Chapter 31: Drunken Fist
Carlotta glanced at Mikael, then back at Darius. Her lips parted.
And for the first time in a long while, she considered saying yes.
She sighed and shook her head, more to herself than anyone else, not wanting someone to get hurt over words from someone she couldn't care less about.
"Hah! All I hear is jealousy," Mikael barked with smug amusement.
He hadn't even noticed Carlotta's subtle refusal. His attention was locked onto Darius, sizing him up with a mix of ego and calculation.
Big man, broad shoulders, he looked strong… but the clothes were noble. Rich, probably pampered. And the most important, he was drunk.
Very drunk.
Mikael's grin widened. This was perfect. Knock down a drunk noble in front of a crowd, impress Carlotta, maybe even score a song out of it. The Bard and the Brute, or something catchy. He could already hear the chorus.
He stepped forward and pushed Darius back, testing the waters, but Darius didn't budge. Mikael's confidence faltered for a moment before his ego took over.
"This Nord lass in mine ot conquer," Mikael declared, puffing his chest and jabbing at Carlotta's table, her face contorted in irritation.
"You have a foul mouth for a Bard," Darius murmured, a crooked smile curling across his face. "And she's not a Nord… you arrogant little fuck."
Pfft!
Behind, a chuckle escaped Carlotta.
"I don't have to take that from you!" Mikael snapped, his ego stinging, just as the tavern filled with the sound of stifled laughter.
With a frustrated grunt, Mikael shoved Darius harder this time, and Darius let himself stumble back, exaggerating the motion. The chairs escaped as the crowd parted. Patrons made space in a circle, eager and grinning. Some wanted to see the noble get flattened. Others simply craved the spectacle.
"Show that milk-drinker how it's done!" someone shouted, backing who-knows-whom, followed by a few ale-soaked cheers for Mikael. Darius stood at the centre, hazy-eyed, his body swaying like a reed in the wind.
Mikael flexed his fingers, bouncing lightly on his heels. He could taste victory already. The noble could barely stand.
But then, Darius's eyes cleared.
Not slowly, not gradually. But like a fog, suddenly blown away by a gale. His stance shifted, shoulders relaxing, weight grounded, a light of clarity shone behind his stare.
Mikael charged first, high, face tight with the clumsy determination of a four-year-old kid.
Darius didn't move; he couldn't.
He waited, and then, with a sharp twist of the waist and a single step forward—
Crack
One punch.
Mikale's body lifted from the floor, airborne for a breath, before colliding with a support beam with a solid thud. He slumped to the floor in a heap, his lute falling beside him with a pitiful twang
Silence.
And then, the tavern burst into laughter, unruly, shameless laughter.
Some patrons cheered, others banged their tankards against the tables. Someone even tossed a coin onto Mikael's unconscious chest.
Behind the bar, Hulda sighed and surveyed the damage. A dent in the beam, a cracked mug, and one ruined bard. She could live with that.
Then came the sound of steel boots, crisp and deliberate, tapping against the wooden floor. The noise came through the laughter as a figure approached from another corner of the tavern.
A woman appeared, she was taller than Lydia by a good measure, her presence commanding without a word. Midnight-black hair framed her face, a scar runs along her cheekbone, not marring her beauty but sharpening it.
Her steel armor clung to her form with familiarity, meeting her at every curve of her hips and chest.
Uthgerd the Unbroken
She eyes Darius with a mix of amusement and challenge. "How about you take on someone your weight?" she said, voice smooth but edged.
Darius blinked at her, still grinning like a man halfway between sleep and laughter. He stepped forward with confidence, nearly stumbling.
"And what do I get from beating you?" he asked, smirking.
Uthgerd rolled her eyes. "What did you get from beating him?" She gestured with her chin toward Mikael, who was now groaning on the floor as two drunkards tried to sit him up.
Darius turned to glance at Carlotta. He pointed.
"Her."
A small gasp escaped Carlotta's lips, her cheeks flared pink, and Mila, sitting in front of smiled sheepishly, giggling to herself.
Uthgerd blinked, taken aback.
"Fine then," she snapped without thinking. "You'll get me if you beat me!"
Gasp~
The patrons gasped in surprise as Uthgerd's eyes widened as she realized what she'd just said, and her cheeks turned red.
"Cough, I mean, I'll be your hireling. Free of charge." She cleared her throat loudly, straightening up, as the patrons released a sigh of relief.
Phew~
Darius's grin widened devilishly, about to accept—
"My Thane." Lydia appeared beside him, whispering urgently in his ear. "She's a former Companion. She's known for breaking men's arms for sport. It would be unwise to take her on in your current state."
Darius glanced at her worried face, then back at Uthgerd, he was too gone to the alcohol.
And then, with deliberate boldness, he said.
"A woman can't beat a man."
Uthgerd's entire face twitched.
Her jaw clenched. Her knuckles popped. The tavern fell quiet again, a low hum of anticipation crawling through the floorboard.
She took a step forward, finger curling, digging into her palm. "Bring it on… Softgut."
Darius matched her step, swaying slightly but wearing the same infuriating grin. "Alright then, Soft hands. Come on."
The crowd made space. Again. This time with more tension, they knew what kind of fighter Uthgerd was. This wasn't a bard getting decked; this was a real fight, though a little disadvantageous for one party.
Uthgerd raised her fists, steel-clad gauntlets creaking. She was armored like a warrior on a battlefield. Steel cuirass, bracers, even boots, but no one paid attention, not the patrons, not Lydia, not even Uthgerd herself.
Darius cracked his neck, arms loose, stance lazy like a cat basking in the sun, His shirt buttoned to the neck, untouched by the earlier one-sided victory.
"You sure you're not gonna break a nail?" he said, his voice loud enough for the crowd to hear.
Uthgerd swung first—a quick jab meant to test him.
Darius ducked under it, smirking, and jabbed her in the ribs—clang
Steel rang out.
She barely moved. The punch left a dent in her sideplate and a redness in Darius's knuckles, but he was unbothered, too drunk to feel the pain.
She frowned.
Another swing—Darius caught her wrist, turned, and slammed a punch into her gut—clang again, and another dent, his knuckles bloody.
"What's the matter?" he said, breathing a little heavier now, swaying again, "Steel getting too tight?"
"You drunkard," she growled, kicking at him.
He sidestepped it, barely, and flicked her nose, literally.
The crowd burst into howls of laughter.
Uthger's face turned red.
"Yet, you are fighting like a drunk Horker," he taunted, keeping his voice just loud enough for her and the crowd.
She roared and threw a wild haymaker.
He ducked again and clipped her jaw with an uppercut.
Her head snapped back, not far, but enough for the crowd to gasp.
She clenched her teeth, taking a step back, her eye locked on him, and in an instant, she dashed forward.
They traded blows after blows.
Clang!
Smack!
Clang!
Darius grunted, his lips dripping blood. His knuckles were bloodied as if soaked in ketchup, his vision blurry, but his stance remained upright. He was weaving on instinct now, years of reflex hidden behind a thick fog.
Uthgerd panted, more from frustration than exhaustion. Her ribs ached under the armor. Dents and bruises. She was bleeding from her mouth now, too, and every time she hit him, it felt like she was punching a moving tree. A drunk tree.
"Still up?" she snarled, taking a step back, breath ragged.
Darius spat blood on the floor. "Of course. You hit like a woman."
"You cocky bastard—!"
She lunged.
Darius was expecting it. He brewed it after all. A wild move fueled by anger and frustration.
He waited, just half a second, and twisted.
Her punch grazed past his ear.
He pivoted, his body weight shifting forward like a falling tower, and drove his bloodied fist straight into her chin, a drunken, staggering fist.
CRACK!
Uthgerd's head snapped up, and her eyes rolled back.
She staggered once.
Twice.
And then collapsed onto her back, steel plates rattling as she hit the floor hard.
Silence again, no cheering this time. Just gasps.
Darius stood over her, chest heaving, the world spinning sideways. His arms dropped, too heavy to lift again.
"What did I tell you… a woman… can't… beat a man—" he slurred, grinning as he swayed, still mocking her.
Then he tilted forward like a marionette with his strings cut, and landed on top of her with a dull thud. The alcohol had taken its toll.
Both lay out cold.
For a moment, no one moved.
Then the tavern exploded in cheering. Coins clattered on the tables, from the bets lost and a few wins, mugs slammed down, and Hulda groaned somewhere in the back about blood on her floor.
Carlotta just sat there, blinking, trying to process what she'd just witnessed. Mila was in shock, a little scared but also excited. He's so cool!
Lydia stepped forward with a sigh, hands reaching him, as she turned him on his back. "He'll feel that when he's climbing to High Hrothgar," she muttered, then bent down to pick him up, with a little difficulty.
Saadia and Hulda came to drag Uthgerd away to the back.
***
As Lydia exited the Bannered Mare, Darius hung heavily on her shoulder. His head lolled slightly, lips split, knuckles smeared in dried blood. The moonlight kissed the cobbled roads of Whiterun, silvering the silence.
Then—footsteps.
From the edge of the empty Marketplace, a man emerged from the shadows. Off-duty, but still dressed in the quilted gambeson of the guard. A thick horseshoe mustache framed his mouth.
"Dragonborn," the man muttered with a nod.
Lydia tensed, instinctively gripping Darius tighter. "Who are you?" she asked the familiar-looking man.
"I was with him," the man replied. "At the western watchtower"
Her eyes narrowed. "And?"
He understood she was being cautious, he put his arms in front, "No need to be so cautious, I just thought you were struggling to carry him." He said, stepping forward, voice quieter now. "Let me help you."
Lydia hesitated—then nodded. He moved to Darius's other side, hoisting the half-unconscious man's arm over his shoulder. Together, they trudged through the quiet city.
The night was unnaturally still. The streets were empty early, but patrols were thick, guards loitered near every corner, speaking in hushed tones, some still shaking from the day's events, their gaze going to the sky now and then.
"So… what was it like?" Lydia asked as they approached the stone steps of Dragonsreach.
The man's face dimmed, shadows playing over his eyes. "It was…" he trailed off. "A massacre, fire, and screams. With men torn apart before they even lifted a shield. And then… he walked into it. Like a hero out of a legend, and it wouldn't be wrong to call him that, not anymore." He glanced at him once, a look of gratitude on his face. If he hadn't been there, nobody could've beaten the beast, and he wouldn't be here.
Lydia glanced at the man supporting her Thane. "What's your name?"
"Sigvard," he said, keeping his eyes ahead.
She nodded. "What do you think of him?" she asked, wanting to know more about the man she serves.
Sigvard exhaled, thinking. "A hero?" he chuckled, "No, I mean, what is he like?" she corrected her question.
"Oh, hmm?" Sigvard shook his head, "Don't know. I've never met him before today, I just know he can fight. But the way he looked at that dragon... like it was his obligation to kill it… like a destined hero." he laughed, "That's all I know.".
They climbed the final stairs.
At the entrance to Dragonsreach, a figure stood in the torchlight, arms crossed, eyes narrowed. Irileth.
The moment she saw them, her composure cracked, and she rushed forward. "What the hell happened?" she snapped, brushing her finger in his hair, letting the moonlight his his face, eyes flicking to his split lip, then down to his red knuckles
Lydia cleared her throat. "He got drunk."
Irileth stared at her. "And?"
Lydia gulped. "He got in a fight… with Uthgerd. It was… a friendly spar."
Irileth's eyes narrowed into deadly red slits. Lydia could feel the lie bounce off the Dunmer's glare.
Turning to Sigvard, Irileth's tone softened, just a little, "Thank you, Sigvard. I'll take it from here."
He gave a respectful nod and slipped away, not wanting to argue with his boss.
Irileth looped Darius's arm over her shoulder and nodded at Lydia.
***
Together, they brought him to Irileth's room and gently lowered him onto the bed.
Lydia looked around the room, it was clean, like it had just been dusted, with candles burning, and the scent of lavender in her room. Lydia turned to Irileth, who had noticed her noticing.
A hue of red appeared on Irileth's face as she cleared her throat, "You can leave now."
Lydia nodded and stepped back, "I'll be outside if you need me."
"No," Irileth said. Lydia paused and turned to her. "Go to your room. Rest. You'll need your strength tomorrow, I don't want you nodding off when he's bleeding again." Irileth's voice left no room for argument.
Lydia hesitated… but nodded.
The door clicked shut, and silence took its place. The flickering light of half-melted candles danced along the stone walls. A few flowers sat in the carved wooden vase on the table—lavender and tundra cotton.
Her cheeks were warm, and she hated that.
She sat at the edge of the bed, looking at Darius. He mumbled something unintelligible, half-lidded eyes meeting hers with that maddening grin. Blood stained his lips. His body bruised and worn, but still radiated unyielding strength.
She began to unfasten the buttons of his tunic, fingers brushing over his chest, warm, muscled, marred by fresh bruises. Her touch slowed, not from hesitation, but from quiet awe that grew in her chest, even though she'd seen him like that, when he was hovering above her, ramming himself into her, like nothing else mattered.
He groaned softly as she peeled the shirt away, revealing the taut line of his torso.
She leaned down.
Her lips brushed his, she sucked gently at the cut, careful not to deepen it. Her mouth trailed from his lips to his jaw, then down his neck, kissing, breathing him in.
Her hands roamed over his ribs, skimming the slope of his abdomen. The muscles twitched under her palms,
She kissed lower, lips lingering above his navel. She paused and gently wrapped a cloth around his wounded hand with surprising tenderness.
Then she stood, silent.
Piece by piece, her armor dropped to the floor: bracers, belt, cuirass, all falling with a dull thud. The cool air kissed her bare skin as she stood only in a thin layer of her underclothes. She freed herself from it, too, letting it fall to the floor.
The candlelight revealed her in fragment—skin the shade of volcanic ash, rich and deep. Her form was lean and toned from a life of war, but nothing about her was cold now. Her breasts were full, shifting subtly with her breath, her nipples hardened from the chill. The dark places of her body glistened slightly, kissed by sweat and shadow, framed by the fall of silken, scarlet hair cascading down her shoulders.
She climbed over him, letting her bare form press against his, the contact slow and intoxicating. She exhaled as his warmth met her, her scars met his.
Irileth sighed, a low, breathy sound that said more than any words. She rested her head against his shoulder, lips brushing his throat one final time. Her hand lay across his chest, her thin finger splayed just over his heart, feeling its solid beat.
A soft smile touched her lips.
"You're driving me insane," she whispered, her eyes fluttering shut.
And there, in the dim quiet of the night, she melted into his arm, ungaurded, free of fear, and pain, finally at peace in the arms of the only man who had ever undone her.
****
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