The Gospel of Vahlok: Epistle

In The Beginning Was The Word

I Will Lift Mine Eyes

Hark I Hear The Harps Eternal

Lord, What a Thoughtless Wretch Was I!

Let My Love Be Heard *New*

Loukas (Vahlok) & Mika (Miraak) by @stellarsightz

Vahlok by @sulphuricgrin

So-Ki by @hircines-hunter

this meme by @hadvarandralof

Vahlok & Miraak by @sunsettemplar

The Albatross by @hadvarandralof

Archbishop Mika by @pinessydr

Vahlok and Miraak by @sunsettemplar

Nara can tell she’s dreaming from her eyes; in the waking world, they’re that frightening deep amber typical of a Vampiress, her pupils fossilized like crystals behind their unnatural glow. Her eyes are a stain on her beauty, and she loathes to see them — though it’s not as if she usually can. Only sun-lit waters show her reflection. In mirrors, she’s little but an absence, the empty effect of hunger, something more impermeable than a ghost.

But in dreams she’s briefly allowed to savor who or what she was, letting herself swim in the sunny-sky eyes that used to belong to her. When her red lips part into a smile, her reflection smiles back at her, and the harmony of it both brings her to lucidity and drives in a deeper desire to never wake up.

This dream is familiar; she’s seated at a vanity in the Hall of the Vigilant, and there’s a pretty young woman with curled and piled dark brown hair carefully brushing crushed red mountain flowers onto her lips. All Nara can tell is she knows her, or knew her, anyway. There’s a bond between them, but it’s faded and worn now. She can’t recall her name, but she’s her bridesmaid, she’s sure of that.

When the woman sets the brush and bowl of makeup away, her hands cover her mouth, delighted with her work. “Oh, Miss Nara-Jane. You’ve never looked more beautiful.”

She’s teary eyed already, and Nara takes a thin hand to comfort her. When she speaks, her words are scripted from memory; they come from her mouth, but not from her mind. “Lovey, save your tears for the ceremony. You’ll ruin your makeup.”

“Oh Gods.” She nearly sobs and wipes away the droplets with a little lace hankie. “I just can’t believe you’re really off the market for good. Are you sure you don’t want to run away with me?”

“Are you trying to die?” Another voice interrupts. Without turning, Nara knows it belongs to a Breton man garbed in traditional wedding attire, one hand over his eyes, glimmering golden fabric draped over an arm outstretched. “Because ▇▇ would kill you if he knew you were even thinking about stealing Nara.”

Her Maid of Honor skips over to him and collects his offering with a grin. “Don’t pretend you’ve never considered it. She’s the prettiest girl in Tamriel.”

“Whether or not I have, I wouldn’t be stupid enough to say it out loud.”

While they chatter and bicker like siblings, Nara examines the man. These waking dreams frustrate her endlessly; while she recognizes the strong eyebrows, the well-kept beard, the long brown hair, it’s simply as if his face and name blur at the edge of recognition. No matter how hard she tries, no matter how many restless nights she spends seeking, she can’t answer the critical question: who were you, Nara-Jane?

“Nara? My beautiful, beautiful bride? Are you there?”

She blinks herself back into lucidity; she needs to hang on to the dream as long as possible. She’ll never know if she doesn’t keep trying. “Sorry. Wedding nerves.”

Hands still over his eyes, the man smiles. “Who are you tossing the bouquet to? ▇▇ or Keeper ▇▇?”

Keeper, Keeper, Keeper. She remembers this from the last time she dreamed it — the man has an affliction for the Vigilant Keeper. It had been a breakthrough in her memory. She’d never been capable of placing a title before. “I suspect no matter where I throw it you two will take to hand-to-hand combat over it. Perhaps I should have gotten two.”

Then a huff from both parties and an eventual shoo from her bridesmaid. “Go. Attend to your friend. Gods know he’s having one of his anxiety attacks.”

“The kind where he sits blankly and silently in a corner with a thousand yard stare?” Nara asks. The man clicks his tongue approvingly.

“Exactly that, so I will be going, before your attack dog bites my head off.” He says, but not before bending down to kiss her cheek. “Knock ‘em dead, Nara.”

Finally left in peace, the two women unfurl his delivery; this time, it’s Nara’s turn to succumb to tears. The veil is a spectacular work of art, and she recollects the distant memory that her betrothed’s mother had sewn it for her. It’s constructed of fine Rihadian lace, intricately beaded, the purest yellow sapphires dripping down the fabric and about her shoulders like rain. The train is a masterpiece on its own; three women had worked on the beading for seven days and seven nights, four-hundred and twenty seven diamonds and yellow sapphires carefully stitched to form a sunburst. When it’s draped over her head, obscuring her eyes, it frightens her; for a moment, the yellow caught the light like amber.

“Nara-Jane. When you die, Dibella will step down.” Her friend coos, adjusting her blonde hair beneath the veil. “And Stendarr will sing.”

“How I wish to hear that song.” Nara whispers, her delicate hands reaching up to touch the sunburst tiara draped about her forehead. Her words come to her, this time unscripted. “But the cool touch of death will never be for me.”

At the first stirrings of flute and harmony from the great hall, the two women rise, and Nara refocuses her efforts on another breakthrough. The song. What is that song? From the way her heart swells and murmurs along with it, it’s something dear to her — probably something she chose. She tunes into her senses; the striking smell of snow on a winter evening, the slight lean and scratch of a rooftop on her back. A smoking stick of incense, with a scent so specific, she can’t help but think of —

“Stros M’kai. A Song for Lovers.” She realizes out loud. Her bridesmaid gives her a strange glance as she adjusts the position of her bouquet, so that it might cascade naturally down her dress. “▇▇ sang it to me on the rooftop the day my daddy passed away. He’s a terrible singer.”

“Oh, my poor love, you’re nervous.” Her friend whispers. Carefully, so as not to disturb her, she wraps her in a hug. “This is all ceremony, darling.”

For the first time since these dreams began, Nara hears his voice. It’s low, gruff, but warm in a way that seems to be for her and her alone. “Nara-Jane, Stendarr save me, I’m going to marry you.”

Nara’s head swims and the music grows louder, the time approaching for her grand entrance. When her bridesmaid pulls away, the veil hides the terror in her eyes, but can’t hide the way the bouquet shakes in her hands. Her concern is evident, and her voice is suddenly laced with something that sounds like empty, unfamiliar grief.

“Nara…?”

“I think something terrible happened to—”

The final word never leaves her tongue — the glimmering sunburst on her veil immolates, and in seconds her body is aflame, the sapphires that had once decorated her shoulders now boiling holes into her burning flesh. The pain is unspeakable, and she flails, trying to throw the heavy fabric from her shoulders. Her skin is bubbling, her body is melting, and in her scramble she finds herself leaning over a basin of crystalline water. Between screams and gurgles of pain, she sees her eyes rippling in the blue.

Amber.

Which NPCs in TES (all games included!) do you crush on, and why? They don't have to be marriage candidates (in vanilla), just people you find yourself blushing around. Hell, it could be a Deadric Prince if that's what you're into. Name them and say what about them you find appealing! Then feel free to tag a friend or two!

• She’s mommy but I believe I could make her submit to me.

• Sorine Jurard I could make you feel things you’ve never felt before and will never feel again.

• Give me 27 minutes and an extended barrel revolver I can fix him

• Need him in vile and unspeakable manners!

• Bend over naughty kitty, daddy’s home *whips bed*