Home

Each definition is different

What is home?

If you'd have asked her that question twenty-six years ago, when she'd just arrived in Skyrim, she would have described the city she grew up in. She would have described her mother, her father, her brother – the townsfolk she grew so close to, the merchants and the orphans. She would have described the architecture that made up their buildings, the scent of both potions and poisons that her mother brewed daily. She would have described the varying colors of the scales she saw every day, from deep greens to earthy browns to black as night to blue like the sky.

But now? Home had an entirely different meaning.

What is home.

It brings a contented smile to her face, the most subtle of upturns at the corners of her mouth. A reminiscent light causes her icy eyes to gleam; it's easy to see that whoever or whatever she was thinking of had worked its way into her heart.

What is home.

"Home is a mop of messy blonde hair beginning to grey with age." The answer comes without a moment of hesitation. "Of rugged and grizzled features, of fierce forest green eyes. Of a usually sharp expression softening whenever it's turned upon me. Of a protective grip so soft and yet so certain." The hands around her wrists, pulling her from danger, hadn't been gentle, at first. The tugs had been harsh, almost unforgiving – but as time went on, they'd become more careful. Almost like they were afraid of hurting her.

What is home.

"Home is the sight of boiled leather worn from use. The sound of laughter when we're alone. The fond exasperation that laces his expression when I do something I shouldn't." Her wording confirms your initial suspicion: her definition of home was someone she cared a great deal about. And yet you continue to repeat your question, hoping for at least a name.

What is home.

"Home is the smell of burning incense mingling faintly with the mist from the nearby waterfalls. The scent of damp stone muffled by potions freshly made." You wrack your brain for an inkling of the place she could be describing, but it eludes you. Not that it matters, as she continues to speak before you can collect your thoughts coherently. "The smell of leather, of lavender and dust and places he shouldn't be. Of the faintest tinge of alcohol on his breath after a night of drinking. The sound of coins knocking together, of a whetstone gliding across metal."

You settle back in your seat, elbows resting on the arms of the chair and your fingers twined in front of you. Whoever it is, she clearly loves him very much. You find yourself wondering, briefly, if he feels the same way.

What is home, you repeat once more. No matter how many times you ask, she doesn't seem to grow tired of describing him.

"Home is calloused hands settling over my own," and she pauses to glance down at her scaled palms for a moment, "to let me know that he's there. A cheek resting against the back of my shoulder after a rough day. A tune hummed absently under his breath as we both drift off to sleep. His arm around me, keeping me close – keeping me safe from the dangers of the late night hours. The way he takes an interest in stargazing with me on sleepless nights, viewing the auroras from atop the Temple roof." You see her gaze soften, smile widening a fraction as she lets out a gentle sigh. "Home is rough lips against the end of my nose. It's him coming to my defense despite knowing that I can take care of myself. It's when he goes out of his way to visit me in Falkreath when he doesn't have to."

What is home. This is the last time you will ask, because you're certain you've pried enough information from her.

"Home is everything he is and everything he will be."