Deathbeds[✓]

14;

They walked into Ivarstead late that day, Anais half-dragging her feet up the steps and into the inn. Bishop was running ragged and was in desperate need for a drink.

Oddly enough, at the same inn that he'd gotten drunk and met the little Dragonborn in front of him.

Anais paid for a room, the only room left available, but she didn't mind sharing the bed with Bishop for the night. She also ordered two meals and four ales to be brought to their room.

Bishop eyed the single bed and then Anais. She threw her pack down in the corner and then her scabbard and sword.

A servant of the innkeeper dropped off their meals on the small table and swiftly left. He recognized her as the bard Lynnly. She was pretty enough, not that looks really mattered to him when it came to lust, and she had a better singing voice than most of the other bards in Skyrim. There wasn't much else special about her, not compared to Anais. She winked at him, her eyes lingering on his body openly before slipping out the door.

Apparently, this was not gone unnoticed by Anais. She slammed the door shut the moment Lynnly crossed the threshold. Bishop smiled slyly at her; she was the jealous type. He liked that though no one held a candle to her.

They took seats at the table, eagerly partaking in the large bowls of soup and cheese board. It was quiet between them, each wallowing in their own thoughts. Bishop filled their tankards and raised his to hers in cheers then tipped them back until they emptied and he refilled them once more.

Bishop downed his drink again, slamming it heavily on the table and groaned. He was tired, and judging from the fatigued look on Anais' face, she was as well.

He cleared his throat to gain her attention, "so, how long does it take to get up the seven thousand steps?"

Anais propped her elbow on the table, her cheek in her hand while the other hand swirled around the rim of her tankard. "Several hours. The snow and the wind is the worst part but that's further up the mountain."

Bishop nodded at nothing in particular. He spent a lot of time in the Jerral mountains on his way into Skyrim, back when he was travelling with his brother Julian. Snow and wind and jagged sharp rocks were nothing new to him, though he preferred the cooler autumns to the bitterness of the winter.

Anais closed her eyes, her face lolling in her hand. Bishop stood and picked her up out of the chair and laid her on the bed. She peered up at him through half-lidded eyes and smiled sleepily at him. He removed her boots and let them drop noisily on the floor.

"Shhhh," she whispered at him and drew up the covers, patting the empty spot for him to join her. "Come here, ranger."

Bishop obliged, undoing the belts and straps of his armor before slipping in beside her. Anais laid on her side and hooked her leg over his. He wrapped her arm over her, the other behind her neck and pulling her closer to him.

Now this was a first for him. He laid with women, yes, but never spent the night with them or slept next to them. It was... intimate. Not that sex wasn't- well, not to him- but this was unexplainable. His heart felt heavy and light at the same time. He felt at peace, and he knew that Anais had him under her spell.

"Bishop?"

He tilted his head, his chin resting on her forehead. "Ladyship?"

She sighed heavily, her breath spanning across his chest. "I'm glad you're with me."

He chest was tight and he stroked his fingertips across her face, pushing away her curls from her eyes. "Yeah... me too, sweetness."

Bishop shifted on his feet, eyeing the four grey old men with what he hoped was slight deference. These were men that could kill a person with a whisper, after all, though they seemed indifferent to his presence. All except for one: Master Arngeir. He was the one that could talk, and as Anais explained to him on their journey up to this blasted monastery, he was the one who mentored her on some sort of pacifist meditation called the Way of the Voice. Master Arngeir (Anais explicitly told him to call the Greybeard as such) raised his nose at Bishop. Master Arngeir seemed to know something about Bishop, or so he thought, by the skeptical lines around the older man's mouth.