Part I: Rooted Hearts
Days of Small Things
The Argonian town had grown strong and steady.
Croc, once a silent guardian by the gate, now moved more freely among the community—though still towering, still fearsome, his presence no longer brought wary stares.
Instead, it brought comfort.
Shahvee was often near.
They worked side by side: repairing structures, guiding the new arrivals, organizing hunting parties.
Their teasing grew warmer.
Their silences became companionable.
Croc found himself watching her laugh from across the square, only to look away quickly whenever she caught him.
"You're terrible at hiding your eyes," Shahvee had said once, smirking, handing him a carved cup of juniper tea.
"Big eyes," Croc muttered, taking the drink. "Hard to miss."
"I don't mind being watched," she added. "As long as the watcher knows what he's looking for."
Acts of Devotion
Croc didn't know how to court anyone—not properly.But he understood gestures.He fixed her roof before she asked.He carved a wooden figurine of her late father's staff after overhearing a memory.He stopped others from teasing her about her optimism—especially when they mocked it behind her back.
He didn't say much.
But when Shahvee walked by, he always looked.
When she spoke, he always listened.
And one evening, when a group of outsiders grew loud near the Hist, Croc moved to the tree before Shahvee could—stood between them and the roots, arms crossed, expression unreadable.
The outsiders backed down.
That night, she found a patch of moss beside his hut and sat with him under starlight.
"You scare everyone else," she said. "But never me."
"I know," Croc replied. "That's why I stay close."
The Moment
It wasn't grand.
It wasn't dramatic.
It happened at the riverbank—washing scales after the day's work.
Croc handed her a cloth without a word.
She took it, smiling gently, brushing his arm as she did.
He didn't flinch.
"You're not alone anymore, Waylon," she whispered.
He looked at her—longer than usual.
"Do you want me to be?"
"No," she said, resting her head lightly on his shoulder. "I want you to stay."
Part II: For the Dancing and the Dreaming
A Night of Light and Celebration
The Hist pulsed softly in the background, casting warm golden hues over the festival square. Strings of beads and shells hung from reed arches. Young Argonians chased each other between tables laden with food—grilled fish, roasted root bulbs, spiced crab, and sweet sap-cakes.
Drums thumped in a relaxed rhythm while flutes sang through the night air.
Near the base of the Hist, Shahvee stood with her lyre tuned and resting lightly in her claws. She scanned the crowd once before locking eyes with Croc—lurking as always at the edge of the gathering.
She tilted her head. Smiled.
"Come sing with me."
Croc hesitated.
"I don't sing," he rumbled.
"Then hum. Or growl in key," she teased, offering her hand. "For me?"
Something flickered behind his golden eyes.
And then—he stepped forward.
The First Verse
The crowd quieted as Croc moved to the center.
Shahvee strummed the lyre softly and began to sing. Her voice was delicate but strong—full of lightness and grace:
"I'll swim and sail on savage seas
With never a fear of drowning
And gladly ride the waves of life
If you will marry me…"
Croc's voice answered—a low, gravelly bass that resonated like a distant storm:
"No scorching sun, nor freezing cold
Will stop me on my journey
If you will promise me your heart
And love me for eternity…"
Their eyes remained locked. No one else existed for them.
The Vows in Song
They sang the next verse together, Croc's voice wrapping around hers like armor, hers lifting his like flame over smoke:
"My love is as strong as a dragon's bones
And my loyalty's as deep as the sea
You're always beside me wherever I go
My love, my life, my victory."
Croc turned to face the crowd, his voice steady—each word a vow:
"I will stay by your side through the darkest of nights I will shoulder your pain when you weep…"
Shahvee's voice rejoined his, soft and glowing:
"And the mountains may crumble and rivers may run
But I'll hold you in my heart so deep."
They stepped toward each other, closer now, hands brushing as they sang:
"I'll swim and sail on savage seas
With never a fear of drowning
And gladly ride the waves of life
If you will marry me…"
*"No scorching sun, nor freezing cold
Will stop me on my journey
If you will promise me your heart
The Song's End
Their voices, now perfectly entwined, echoed through the square as they sang the final lines. All around them, silence reigned—no clinking of dishes, no murmurs, only the soft crackle of the festival fire and the heartbeat rhythm of the Hist behind them.
"If you will promise me your heart
And love me for eternity…"
They held the final note for a long breath, their voices slowly fading like the wind rolling over the marsh.
The last strum of Shahvee's lyre hung in the air.
And then—Silence.
Until the first clap came from Keshaa, eyes wide and wet.
Then another from S'ra-Jhi.
Then all at once the village erupted into applause, whistles, and cheers—not rowdy, but celebratory, reverent. As if they'd witnessed something sacred.
Truth in the open
Croc's claws remained gently clasped around Shahvee's smaller hands.
His head was slightly bowed, as if unsure of what came next.
Shahvee solved it for him.
She rose on her toes and pressed a kiss to his snout—longer than before, tender and unhurried. When she pulled away, she whispered softly:
"Now they know."
Croc looked out at the crowd.
None stared in fear.Only. admiration.Approval.Joy.
He let out a small breath—almost a laugh.
"Guess I can stop pretending now."
Shahvee squeezed his hand.
"You were never good at hiding anyway."
Part III: To Build a Nest
The Idea Takes Root
It started as whispers.
A few elders discussing timber.
A mason sketching designs in the dirt near the forge.
By the second day, the whispers became a proposal: the Guardian and Shahvee should have a nest of their own—not just any hut, but a dwelling worthy of both protector and priestess. A home of stone and root, built under the Hist's canopy, with sapglass windows and a carved hearth.
The whole town agreed.
No one asked Croc.
They simply decided.
Shahvee told him as they walked by the river, her tail flicking in amusement.
"They've already cleared the ground. I think you're getting a house."
Croc blinked.
"I already have a shed."
"Which leaks. And has a roof that slumps like an old guar."
"It's my leaky guar."
She grinned.
"Well, your leaky guar is getting replaced. Come. You're helping."
That afternoon, Croc found himself hauling timber, digging foundations, and carving stone. Children painted the beams with images of birds and fish. Elders wove patterns into the roof's reed-thatch.
And Shahvee—She sang as she worked.
Nest of the Root and Scale
Over the next week, the house rose from the earth like it had always belonged there.
It wasn't large—but it was strong, warm, and sacred.
The front door was made of stormwood, carved with Hist sigils and a scene of two dragons curled together.
The hearth was sunken stone with a carved lip—wide enough for both of them to sit together.
Above the bedframe, woven reeds formed the image of two hands—one clawed, one scaled—clasped.
On the final day, Croc stood outside the completed home, silent.
He looked down at his claws.
Then to the window, where Shahvee placed a small wooden carving of a crocodile with a crooked grin and a flower behind one ear.
He chuckled, just once. "It's real," he said aloud.
She stepped beside him."It's ours."
Part IV: When Night Is Gentle
A Home Full of Warmth
The fire crackled gently in the hearth.
Croc sat cross-legged on the reed-woven rug, tail coiled loosely behind him, a carved bowl of root stew balanced in his massive claw. Across from him, Shahvee curled with her knees tucked beneath her, one arm resting lazily against the smooth stone ledge of their hearth.
Their home smelled of roasted fish, warm stone, and cedar-sap oil.
Outside, the village hummed with soft music and flickering lights.
Inside, only peace.
"They hung more lanterns in the square," Shahvee said, half-smiling. "I think they want every night to feel like a festival."
Croc nodded slowly.
"They've earned it."
She leaned toward him.
"So have you."
They ate in quiet comfort, the only sound the soft clink of wood against ceramic.
Eventually, she broke the stillness again.
"You've been… smiling more."
Croc paused mid-bite.
"Didn't know I was frowning before."
"You weren't. But now your smiles reach your eyes."
A beat of quiet.
"It suits you."
After they finished their meal, Shahvee rose and stretched, walking barefoot over to their bed—woven reeds, layered quilts, and a frame carved by Croc himself.
He joined her slowly, easing down beside her with a long breath.
"You ever think about the future?" he asked.
"All the time."
"I mean… years from now. After the village grows. After the battles."
Shahvee tilted her head.
"What are you thinking?"
He hesitated.
Not from fear.
Just from weight.
"A family," he said simply.
Her smile softened.
"You'd be a good father."
"I wouldn't know where to start."
"That's what makes you perfect."
Croc looked down at her.
"You mean it?"
She nodded.
"We could start trying now. If you're ready."
His heart kicked once—heavy and real.
Then, slowly, he leaned forward.
He kissed her.
It was careful, reverent. A silent vow.
She pulled him closer.
And for the first time in his long, scarred life, Croc didn't feel monstrous.
He felt loved.
Part V: The Breach
The Gentle Start of a good day.
The sun broke through the morning fog in soft beams.
Croc stood in front of his home, stretching with a low grunt. The ache in his shoulders wasn't from battle—it was the sweet soreness of labor, of a night well spent with the woman he cherished.
The village murmured around him, waking in rhythm with the marsh.
A young Argonian child it was keesha scampered past and waved.
"Morning, big guy!"
Croc raised a hand slowly, blinking.
"…Mornin keesha'."
His voice felt rougher than usual. His name—his name was… something, wasn't it?
Why did it feel just out of reach?
He looked back toward the doorway, where Shahvee's silhouette moved in the light of the hearth. Something warm bloomed in his chest.
And then—The world collapsed.
The ground beneath him rippled—like glass warping under heat. A perfect circle opened beneath his feet, shimmering with dark blue light.
"Wait—"
That was all he managed before he dropped.
He didn't fall far.
Just… elsewhere.
His body slammed against cold concrete.
Croc gasped as sterile air filled his lungs. His senses screamed at the unfamiliarity—too bright, too clean, too wrong.
He tried to sit up, head spinning.
This wasn't his hut.
This wasn't the marsh.
There was no Hist here.
And no Shahvee.
Bright lights flooded a vast room lined with steel and humming with security feeds. Cameras stared down at him from the corners. The sound of boots echoed.
A woman in a dark blazer stepped forward, clipboard in hand. Her presence was colder than the air. Controlled. Calculated.
She looked down at him.
"You look better fed than usual," she said. "Welcome back, Jones."
Croc blinked slowly.
"…Who?"
"You don't remember," Amanda Waller said flatly. "Perfect."
"Where… what is this?" Croc rasped, slowly rising to one knee.
"You're home. For now."
Croc looked around—at the lights, the walls, the way his claws twitched as if preparing for a fight he didn't understand.
Something deep inside him stirred.
Confusion. Anger. Grief.
And a name—Waylon—echoed somewhere in his bones.
But nothing felt real.
Nothing but the sudden, agonizing emptiness where something beautiful had just been.