Chapter Text
The Tale of the Dragonborn
For a long time, Keshaara said nothing. As soon as her wails of despair faded, as soon as she stopped screaming her denial of what had happened to her, she said nothing. The dragons withdrew from her, leaving her to the mourning of the Nords. Keshaara, eyes red and swollen, began the long watch after stealing her steel armor back. There was no one to defend anymore, and she was no one’s Champion. Her armor was her own again.
The steel was a comforting, familiar weight. It was her armor, both physical and emotional. The Dovahkiin wore this steel, the Dovahkiin stood guard over the honored dead. The armor was painfully Nordic, etched with designs she had not seen since she had first come to Asgard. Had it been any other time that she had received this armor back, she perhaps would have felt the loss of her homeland, would have felt the pain of knowing she could not go back, would have started weeping for reasons other than knowing that she had again, been separated from her Alunsegein.
As it was, that was what hurt more than anything.
She had had him.
She had found him.
She had hoped for happiness and love and the things the bardic college never shut up about. She had hoped for the end to the destiny that had plagued her, in the gift of a name from a man who had no right to name anyone. It had been the greatest gift, to be named Golden Queen, Bearer of Courage, the Queen of Courage, however many iterations of her name that could arise from those three words in her name. It had been a gift befitting a Prince’s Consort, and Keshaara had rejoiced when she found that Loki had given it to her. To him, she had been a Queen. His Queen.
And now she had a name and no one to share it with. The namer of her identity was gone, the one who had declared her Queen was gone and now her name, the name that had brought her such keen joy in the critical time of flux of her identity, meant nothing. She was nothing again. Her name was not a gift any longer, it was a curse. A reminder of what could have been.
Destiny was always cruel to her. To give what she had wanted, to hand it to her with an open hand, and invite her to reach for something as glorious as a life free from the bounds of subservience to a cause she had no way to know of, and then to snatch it away in the cruelest possible fashion, and leave her in misery.
Silence was the watcher’s gift, she did not wail.
There was no body to mourn over, no shroud to tear and stitch across her underclothes, to keep the last garb of the dead over your heart. She had no bastion of normalcy to fall to, and no mourning that could be done properly. The Asgardians did not commit their dead to mausoleums; they set them adrift over the waterfalls, and let them fall to nothingness. She had no carved relief over a tomb to kneel in front of and keen, there were no singers called to tell everyone Loki’s story, no one did anything. It was not…proper.
So she chose to stand guard in front of his rooms. It was the closest thing she could find after the empty boat was sent over the edge of the world. The empty boat set free from an empty shoreline. No one came to mourn Loki. No one bothered. He had died, that was enough for them.
Loki was dead.
Asgard breathed easier, relaxing all at once, as if a great thorn had been removed from its side. They avoided her, and his rooms. No servants came by, no one spoke to her, no one looked at her. No one offered to stand with her, no one garbed themselves in armor and stood with her without asking. No one offered her a spear to lean on, or a consolation of any form.
No, Loki was dead and Asgard rejoiced.
Keshaara stood, still and speechless, allowing the pain and anger to bleed from her. The point of the Long Watch was to stand for a month in their memory, and at the end of the month, the pain was gone, and they were left only with the happy memories. That was the way it went. You had a month to feel your pain, to accept it and how it will change you, and then after that, there is no more pain. It is surrendered to the Divines, along with the one you stood watch for.
So Keshaara stood.
And waited.
And watched.
Her pain was her only companion. She would wait until the pain left her after the end of this month, and she would see what she could do to move on after that point.
Keshaara went away within herself and stood. Nothing mattered but her mourning as she stood guard over Loki’s rooms. Nothing…mattered.
“…sh…”
She blinked. Her eyes felt painfully dry and gritty. Like she had fallen asleep face-first in a dune and did not wake up until days later. She was vaguely aware of her arms aching, but that was rather overshadowed by the pain just behind her sternum.
“…Ke…ra.”
Her shoulders ached. She had been wearing her armor for too long, it was likely there were sores. She could feel slickness on her skin, which told her much about how long she had been standing. Her hips ached something terribly, and the thought of trying to move nearly sent her tumbling to the floor. The physical pain reared its head, but the emotional trauma was still winning out. Physical pain should not still be present.
“Ke…ara.”
Someone grabbed her by the forearm, shaking her vigorously. Keshaara blinked again, trying to clear her hazy vision. She had been staring into the mid-distance for so long that she could barely see. Light filtered into her field of vision, the more she blinked, the more she could see, and the shaking intensified. It was hard to focus, but she was trying to. Every time she blinked, more of her vision returned to her, but it was still hard to see.
“Keshaara!”
Another blink, and then the world crashed into existence around her. It was Fandral, almost nose-to-nose with her, pulling her from side to side to try and get her to wake up. Her ears felt like they were stuffed with cloth, and his words were muffled. She shuddered, trying to get herself to wake up back into her body, and fell backwards against the wall. Fandral rushed to help hold her up, shouting over his shoulder for help.
Keshaara felt more hands on her, holding her up, pulling her away from the door. She felt far more exhausted than she ever remembered being, especially for something as easy as a month long mourning-fast. She had done this for her children, their spouses, her grandchildren, her husband and some of her treasured friends. Every time, she had spent the month mourning, and then come out of the trance on her own. Aching and weary, yes, but she had never felt like this.
She felt raw and empty of all things except agony.
Moving hurt.
Breathing hurt.
Thinking hurt.
Keshaara looked up to Fandral, confused as to why he would interrupt her mourning like this. It was not right. Durnehviir and Odahviing should have told him about her need to mourn like this. They would have known that she was doing the right thing and should not be interrupted like this. Why was Fandral here? He should not be here, there were still days left in her mourning. She was not ready to be done with this yet.
When she tried to speak, all that came out was a hoarse croak. She must have cried more than she had thought, to be so dehydrated so soon into her month of mourning. She should not be this week, her legs should not be giving out as easily as they did, but every step she tried to take sent jagged spikes of pain up her legs. Her joints creaked and snapped as she started walking with Fandral’s assistance.
He slung one of her arms over his shoulders and supported her, helping her walk away from Loki’s rooms. Keshaara was not strong enough to resist, but she made token protestations as her feet twisted underneath her. Her armor felt like it did not quite fit her right anymore, which was odd because she had put it on but a few days ago and it had fit her as well as it had always done. Why was Fandral leading her away? Why did she feel so weak? Where was Durnehviir and Odahviing to tell him off for moving her?
“Wh…why? Fandral, I should be standing guard…”
Fandral did not reply, just stopped his forced march to stare at her for a long moment before starting again. He walked with purpose, pulling her along with him, back to her rooms. She stumbled and he caught her, holding her up like she weighed nothing. Keshaara objected, and was confused all over again. Her armor was heavy, and she was no feather-light woman, either. Even if Fandral had the uncommon strength of the Aesir, he should have had some struggle with carrying her around like this, but he wasn’t.
“Let…let me go back, I still have to stand guard. He’s…he…it’s not been a month. He needs someone to watch over him.”
Nausea washed over her as Fandral spun her quickly, pushing her up against a pillar to hold her steady. Anger danced in his eyes, and Keshaara’s head swam as she tried to piece together what she had done to upset Fandral this severely.
“Keshaara, you have been standing guard there for two and a half months already. The dragons would not let anyone move you, but you are wasting away. I am not going to let you die mourning him.”
His words did not make sense, and Keshaara shook her head as he continued to speak.
“No…no, Fandral, stop. It’s not been that long. We only mourn for a month. I…It can’t be that long.”
The way Fandral looked at her made everything shatter all over again.
“Fandral…no. No, please tell me you are exaggerating. It can’t…it can’t, Fandral. I can’t still be…”
“Keshaara…”
“NO!”
She pushed him, her weakness apparent when her usually brutal shove barely made Fandral move at all. He covered her hands with his and looked at her sternly.
“Keshaara, you need to stop. You’re going to waste away.”
“No! No…no, I have to…it can’t be. You need to tell me truthfully, Fandral. How long have I been standing guard?”
“I told you. Nearly two and a half months. You have not moved, or eaten, or drank anything. The servants have taken to calling you the weeping statue. No one could rouse you. I’ve been trying for days now, to get you to move. We are worried. You need to eat and sleep. The time for you to stand guard is done. No one has entered his rooms since you left them, but you cannot stand there forever.”
Keshaara started to shake. She could feel it in her hands, her knees, her gut. Hunger came next, gnawing at her with such intensity that she nearly fell over. Her muscles ached, her body rebelled and Keshaara realized he had been telling the truth.
“But…I still hurt. I still miss him. How can I still miss him after that long. We mourn for a month. Only for a month. I did not mourn my children for longer than that. Or my husband, or my dearest friend. Why…why do I still miss him?”
Fandral had no words for her, merely reached out to her and pulled her close to him in a tight hug. It was hard to lift her arms to return the embrace, and Keshaara’s legs went out from underneath her anyway.
The weight of feeling emotions as strongly as she was in that moment was more than enough to make her shudder in dismay, because one thing became very clear right then: she was never going to be free of her sadness. It was a part of her now. It would forever be a part of her. She would not be free, ever again. A name had been given to her, and it was a name she could do nothing with.
Her King was gone.
Keshaara recovered slowly. Her mourning period had taxed her body to the limit, it seemed. Exhaustion was her companion, and she rankled at the presence of others. She would find ways to escape the palace and walk out far into the world of Asgard, only to return days or weeks later, scraped and bruised. When asked about her injuries, she would acknowledge the pain they caused her and heal them.
But she did not seek out anyone to talk with.
Sif, Fandral, Odahviing…they all sought her out, trying to bring her back into herself, trying to rouse her into action, to get her to spar, to think, to read or move or show signs of truly living, but they received nothing. Keshaara would awake, eat, and wait for nightfall, only to sleep again. She hardly moved, an eerie habit for those around her to observe in action.
Dόmhildr, especially, found it hard to understand. Keshaara would sit very still on a chair on the porch she had, staring out into the distance without saying anything or acknowledging anyone around her. The dragons did not seem perturbed by it, merely sitting silently with her, watching everything Keshaara was not looking at, just in case danger came to her again.
Dόmhildr turned to Durnehviir when she saw the dragon approaching Keshaara one day, the question burning her lips as she asked it. It seemed almost like a betrayal to ask about something so personal as one’s method of mourning, but she was Keshaara’s housecarl, and she needed to know.
“It is an old…draconic relic,” Durnehviir explained, looking to Keshaara’s still form out on the balcony. “When we mourn, or when we have lost something, we sit stone-still. It is how we try and contemplate our loss. We…we cannot handle the loss of something as precious as what Keshaara has lost. Our souls are old, and there is only so much pain one of us can bear before it is too much. Keshaara may have hit that point now.”
“But she is not a dragon, the Forge made her Aesir.”
“No, the Forge did no such thing,” Durnehviir said sharply, looking down at Dόmhildr. “The forge approximated what she was, and gave me a form to work with. But Keshaara is still a dragon-soul. Her name is draconic, her soul is ancient. She is one of us, not one of your Aesir.”
Dόmhildr looked from Keshaara to Durnehviir, and nodded in understanding. It was odd, but it was what it was.
Keshaara knew she was acting out of misery and sorrow. She knew that she had been considered by many to have overreacted.
But Divines, she had tried to pull herself out of the depression. She had tried everything to stop being obsessed by her despair. Nothing worked. All things in Asgard served to do nothing but remind her of what is gone. Loki is gone, and nothing could bring him back. She had stood guard to mourn, going once and half again over the mourning period and found no peace there. Everywhere she turned, she saw his Shade dogging her. The air was heavy with his exhalations, and nothing could remove his presence from her.
Asgard had once been Loki’s home and now she could find no solace in it.
Her curtains, laden with magic and memory did nothing but mock her. The Lover that had once been her solace.
Now Keshaara could not stand to see those stars.
She ripped the Lover from the skies of her past, tearing the fabric apart to make sure she could feel the magic failing beneath her hands. She never wanted to see that constellation again. It only ridiculed her now. There was nothing for her but pain in that constellation. How could she have ever found comfort in that bitch’s form?
It was a lie.
All of it was a lie.
Happiness was not for her.
Love was not for her.
She was Keshaara, Dovahkiin, abandoned by all things in her life, but most of all by those things that could have brought her joy. There was no joy for her life. No, now she lived purely to die. To find Loki again.
She would not forget what was lost, but the memories served no purpose. There was no reason to remember how it felt to be in Loki’s arms, or the touch of his lips or how Divines-damned green his eyes were and how much she loved his fingers, or any of the thousands of other things that made Loki such a painfully bright point in her life. Those memories served nothing but pain.
No, her memory would only recall that she was not meant to have the happiness that seemed to be thrown at the feet of others. She was not allowed to be happy. She was Dovahkiin, she had a duty to do, even now, even in Asgard, even as Tamriel spun back towards its inevitable conclusion and destruction. She always had a duty to do.
Her destiny was to serve.
Loki had given her the name of a Queen, but there was no Queen without a King. There was only a widow upon a throne, with a cold band of metal over her brow. There was no comfort in that. She could find no comfort in anything. Happiness was not to be hers.
Fire burned the Lover to ash.
Dόmhildr came into her room later that day. Keshaara was dressed in the finery of Aesir, and brushed past the housecarl without a word, heading out the door that she had not exited in weeks. Asgard would feel her fury for what had happened to Loki. Her King had been killed, and she would extract revenge.
Dόmhildr watched her leave, confused as to why Keshaara looked so upset, but when she saw her Thane’s curtains, hastily mended with a bright red slash of cloth where there had once been a beautiful constellation. The room was in disarray, and the armor Keshaara had made for the day she was to be introduced to Asgard as Loki’s betrothed was covered with the remainder of the red cloth. Keshaara had not looked to its completion because there had been no reason to do so.
Keshaara was clearly ready to do something, but Dόmhildr had no idea what that could be. But there was intention to her movement now that had been lacking all these weeks of inaction, and Dόmhildr shuddered to think what it could mean. Keshaara never did anything halfway.
Whatever was about to happen, it was going to be incredible.