The Ghost and the Wanderer
WARNING: This story contains sexually explicit material.
I’ve spent my whole life walking.
Cyrodiil. Vallenwood. Blackmarsh. Elsweyr. Hammerfell.
I’ve rubbed the soles of my feet against each one. Sand and rock and mossy earth.
But Skyrim is my favorite. There is a quiet that you find there—when the snow is falling and there is no sound besides your own breathing—that does not exist in other places.
I wonder if death will be so peaceful.
I came into Dawnstar on a night like that. Serene and silent. Just a backpack and a blade to my name, looking for work. I didn’t bother with the inns or boarding houses. Found a burnt-out building on the outskirts of town and set up camp: leather tent, worn-out bedroll, three belts of Cyrodiil brandy.
When I woke up the moon was a pale orb in the sky and there was a ghost in my tent.
“Faron,” she whispered. Blue lips and ethereal eyes.
“Shhhh.” She put a ghost finger against a ghost mouth. “I know you, Faron.”
Nobody within a thousand leagues knew my name.
“What do you know?” I asked.
The ghost smiled. She was a blue outline cast against the darkness, but slowly she started to materialize. I felt the heat of a body forming on top of me. Red hair and round, green eyes.
The ghost didn’t come with clothes.
“Your name isn’t enough?” she asked.
“It’s not much to me.”
She ran a hand through my hair. There was the warm weight of her body against my bare chest. Her nipples hardening against me.
A strange feeling.
What do you do with that kind of experience? I’ve seen Dremora pull themselves free from a man’s heart and start waving a warhammer around the room. Seen a burning sky that rains brimstone down on a city. But I had never seen something like this.
Never felt a ghost go from frozen to warm in the space of a dozen heartbeats.
I ran my hand along her hip. Squeezed down a little. She was alive beneath me. Flesh and blood that burned a trail out of the night and—for some reason—chose me.
“You are more than you think you are, Faron. And I am here for you.”
I didn’t really need a lot more convincing.
I cupped both of her breasts in my hands. Sucked on one of her nipples, then the other.
She sighed. Moved a hand down my body and started tugging at the leather straps of my traveler’s pants. Pulled them down and started rubbing my cock. Up and down. Up and down.
She kissed me. Her tongue had a strange kind of warmth—the contrast against the cold air makes it stronger somehow. I pulled away.
“Is this real?”
“Do you care?”
I did not.
She moved up a little so she was straddling me. Took me by the base of my cock and started rubbing it between her legs. Back and forth until she was soaking wet and I was about to scream. Then she lowered herself down, slowly. Pushing me further inside, breathing hard against my neck with each passing second.
When I was all the way inside of her, she put both of her hands against my face and looked at me. Her eyes were a swimming kind of silver—like moonlight bouncing off the backs of trout at midnight.
“I like the sound of your traveling feet,” she whispered. “I don’t want them to stop.”
Then slowly—so slowly—she started to move up and down.
Her full breasts shook every time she came down—pushing me all the way inside of her. She moved her left hand between her legs and started to touch herself while she moved. A smile on her face that showed she knew how much I liked what I saw.
I finished with my hands on her hips, and both of us breathing hard and sweating and pressing our faces together. She smelled like lavender and something else—a strange flower whose name I didn’t know. It filled the tent and I loved it.
Afterwards, she lay on top of me and I felt her heartbeat tap a steady rhythm against my chest. Even and perfect.
“You’ve been searching for so long,” she said, voice like bamboo humming against the wind. “It wasn’t right to spend all those years without finding some happiness.”
“What is your name?”
The ghost looked at me sadly for a few moments before answering.
“Vera,” she said.
I liked that name.
“What happens now?”
She smiles. Kisses me with warm lips.
“You brought me back to life. That is enough.” She sat up a little, ran a hand through her red hair. “But if you want…there is something more.”
“What is it?”
I thought about that some. Women always come with complications—even ethereal ones. And you can’t put a price on freedom. That is a fact.
But when your life amounts to nothing except a rusty sword and some worn out boots, what kind of life have you led?
“Yes,” I said.