of tending to her wounds and laughing to her jokes; whatever it is, every time, it leaves her charmed.

She recalls the modesty in her words, as well as the sheer love of learning and devouring what's in her field of vision – her sighs on the magic books, the laughter when she finally masters some mysterious spell found in a dungeon. She is marvelous and doesn't know it – that's what surprises her the most.

She hears the silence while the wind howls outside, with them curled in each other's arms within the only bedroll they could find – the tent feels too fragile in a desert of snow, but her warmth is so strong that she could never be afraid to fall asleep. She cannot feel just as safe anywhere else.

She feels the grip on her hand in that distant day, when the only way out was a dive of hundreds of feet; and she held her fingers tight to keep the spell working, asking nothing more but her trust. They landed on the icy ground, wet but safe, their foreheads glued to one another.

She still bears the ghost of Mzinchaleft mirrored in her gaze, since the day she dragged her back to those doors and taught her to walk on. She made her feel alive and brave, but not enough – not yet – to tell her how beautiful she is.

Mjoll finds her tongue still. She raises a hand to meet her cheek, now illuminated and warmed by more than the dying embers.

"I just can't tell, Vilkas," she whispers. "You will know by yourself in time."

A tiny tiny thing for my eternal Skyrim OTP - my Dragonborn, Lynne, and Mjoll. This is supposed to be set a little bit before the proposal (which was Lynne's, of course.) Tee hee.