Chapter 8: Fertility Rites
The decision to stay hung in the air between them, a palpable, fragile thing. Ralg’s confession had shifted the ground beneath their feet. The cabin was no longer just a hideaway; it was a choice. For three days, they moved through the routines of survival—tending the garden, checking snares, mending gear—but every glance, every casual touch, was loaded with a new and terrifying significance.
On the fourth morning, Ralg shouldered his bow. “The spring,” he said, not looking at her as he gathered soapwort and a rough linen towel. “You smell of woodsmoke and me. We’ll wash.”
The path to the hot spring was a narrow deer trail winding down through thick pines. Steam rose in gentle plumes ahead, mingling with the crisp air. The spring itself was a small, rocky pool carved by geothermal heat, the water a milky, pale blue. Lush ferns and moss clung to the stones, and the air was thick with the scent of minerals and wet earth.
Sabrina shed her clothes without ceremony, letting the soft, damp air kiss her skin. She slipped into the water first, a gasp escaping her lips at the perfect, enveloping heat. It was a balm on muscles still sore from their last encounter. She sank to her shoulders, silver hair fanning out like a halo.
Ralg watched her from the bank, his eyes dark. He removed his own clothes slowly, his movements deliberate. The scars she’d felt under her hands were laid bare in the diffuse light—a pale web of old violence across his torso and arms. He was a monument to survived pain.
He waded in, the water rippling around his waist. He didn’t go to her immediately. Instead, he lathered the soapwort in his hands, the clean, green smell cutting through the mineral damp. He moved behind her. His strong, soap-slicked hands settled on her shoulders.
Sabrina let her head fall forward. His thumbs worked at the knots along her spine, the pressure firm and knowing. It was an act of service, of care, so unlike the consuming hunger she’d come to expect. For long minutes, there was only the sound of lapping water, the distant cry of a hawk, and the slow, grinding release of tension from her body.
He washed her back, her arms, his hands moving with a thorough, almost clinical detachment. Then his palms smoothed over her ribs, down to the dip of her waist. The detachment shattered.
His touch changed. It became possessive, exploratory. One hand slid around to cup her breast, his thumb circling her nipple until it peaked into a hard bud. The other hand drifted lower, over the flat plane of her stomach.
“Turn around,” he murmured, his voice a low vibration against the shell of her ear.
She did, facing him in the steamy water. His expression was intense, the blue of his eyes almost swallowed by black. He pulled her close, her body sliding against his in the slick heat. The rigid length of his erection pressed against her belly.
He kissed her, deep and consuming, his tongue claiming her mouth. The soap was forgotten. Their hands were everywhere, sliding over wet skin, gripping, exploring. He walked her backward until her shoulders met the smooth, moss-covered rock at the spring’s edge. The contrast was electric—the scalding water, the cool, velvety moss on her back.
He lifted her as if she weighed nothing, his hands under her thighs, hoisting her up onto the broad, flat stone. The air hit her wet skin, raising goosebumps. She was spread open before him, perched on the edge of the world, steam wreathing her body.
Ralg stepped between her thighs, his hands rough on her knees, pushing them wider. His gaze was a physical weight, roaming over every exposed inch of her.
“Look at you,” he breathed, not a compliment, but a statement of stark fact. “Laid out like a feast.”
He leaned forward, not to kiss her, but to run his tongue, flat and hot, up the center of her. Sabrina jolted, a sharp cry echoing off the rocks. He did it again, slower, delving into her folds with a focused, brutal intimacy. He ate at her with a single-minded purpose, his stubble scraping her inner thighs, his tongue and lips working her until her hips jerked and her back arched off the mossy stone.
She was panting, her fingers tangled in his damp hair, holding him to her. The orgasm built, a tightening coil in her gut. Just as it was about to break, he pulled away.
She whimpered in protest, her body throbbing with unfinished need.
Ralg stood, water streaming down his chest. His face was a mask of controlled ferocity. He spat into his palm, slicked himself, and in one fluid, powerful motion, he drove up into her.
The fullness was breathtaking, a stunning invasion that stole the air from her lungs. He filled her completely, a burning, perfect stretch. He didn’t move for a long moment, just held himself there, embedded to the hilt, his eyes locked on hers.
“This,” he grunted, his voice strained. “This is mine.”
Then he moved. He pulled back and slammed home, setting a relentless, pounding rhythm. The sound of their coupling was obscenely loud in the secluded clearing—the wet slap of skin, the rock scraping under her, his guttural grunts.
“Gonna pump you full right here,” he snarled, each word a punctuated thrust. “Where the whole forest can hear. Let the birds and the bears know who you belong to.” He leaned over her, biting the junction of her neck and shoulder, a sharp, claiming pain. “Gonna plant my child so deep in your pretty elf cunt, it’ll take root.”
His crude, visceral words, coupled with the brutal, primal pace of his hips, unraveled her. This was more than fucking. It was a branding. A declaration written in sweat and seed. Her second climax tore through her, a raw, screaming thing that clenched around him like a vice.
He felt it, and with a final, deep roar, he buried himself and held. She felt the hot, pulsing flood of his release, jet after jet, a searing claim that seemed to go on forever. He collapsed against her, his weight pinning her to the rock, his face buried in her neck. They were both slick with spring water and sweat, shaking in the aftermath.
Time blurred. The steam settled around them. Eventually, he softened and slipped from her, a slow, tender loss. He stayed there, forehead pressed to her shoulder, breathing hard.
When he finally spoke, his voice was raw, stripped bare. “I mean it, Sabrina. A child. A life. Here.” He lifted his head, his eyes searching hers, fearful and fierce. “Give me that. Give me something that lasts.”
The immensity of it, of what he was asking, crashed over her. Not just to stay, but to build. To create a new life in this harsh, beautiful place, tied forever to this complicated, violent, passionate man. The Dragonborn within her, the part that heard the distant call of the Greybeards, twisted in protest. But the woman, the one who had found safety in his strength and fire in his touch, felt a terrifying, thrilling pull.
She didn’t answer. She couldn’t. Instead, she slid off the rock back into the water, washing his spend from her thighs with trembling hands. The silence returned, but it was different now, heavy with unspoken futures.
They washed in silence, dressed in silence. The walk back to the cabin was quiet, the weight of his question hanging between them like a third presence. As they reached the edge of the clearing, Ralg stopped, his hand on her arm.
He didn’t look at her. He stared at the cabin’s sturdy door. “You don’t have to answer now,” he said, his voice low. “Just… think on it.”
Inside, he built the fire higher than necessary. The flames danced, casting long, wavering shadows. He busied himself with a whetstone and his axe, the rhythmic shink-shink-shink filling the room. Sabrina sat on the hearth, watching him, the memory of his heat inside her still vivid, his desperate words echoing.
He had offered her a world. A small, hard, real world. And she, who held the echo of dragonfire in her soul, had no idea if she could fit inside it. The conflict was a cold knot in her stomach, tightening with every pass of the stone along the steel.
The conflict was a cold knot in her stomach, tightening with every pass of the stone along the steel. The rhythmic scraping seemed to etch his proposal deeper into the air, into her. She watched the firelight play over the cords of his forearm, the focused set of his jaw, and the memory of his heat inside her at the spring warred with the chilling reality of centuries.
"Ralg." Her voice sounded small, but it cut through the noise. He stopped, the whetstone hovering, and looked at her. His eyes were wary, bracing for rejection.
She took a breath, the scent of woodsmoke and him filling her lungs. "A child," she began, forcing the words out. "If we... if I have your child, you need to understand something first." She stood, walking to the window where the last of the daylight bled into the pines. "I'm Altmer. My lifespan... it's not like yours. I could live for centuries. You..." She turned to face him, her pale blue eyes serious. "You won't."
She saw the understanding dawn in his face, not as surprise, but as acceptance of a known fact. He set the axe and stone aside carefully, the metal clicking against the hearthstone. "I know," he said, his voice rough but steady. He stood, closing the distance between them in two strides. "Sabrina, I’ve known since I first saw you that you were from a different world. A longer one."
He took her hands in his, his calloused palms warm against her skin. "That doesn't change a damn thing for me." His grip was firm, anchoring. "You think I care about counting years? I’m a soldier who walked away. Every day since has been a gift. You... you’re the gift."
Sabrina felt the knot in her stomach begin to loosen, replaced by a swelling ache in her throat. "I love you too much," she whispered, the admission raw. "The thought of you growing old while I... the heartache for me, for a child who might lose their father..." She shook her head, silver hair catching the firelight. "It’s a cruelty I don’t want to give you."
"Listen to me." He cupped her face, his thumbs wiping at the moisture she hadn't realized was gathering in her eyes. "You’re my one and only. In this life, in whatever time I have. A child between us wouldn’t be a heartache. It’d be a blessing. Proof that we existed here, together. Something real and good left behind in all this cold."
He leaned his forehead against hers, his breath warm. "Let me have that blessing. Let me give that to you. Years don’t matter. This does."
The last of her resistance crumbled. The Dragonborn’s destiny still whispered, but this man, this moment, was louder. She nodded, a slow, sure movement. "Yes," she said, the word a release. "Yes, we can have a child."
A profound stillness settled over him, followed by a slow, deep breath that seemed to come from his bones. Then a smile, genuine and unguarded, softened the hard lines of his face. "Thank you," he murmured, the words thick with emotion.
He bent his head and kissed her. It was nothing like the hungry, claiming kisses of the garden or the spring. This was slow, tender, a sealing of a promise. His lips were warm and deliberate, speaking of a future built not just on passion, but on this choice. She kissed him back, her hands rising to tangle in the hair at the nape of his neck, pulling him closer.
They broke apart, foreheads still touching, breathing the same air. Outside, the wind sighed through the pines, carrying the scent of coming rain. The fire popped, sending a shower of sparks up the chimney.
Ralg’s hands slid from her face down to her waist, drawing her into a tight embrace. She fit against him perfectly, her ear over his heart, listening to its steady, strong rhythm. "We start now," he said quietly into her hair, his voice a vow. "Today."