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Two out for a marketplace stroll
One Aerin, the other named Mjoll
The man, DTF
His roman a clef
Would be titled, "Impossible Goal"

There once was a priest named Erandur
Not given to vices or slander
With so moral a stance
Does he even wear pants?
I'd lift up his robes for a gander

The story of poor Helgen's fate
Has made lurid gossip of late
While Nirn's fate does teeter
The dreaded World Eater
Put this village first on his plate

Some zombies can shout the Nord thu'um
Disarmed me whenever they blew 'em
The fury of draugr
Exceeds any blogger
And makes the tombs temples of du'um!

There once was a Dunmer named Sero
Who was quite a fine caballero
Though rarely unmasked
Admirers still asked
If he had someone "looting his barrow"

Dance With The Devil

Pale moonlight filtered through rippled glass, a lover’s touch to my cheek. In the hazy depths of dreaming, I succumbed to the memory of that touch, dark and wicked. A relinquishing of self within the safety of sleep that by day I could not acknowledge. I relished the innocent longing and naïve passion, the nostalgia of remembered youth without the regrets of choices made.

A twisting dream of the last time, in the full light of the surface world. Hurried, it had been full of desperation and things unsaid, a last goodbye. Why that most painfully sweet of memories? I rolled over, in need of solid warmth to press against, though it would be but a candle to the sun’s glory.

My hand met empty linen and shock iced its way through me, pulling me up from deep sleep. Silver moonlight glinted on my empty hand. Possibilities flitted through my mind of where my husband could be, but between his absence and a dream I had not had in years, I doubted them all.

The linens beneath my hand were cold. He had been for gone some time, so it was not simply to relieve himself or to wet a thirst that had drawn him from our bed. An uneasy sensation crept up my spine, and I hoped my growing suspicion was wrong. I jerked upright, throwing back the quilt; winter’s touch cut through me.

It hit me then that the fire had gone out; a practical man, he would have built it up before leaving. I wondered why he hadn’t, and whether he had seen something that had drawn him outside. I spared a glance for the window; covered in ice, I could see the moon’s fullness. I saw nothing beyond, and had it been an animal in need, he’d have woken me for my craft.

Worry building, I left the bed and shrugged a quilted, fur-lined robe over my shift. I looked at the other bed, reassured by the sleeping child within. I would seek my husband out once I rebuilt the hearth fire. I wondered, though, how it could have died so thoroughly when slow-burning oak had fueled it when I’d gone to sleep.

With my finger, I inscribed a rune into the ashes; were he here, he would disapprove. Anxious as I was, I did not wish to waste time in a mundane task. The witch had taught me to control this power, and I would use it. After a year of waiting, and knowing how utterly I had been abandoned, a newborn dependent upon me, I had accepted the witch’s teaching. And I had known and trusted her before I had known my husband.

The fire flared to life, and I noticed that its light did not extend beyond the hearth. Moonlight filled the room, and there were no shadows. I stilled at the thought, and the realization that I had, in fact, not had such dreams for six years. She had taught me to ward my sleep; this should not have happened.

With the blaze of light, I remembered the spell I had been working in the barn during the day. I hadn’t completed nor properly dispersed of it. Concern gnawed at me, but surely he wouldn’t have gone near it.

My eyes spotted the unhooked latch, and his cloak still on its peg. The dread settled into icy fear, and the moonlit memory nagged at me again. It could not be coincidence; the witch said they didn’t exist.

I reached into my pocket, brushing aside errant trifles in favor of the chalk. I etched a ward onto my child’s bed, and again on the door, in the off-chance that it was necessary. Mother had always taught preparation even in bounty, and though I‘d never listened to her other advice, in this we agreed.

I opened the door, and muttered a curse when I saw the light in the barn. I ran across the frozen grass, the earth in mourning for spring. I couldn‘t fathom why he had come out here in the dead of winter. He was a practical man, and wouldn’t have come out here without cause. He didn’t trust my art and shouldn’t have ventured near the spell, but nothing else knotted my stomach into such knots.

Nearing the barn, I heard it: the whispered remnants of a summoning. I should’ve dispersed the spell; the witch would be upset with my lapse. I hoped it was the worst that she or I would feel. I knew, though, that the best I could hope for was to undo the moonlight’s treachery.

I approached the barn cautiously, wary of the gloomy mist emanating from the open doors. I didn’t hear the sounds of the animals, and their scent was absent as well. I must have slept heavy through their flight.

The sibilant call shivered up my back, and the mist carried burning cypress in its wake. My heart began to pound.

My husband stood within, between the lantern and the moon. I caught my breath, eyes going to the floor. The circle, trapped between, he at the center of the war between the mortal and celestial lights. Central to the whispering pull was an obscure diagram, its vague, unfinished meaning corrupted. Though my husband trusted the wise woman’s craft, it frightened him, as it did most.

Sickened, I knew that I had proven that fear horribly right.

A hesitant step forth, his name on my lips in futile hope. His head turned and shadows flickered through the empty barn.

His eyes were dark pits. His mouth twitched, opening. “You promised.” The resonating words came out in a voice that was not his. I closed my eyes against what I had drawn to us, and doubted whether I could save him from my gross error.

“Oh dear God in heaven…” I breathed, as much a prayer as a curse. I stepped further into the barn and affirmed the absence of the beasts. Laughter skittered along the walls, my words echoed in mockery. He didn’t speak beyond that unearthly sound, his silence demanding an answer. I said at length, “I needed shelter. You weren’t there.”

“You lied, millers-daughter. To Me!” he shouted, his mouth a cruel distortion as he disregarded my answer. My husband turned, his stolen body stiff and awkward. Shadows in the room thickened, reflected in his eyes.

“You didn’t come for me.” I carefully circled the diagram, clutching the robe against the chill. New sigils from unseen hands formed and reformed. Ghostly light warred with the miniature, man-made sun, shadow and light flickering everywhere but within the diagram. I ought to have cleansed it, in the sunlight; distracted, by the child, perhaps, or work, I had forgotten. I knew I could not fix this without the witch’s help.

In negligence, I had wrought this, his inevitable death. I couldn’t save my husband, of this I was sure. But I had to protect my son, and myself.

“You cast me out, and you expect what of me?” I asked, my eyes downcast.

“You ought to have waited!” The growl boomed, then dropped to lover soft, a ghost-touch against my neck. I clenched my fists, not looking too deeply within the shadows or at the roiling clouds in the sky, blocking all but that vast moon. It was too close to the mortal realm.

“A year and a day? Winter, spring, and winter again?” I bit out. “No, you didn’t come for a year or for seven! I waited, but we couldn’t-“ Frantic, my hand flew to reclaim the words.

He spun to face me, his movements less rigid. His eyes flickered, distant, then back. He realized the truth and I shuddered, thankful for my foresight.

“You broke faith? To marry this, this farmer?!” His ripping scream and the howling winds whipped around me. I closed my eyes against the bombardment. I hadn’t intended to wed, had waited until the witch had brought me this man, hoping to nourish my starving heart. I didn’t deserve him.

“What do you know of faith? You broke it first. Again, and again, to me and-” The wind stole my words.

He rushed at me, slamming me into a post. Rough wood dug into my back, and I nearly bit my tongue. I averted my gaze from the smooth control he exerted. I could not escape the feel of him through the possession, of too many wicked nights, once. “We needed safety. He gave it; you didn’t.”

“You are Mine. As is-“ The eyes started towards the house again.

“No. He’s mine. I don’t belong to you; neither does he.” I set my jaw. I had said I was, before, but I was not the one who had rebelled. “I am not yours.” My heart ached, surely from its fearful pounding. The shadows screamed, swirled, and tossed hay and iron tools into a deadly storm.

“You are Mine!” he howled, desperation in his voice. The winds pulled at me, begged of me with their tug. I had to look, to see if he had realized his error. Saw arrogance and need, demanding I acknowledge him.

“Your sins are not truths,” I spat, leaning away from him. The arrogance faded to confusion. The witch couldn’t save me this time; I must do this myself. “I never loved you.”

A wrenching tug in my chest; he was too close, pressed tightly against me. I couldn’t breathe. Frozen, he stared, eyes inhuman and crazed with agony. I stared back and fought for calm, fought to keep my sorrow from showing.

“You ate of My garden,” he said, the words heart-breaking in their unaccustomed doubt. The shadows lessened, their threat reduced to gloom and uncertainty.

Honey-sweet memory filled my mouth, the tender bite of pears that had been more delectable for the struggle it had been to obtain them, the gnawing hunger I’d felt. Desperation and longing leading to his temptation. It had been a time of learning and yielding, of pure, consuming lust. Nothing had mattered but the sharing, and I had lost all sense of self. I had fallen so that I had given him everything.

Yet he had betrayed it in his doubt and fear. My anger had long since cooled, but embers of it remained. I shook my head and allowed the coals to flare at my former dependence. I needed it to drown the grief of loss and to supply a necessary strength against his power and seduction.

“Bought in trickery; surely you of all know better?” I threw at the memory, bitter scorn coloring my voice. “You broke the rules by sending me away. You broke the bonds. It cannot be undone.” Too long had he waited to come back, and the hurt was unforgivable.

His face contorted, and the darkness returned. “I will destroy this wretch!” he roared, hands clawing gouges into his chest, tearing cloth and skin. I flinched, but would not yield. The wind screamed in rage; mine couldn’t maintain itself for long, for I didn’t want wrath.

“I will destroy this place, everything you care for!” The ground shook, and I feared my son would wake. I stood still, accepting what I could not change. His face distorted, wrath making a monster of him. His eyes went to the house. “I’ll take him from you, maiden.”

Roaring ferocity arose, unexpected and stronger than the anger. “No. He is my sorrow. You may not take him from me.” I‘d never understood Mother’s savage defense, her denial of my choice, but now I knew the consuming need to safeguard, that drove out all else. It flamed the fury to life, not with hellish scorn, but the will to protect with all that I had.

“He is guarded.” I reached past the chalk to the witch’s focus. Power flared in response to my passion, and it pushed him back. “And I am not a maiden. I am not a miller’s daughter, or your lover! I am a mother and a wife, not yours!” I yelled. It was enough to give me blessed room to think.

For once, I wished that I could be free of all bonds and be simply myself, identified by my existence alone. But I had lost that, and now my son needed me, and I would fight. I tilted my head to stare into his face; his eyes flickered away, then back.

“Your ward will not hold. He will be Mine! My seal-“

“Is not on him.”

“I gave you your power, I can take it from you!” Darkness formed a crown around him, making invisible his face as his power sought to dwarf mine. Blood trickled down his chest, dripped from his fingers to pool on the wooden planks.

“You may not,” I answered, the need to protect lending steady strength.

The wind whipped and stinging pain sliced my face. All went still at my blood, then his hand touched the bead. Reverence in his sanguine touch, regret, and the barn settled.

My thoughts scattered at the feel of him, on the memories of when I had burned for it. I shrank back, the power fading to the soul-deep yearning. I had been prisoner to myself, to him, and he had shattered me. I had to oppose him. For myself, for my son, I could not forget in one moment of tenderness.

“Death…” His brow furrowed, and he understood what his reclamation of power would bring. He wouldn’t do it, even for our son. Even to bring me to him again in his realm. He would not be the cause of it.

“Leave.” A whisper was all I could manage with him so close. It would be easy, to fall to him again. Dark nights of initiation, sheets cool and slick against heated skin, the languor and bliss. I looked beyond to the writhing shadows on the walls. There too, was remembered passion, and I shut my eyes against the temptation.

“Come with me,” he pleaded.

I struggled to push him away, shaking my head. In the darkness, in his heated touch, there were too many memories. In him there had been an unexpected gentleness, a mutual desire, and affectionate companionship. “You smell of narcissus and lilies,” he whispered, dropping his head to my shoulder. His bloody hand dug into the coil of my hair, tugging it loose.

Behind closed eyes, my mind evoked the hurried shedding of armor, the predator’s grace and rippling muscle. I recalled the feel of him, his body hardened by war, fierce and unpitying. I could smell him, cypress and pomegranates, lingering sensuality.
My memory paled to the glory I had known.

His lips whispered against my throat, sending chills throughout me. “The garden, it lacks your touch; come back to it, bring back your warmth,” he urged. “The boy can play there, a kingdom of his own, and you a queen.” His hands pushed the robe open, his chest slick even through my shift. Devouring need pulsed through me, heat rising beneath my skin. A throbbing ache settled deep and demanded I wrap myself around him, and never let go.

I wanted to not fight it anymore, to lose myself in him. And I wanted to be intertwined with him again, body and soul. I wanted to not be empty, to not hurt. It shouldn’t be wrong to want to feel complete.
“I want it back,” he murmured, “This scent of flowers and apples.”

Blood roared in my ears, sweeping desire aside and leaving ice in its wake; the time of loathing and loss coming back with all its terrible precision.

Apples against an azure sky, chalk dust coating my fingers. My father’s lustful greed, and the offer of wealth. My feeble denial; fool I to think that trading one monster for another would be worse, and had I known my lover then, I wouldn’t have refused him. The answering wrath and the demand for admonishment.

Through thirst and tears I’d held out, until Father’s terrible hands had reached for me. The rending pain, the penitent pound of flesh, and the hot gush of blood I had thought I would die from. The ceaseless torment, and the sundering from family when I had been forced to run.

My eyes flew open, and I nearly retched. I remembered why I could not, would not lose myself to him. Not when he would not do the same, would take and take until I had nothing left. His darkness would consume me again, and would eclipse my son.
I laid my hands on his chest; cool and pale against his scarlet burning. “You smell of blood and bone and ash,” I said, pushing.
Borrowed, his body was work-hard; another reason for hate, for this theft of a good man. Anger renewed, the winds rose again.

“I could give you the stars, the sun and moon!” he begged in anger, his voice deepening. Beyond, I could see that the silver orb still hung unnaturally high. His power, forcing the course of things against their nature. What would happen when day came, and he was still here? Or would the night last until a victor emerged?

He pressed his hand against mine. “The wealth of the world, then; just come with Me.” Pleading once more in his voice; unsure and unknowing of how to fix what he never should have broken.

I swallowed against a constricted throat. “I do not want them,” I told him. His disregard had ripped me apart and I couldn’t allow it again.

“You could be a queen.” The world tilted, my eyes blurred, and I saw flowers, and the fall from sky and earth to his realm; a queen dark and sorrowful upon the grandest throne, waiting, waiting…

I laughed, bitter, shaking my head clear of the vision. “In darkness and death? I don’t want it.” He’d had the choice to acknowledge his love for me, and he had destroyed it with his refusal.

Silence stretched. He withdrew.

“You refuse Me?” Disbelief marred his brow. “Me? I am-!”

“Nothing to me. I never loved you.” He doubled over, stumbling back. My heart hurt, tearing itself apart. Bereft, I felt terribly cold. This must be done, so that my son could choose his own path, and that I might be free.

A river of shadow opened between us, waves churning in misery, in sorrow, in hate. Cresting waves like coal-black horses galloping, surging, muscles gleaming one against the other. Wild eyes that had born down upon me, had taken me away from all that I had known.

“I am the fall of woman! I won’t be scorned by you!” he screamed. I hugged myself against the hollow chill, and looked away from the river. There were too many faces in its depths, their voices adding to his cry a thousand fold. “I won’t kneel to you!”

“To no one,” I murmured. It wasn’t what I‘d wanted.

“The pride of a woman, of one woman? I’ll not be laid so low as that. You are beneath me! Insignificant!” His screaming roar, a howl of agony and hatred piercing through me. Defiance, as it had been; I had never been a woman to him, yet even now he wouldn’t accept a mortal as his undoing.

Hands unseen pushed me towards the floor, subject to his will; a mockery of my loss. I refused, staggering upright. I had allowed his whims to rule me; I would not do so again. Impossibly wide, his eyes struck at me with an unholy light and pinned me in place. “I will not lay My pride upon your altar! I will not!”

I glared back, refusing fear. “I do not ask for pride!” I spat, staggering towards him. My own power boiled to the surface, spurred by the pain, and I raised my hands to gleam in the moon’s light. Flames melted the ice, scorn I had released renewing. I flexed them before his gaze.

“What will you away when it suits you? What, when it thwarts you, will you forsake? I am not to be thrown aside when you have fear! I am not a weakness you can cut off!” A sob betrayed me, but I stormed past it. “You can not hurt me to soothe your pride!”

Words I had never dared speak hung in the air. He stilled, the screaming winds halting. Misery in the depths, his eyes were fixated on my hands, testament to him. He would know full hell, not born of anger and vengeance, but of forfeiture and grief. Would know it until the end of time, the rending, soul-deep pain that I endured.

“It was real.” His hesitant voice, questioning. I struggled to reign in the tears, wanting him to hurt and wanting to ease his doubt.

Broken and torn, I turned from him, knowing that I had to do this. I fought to keep to the tricks of the deceiver. I couldn’t bring him comfort, couldn’t be anything but cruel in return.

“Your love, it was real.” A desperate plea for me to reverse the spell that I had begun, my one and only power against him.
I shook my head, rending pain in my chest as I said one last time, “I never loved you.”

It hung in the air, an ancient and simple power, more than even he could challenge. A thrice-told lie, well and full could not be undone. The darkness vanished, the moon retreating to its place against the horizon, acceding victory to the lantern.

He approached, holding out a hand. Ruby seeds rested in it, and I couldn’t help the tears that fell. I’d accepted them, when given the chance to leave. A false choice, which he had chosen to destroy in his denial.

“Take My hand,” he begged. “Even if not in love.”

I closed my eyes, fearing my trembling. I reached into the robe and found an errant penny. I set it atop the seeds. “For your trip.”

He frowned and closed his hand. Opening it again, they were gone. He reached out to my cheek, feather-soft to the tears, then flinched back before touching. “What would We have been?” he wondered. I muffled another sob, that now he thought to ask.

Shaking himself, he straightened. Stern and foreboding, shadow reflecting his truth. “I will come for him.”

I nodded, my heart bleeding. “Then he will choose, in his own knowing.”

He flinched again, then looked towards the house, towards the sleeping boy. “Might I…?” he asked.

“No.” I wouldn’t let them meet before it was time.

He did touch me then, drew me to him. A searing kiss, all the things he would not say. A completion we couldn’t keep, a union he had not looked for nor wanted. His hands covered mine with burning pain, and I gasped into his mouth.

He pulled back, regret the closest apology. “I miss the warmth of new light,” he whispered. His silvered hand rose to cup my cheek, chill against the hot tears. A rare smile, tender and full of our mutual sorrow.

The sky flamed with the coming dawn, an angel’s glorious sword cutting through the darkness. The witch stood beyond, waiting and watching our battle.

He retreated, the shadows coalescing. A last gift, and he collapsed, the silver and the blackness vanishing with him.

My husband lay on the floor, bleeding but blessedly alive. I stared, then crumbled over him. I found his pulse steady, the wounds superficial.

The witch approached, touched my unbound hair, and I wept onto my whole hands.