Stormblade

She was his.

His alone.

His to command, to praise, to condemn, to conquer, to destroy...

She was his Stormblade; a salvation to the People of Skyrim, and an Unholy Blight to the people of the Empire.

She was accursed, and praised, loved, and hated. Feared and admired...

She was Dovahkiin. Her voice sung the Dirge of Ruin to her foes while she bathed in their blood, all for him.

For him.

And yet he was not hers in return. No, he would never be.

He would never marry her; in her heart of hearts, she knew this.

But she still committed herself to him, bowed on bended knee and cloaked herself with the title of Stormblade as she quelled the forces of Skyrim's evil bane.

Though she had given herself wholly to him, and paved the way through the war for him, she knew...

She knew their love would never last.

For she was Breton, and the people of Skyrim would demand their King to wed a High society Nord woman, she fit neither of those standards.

And though he tried, announcing her as Skyrim's savior, she knew the people would never bow to a Breton Queen.

And it was just as well, for she held many a secret.

There would be no room for a Queen who ran the Thieves Guild; there would be no room for a Queen who spoke with the Night Mother.

There would be no room for a Queen who ran the Mage's College.

Yet she was all three.

She was cursed, she supposed. The mark of the Dovah on her must have been the cause.

But she still gladly kept herself at his side for as long as he wished, no matter what the citizens of Skyrim said.

She would be his Stormblade, his aid, his consort, his Thane.

She would be his, from now, until her dying breath.

Such was the way of the Dovah.

End.