Benor grumbled in his half-asleep state as he rolled over, the bed beneath him creaking in complaint as his thick, muscled mass shifted. Subconsciously, he looped an arm over Jon, and frowned. Peeling his eyes open, he used a knuckle to dislodge the eye gunk that had already built up, and propped himself up on an elbow. Jon was gone. Benor felt around for a hint of warmth in the bedding, and concluded from the cold sheets that Jon had been gone for a while.



Benor shivered at the prospect of leaving the bed on a mid-Morning Star night, but he noticed the door to the bedroom was slightly ajar, and warm, inviting light lingered around its edges. He sighed, running a thick hand through his beard, and pulling himself away from the bed. He took a sharp breath as he was assailed by the cold air, but he’d dealt with worse on his journeys with Jon; what was a little cold compared to the breath of frost dragons? Especially to a true-blooded Nord.



He found his shirt and trousers in a pile where he’d left them, and quickly dressed before heading for the bedroom door, making sure to step quietly on the creaky floorboards of Windstad Manor. Benor recalled fond memories of helping Jon build the Manor, after Jarl Idgrod agreed to sell her the plot in recognition of her services to Morthal. Sure, he’d mostly been manual labour, but it had made a damn fine change from being stabbed, slashed, shot, shocked, burned, frozen, and otherwise generally attacked. The end result was worth a few bruised fingers and splinters in awkward places, though.



Reaching the door, he carefully prised it open, letting his eyes adjust to the light from the various lit brackets. He followed the trail of light to the enchanting tower on the west wing, and came to a halt outside its closed doors. He should’ve guessed that Jon would be wrapped up in more work, as if simply being the Dragonborn wasn’t enough of a full-time job—with relatively thankless pay, now Benor thought about it. He went to push one of the double doors inward, but stopped when he heard muttering from the other side. It was rare that he got to observe his love alone in her element, so instead he simply rested an ear against the smooth wood, and listened.



“…if I do that then it’s more powerful, but I won’t get as many charges. Hmm. Do I want the power, or the… Y’know what, I’ve loads of petty souls laying around doing nothing so it’s not like I can’t just recharge it often.”



Benor recognised the low hum of arcane energy as Jon began an enchanting process, followed by the tell-tale sharp whoosh of completion.



“Almost done, now. Benor’s going to love this.”



A wide smile split across Benor’s face, and he felt his heart leap in his throat. He didn’t realise that he’d already half entered the room, and Jon was now giving him one of her quizzical looks. Benor adjusted himself, flashing Jon a sheepish grin. He glanced around the tower, at the stacks of books Jon often took from the house library and rather less often returned there; plates and goblets that held the remnants of meals taken in the tower as she worked; and placed carefully around the enchanting table itself, various pieces of armour and jewellery he recognised as loot and treasure he and Jon had amassed.



Jon’s countenance softened, “Oh, Benor! What are you doing up at this time?” She sounded almost as guilty as Benor felt.



Benor scratched his bearded chin, “It’s nothing, really. I was just…” He sighed, looking Jon in the eyes. Her misted eye glinted slightly as it caught the light, whilst her other was wide and deep with knowledge, and experience. And love. “I noticed you weren’t in bed, and I… missed you.”



“Oh… Benor!” Sometimes Benor felt that phrase made up half of Jon’s vocabulary, but he didn’t much mind as Jon strode forward, cupped his wiry chin, and eased up on tiptoes to plant a tender kiss on his cheek. Benor wrapped his hairy arms around Jon’s slight, Breton frame; Jon’s head pressing lightly against his chest and her arms barely meeting around his waist. He rested his head on hers, the gentle scent of pine from her hair caressed his nose and he breathed deep, savouring the fragrance.



Towering over Jon allowed Benor to see a glinting battleaxe leaning against the table, previously obscured by the Breton. Jon looked up, noticed Benor was distracted, and chuckled. “I was planning on it being more of a surprise, but… Surprise?” She pulled herself away from Benor--who relinquished her with a little reluctance--and with an odd amount of ease, plucked the battleaxe from its resting place against the table, and proffered it haft-first to Benor.



With the wide, hungry eyes of a child being handed a sweetroll, Benor took the battleaxe in one hand. The metal shaft felt warm to the touch, and seemed to radiate heat, for which Benor was thankful on such a chilly night. Jon let go, and Benor admired the heft he was left with; weapons of this quality were always well-balanced, but this axe even more so; it felt as if it was merely an extension of his own arm.



Running his free hand down the length of the weapon, he fingered the various carvings and smooth notches. The metal warmed further as he reached the head of the axe. A lithe finger across the blade edge was like feeling the outside of a raging furnace, and embers appeared to dance across it in the wake of his touch. He slipped a little as he neared the end of the edge, and uttered a single Nordic curse as it effortlessly pared the top few layers of flesh from his finger, followed by a surge of searing heat that threatened to char his entire arm.



“Flip!” Jon shouted, darting forward with a healing spell already alive in her palm. The healing touch immediately eased the pain, and the burning soon followed. His finger seamlessly stitched itself back together, although he was left to mop up the blood that had rushed from the wound with his shirt. He saw Jon shaking her head, badly masking a smirk with her hand. “One day I’m not going to be here to fix you up.”



Their faces both drooped at the thought. Benor knew in his heart that what Jon- what they did was fraught with danger at every turn, but he never truly thought about the possibility that either of them would die. Every time it came up, be it watching Jon trying to evade a murderous Draugr, or indeed he himself feeling the almost-fatal blow of a bandit warchief, he pushed the thought to the back of his mind to be worried about at a later date. No, whilst they were both alive, he would enjoy it.



Jon apparently came to a similar conclusion, as she shook herself and her light-hearted visage returned. She pointed at the bloodstained shirt Benor was wearing, and tutted. “That’ll need washing.”



Benor sighed, leaning the battleaxe against the wall and pulling his shirt off over his head. He saw Jon briefly chewing on her lip at the sight of his bare, pale Nordic torso, and grinned as he balled up the shirt and tossed it lazily into a corner, “I’ll grab it later.” Jon swatted him on the arm, and Benor took hold of it and pulled her back into his embrace. “Thank you, my love.” Jon nodded and, wriggling free, took Benor’s hand and led him over to the ladder up to the tower’s balcony, “Come,” she said, “We can watch the sun rise.” Benor shivered at the prospect of standing, barefoot and bare-chested, in a Hjaalmarch winter morning. He’d lived in Morthal long enough to know that even the swampy lowlands were chill enough at this time. Jon laughed, apparently recognising Benor’s reluctance. “Don’t worry; I’m warm enough for both of us.”



Jon didn’t wait for a response before beginning her ascent up the ladder; loose-fitting bedclothes swirling around her. Benor followed close behind, particularly appreciating the view. He heard Jon fiddling with the trapdoor, and the creak and squeak of rarely-used wood and hinges. Jon pulled herself up onto the balcony, and swung an arm back down to help heave Benor the rest of the way. With a smooth back-heel, she kicked the trapdoor closed again, leaving them both semi-darkness; only the moons stars in the clear Skyrim sky lit the surrounding country, glinting off the snow, ice, and frosted stone.



With a deft gesture, Jon produced a small glowing orb of Candlelight above her head, illuminating the balcony. Benor shuffled over to the edge of the balcony, facing the ocean to the North. Magnus would, of course, rise in the East, but sheltered as they were by mountains, its rays wouldn’t reach them until late in the morning. The sea, however…



Benor felt Jon ease up beside him, and he wrapped an arm around her shoulders, drawing her closer to his side. The cold didn’t bother him as much with her there; even the frozen floorboards were tolerable. He looked down at her, watching the puffs of vapour emerge with every breath she took. Frost had already begun collecting on her eyelashes, and they glinted in the orb’s light; even her hair appeared speckled with tiny diamonds. She showed no signs of discomfort, even as the tip of her nose and cheeks flushed red.



There they stood, for a time, awaiting the morning spectacle. Crisp, fresh air stung Benor’s throat, but it would all be worth it. As the sky above lightened and the moons slipped below Solitude and the mountains to the West, the ocean underwent a dramatic change. The calm, dark ripples became blue, and green, and finally with the touch of Magnus, exploded in orange, yellow, white, and gold. The sea erupted into a shifting conflagration, as if a spell had transmuted the water to flame. Waves of fire lashed the shoreline, spraying shimmering sparks in every direction like a blacksmith striking hot iron.



Benor felt Jon burying her fingers in his chest hair, curling them around each digit, and tracing the lines of his muscles with her fingertips. The sight before him seemed to drained his inhibitions, and he responded by gently rubbing up and down along the side of her torso and hip. Jon stretched a little, and turned to face Benor, wrapping her hands beneath and up around his shoulders, fondling his taut, rugged back. Benor held her tight to him with one arm, whilst his other slowly, deliberately explored her lower back. He had already long memorised each curve, but his touch was eager to map them again. Jon moaned slightly, and kissed one of Benor’s ribs, nibbling lightly on his skin.



He felt Jon’s hands move lower, over his trousers, and around his firm buttocks, and he responded in kind. She lifted her legs, treating Benor’s large hands as an improvised seat. He lifted her up until they were face to face, their noses brushing against each other. “It’s been too long.” He whispered. Jon nodded, and leaned in, “Yes it has Benor, my love” and as the sea behind them blazed, they locked lips, and their own passions burned as bright.



Gradually, they came apart. Benor hummed to himself, resting his eyes as Jon rested against him. “Benor…” She sighed, and Benor made a slight ‘mhm?’ with his throat in response. “Benor?” Maybe she hadn’t heard him, “Yes, my love?” he replied. “Oh, Benor!” He frowned. “Flip! FLIP!”



It took a surprising amount of effort to open his eyes, and as he did, his gaze rested on a rather different landscape than he’d left. Suddenly his body became wracked with pain, and he squeezed his eyes back shut as his head began to ring. Benor forced his eyes back open, and saw Jon—albeit slightly burry—running over, already forming spells of healing in her palms. Behind her, a hulking Dremora Lord toppled a menacing Draugr with a single mighty swing of its greatsword, and uttered a demonic roar of challenge to the undead swarming before it, kicking another to its knees and brutally executing it.



Gone was the fresh, biting chill of Hjaalmarch and the resplendent golden morning ocean, replaced with the lingering, stale coldness, putrid odour, and dull greys and browns of a long-buried crypt. Benor groaned, trying to move his battered form. A thread of warmth ran his length as Jon’s spell connected, and he reflexively moaned in relief as the pain started draining away. With a grunt of effort, he staggered to his feet, using the wall beside him for support.



“Benor, are you alright?” Jon enquired, spraying a healing spell in Benor’s direction. Benor’s memories of his unconscious dream were already fleeing his mind. “I…” He struggled, steeling himself and picking up his battleaxe from its resting place on the floor. He looked up at Jon, at her caringly worried gaze, and smiled as the last memory faltered, and disappeared. 'Benor, my love…’ “Yes.” He said. “I think I am.”