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Chapter Text

A mage was startled out of her dreams by an urgent hiss of her name. She recognized Sissel's voice before she could even distinguish her from the inky blur between asleep and awake.

"Agni!" Sissel repeated, her whisper ever sharper.

The sleepy young woman blinked rapidly to make out the figure in her chamber, to make sure it wasn't a lingering dream. Sissel's form was backlit by the pillar of light at the center of the hall, but it would have been too dark to properly see her expression if not for the cool, blue, arcane glow that was wreathing around Sissel's raised hand—casting a minuscule wash of light across the side of her face. She was frowning, as if Agni had done something disagreeable and Agni would have guessed Sissel was going to wake her with a blast of mage light but had decided against it.

"What is it?"

"There's a man at the entrance. He requested to see you and insisted it was a matter of urgency," Sissel replied, a tone of concern was evident as she spoke. Sissel worried too much over Agni sometimes, but she was getting better at not being so obvious about it.

"Who is he?"

Sissel paused to think and then said, "He didn't give a name."

Now Agni could understand a reason for such apprehension.

Agni wrinkled her nose and gave a stretch before turning down her quilts and stepping to the floor with a sudden surge of curiosity. Her feet found her boots and slipped in.

"Will you go with me to see him?" Agni asked and pulled her thick apprentice robes over her head. After, she grabbed a small blue bottle off the night stand, uncorked it, and swiftly drank the contents. The strong taste of mint stung her throat but the warming effect took to her blood immediately, preparing her for the icy and relentless weather of northern Skyrim.

It was rather alarming not to mention suspicious that someone would come calling in the dead of night to the College of Winterhold. People in general didn't want to have anything to do with the college unless they had an item that needed to be enchanted. If he was a prospective student, there should be no reason he couldn't wait until daybreak to try his test of merit.

Then again, he couldn't have been just a regular person. He had asked for Agni specifically. She had never told anyone where she had gone after running from the boggy swamps of Hjaalmarch, but she figured it wouldn't be hard to guess for those that had known her.

"I'm rather tired," Sissel admitted, catching herself in a yawn when she unceremoniously crawled under Agni's vacated quilts that were now brimming with warmth. This action made it clear that the young apprentice of alteration was not planning on accompanying Agni. They weren't supposed to be out this late anyway which led Agni to internally question how and why Sissel knew of a stranger at the metaphorical gates of the college. Though, that was a question for another time. "I trust that you can handle yourself."

"Fine, stay," Agni retorted indignantly. She teased Sissel for worrying and now the one time she wouldn't have minded the company, Sissel was trying to prove herself to be unruffled at the odd situation.

Sissel gave a tired grin as a response and let the light in her hand extinguish. Agni turned her back on the sleeping chamber and could only hear her promise, "I'll keep your bed warm."

Agni returned the grin, now hidden in shadow.

She had not yet taken to the arts of alteration, or rather, was very behind on her studies—but she was more than decent with conjuration and destruction magic, specifically fire, and easily re-ignited a torch in a wall sconce that had been put out for the night. She grabbed it and left the Hall of Attainment alone.

The wind whistled sharply past her ears when she emerged outside; the night sky was in a rare state of clarity, reflecting an aurora of deep green and blue. The Sea of Ghosts was gently rippling across the rocks below on the shore, providing a distant, yet relaxing, ambient noise.

Down below the walkway, in Winterhold proper, stood a figure holding a torch as she did. She thought perhaps he was a courier carrying a message. Perhaps Falion had decided to forgive her for disobeying him four years ago—but the urgency of the matter worried her too. A letter from the man who fostered her could probably wait until morning. Someone must have paid the courier a great amount of gold to get them to travel the cold wastes of Winterhold at night.

"Agni?" she heard a soft baritone say her name as she approached the entrance of the college bridge, careful not to slip on any black ice.

She held her torch out at arm's length, taken aback, because a courier wouldn't have used her name to address her and not in such a familiar tone.

He looked uncomfortable and had one arm wrapped around himself trying for what little warmth he could get. He wore many layers, it was obvious he wasn't used to being this far north. He was also younger than Agni had assumed from what Sissel had described.

"What do you want of me?"

"Do you know where Joric is?"

"Joric?" she was even more puzzled at hearing the name. The only Joric she had ever known was a boy she was friends with as a child. They had both grown and gone their separate ways years ago.

"Yes, Joric Ravencrone—do you know where he is?"

"I haven't seen him."

There was a touch of anxiety in his voice; she could see his entire body sigh with disappointment and his jaw clench to keep from chattering because of the cold wind blowing across them both. The wind unfortunately picked that moment to bluster away his light source. He cursed under his shivery breath and dropped the torch, using the same arm to wrap up against himself. She stepped closer to see him better. He was a strapping lad. He had the broad shoulders one would have working mines, lumber mills, or even plowing fields. He was not a simple courier.

"Who are you?"

"You don't recognize me, Agni?" his head was still angled toward the ground but his eyes met her curious gaze.

She had run from Morthal as soon as she knew she was powerful enough that she could get to the college on her own—as a fifteen-year-old girl that was determined to master her true potential in the arcane arts. She had little chances of meeting anyone new outside the college, and if memory served her correctly, she certainly didn't meet any men like the one before her. It was too dark, despite the aurora, to recognize any defining features of his face without bringing the torch closer and setting him on fire.

She lifted a quizzical brow, dumped the torch into the snow head-first where it hissed as it extinguished, and ignited her own hand with a small, controlled flame. She held the power until it was a bright ball of heat, floating in her palm.

She raised her hand while stepping even closer, and he flinched as if she would set him on fire but it provided enough light to actually see him by. The dark dimness eroded and his face became clear. Once she saw, she knew his identity, though he had grown much more than she would have imagined in the years since she had last seen him. His voice had thrown her off as well, because the last she had heard it, it was fluctuating between boy and man.

"You are far from home, Virkmund."

He flashed a quick grin at her recognition and then looked above them at the daunting walkways, "May I come up?"

Agni felt a bit guilty, because he did look cold but she shook her head vehemently, "No, the mages don't like strangers."

"I've known you since we were seven years old—"

She cut him off sharply, "You're still a stranger to them. We can talk at the Frozen Hearth."

The fire in her palm diminished and she grabbed Virkmund's upper arm to guide him to the town's Inn. If more people were awake, they might have given her sidelong glances for wearing mage robes but the dismal settlement of Winterhold was sparse of any life at the early hour.

Almost immediately after entering she was engulfed in a hug, pulled tightly against Virkmund's chest. "It's good to see you again, Agni. You have been missed."

"Mmf, thanks Virk," she said, muffled into one of his layered shirts, surprised at his sudden action, and overall surprised that he was even there. He let her go and she gave him a little smile of appreciation. It was good to know someone had missed her presence in Morthal after all.

The Frozen Hearth was cozy, a fire burned at the center of the room and the lingering smell of roast pheasant filled her senses. She assumed that Virkmund had already bought a room for the night until she saw him look around the room as if he had never seen it before.

"This kind of looks like Jonna's place," he noted, studying the long hearth glowing with dim embers, at the center of the room. He meant it looked like Moorside Inn in Morthal. She figured most inns were built in the same fashion throughout the province.

"Can I help you?" the proprietor asked. The reception area and bar was shadowed at the back of the room and the voice made Agni jump somewhat—she didn't expect anyone else to be awake. Winterhold wasn't the type of place an innkeeper should have to stay awake at all hours to receive patrons.

"He needs a room," Agni nodded her head toward Virkmund.

"Only he?"

She glared at the innkeeper's insinuation. Though it was an understandable assumption—he had witnessed them walk in after midnight together and embrace.

"Only he."

Virkmund took a moment before fumbling with a coin pouch that was tied to his belt and dumped its contents onto the counter. He counted out ten coins for lodging, another ten for a piece of stale bread with a bowl of tepid clam chowder, and put the small remainder back into the bag.

Once they were inside the small room with a single bed, he sat in a chair with his food in his lap and Agni leaned against the wall with her arms crossed before continuing their conversation in a low voice, "So what is this all about—what's happened to Joric?"

"He's vanished. No one has seen him for a week. The Jarl sent me to find you."

Virkmund dipped the bread into the chowder and bit a piece off, looking to be waiting for some sort of explanation on Agni's part. Her brows knotted together in thought.

She didn't understand the correlation of his statement. Joric was the Jarl's younger brother. She had been a playmate of the boy when they were children. Agni remembered the first time she had met him—he looked feverish and told her that a Chaurus would try to eat her. Within a week she found herself lost in the quagmires and running from a Chaurus Reaper until it gave up chasing her. She had never been so scared before in her life until that moment. After the Chaurus incident, she took Joric's words more seriously and also didn't wander as far from the town. Not to say he was always making eerie predictions—Joric was an active child and his imagination was vast. He could turn any mundane object to something of an amusement when he wasn't trapped in an episode of melancholy.

One thing she did find irksome though, was that Joric would often blame her father for bad deeds. This claim he could never prove in any shape or form—most of the time he didn't even seem like himself when he went into those particular lucid mumblings, and she blamed it on his overactive imagination. In any case, she, Virkmund, and the noble boy had chased each other around the town's surrounding bogs and blooming deathbells in good fun almost every day when they were children.

Then, she left.

Falion, the closest person she ever had akin to family—he had never wanted her to join the college but she yearned to know more. She could conjure and use destruction magic but had little to no knowledge of the other schools. Also, Morthal was a small place, and as she grew older her home seemed more and more confined. There were little to no opportunities in the hold for a mage's apprentice. Opportunity, to her, was at the college.

She glanced at Virkmund and saw his downcast expression as he ate his meal, and it didn't even occur to her until that moment that she had probably hurt both boys by leaving without saying goodbye.

"Why me though?" Agni pushed thoughts of the past away and asked the most puzzling question in her mind. She pulled herself off the wall and into a straight-backed stand, turning fully toward her old friend for the answer.

Why would anyone think I had seen him last?

Virkmund swallowed his current mouthful of chowder, licked any remainder of it off his lips and replied, "He had a vision before disappearing—they say he mentioned your name, Agni, and that Skyrim was in grave danger."

Chapter Text

The Lady Dagnessa of Whiterun and Thane Joric Ravencrone of Hjaalmarch
cordially invite thee to attend their joyous ceremony of matrimony outside
the Temple of Kynareth, under the Gildergreen, the 25th of First Seed.

The parchment was fine, the lettering elegant, and the ink permanent.

Seventy-five invitations had been sent out to various noble families, courts, and prominent clans of Skyrim and Greater Tamriel months ago, and it was rumored to be the wedding of the year.

Seventy-five and then some of those honored guests had been very disappointed, as well as most of the city that turned out to watch.

The bride however—the bride couldn't have been happier and at the same time completely mortified.

That was why she had locked herself away in her room in Dragonsreach, continuously demanding bottles of alcohol and of course, all the succulent sweet rolls she could stuff herself with now that she didn't have to watch her figure for a wedding gown.

She regarded the spare invitation in her hand with a half laugh, half sneer. A spot of icing had blemished the corner of the page that had been left behind by one of her fingers. She stuck her index fingertip between her lips to clean it of any remaining sugar and then she promptly crumpled the parchment—throwing it into the fire that crackled heartily in a hearth at the center of the room.

Fire danced in her irises as she watched the parchment quickly curl and char under the flames. The ink was not so permanent anymore.

Who did Joric Ravencrone think he was to abandon her the day of her wedding?

Not that it was a total loss. He was insane, and she had never fancied him—had felt that way all her life, ever since they were first introduced to each other. She was ten years old and he kept showing up in her city to receive healing attention from the local priestess of Kynareth. He was always a strange lad and mostly incoherent in his words. He mumbled quite a bit and was prone to bouts of melancholy and even madness, though her father told her that wasn't exactly true and to keep her words to herself as it was rude to accuse people of such things.

She hated that every time she conversed with Joric, he seemed to lose interest in her words and stare off into nothing. She hated his bug eyes, big eyebrows, round cheeks, and his stupid 'predictions' for the future. It was madness, pure and simple, despite what her father insisted.

Their marriage was supposed to be a political one, to tie the neighboring holds and strengthen alliances. They were both second children to their line, not to inherit any titles nor thrones—just the unlucky ones to be stuck with each other for the good of Skyrim. It seemed her father had made several alliances across Tamriel, but at least he hadn't bid her off to an elf or Talos forbid, a lizard man of high breeding. She stuck out her tongue at the thought of having to kiss something so scaly.

She sauntered across her room toward the wine, though a bit off-balance, while in her undergarments and her long Elvin robe; she was thirsty for more of that which washed away her unpleasant thoughts. Perhaps the only thing she had in common with her ex-future-husband, was an affinity for alcohol.

She grabbed the most recent bottle that she had been drinking from and poured some more into a silver goblet that was standing next to it. She squinted and read the label—it was a Surilie Brothers Vintage from 4E 29.

She raised a brow, impressed that the bottle had survived the Great War and wondered how many Septims it had set back her father's coffer to obtain. Those in the court of Balgruuf the Greater may have called her many things, but stupid was not one of them—she paid attention in her history lessons. She bet that her own brothers couldn't recite what years the Great War had even taken place.

She set the wine bottle down and brought the goblet to her lips. It was a dark red, rich, beverage that tasted worthy of its cost.

A few loud poundings on the door interrupted her solace.

"What?!" she barked, not in the mood to see anyone nor be seen. It had been days since she saw anyone else other than her own maids, and they were only necessary because they fetched Dagny's bottles and cleared away the empties.

"Dagny, you can't stay in there forever!"

It was Frothar, her elder brother. He was the lucky one who was heir to Whiterun. His betrothal hadn't been such a disaster from the start either. He had successfully been wed a year prior to a daughter of one of the Cyrodiilic Counts.

She hated being told what she could and couldn't do, especially by Frothar. He wasn't the Jarl. "Yes I can!"

Then there came the sound of a key in the lock. She immediately dropped her goblet, paying no mind to the spill, and ran to the door, putting all her weight against it.

She felt the door open slightly, and pushed back on it using her whole side, "Go away, Frothar!"

"Father said it is time for you to come out. People are starting to worry!" he pushed forward again and it gave way to a crack big enough that she could see his face full of annoyance and disapproval.

She doubted anyone was worried. They were just gossips and bores. He really meant those of court were beginning to 'talk' about her sulking behavior. He must have realized what she was thinking and amended his claim. "He is starting to worry!"

"Tell father I will come out of my room when Joric's head is on a pike!"

"Dagny!" Frothar chided and sounded a bit horrified at her ultimatum. He let up on trying to force open her door. His lapse in opposing force caused her continued bracing to slam the door shut. She hastily locked the latch again and slid down to a crouch against it since she knew Frothar still had the key. He must have swiped it from one of the servants.

He didn't try opening the door again, but he was still on the other side as evident by his voice, "You don't mean it do you? Do you want to cause another civil war?"

The 'civil war' was still happening. Sort of. Not so much. The Empire had taken Skyrim after the beheading of Ulfric Stormcloak, and after Whiterun had accepted the Legion soldiers' occupation, but despite it all, there were still pockets of Stormcloak rebels here and there, especially on the eastern half of the province. She had seen the maps of the camps in the war room, fewer and fewer each year. Would they ever just surrender and be done with it? The entire province was fatigued from it dragging on for so long.

She twisted her mouth unpleasantly; she didn't see how a war of any sort could possibly break out with the Hjaalmarch—the hold's capital, Morthal, was barely larger than a village. Whiterun may have been a skeever-hole of a city but it had double the forces and would easily win that quarrel.

Frothar must have taken her silence as a 'yes' so he continued, "You know, Joric may have just been abducted or eaten by a sabre cat on his way here. If it makes you feel any better, Father hired the companions to go looking for him to find out the truth."

It had been a week and no one had seen the thane, nor any sign of his entourage of guards, not even his horse. Dagny sighed and rolled her eyes because those scenarios did make a lot of sense. Joric was hardly what she would call a warrior—he was easy pickings for a bandit or vicious animal. Joric's sister, Idgrod the Younger—Jarl of Hjaalmarch, should have sent more guards with him. No one would have suspected Joric to purposefully slight the Jarl of Whiterun's daughter, yet Dagny couldn't help but to feel personally offended by him. She could surmise that Joric liked her about as much as she did him, but he wouldn't have risked incensing his family or hers to break their betrothal. At least, she didn't think he would. She didn't know him all that well but he looked like a milk-drinker if she ever saw one.

Frother's news didn't make her feel any better either. It'd be better for her if Joric were dead. An idea pricked her brain suddenly at that thought, but she pushed it away for another time.

"You are not the one people will blame for this. If anything, they will feel sorry for you," Frothar continued to try and convince her to come out, targeting the real cause of her not wanting to leave her room.

No, they wouldn't feel sorry for her—they would laugh at her and be secretly delighted that she was left at the altar. Dagny knew she had never been a sweet girl. She was rather blunt and had no patience for servants who couldn't do their jobs, no respect for courtiers who obeyed the Jarl's every whim to win favor, and no love for a man who couldn't love her first.

"I don't want their pity," she mumbled and shoved her head into her hands, a dull ache forming there at the center between her eyes.

"So, are you going to come out, little sister?"

It had been a few moments, but Frothar was persistent. The Jarl could have sent anyone to fetch her—Gerda, Fianna, Proventus, even Nelkir if he would be bothered. She knew Frothar had better things to do than try to coax her out of her room. It was a task not for the faint of heart, but out of all options of those to convince her, Balgruuf the Greater knew she was more likely to acquiesce to her elder brother. Her father must have really wanted her back in public to make Frothar halt his daily business and try, but yet not enough to come convince her himself—

So, she contested it with slurred words—"What'appens if I don't?"

"Then father will have Irileth break in your door, carry you out over her shoulder, and deposit you in the great hall no matter what state you are in," she could hear a trace of amusement in her brother's voice. She didn't find it funny at all but believed the Jarl's housecarl would do just that.

She sighed obnoxiously again for good measure and stood. To her, the room was much more unstable than before. "Very well, I will agree to father's wishes but I 'ave to get dressed first—send Fianna."

She heard him leave—this time proof came as the sounds of his booted footsteps diminished down the corridor.

She turned as she took off her robe to prepare for more suitable clothes for public, and a cold, wet sensation brushed her bare toes. The wine she had spilled was running across the floor in a long puddle. She cocked her head to the side, studying it while she waited for the maid. The idea she had pushed back in her mind before was slowly making its way to her full attention.

It was funny, somehow, how the spilled wine looked an awful lot like spilled blood.

Chapter Text

Up, down, up , down, up, down…

And so the familiar rhythm went as Dorthe's foot glided over the grindstone's pedal.

A grating noise was produced as she set the steel blade of a sword into the wheel and sharpened it. A few sparks flew up and then dispersed into the air before disappearing altogether. The sword was an order for Faendal, the resident Bosmer of Riverwood. She had forged the weapon herself from scratch and was exceedingly proud of it. She especially loved crafting the hilt, carving out an intricate design in the metal that depicted vines and leaves, hoping he would like it just as much.

Her foot lifted from the pedal and the wheel gradually slowed as she examined her work to see if it was sharp enough to be considered completed.

"Dorthe!"

She glanced up and saw that look in her father's eye—he was displeased about something.

"Your mother told you to wash up near an hour ago for supper and you are still out here lollygaggin'," he threw his arms out and gestured toward the general area of the forge.

She looked around; it was darker than she had remembered but it didn't seem like a whole hour had passed. The long shadows that had been there before had all but been swallowed by the one shadow of the Bleak Falls Peak.

"Oh papa, I just wanted to finish Faendal's sword—and look!" she held it up with a broad smile, "it's done!"

She knew that her father couldn't keep angry at her for too long when her excuse for bad behavior involved smithing. Her mother, however, could be angry all day and then some when she caught Dorthe in the forge instead of doing whatever boring, domestic, chore she was instructed to be practicing.

Alvor nodded knowingly and took it, balancing the blade in his hands before nodding with approval. He laid it on the workbench while he found some cloth to wrap it in, "We can deliver it to him tomorrow, but for now you need to wash up."

Her father left a bucket of water and a leaf of soap on the bench in front of the house, meant for her to use. He gave her a pat on the shoulder before going back inside.

Dorthe rubbed away some perspiration that had gathered on her brow, then looking at her forearm, saw there was dirt and smoke smudges from the forge fire. Her face must have been filthy. She began to take off the gloves and smithing apron that she was wearing while she was working—loving the smell of the oiled skin they were made from, ripe with a smoky perfume that one could only get at a blacksmith's forge.

She set them aside and scrambled around the corner to wash up. Lathering her hands with the soap, she applied some to her face and then cupped them full of water and splashed the suds away. Some of the townspeople were walking into the Sleeping Giant Inn across the way to eat or socialize. Her mother had probably prepared roast goat, because she had seen Sigrid buy some raw goat meat from Orgnar earlier in the day. Dorthe could go for some grilled leeks as well.

When she entered her home she saw her mother, Sigrid, was wearing a scowl and sitting at her place at the table and was already eating. Alvor was slicing into a baked potato. Dorthe looked down to her own setting which featured, as she had guessed—leg of roast goat. She was a bit disappointed at the absence of grilled leeks but knew she shouldn't complain. Baked potatoes were fine, just not her favorite.

"You were supposed to be washed up and ready for dinner an hour ago," Sigrid nagged. Her ire could be felt in the way she handled her food—a rough saw of a knife into the meat, and a jerk back to sever it from the bone.

"Yes, Papa informed me," Dorthe nodded as she took her seat at the table.

"Don't get smart!"

"I'm not! I'm really sorry but I just lost track of time was all," she replied with sincerity. She didn't intentionally try to annoy her mother but ever since she was a girl, her interests and her mother's interests for her couldn't have been farther apart.

"You are behind on mending your quilt. No smithing tomorrow."

"But Mama!"

Sigrid threw her a deeper scowl, daring her daughter to back-talk so that Dorthe's smithing time could be eliminated further. Dorthe took a bite of baked potato and clenched her jaw to keep from talking. They had gotten into arguments in recent years over Dorthe's interests in becoming a blacksmith—Sigrid was hoping her daughter would catch the eyes of a suitor and blamed the obvious lack of prospects on Dorthe's lack of traditional, female Nord appeal. Namely, that her daughter stunk of sweat, steel, and smoke most days and wasn't learning to bake bread, mend cloth, and milk goats.

There was a knock on the door.

"Oh now what?" Sigrid snapped.

"Who has the audacity to interrupt people at supper time?" Alvor wondered aloud.

Dorthe could think of a few. Namely Frodnar, who would knock on people's doors and then run away before they answered them for his own amusement. She couldn't help but to outwardly grin remembering that prank he played. Sven's mother swore the knocking was from ghosts.

However, she grew sad at the memory because she knew the knocking wasn't from him. Frodnar and his family had been run out of town as the war was dwindling. His family supported the Stormcloaks and they couldn't be welcomed anymore in Riverwood if the small village didn't want to be targeted by Thalmor for lingering Talos worship. She hadn't seen Frodnar for a long time now and missed participating in his pranks. She missed the laughs they shared, the games they played, and most of all she missed the only best friend she ever had.

The knock came again, only louder.

Sigrid nodded for Dorthe to answer since she was closest.

She did as she was expected—expecting nothing in return but for maybe Embry asking for a spare bottle of Ale as he did sometimes.

As the door opened, she stifled a cry of surprise.

Three Thalmor Justiciars were on her doorstep. They stared at her with not so much as a smile in greeting.

"Can I help you?" she asked. The nervous note in her voice was all but obvious. She had heard stories of the Thalmor, of how they tortured dissenters and those who praised Talos. She often wondered if Frodnar and his family had succumbed to such evil but hoped to the Gods it hadn't come to pass. Her family supported the Empire, and had given up worship of the hero god—the Thalmor were now in league with the Empire, so they were all on the same side—right? If so, then why did she feel so unnerved at the sight of these tall, golden-skinned strangers?

The front-most Justiciar, who wore robes, pulled his lips back into a serpentine smile, "We are looking to speak to Dorthe of Riverwood, they said she lived here."

"I am Dorthe," she seemed to hold in her breath as she said her own name.

Her father appeared behind her, "What do you want with my daughter?"

"I need to ask her a few questions."

Alvor held a level stare—then after a moment said, "Of course, would you and your...associates...like something to eat?"

Dorthe noticed her mother's gaze start to panic, she didn't have enough leg of goat prepared for more than the three of them.

The Justiciar's smiled remained but his eyes squinted slightly, visually informing them that he'd rather not. He didn't look like someone who would come to Riverwood by their own choosing and it bothered her that they had questions for her because she couldn't possibly think of a reason as to why.

As far as she knew, most Thalmor agents had departed Skyrim after the Stormcloaks lost all territory but the East—and only a few remained to eradicate Talos worship once and for all.

"No, thank you. Outside is suitable enough—it should only take a few moments," the tone he used also indicated he wanted to question her without the presence of her family.

Dorthe didn't want to be alone with them but Alvor shrugged helplessly as they led her to the porch area. She sat down on one of the benches along the side of the house. The Justiciars in armor stood on either side of her and it didn't help her growing worry about their intentions.

She did have to admire the armor though, it was Elvin of course, and the green-golden sheen was apparent as the sky darkened. There was a natural luminescence about the armor reminding her of the moons, Masser and Secunda. She figured the reason for the enchanting look was because it was forged with moonstone. She couldn't make Elvin weapons or armor yet, but had hoped to when she was older and more skilled. She dreamed of traveling and apprenticing with other Blacksmith's, ones in the cities that saw far more volume of orders and had years of experience in a variety of materials.

The Justiciar had noticed Dorthe's attention on the armor and cleared his throat, "Very well—first we must ask you if you believe that Talos is a divine. Do you believe that Tiber Septim ascended to godhood?"

She shook her head, "No Sir, he was just a mortal emperor in the third era."

The High Elf nodded, satisfied at her answer.

"Do you associate with or personally know any that worship Talos or are in league with the Stormcloaks?"

She shook her head, "No."

Something changed her interrogator's expression. It was a negative, judgmental look. She looked away because his gaze made her uncomfortable.

A rising glow appeared out of the corner of her eye, and before she could make any protest, the Thalmor agent released a ball of energy that shot into her chest, and coursed through her—seeming to suspend all activity in her muscles. She slumped over, terrified. She couldn't scream, she couldn't move her eyes to see what was happening, she couldn't move any part of her own body. She was paralyzed.

She felt her hands raised, as if she were a doll with no control over her own limbs—they were being shackled in front of her.  She was then lifted—carried in one of the armored Thalmor's arms since she couldn't walk on her own.

Her lips couldn't even move to demand to know why she was being taken away, where she was being taken to, or ask what had she done that was so wrong to be treated this way? Her parents would no doubt be looking for her in a few moments but even then it would be too late. She was being kidnapped. She saw the Inn pass by, noted it was on her right, as she was whisked out of Riverwood. They were going North.

After a few moments of no feeling, a nerve tingled in her arm, and she tried wiggling her fingers. Her thumb was the only one that would move. She tried to speak but only a garbled sound escaped since her mouth was still paralyzed.

The sound, nonetheless, did catch the attention of the one who held her, "Are you able to move?"

Dorthe willed any body part that could move, to obey and hurt him. Her leg swung up and didn't do any harm but she relished the startled look that it caused him.

He dropped her at once. She rolled, finding her legs could now move and bend, but her top half seemed to still be immobile.

Suddenly there was that same glow, right next to her temple and she heard the Thalmor wizard hiss, "If you scream, if you try to run away—I will hit you with more paralysis magic. Do you understand?"

She nodded weakly. Her throat was feeling normal again, though a large lump seemed to form in its hollow. Her face twitched; she could move her eyes to look over and see him but ended up squinting at the light of the arcane ball in his hand.

"Why are you doing this?" it came out in barely a whisper.

He pulled out an unsealed letter from his robes with his free hand and waved it in front of her face, "Because you lied."

She shook her head, to indicate she had no idea what he was talking about.

"We intercepted this letter from a courier near Whiterun—he said that it was from a Stormcloak camp. It's addressed to you."

Then she understood why he thought she had lied.

She didn't know any Stormcloaks though! Why would one be trying to write to her? She opened her mouth to protest but the threat of paralysis only grew as the green light of energy intensified. She bit back a yelp and closed her eyes. She wasn't going to cry in front of these monsters.

"Get up," the same Thalmor commanded sternly and used his soft-soled boot to nudge her side, "You should be able to now."

Her legs felt less stiff and she used her back to lift herself, it was quite difficult with her wrists shackled and she struggled to stand fully. No one tried to even help her.

Once she was standing, the light in the palm of his hand evaporated, "Follow me."

She trudged forward with uncertainty. One of the armored Justiciars walked behind her and the other two in front with the wizard leading. She was certain though, that if she didn't do as they commanded, they would kill her. The Thalmor were known to be ruthless against those who they thought opposed them.

It was dark out now, the last strip of sunlight had faded behind the mountains and the moons were taking the sky, glowing even—which cast a fair, dull, light on the land. Did they intent to walk all night? To where?

A wolf howled.

Dorthe stopped walking, knowing there was never just one wolf in the woods around Riverwood. They traveled in packs and they were attracted to noises, including footsteps.

"Keep going," the wizard turned and commanded, igniting his hand in flame. She couldn't tell if it was to threaten her into obeying or in preparation for any wolves they might come across.

She reluctantly stepped forward a few steps and kept a look out for any movement from the woods around her. A rustle of brush leaves came from her right and she froze. A few night birds took off out of the pine above them and some loose needles blew past. The Justiciars had magic and armor, she had nothing—not even her hands to protect herself if she were attacked. 

A howl sounded again—closer this time.

They noticed she had stopped walking again.

"I told you to—" the wizard was cut off as a large body piled into his, snarling and biting. He was knocked backward with enough force that his hood fell off. Two more howls sounded in the immediate area. The armored Justiciars pulled out their weapons and advanced on the creature while being on guard for a second attack from the rest of the pack.

Dorthe's mind raced as she witnessed the struggle between beast and Mer, and before she thought of all the drawbacks to her decision, she bolted to the right as fast as her legs would carry her.

A second wolf jumped from the brush and took a bite at her leg. She let out a scream and twisted away in a successful dodge, nearly falling since she couldn't balance herself. Instead, she stumbled but kept up her sprint as the wolf chased after her, down the winding path toward Whiterun.

She was near the river, she could hear some of the rapids—it was the same river that ran right by Riverwood, behind her home. Unfortunately it flowed north, and couldn't take her back if she tried to ride the currents. However, it did move faster than she could run from The Thalmor or any wolves. The wolf behind her leaped forward and caught a bit of her skirt on it's fangs; the muzzle clamped down, the material ripped, and she was pulled backward, hitting the ground.

The wolf went for her throat but suddenly froze with it's jaw hanging open, it's sharp teeth dangerously close. The whole body of it was illuminated in a tint of dark green before it dropped over like a fallen statue.

She realized at once, it had been hit with paralysis magic. The Thalmor were coming.

Panicking, she rolled herself athwart the forest floor, trying to keep from gasping at the sharp jabs of rocks and twigs under back and chest. The roll was painful and dizzying but she finally could roll no more as she hit the river's edge. The water was chilly, but she didn't let it dissuade her from using her legs to push herself further into the current. It finally grabbed her, pulled her under, and she kicked to the surface to grab a breath of air. Water rushed past her ears and she could barely hear the Thalmor Justiciars shouting at her from the bank while the river swept her downstream.

Chapter Text

Flames flickered as if dancing; the log underneath them crackled. A few ashes spilled outward. Nearby, a young woman avoided the cinders and leveled her gaze at the fire, it was a suitable place to focus her eyes on while her real focus was in her thoughts. Her fingers were clenched around the handle of a rough mug only half-full of ale.

He had not returned.

She had waited.

She refused to cry about it. Too many of her tears had been spilled for him already.

There were not many people at the Bannered Mare after the drinking hour, so she could have let a few tears fall but even then she refused.

She was fourteen when he had proclaimed his love.

She was fifteen when he was sent off to join the Imperial Legion.

She was nineteen now.

Not one letter had he sent in those four years. She knew that he had to be alive because she would have heard otherwise. She was thankful he was, but he should have returned by now. If not for her—at least the high-to-do wedding of the Jarl's daughter. His family would have made sure to notify him of the event.

But he hadn't even returned for that.

"Why such the melancholy, my dear Mila?"

Her expression must have betrayed her thoughts. She stared blankly at the flames before transferring her gaze to the bard who had posed the question.

"Not now, Mikael."

He merely grinned at her brush-off and plucked a few strings on his lute whilst leaning against one of the wooden pillars of the inn, "I'm sure I could cheer you up with a song."

She doubted a song could mend a broken heart but judging by his cocky tone and posture, he wouldn't be dissuaded of his claim.

Mikael had always been nice to Mila when she was a child—she suspected later that it was to get on her mother's good side. However, after his years of trying to romance Carlotta Valentia to no avail, his demeanor cooled and he became less friendly. She figured that was because he had finally understood Mila was the only obstacle in the way of him winning her mother's love and resented her for it. In recent years, however, his disposition toward her had turned exceedingly kind once more, despite her mother's ongoing disinterest in the man.

He played a lovely intro and started singing, keeping his eyes and smile focused on her. She shifted in her sitting position uncomfortably and didn't meet his eyes.

Mikael did have the voice of an Aureal—it was deep, rich and pleasant on the ears—whether or not she approved of the fact, the sound of it made her perk up just a bit. She took another swig of her ale.

A traveler staying at the inn was the only other patron still in the main room at the late hour. He stood and swung his ale cup back and forth merrily along with Mikael's song. Mila absently tapped her foot to the beat and when he was done, Mikael smiled with satisfaction. He took a seat next to her on the bench and leaned closer to speak than what was necessary.

"Does your mother know you are out?"

Instead of moving away, she instead leaned forward with a frown, proving to him she wasn't intimidated—"It's none of her business how late I stay out—I'm a grown woman."

"That you are," Mikael agreed and his eyes dropped below her face, and back as quick as they left, but not without Mila noticing.

"It's none of your business either," she snapped as a deep blush appeared on her cheeks and she scooted away, leaving another whole seat between them.

"There's only one reason a beautiful lass would be drinking alone long after the sun has set," the bard went on with an assured tone. She only could raise her brow with doubt.

A look took to the Nord's eyes she wasn't used to seeing.

Sadness.

He gave a forlorn look before saying, "Love-scorned."

She opened her mouth with surprise, "How would you kn—?"

"Your mother put me through a heartache so deep I couldn't bring myself to sing for a whole month."

The words were hyperbolic, sad and poetic—the kind of smooth-talking she had come to expect from the bard in her years knowing him. She remembered her mother's point of view of the past—one where a young, single widow tried to provide for her family but kept on being harassed by men. Her mother had claimed Mikael was the most bothersome of lot. He even went as so far to publish a book about all the eligible women of Whiterun, which only brought more pestering suitors from across Skyrim and even as far as Hammerfell.

Men thought her mother was beautiful, a trait to which many in Whiterun said Mila had inherited as she grew. Her Imperial Blood gave her skin more color than the pale Nords of Skyrim. Working outside added even more color—a layer of pale pink that was quite charming. She had her mother's luscious dark-oak colored locks and matching wide eyes.

She didn't know how to respond to Mikael; she had never considered his feelings on the matter before but didn't necessarily feel bad for him either—she was somewhat aware of his reputation and figured he could have moved on quicker than most men that her mother had rejected.

She took another swig of her drink and looked away, not bearing to see the forlorn expression that mirrored her own feelings—no matter if it was only a ruse to have her feel sorry for him and let her guard down.

"That Battle-Born lad you were always running about with—was he not supposed to return for Lady Dagnessa's wedding?"

Mila went rigid at the mention of Lars and then shrugged without returning her gaze to the bard, "He did not, but it would have been for nothing—it was called off until further notice. The lady was abandoned at the altar."

She caught a sigh in her throat, "Besides, I doubt Lars has much time to attend weddings or see dear friends while he is in the Imperial Legion."

She didn't mean to sound bitter on the last part, but it was evident. She was done talking about Lars and his failure to return to Whiterun, however thoughts about the subject had and would continue to plague her thoughts.

"My dear, you're mug is nearly empty—allow me to buy you another fill," the bard held out his hand in offer.

She should have started to head back home—she knew her mother would chide her for staying out so late and worry that the lass wouldn't wake in time to mind the vegetable stand, but Mila wasn't ready to go just yet.

After a moment, she acquiesced and let the bard take her mug and give it to the proprietor to fill again.

"BARD!"

They both looked to see the other patron raise his cup, "How about another song?"

Mikael nodded and gestured he'd be just a few moments.

A song would be more welcome than the current silence but for the buckling noise of the logs underneath the fire. She rather did like music and always had. If she wasn't needed to help her mother with the business, she would have considered joining the Bard's College.

It had been a long day—selling to the many travelers in town for the wedding, anticipating seeing Lars in the crowd, watching in wry glee as the guests left the city gates and mumbling about a 'waste of time' when it was discovered that brat, Dagny, was left standing under the Gildergreen without her groom. Then there was the terrible disappointment of learning Lars wasn't there after all.

"Here you are m'lady," Mikael handed her the mug that was heavy and damp with more drink.

She thanked him as she should. Just because she didn't care for the man didn't mean she had to be rude.

"And now for Ragnar the Red..." Mikael adjusted his lute and began to play. She had heard this song a hundred times and let her mind enjoy the tune without paying mind to the words—as the lyrics were of an unpleasant nature.

She lifted the mug to her lips and noticed straight away it wasn't ale, but mead—which was a bit more costly than she could afford. She had it before, for her eighteenth birthday, when it was the first time she had tried it. It was sweeter than she remembered—but then again, there were many types of mead, and all were sweeter than ales. She was far from a connoisseur and decided to just enjoy the sweet taste as she rarely got to have it.

After taking another sip, she laid her chin in her hand and studied the singing bard. It was rather kind of Mikael to buy her mead, the drink was pricy and she figured he didn't make much coin working as a bard. He was a sweet man under all his strut and slyness, and though he was many years her senior, she could understand why women thought him attractive. He was tall, with blue eyes and fair hair as most Nords, but he was also talented.

Mila's eyes fluttered a bit, hit with sudden lethargy. She hadn't felt so tired a moment before, but the late hour combined with the drink, music, and cozy heat of the fire must have started to make her drowsy.

Mikael's song ended and the patron clapped, tossing a gold coin to the bard before departing up the stairs for the night.

Perhaps it was time for her to go to bed too. Her head lolled out of her hand and she barely caught herself from tipping forward. She saw a blurry form approach her, "You don't look too well."

What did they mean by that? She noticed the singing had stopped and knew it was Mikael who had said it. She wasn't feeling sick at all, in fact, she had started to feel very pleasant.

She only smiled, "I'm perf—perfectly fine, Mikael." Something felt so good in her, the alcohol certainly helped but she could handle a cup of ale without feeling so giddy—she felt light-of-heart despite the sadness she had been feeling only moments before.

"Thank you again for the mead," she stood and used the wooden pillar to balance herself. The world was suddenly a-whirl with color—orange and yellow from the glow of the fire casting off every object in the room, off Mikael even, giving him an ethereal glow. The floor seemed to be made of liquid wood, casting waves that lapped against the stone base of the hearth. She had never felt like this before, she had never seen the world like this before.

Her vision straightened out long enough to see Mikael grinning with amusement at her bemused wonder in her surroundings.

"What are you smiling about?" she returned the grin and kept a hold on the pillar as she leaned outward to steal a pluck on his lute. She saw the elk head mounted on the wall behind him give her a wink and pantomime a kiss which sent her into a fit of giggling.

As she was asking, the door of the entrance to the Bannered Mare had opened to another late-night visitor.

The wind was bit chilly, and it swirled inside—clashing against the heat. It had somewhat of a sobering effect and so did the person who had joined them, "He's smiling like a fox about to take a hen."

The comment was stated as a cold, amused, fact. Mikael immediately stepped away from Mila and gave a shallow bow.

Mila's attention on the elk wavered and her hold on the pillar slipped. She tripped forward and was caught in one arm of the newcomer and then put back to balance. Though she didn't let go, and continued holding firmly to the arm for further stability, fearing she would fall into the deep end of the liquid wooden floor if she did relinquish grip.

His form wasn't entirely discernible. It was a fact he was much, much taller then she. He was also slimmer than the average grown man, she could tell by the lack of brawn in his upper arm that she was holding to so tightly. His clothes—a dark fur-lined cloak—were clean and so was he. No stench of staleness like most of those in who lived and spent time in the Plains District.

"What do you mean?" she frowned and was hit with the same wave of lethargy from before. She sunk further into him without meaning to. She gave small groan at the way the room spun around her, the walls expanding and then contracting as if aiming to consume her.

"You are just prey to him, a plaything for him to amuse himself with," her anchor answered and leaned in closer—for a brief second—his face became clear. He had dark auburn hair, high cheekbones, and eyes the color of a storm with the same temperament raging in them. He took a deep breath through his nose, then retreated from his position of study and turned an eye to the bard, "Moon sugar?"

"It's harmless, my thane," Mikael said in a casual tone as if the man should have understood.

Thane? The word kept her from nearly passing out as the walls sank into the ocean of floor.

"Get out of my sight, Bard, before I tell the guard you've been contaminating drinks with filthy Khajiit intoxicants."

She didn't get to see if Mikael obeyed this order. She was concerned with walls closing in around her like a giant jaw.

But her head was still spinning too—with anger, fear, and embarrassment. How could Mikael be so disgusting? How long did the effects of moon sugar last? She tried to ask, but a slurred sound came out—incoherent to anyone listening. The Thane tried to pry her off but all that dissolved moon sugar that had made the mead taste so sweet, and which had made her feel so good—finally gave the signal for walls to close in and all that remained was blackness.

Chapter Text

Blood trailed the length of the sword, contrasting against the light, steely green of refined malachite, until it finally dripped off the tip and onto the wooden floor. Other drops followed suit until a substantial puddle of crimson formed beneath the blade. The owner cared not; it wasn't his concern to cover up the evidence of death—only cause it.

He didn't look particularly menacing, for being an agent of such harrowing circumstance.

Aventus had always had an earnest face, sincere-looking eyes, and a boyish smile. It was easy for him to gain the trust of those who had never met him. His marks never saw how truly cold he could be until seconds before they died.

The body of the latest target lay on the floor just an arms-length away from their own blood puddle. It drew no guilt nor remorse from him.

He often wondered where or how he had become so calculating and uncouth but he was kidding himself and knew it happened when he was forced to return to Honorhall Orphanage when he was twelve years old.

After his Black Sacrament failed, after the guards of Windhelm evicted him from his home yet again, and after Grelod the Kind had nearly beaten him senseless and refused him food for three days—he had stood in doorway of her bedroom with a rough-sewn pillow, quietly sniffling back tears while fresh bruises spotted his sides. In one decisive movement he shoved the pillow over the old woman's face and held it with all his might. She struggled but his fury gave him strength and he held fast. He was doing this not only for himself but for Hroar, Runa, Samuel, and Francois. They all had suffered enough under Grelod's cruelty and he was rightfully ending it then and there. He didn't let up until her arms stopped clawing at him and dropped limply over the edge of the bed.

After he removed the pillow and saw her vacant eyes—cruel-looking even in death—he went back to his cot and had the most restful sleep since his mother had died.

He swiped his sword across the bed covering to cleanse it, as best as it could be cleansed until he found a water source to truly wash it. He never liked the sight of black dry and crusted blood on his weapon. It seemed sloppy.

Movement caught the corner of his eye. He turned fully but couldn't ascertain any form—human nor animal that could have caused it. The sun was setting and the light was becoming scarcer as thin traces of it came through the window.

It could have been a trick of the mind's eye too.

Another shadow shifted and he raised his sword, ready for an attack—spinning around.

Nothing.

He gave a sigh and pushed back the hood of his cloak, rushing a hand through his dark, neck-length hair in mild frustration. Now he had a full peripheral view of the room and nothing seemed amiss.

Sometimes his imagination got the best of him.

As he grew, he became more cautious and found he would often imagine the worst of scenarios he found himself in. There was the time, when he was seventeen and contracted to dispatch a merchant traveling through Falkreath. He anticipated the merchant to have guards—from what Nazir had told him— several guards, in fact and Aventus wasn't entirely sure he could kill them all but knew he would die trying. However, once he spotted the wagon, it was just the merchant and his mistress, and the visions of a small battle were clearly only in Aventus's head. The mark was easy and died quickly, but it wasn't until Aventus was heading back to the sanctuary that he saw there was a group of guards who must have been dallying behind. They did not see him but he could hear their cries of alarm down the road when they found the gruesome scene. A battle with them would have been thrilling, but logic, and sheer math dictated he wouldn't have survived, and since the guards were not witnesses to his crimes, he continued on.

The shadows of the room moved again. Of course shadows would shift as the sun settled in the west. However the way they moved seemed unnatural as far as shadows went. He had to remind himself they were only shadows to halt his imagination from taking off and making him paranoid.

With his sword sheathed, and the current mark eradicated—the only thing left to do was find something to prove to the brotherhood that the deed had been done.

Nazir had said the mark owned an enchanted ring made of rubies set in gold. Aventus kneeled next to the body and lifted an arm, searching the fingers for the jewelry.

Nothing.

He checked the other hand and it was the same outcome.

His eyes swept over the room with consideration—there on the desk was a lock box. He plucked a lock-pick form his pocket and went to work on it. After a few turns, the lock was forced open with a click and revealed what was inside. There were gold coins, rare jewels, but no actual jewelry.

By Sithis, where could it be?

His window of opportunity to get the job done and escape was closing, and Nazir had been adamant on Aventus obtaining the ring. They never usually were required to bring tokens of a kill back, and it struck Aventus odd that this time it was part of the contract.

A sudden shine of red reflected off the wall and Aventus turned to see a last ray of sun, hitting through a piece of jewelry atop a small wardrobe. He grinned at his luck of finding it near the last moment.

As he reached out for it, something quick and forceful flew into the floorboards past his hand and splintered the wood there. He reeled backward—keeping his balance and unsheathing this sword in anticipation of a full-on attack. His mind wasn't playing tricks on him after all.

It had been an arrow, shot so precise that it had meant to miss his hand and only act as a warning.

He viewed the length of the darkening room to see no one. He looked again to the arrow, the fletching pointed at a near vertical angle and he slowly looked toward the ceiling where he saw a figure clad in dark leather, sitting in the rafters and holding a bow—another arrow knocked and pointed straight at him.

"That's not yours," they said, matter-of-factly.

The voice was distinctly female, young, and Nord-accented—muffled slightly by a cowl.

Her figure was crouched, and most of her face was covered except for her eyes—beyond that detail, he couldn't see much besides that she was built to sit in the shadows.

"Neither is it yours," he replied coldly, "and since I dispatched the owner, it is now mine."

"The brotherhood doesn't steal objects. It only steals lives."

He wasn't wearing anything that identified him as a part of the brotherhood and had to wonder why she assumed it. He preferred to wear normal clothes when doing contracts because nothing tipped a mark off more than someone coming at them in the telltale black and red shrouded armor. There was a long pause, and after a moment he asked, without trying to make it sound so obvious it were true, "What makes you think I am in the Dark Brotherhood?—I could just be a simple mercenary. "

"I have never seen a simple mercenary dispatch so neatly—you kill with an assassin's skill."

He smiled slightly, appreciating that his careful work made her take notice, "Thank you."

"You're welcome—but no matter, that ring is already spoken for."

"Who speaks for it?" Aventus demanded to know.

"The Thieves Guild."

He should have known that's what she was, though he was expecting her to give a name. She rocked back on one heel without taking aim off him, "And to be honest I am a bit upset you killed the poor soul. Hopefully I won't be blamed for that," she gestured a finger toward the lifeless body below.

"Yet you threaten my life," he frowned.

"If I stick an arrow through your hand you won't die," she said in a lighter tone that almost betrayed laughter, "Though you may not be able to hold a sword or pick locks for a while. Now pick that shiny up and throw it to me."

"Come down here and get it yourself," he taunted. He sheathed his sword to show he wasn't going to attack her with it if she should try.

The room was darkened now; the sun had fully set. It was hard to actually make her out as she blended so well with the twilight. She withdrew her aim and returned the arrow back to the quiver fastened behind her.

He could hear the creaks of the rafters as she descended, gracefully even, and landed onto the bed. There were sounds of shifting leather that she wore as she bent over to feel for where she thought the ring was on top of the wardrobe.

As she moved, he had been thinking of why the two guilds were going after the same object. It may have been that the person who initially made the contract with Nazir was also a client of the guild and had booked the same job. Perhaps the Thieves Guild was the back-up in case the Brotherhood failed. He inwardly scoffed at the thought of failing—he was too thorough to let that happen—then again here was this thief trying to take something he was told to obtain.

Unfortunately for her, she knew he was in the Dark Brotherhood, so she must have also known the brotherhood's policy. There couldn't be any witnesses to a contract kill, that much was clear and any denizen of Tamriel knew it.

Aventus leaped forward and plowed into her, knocking her backward and her bow from her grasp. She gasped and gave a shout of surprised outrage. He put all his weight into her, a knee into her chest and reached for a glass dagger in his boot—intending to end it with a swift blade slice across the throat. She struggled violently, hitting him in any way she could with her free hand. He managed to grab her wrist and pin her arm above her head so he had an unobstructed path to her neck. He let the dagger fall.

In a movement that only spoke of how agile and capable the young woman was, she swung her hips up and wrapped her legs around his torso, forcing his arms tight at his sides. The position caused him to lose balance and tip backward until his back had fallen against the floor and she, in turn, was on top of him. The dagger clattered out of his hand and across the floor. He tried to move his arms but her thigh muscles were drawn tight enough they wouldn't budge. It was a complete reversal of power and it had never happened to him before.

"How dare you—" he hissed but was pulled up with a vicious tug by the neck of his cloak and he felt her lips brush against his.

Kissed?

For once, he was too stunned to speak. The thief laughed at his reaction and did so heartily, causing both of them to quiver slightly. He was briefly caught in the memory of the last time someone had kissed him so long ago.

"I have a secret," he confessed in a whisper as the Riften Guard carried away the body of Grelod the Kind the next morning. All the adults had determined the headmistress had expired due to natural causes. He didn't know why he whispered his crime—perhaps just so it was out there in the world. The only person near enough to hear was Runa Fair-Shield, a fellow orphan that bore a black-eye from when Grelod threw a bowl at the child days prior when she had asked for more gruel. Runa was standing against the wall trying contain a smile at the passing body. His words caught her attention and she stepped closer, curiously.

"What did you say, Aventus?"

"I smothered Grelod to death last night," it wasn't an apology—just a fact.

He didn't know what to expect but certainly didn't expect the little blonde girl two years his junior to lift up on her tip-toes and peck him on the lips in gratitude.

"Aretino."

His surname, spoken in a laugh by the same woman restraining him, brought his mind back to the present at once.

She spoke it as if she knew him, but he certainly didn't know her. He couldn't even see her with the cowl obscuring her features. Before he could even ask who she was, she hauled back and punched him the face so hard that all consciousness left him and the last thing he could hear was her laughter ringing in his ears.

Chapter Text

How many damned mudcrabs were there on the bank of the White River? Honestly, Hroar counted the seventh as he withdrew his sword from the chitin of another corpse.

All he wanted was to get to the river's edge, refill his water skin, and get on with his morning patrol. It wasn't enough that a horde of mudcrabs tried to murder him, but so were Imperial soldiers, bandits, and any random marauder or predatory animal he so happened upon. It was a small wonder that the Stormcloak camp in Whiterun Hold hadn't been raided again. He sheathed his sword and spat at the mudcrab, despite it not being alive to feel offended.

Hroar had always wanted to do something with his life, and he wanted to join the Stormcloaks as soon as he was old enough. He had believed in their cause. Now going on three years in the service with Skyrim's sons and daughters, his hopes were lingering. Each day there was increased word that another camp or company had been cleared by the oppressors. There was no doubt that his fellow soldiers were a stubborn lot because the war was being fought since before he was born. The question was, would he ever know peace?

He bent down and let the river water flow into his water skin that he held steady with one hand while removing his helmet with his other. Then he let it drop and splashed some water on his face. He hadn't properly bathed in a while either, mostly rain and quick moments of wiping water over the face was enough to get rid of most of the sweat and grime that had accumulated there.

Despite the brief moments of feeling refreshed, his chapped lips, unshaven, unruly facial hair, skin-scraped knuckles, and general odor always brought him back to feeling like the disgusting Nord soldier that he was. After wiping excess water from his face with his arm, he donned his helmet once more.

He capped his water skin and stood with a sigh, quiet enough it shouldn't attract any attention but still heartfelt nonetheless. He knew better than to attract attention, mostly because whatever he did attract wanted to kill him. So, he was very aware of his surroundings and had to be at any given moment. As of now the only movement was from the pines swaying in the light breeze, the rushing water from the river, and the logs that were thumping against the bank while being trapped by a protruding rock.

If he weren't fighting a losing war, and if he didn't have orders to patrol, he would have lingered to enjoy the day or even try to bathe. On second thought, he wouldn't bathe because the current in the river was particularly strong and he would have lost his head if he was swept downstream without his uniform or armor.

His sight followed downstream, just imagining his own embarrassment at having to trek back up the road in the nude if the scenario played out—but something he saw broke those thoughts and he held his breath.

A body.

A human body, laying still, on its side, with the bottom-half in the water and top-half on the land.

He had seen corpses before, of those who fought by his side, and those of his enemies. He had killed persons of various races and gender in skirmishes so he wasn't squeamish nor scared at the sight of it—just apprehensive.

Tying his water skin to his belt in one move and unsheathing his sword in another, Hroar moved toward the body on light steps. Upon closer inspection, it belonged a female dressed in civilian clothing. The clothing was torn in places which made him wonder if an animal or the like had been disturbing the body.

He used the flat of his sword to roll her over in one move—seeing if she really was dead. Her body rolled to the side limply, facing him so he could see her features.

The first thing he noticed was that her hands were shackled together. The poor thing probably had drowned if not been out-right disposed of and dumped in the river. Her clothes were soaked and dark blonde strings of hair were slicked to the sides of her face.

Her body heaved suddenly, responding to the movement and coughed, vomiting a mouthful of water before dragging in a ragged breath. Hroar lifted his sword pointedly and took a quick step back before studying the lass, then he glanced around to make sure she hadn't attracted any unwanted attention with her noises.

He determined that she posed no danger in her current state, so he once again sheathed his sword and then knelt next to her. Her eyelids were still closed, but she had made a noise. She was somewhat conscious and not yet coherent.

At least he could do her a favor and get those wrist shackles off. He figured they were the usual leather straps that were commonly used and he could just cut through them but upon closer inspection, it was Elvin material. Thin chains that were crossed in a figure-eight between the wrists but too strong to break under his steel sword—at least not without sawing at it for a day or two.

This lass had just become far more interesting to him; what regular person just showed up at a river's edge, bound in Elvin chains?

He didn't know what to say to her to establish his presence—to ask her if she was all right, or how she felt would have been ludicrous because he could see she wasn't well at all—looking half-drowned and battered.

"Hello there, what's your name?" he tried.

Her eyes opened slightly in acknowledgement, taking in his appearance, and then she gave a groan of exhaustion.

"No," her voice managed to crack. She rolled to her side so he was facing her back again.

"'No' —what an odd name you have," Hroar noted out loud with a smirk and stood to give her space.

She ignored his quip, and instead made a move to sit up, propping herself on an elbow. She gave a cry of pain and held her stomach, increasing pressure underneath her ribs. However, she didn't crumple like he expected. She continued to try and raise her body without support, with her hands still bound together.

"Stop," he commanded. She was just going to injure herself further. He pulled his last healing potion from his belt. He was saving it for the inevitable moment an enemy should happen upon him but it'd do this lass wonders in her current state. Not fully heal her of course, but at least refresh her enough to soothe the harshest of pains. "Here, take my healing potion."

"I don't want anything from the likes of you!"

He was taken aback by the venom in her tone. She had twisted around to face him, glaring with hate and grimacing in pain all at once. Her fierce eyes pierced him and he felt guilty for whatever he had done to make her so angry with him.

She managed to stand and started to limp away, slightly stooped to the side where she was holding her stomach—breathing heavily with effort after every step.

"You want to die then?" he asked, throwing out his arms to indicate the wilderness they were in. There were no cities nor inns within hours of walking distance. She would succumb to her injuries before she ever reached a semblance of civilization, not to mention she could even put up a fighting chance with her hands in shackles. She kept limping away without answering him. She was either very brave or very stupid. "What a shame, since you have survived this far."

Those last words caused her to halt. She turned her neck and looked at him a long moment, seeming to try to understand if he was being sarcastic or sincere after the way she regarded him.

"I wouldn't even be in this situation if it wasn't for a Stormcloak like you," she finally said, the words were low and filled with disgust. The majority of it was emphasized on his faction alone and he realized what the reason was as to why she held so much distaste for him. She supported the Empire.

"What is your situation exactly?" he was still curious to how she ended up discarded by the river's edge in Elvin shackles. The Empire was in league with the kind that had bound her, it didn't make sense to him why she would still support them.

"It doesn't concern you."

By Akatosh, she was a stubborn one. Hroar put his healing potion back in his belt pouch since she had refused it.

"It does concern me. You see, I am on patrol and I am supposed to report suspicious activity—and since you are clearly in opposition of the Stormcloaks, and since you washed ashore with those shackles..." he nodded at her wrists, "...I'd say you are the most suspicious thing I have seen today."

He could see immediately that she realized he knew the origin of that which had bound her. She looked down at the chains as soon as he had made the indication. He had been advancing closer to her since she had stopped walking away, as well as distracting her with words and she gave a brief look of surprise before Hroar grabbed her around the waist and hauled her over his shoulder, "I'm taking you in for questioning."

She shrieked in anger or pain, or both and hit him in his back, right under his shoulder blades, even though she was far too weak to fight at the moment. He didn't feel a fraction of her intended harm.

"If you make too much noise you'll attract unsavory company," he warned. He quickly scanned the area for any possible movement from something other than the lass kicking at his waist.

"As if any other company can be more unsavory than you," she choked out.

He wasn't baited by her insult, "I doubt you'd rather have a frostbite spider for company. Or one of the hundreds of mudcrabs along the river bank. They can't even be reasoned with."

"And you can?"

He gave a shrug, which caused her to grunt since her stomach was directly on his shoulder. "I did offer to help, but you refused it."

A few moments of silence passed as he climbed a hill while carrying her. Eventually she stopped struggling and went slack against him, which was probably in both their best interests.

"What are you going to do with me?" he could hear a trace of fear in her question and it made him soften. He didn't have any ill intentions toward her, but her predicament was too strange to ignore.

"I suppose our camp's leader will want to know of your involvement in the Thalmor—"

"I said nothing of the Thalmor!"

Her body physically jerked and tensed as soon as he had suggested it. It wasn't common for Dunmer or Bosmer to go around shackling citizens in fancy bindings. Whatever she was in trouble for, it was serious.

But her reaction was proof enough that she had been involved in the Thalmor in some respect. He just shrugged again, causing her to stifle a gasp. Her stomach made a loud sound.

"As I was saying, the Head-Smasher will want to question you. He is the commander that oversees Stormcloack activity in Whiterun," he finished and felt her tense again and couldn't help but to grin, "He won't smash your head, that's just what we call him."

"How are Stormcloaks even still in the hold? I thought they were all driven back to Eastmarch?"

Hroar didn't expect her to ask such a question—the inquiry tasted of a spy trying to gather information— so he changed the subject back to what it was before and ignored her question completely. "I suppose after he's satisfied with your explanation, he'll have those shackles removed and send you on your way."

"You won't be able to get these shackles off easily, not without a blade made of orichalcum," she snapped back immediately.

"What are you talking about?"

"These bindings are made from moonstone and orichalcum is harder, has opposite properties, and the best kind of weapon to cut through it. Did you know that Orcish weapons were made to combat Elvish ones?"

Hroar hadn't known that, and he couldn't remember if any of the soldiers at the camp owned any such Orcish weapons. He was mildly impressed she had the knowledge— she must have either have been bookish or grown up around a smithy. Neither of those attributes Hroar could have used to describe his childhood.

"Well hopefully for you someone has an Orcish blade handy. Otherwise, you might have to go all the way to Windhelm to get those shackles off."

That was the last they spoke for a while. Climbing uphill while carrying another body wasn't as easy as just walking, but it wasn't impossible for Hroar. He had grown to be tall with a good set of shoulders. Living in Honorhall Orphanage, he was forced by Grelod the Kind to fetch water for the orphanage every day since he was six years old until her passing. For every inconvenience she insisted that he had been the cause of, Grelod sought to punish him by ordering him to fetch more buckets of water. More than once he brought so much water back that there was no more pans or barrels to fill, so the wretched lady took the bucket and dumped all the water out the back—right in front of him—and then demanded he fetch more.

Just thinking on those memories made his blood boil.

He figured he had a subconscious desire for abuse because the first thing he did after coming of age was join the Stormcloaks. Or perhaps he just wanted some likeness of a family. No one had adopted him, no one had wanted him. He was still coming to terms with it. He just wanted to be around those he could trust with his life; he didn't want to be alone.

The camp wasn't far, just up over the next rocky hill. He slowed his pace, suddenly having a thought that it would be best if this lass didn't know where the camp was. She had been quiet for a while and possibly had been paying close attention to her surroundings in order to report the area the camp was in to the Legion or even contemplating to escape.

"We're close now," he said, to get her attention.

She didn't respond.

"Did you hear me?" he shrugged a shoulder, suspecting the move would get her acknowledge him. She didn't even let out as much as a moan. In fact, she didn't even flinch—she was completely limp.

He set her on the ground and found she was out of consciousness once again. Her clothes were still damp but her hair seemed much dryer than before. He brushed away a few strands of hair that had fallen into her face just to check. It swiped away easily enough, proving so, but now without her hair obscuring her face, he found there was also a deep blue spread across the skin covering the left side of her forehead, extending to her temple.

Bruising like that was serious. Without another thought he pulled the health restoring potion from his belt and unclasped the cover. He held her chin steady and forced open her mouth, pressing the opening of the bottle to her lips and poured the liquid between them. She responded once the liquid hit her throat, and let out a few coughs after swallowing. For a split second he had hope it had worked because her eyes cracked open to mere slits. Then they rolled back into her head, her head lolled to the side, and she took a strained breath.

So, the affects didn't take immediately—the soldiers were given weak potions meant for temporary ailments. The best course of action was to get her to the camp, especially while she couldn't see how to get there. The camp had more healing agents as well—if not more potent potions, possible raw materials that helped in recovery.

Hroar wasn't versed that in what ingredients helped as remedies and he was lousy at alchemy, nor had the patience or talent for magic. He had done all that he could to help her for now. He pulled her up into his arms, carrying her properly and not as a sack of potatoes like before.

His camp consisted of six tents, three small and three large—with a fire pit and wood stump for cutting more wood. Small but full of movement.

The soldiers who were present gave Hroar curious looks as he entered camp with the young woman.

"What have you got here?"

The inquiry was posed by a particular soldier Hroar couldn't stand the presence of. The unsavory Stormcloak had been fighting as long as Hroar but the man had always acted as though he were more valuable to the cause. He was boisterous, rude, and had bad humor. The soldier's brows raised suggestively, "Some nice bedside company?"

"Where's the Head-Smasher?" Hroar ignored the crass insinuation and asked to anyone who would hear. He caught the eye of the camp's mender and they approached to look over the lass.

"He was called to Windhelm to discuss new orders. He left me in charge," was the explanation given by the same soldier that had greeted him.

Hroar raised a brow and gave a look to the Mender and they returned a disappointed nod that it was true. Not many enjoyed the company of that same brother-at-arms. He was the living stereotype that Imperials liked to point to as example when in discussions about why they would never support the Stormcloaks. Hroar and most others knew that was not what they were—angry zealots, uncultured drunks and rapists that would rather kill than change their ways.

He kept his sigh of disappointment to himself and found a bedroll covered in furs to set the lass on until she felt better and awoke.

"She's stable for now but I'll patch up a few cuts," the Mender declared and left their spot to grab a wooden mortar to grind ingredients in.

Hroar removed his helmet and set it to the side, glad to have the breeze blowing on his face once again. All the while, the camp's temporary Charge watched over them, seeming to bristle with impatience to understand why she was there.

"Leave her be, she's got a serious blow to her head and I think she might have bruised ribs too," Hroar turned and put himself between the lass and the camp's new Charge, hovering about like a distasteful vulture.

The brute's lips drew back in a half-snarl, apparently not liking being commanded by someone they thought lesser. "Why did you bring her here then, if not to keep for yourself?"

Hroar grit his teeth with annoyance that it was assumed he'd have any inappropriate intentions toward the lass, and explained, "An odd set of circumstances. I need to speak with the Head-Smasher about her."

"Whatever you have to say to the Head-Smasher you can discuss with me. I was left with charge of this camp. We don't have resources to feed an extra person until he returns."

Hroar swallowed his urge to argue and merely glowered to indicate that he didn't approve or agree with the Head-Smasher's choice. The only reason to leave this brute in command was because he had served the longest out of the present soldiers, so therefore knew the protocols if the camp were attacked and could give out patrol assignments in the meantime.

Hroar gave a slight tilt of his head and darted his eyes to the edge of camp, signaling he wanted to talk out of earshot of those who would listen in otherwise. The man nodded back and met Hroar at the farthest point from the middle of camp.

"I found the lass on the bank of the White River. At the moment, she is trapped in Elvin-made shackles—"

"Thalmor?"

Hroar almost scowled for being interrupted but continued as if he wasn't bothered by it, "Most likely. She didn't divulge me in much detail and outright denied it."

The Charge swung his head back to glance at her. She was still unconscious and the Mender was applying a demulcent to her cuts. Hroar didn't know how much longer she'd be so until her health restored enough to wake her.

Hroar continued, "I told her I was taking her to be questioned, but we can't free her from those bonds without a great effort, unless one of our soldiers happens to be carrying an Orcish blade."

"If I am not mistaken the Frost-Dodger has one, but he is on patrol to the north," the Charge rubbed his chin and he sounded a hint delighted at the fact that perhaps the only means of freeing the lass was currently unavailable, "Move her to my tent so the others won't bother her, and if she wakes—notify me immediately."

That sounded like a terrible idea to Hroar, "But..."

"That's an order."

Hroar clenched his jaw with an ill feeling crawling in his gut of what potential unwanted behavior the new Charge could bestow upon the lass. They were not supposed to take civilians hostage unless they were suspected of having information of use. He doubted she would talk, even if she did have useful intel—considering her formidable animosity toward him. She hated and feared him. He had seen it in her eyes.

He suddenly felt a surge of guilt, knowing he was the one who had brought her to the camp, and if any harm befell her it would be his fault. Though, to be fair—she'd have been dead soon enough without his aid too.

Since the Mender's handiwork on the lass had been completed, Hroar moved her as commanded to large tent, which was presumably the Charge would be sleeping in until the Head-Smasher returned. It wasn't much grander than where she had lain before, the only difference was a shelter. If it were to rain, at least she'd be dry. As he set her down, her stomach made a low growling sound as a sabre cat did when one got too close. He remember then, it had made the same sound earlier too. She must have been starving. He couldn't guess at how long she laid at the edge of the river—a day, perhaps?

There were small slabs of pheasant breast roasting on the spit that hung over the fire in the middle of camp. Also there, hung a cooking pot with some simmering stew of some sort—it smelled delicious. Hroar had been patrolling since early in the morning and could use some food himself. He ladled himself a bowl and an extra one for the lass.

As he pushed back the flap of the tent, he could see movement—the lass had sat up from the bedroll in alarm. Her eyes were wide and suddenly much more alert than before. She gave him a blank stare.  He had concern that she had lost her memory as no recognition was apparent.

He held out the bowl of stew nonetheless, "Here, I thought you'd be hungry."

After a moment she took it; still tense. She had to hold the bowl by the bottom with both hands since they were still shackled. She blew the steam away from the food to cool it and he took a seat on the ground across from her.

"I didn't recognize it was you without your helmet," she said between releasing puffs of breath, sending the steam spiraling toward him.

He didn't realize that she had never seen him without it. Suddenly he became embarrassed about his unkempt appearance and he didn't know how to respond but with, "My face has seen better days."

He didn't wait for the stew to cool, and abruptly sipped the broth. It was cabbage, and it burned his tongue somewhat.

"You look younger than I thought you were."

He chortled, causing some of the cabbage stew to sputter out of his mouth and into his beard. He hadn't expected to laugh, he didn't know why he found her statement so humorous. He hadn't laughed since what felt forever ago.

He saw the corners of her mouth lift in amusement, "Your voice sounds so much older."

"Well," he coughed, becoming more somber, "That's what war does to a person."

The flap to the tent opened then, the camp's Charge was looking inside with a curious scowl because of the bout of laughter that was heard across the camp.

"I thought I ordered you to report to me if she woke up," the Charge glared down at them, seeming to also frown in wonder at why Hroar was lollygagging about the tent—the tone of his question seemed to imply Hroar should leave immediately.

"She's awake now," Hroar replied smartly, ignoring the subtlety of the soldier and sipped more on his stew.

"Get out, I have questions for her," the Charge ordered impatiently, finally voicing the demand outright.

Hroar pulled himself up and stood face to face with the soldier with a cold look before leaving them. He gave a farewell nod to the lass who seemed to grow more wary of her situation.

Some of his fellows were eating around the fire, all giving him curious glances but none asking out loud about why he had brought the lass to camp. Also none mentioning what they thought was really happening now that the camp's Charge had her alone. Hroar could tell many thought it was more than just 'questioning' but he ignored it for a moment and hoped that the soldier in there with her, for once, wasn't acting crass and being the worst of them.

He finished off his meal and set the bowl next to the other discarded ones. He was supposed to go back to patrolling in case the enemy had pushed further. It was his unlucky draw for the week that assigned him morning and evening watch.

Whiterun was the first defense to the Stormcloak stronghold that Windhelm had become. They had lost the camp before, a few times when the Legion had over-powered the hold and forced the soldiers to hide in caves until they could rally enough forces to fight back. He hadn't always been stationed in Whiterun either. He had started in the Rift when he joined but after a few months there, was sent to the front line in Whiterun. He would have liked to think it was because he was a good fighter, but knew the reason was probably more because he was young and expendable. He picked up his helmet and put it on, with one last glance back to the tent.

Nothing amiss.

It only took ten paces before an outraged scream came from behind him.

The lass dashed out of the tent but stopped abruptly at seeing the soldiers, realizing she was far outnumbered. The camp's charge followed rubbing the side of his head, claiming she was trying to escape. She had obviously gotten in a blow in to him—a testament to her strength returning if she couldn't even hit and harm Hroar earlier.

Hroar doubted she was trying to escape since she could have tried anytime they were eating in the tent before. He suspected the Charge had said or done something the lass thought rightfully vile.

Hroar approached her with his hands pointed at the ground to indicate he meant no harm. She seemed to calm a bit at his gesture but in one stride and move, the Charge lunged forward and grabbed her from behind which caused her eyes to flash in anger at Hroar, thinking he had tricked her into submitting.

Hroar honestly didn't think the Charge would do that and opened his mouth to protest—but then something even more surprising happened.

Even with shackled wrists, the lass managed to pull the Charge's sword from its sheath, belted at his hip. It slid out with nothing short of a metallic scraping. She dodged out of her hold and turned the sword on him. She didn't have proper grip of it of course—both hands were clamped desperately on the hilt—but her stance was spot on. It was clear she was used to swords and knew a thing or two on how to fight with them.

The Charge stilled, although his chest barreled out in a façade of bravery for having a sword pointed at him.

Hroar observed her angry stare—focused at the charge—then she turned it and scanned the rest of them until it stopped on him. Her scowl only deepened. She kept the sword pointed outward and slowly made her way to the edge of camp. She pointed it at anyone who dared step forward at her.

"I'm leaving. Don't follow me," she ordered, as forcibly as she could muster in front of a half-dozen Stormcloak soldiers. Her orders were naïve though; the Charge would likely send someone to track after her.

Or not. Maybe her attempt at escape was all for nothing.

A figure quietly approached, returning from patrol. All the Stormcloaks could see him, and she had no inkling he was right behind her. The Frost-Dodger was so named for never have being hit by a Frost Spider's venom. He was also known for his amusing antics. The soldiers had all been tired of his pranks months ago, but they could see his smile of anticipation at surprising her—when it happened to someone else it was always humorous. She looked at them with a mild curiosity because some of their own smiles grew in the same anticipation.

"What—" she began to inquire but it was cut off by a loud shout as the Frost-Dodger easily seized her and restrained her. She gasped, and dropped the sword as he made the move, utterly surprised.

"What have we here?" The Frost-Dodger asked in a laugh to her reaction, while the rest of the soldiers chuckled at the lass's bemused expression. The Charge didn't laugh at all; he still seemed sour that she had denied his advances, struck him in the head, or both.

But then the Frost-Dodger's smile fell as he turned her toward him and saw her face—his own replaced with a different expression all together. An expression that surprised Hroar the most out of anything that had happened that day.

Recognition.

Chapter Text

When he was child, he was used to being ignored and unnoticed. It wasn't until he was a man that he realized it could be an advantage. When he came of age, his father sought to placate his surly, brooding nature by naming him thane of the city, and only then did Nelkir miss the days he could drift around Dragonsreach without question. Now, those in court would offer him shallow bows and call him by the title whenever he passed their sights. They noticed him more.

None more so than his elder brother, who had always thought Nelkir was strange and up to no good. Nelkir had been an unwitting punching bag toward Frothar since they were old enough to hold swords. Sparring lessons were Nelkir's personal Hell because Frothar was three years his senior end every bit more brawn than he.

Nelkir was just descending the staircase in the Dragonsreach private quarters when Frothar's shoulder caught his going the opposite direction. Either one could have moved out of the others' way, but both were stubborn and proud.

"Watch where you're walking," Frothar turned and chided with a frown.

Nelkir didn't engage him, only seemed to roll his eyes and continue forward.

He suddenly felt the back of his tunic being pulled before being pushed forward, he stumbled down the rest of the stairs, failing to catch his balance and landed belly-up. After a few seconds to take in the pain searing up his back, he looked up to see Frothar standing at the top of the stairs and grinning down at him with amusement.

The few guards posted in the area didn't say a word; they knew the heir of Whiterun would give them trouble if they spoke against his actions. Nelkir could have gone to his father about it; Balgruuf the Greater was known to be a fair and honest man, but Nelkir held disdain for all his family members.

"If you aren't careful, next time you could fall a lot further," Frothar advised, hinting that it would be more than just stairs Nelkir could fall from. Once Frothar was Jarl, Nelkir expected to be stripped of his title and assets. He could very well be banished from Whiterun; there was no love lost between them.

Nelkir leveled a scowl so fierce that a hint of uneasiness showed in his brother's brow but Frothar quickly concealed it with a small laugh and continued on toward his chambers.

The youngest of the Jarl's children stalked further across the private quarters, meeting his sister-in-law with no way to avoid her. She was annoyingly friendly. Livia Umbranox had never gotten used to the permanent chill of Skyrim air and so was wearing a fur pelt made from snowy saber cat wrapped around her shoulders. She seemed to wear it everywhere she went. 

"Dear Nelkir, why do you frown so?" she inquired and reached up to wipe a spot of dust off of the shoulder of his tunic. She was very short in comparison, being an Imperial female. She had to lift on her tiptoes to reach his shoulder with her fingertips. He must have acquired it from when he landed on the floor.

"Ask your husband," Nelkir replied darkly. She had missed the scene by mere seconds.

"Is Frothar picking on you again?" She made it sound like Nelkir was a child when she was no more than a year older than he.

He didn't confirm or deny, but she pressed her lips together as if she knew the answer already.

He had stopped paying attention to Livia and was eyeing the door that led to his sister's room. Dagny had been in there since the canceled wedding, drinking herself into a stupor and becoming more obnoxious and demanding than usual. Nelkir had never liked her, she was the bossiest person he had ever known and he couldn't help but to think that Joric Ravencrone's absence was a sort of divine comeuppance for her.

He didn't get along with anyone at Dragonreach—no one that held court, none of his family, and the servants were out of the question—Livia might be the only one who showed him any care, but he disliked her patronizing demeanor. Now she was fussing about the dark colors of his wardrobe.

"No wonder you always seem gloomy. I could have the tailor make you something less..." She backed away and appraised him, "Depressing."

"Mind your own business, Livia," Nelkir snapped, his patience was wearing thin. She looked affronted and he left before she could protest. Couldn't he just get some peace and quiet like he used to? He took a door that led to the servant's quarters and descended yet another staircase.

There was someone, though, he supposed, that he did get along with. Here, at the locked door.

He crouched beside it, tenderly smoothing his palm over the doorknob.

"Please tell me what to do. I can't live like this much longer."

Instead of the usual voice he heard at the door, he instead heard Proventus Avenicci calling his name from the floors above. Nelkir cursed and lifted himself to a stand, heading back upstairs to see what the man wanted.

The Steward seemed only a bit more suspicious than usual of Nelkir as he approached, "There is a young woman requesting an audience with you in the hall, my thane, what should I tell her?"

No wonder Avenicci was so keen, no one ever requested an audience with the Bastard of Whiterun. Of course, Nelkir was never openly called that and no one in court dared talk of the fact in front of him either. They all must have known by now because as he grew into manhood, there was a distinct lack of similarity between his features and his siblings'. They were fair-haired, with rounded chins and the deep-set eyes of Balgruuf. Nelkir had dark Auburn hair, stormy blue-grey eyes, and the only traces of his father were contained in his stern expression – the narrowing of the eyes, slight flare of nostrils, and a displeased, thin upper-lip cushioned by a fuller bottom half.

He knew anyone out in the great hall would be curious to hear what he had to say to the peasant girl. But he knew already what she would speak of, and didn't want anyone else to hear it.

"Send her to me, I'll give her a private audience," Nelkir replied.

Avenicci nodded and left the room to return to the hall. Nelkir leaned against the large table that contained a map of Skyrim; in years past, this is where his father and uncle would loiter, strategizing of how keep both factions of the war out of the hold. They had failed. The Legion now occupied the city. Whiterun's heir had wed an Imperial, all but tying Whiterun to the Empire for generations. The only blue flag left was on Windhelm. Smaller flags of the same color dotted in other parts of Eastmarch and in the Rift, signaling small Stormcloak encampments, but their existence posed little threat to the Empire any more.

"Mila Valentia, my thane," Proventus re-appeared, leading the same young lady Nelkir had seen the night before. Nelkir remembered her blithe mannerisms and foggy comprehension, as well as her desperate grasp on his arm as she nearly collapsed in the Bannered Mare's common room.

Nelkir gave the Steward the same stern glare of his father, signaling him to be gone. The young woman, Mila, looked unsure of herself—as she should be—if she could even remember anything from the night before with all the moon sugar swimming in her veins.

She made a quick, clumsy, curtsy that gave him mild amusement.

"What do you want?" he asked bluntly.

"To thank you," she glanced up, and studied him for a brief moment before adding, "my thane."

"I didn't do much," he shrugged and let his eyes wander around the room. He was bored with this audience already.

"I disagree," she replied rather sharply, causing his gaze to snap to her. She met his eyes, firmly that time.

"He was going to..." she glanced at her hands, they were clasping together in an unsettled manner in front of her but she stilled them. She looked back to him, "Mikael didn't have good intentions in mind for me and you stopped him. I think that was more than other man would have done in your position."

"You don't know me, and don't assume you do," Nelkir snapped, lifting his weight off the table and began to circle her. "The bard is a known scoundrel, and it was foolish to let him near anything you had been consuming. How did he do it?"

"He offered to refill my drink," she said quietly looking at the floor once more.

Nelkir made a scoffing noise but didn't put into words how stupid he thought she was for allowing it.

But she knew what he was thinking; he nearly loved the way her face contorted to shame. Mila had always been a pretty girl, and her features were far more dynamic when they weren't so tame. There was no pleasure for Nelkir in helping her, he just rather enjoyed causing misery and shutting Mikael down was the highlight of his actions.

"Be kinder to her," a smooth, but malevolent voice suddenly threaded through his mind. There she was. He had to wonder why the Whispering Lady ordered him to do such a thing. This young woman was naive, and far below him – he didn't owe her any kindness.

However, if his Whispering Lady insisted, he would obey. He forced his brow to lift from its stern and nearly permanent place above his eyes.

"My ap-apologies," the words seemed forced through his lips as he tried to transform his voice a gentler tone, "I will talk to my father about the bard's vile behavior."

She gave him an appreciative smile and then a nod of thanks. He daresay the smile made her features just as dynamic as if she were frowning, if not more.

"You are dismissed" he couldn't help his voice turning cold and indifferent once more. He didn't have anything left to say.

Her smile dissipated and she turned to leave.

"Nelkir, you disappoint me," the Whispering Lady's hiss was like ice down his spine. He hated to displease her, but couldn't know why she wanted this of him. He had been as kind as he could be to this girl who didn't deserve it. What more could his Lady want?

"I don't presume to know you, my thane," Mila said without turning back a look. She had momentarily halted in front of the open doorway that led back to the hall of Dragonsreach, "However, despite your reputation, you still have my everlasting gratitude."

He reached out and caught her arm, not missing the passive aggressive tone she used to mention his 'reputation', but immediately relinquished his grasp as she stared at him in wonder, and managed to say, "You're welcome."

"Be kind. Be charming," the Whispering Lady was not making it easy on him. How could he be charming? He gave her a blank stare before asking, "May I walk you back?"

Mila's look of wonder pursed into a puzzled frown, "Thank you, but I can handle myself, Thane—I don't need any more favors."

He almost laughed at her words, remembering how pathetic and foolish she was at the Inn. He doubted she could handle herself if she couldn't take precaution around her own drinks. The doubt in his mind didn't reach his eyes though, instead, he suppressed it and smiled "It's no favor—I insist."

She gave an apprehensive nod and he followed her into the hall. His father side-eyed him from the throne, as well as Irileth and Avenicci. Frothar was now lounging in a chair and drinking wine with their uncle but only gave a half-hearted glance of disinterest. Nelkir gave them no explanation as they passed.

"Nelkir!" Jarl Balgruuf called out after they had started to descend the first series of stairs in the hall.

Nelkir's shoulders tensed and he took a moment before turning around and gave a shallow bow, "Yes, my Jarl?"

"Introduce me to your friend."

His father was goading him, Nelkir could tell by the tone Barlgruuf used. Nelkir knew next to nothing about the girl and he would barely call her an acquaintance, much less 'friend.'

The Jarl held his hand out in a half-hearted wave, signaling Mila to come forward. She did so and looked curiously down the middle stretch of the grand room, over the flames of the hearth at the center, and to Jarl Balgruuf the Greater seated on his throne.

Another flick of the wrist motioned her forward to get a better look; she obeyed and moved closer until she reached the bottom of the small staircase that lead to the throne level and curtsied. Nelkir ambled around the opposite end of the hearth and stood next to her.

"My Jarl, this is Mila Valentia—a citizen of our city whom I've only become recently acquainted with. She had come to express gratitude toward me for helping her with a matter."

Mila kept quiet but nodded that it was true. She seemed a bit awed in the presence of the Jarl.

She would be, stupid peasant, Nelkir thought.

He could see his father's curiosity become piqued, for it was known his youngest son was not the kindly sort, much less went around helping others with their 'problems.'

"Pray tell, what matter was so severe that it caused my son to take action?" The Jarl actually leaned forward in interest from his haughty slouch.

Nelkir pretended not to notice the tone in which his father indicated that his youngest son was the most selfish being in Whiterun.

"The Bard, Mikael, he..." Mila began to explain and Nelkir noticed her cheeks blush, "He polluted my drink with moon sugar and had intentions to take advantage of me. The Thane thwarted his attempt."

Barlgruuf's amused expression was replaced with concern at her explanation, "That is a severe matter indeed. You feel better now? No lingering effects?"

She shook her head, embarrassment still evident in her face that she had told such a thing to the Jarl.

Balrguuf motioned to his housecarl, Irileth, and they exchanged some low words Nelkir couldn't hear. Irileth nodded and took leave. Nelkir figured Mikael was in for an unpleasant surprise within the next quarter hour.

"Many pardons my Jarl, but I must get back to work," Mila made a small, urgent curtsy that was less clumsy at least.

"I was escorting her," Nelkir added, to remind her and to explain to his father why he was taking his leave as well.

"Yes, that is well," Nelkir could detect a hint of approval in his father's words, and it made him bristle with an unexpected feeling he never had before in his life.

Mila nearly dashed out of Dragonsreach, silly with embarrassment or giddy because she had exchanged words with someone so important. Nelkir had to make a few more strides to catch up to her.

"So it looks like the singing skeever-scat will be taken care of now," he said, keeping pace just behind her. She swung around, her face was fully flushed in pink.

"I made a fool of myself."

He couldn't disagree, he showed no sympathy but looked beyond where they stood toward Jorvaskar. From their vantage, he could see the archery targets but no one was practicing—because the Jarl had sent most of the Companions off to discover why Dagny's groom never showed up. 

Mila continued forward without another word.

"I doubt you will make the mistake of taking drink from a scoundrel now." It was the only thing he could think of to say to console her. Not that it was a habit but because the Whispering Lady had told him to be charming. Didn't charming men try to comfort those around them?

He thought for a moment it had worked, she had halted once more, this time to look at him. Her eyes searched over his face and then she asked, "Doesn't Dragonsreach have much finer drinks than the Bannered Mare?"

"Of course," he answered. It wasn't really a question. The Jarl's coffers could afford expensive old wines of every variety across Tamriel, cases of the finest Black-Briar mead, and even that strange exotic-named alcohol from the elves.

"Then why were you at the Inn last night?"

He was taken aback by her question. It was none of her business. His brow plummeted to a frown with indignation. However, he remembered his lady's words and held his tongue.

"I was there to meet someone."

"Who?"

He was the one to continue walking in silence. They passed the Gildergreen tree and over the small bridge covering one of the city's many shallow irrigation canals.

"My Thane?"

He remained silent, figuring she would get the hint.

"Who were you to—?"

"It's none of your concern," he snapped. He couldn't help but to sound annoyed, "They didn't appear. Instead, I was burdened with carrying you home and waking up your hysterical mother in the dead of night."

She frowned but before she could retort, he cut in with a cunning smile, "If you wanted a taste of rebellion, there are much better ways to go about it. All you'd have to do is ask."

Her frown lifted to a look of astonishment, probably one that mirrored his own. What was he even saying? The thought of teaching her how to walk without being detected, or stealing Farengar Secret-Fire's droughts had sort of just formed in his head and came out as an offer. She was so innocent and unrefined, it was a laugh to look at her and assume she was trying her hand at teenage rebellion by staying out past her bedtime and getting intoxicated. He could only suppose that by making such an offer, he was trying to be kind. Kindness did not come easy to him, and that's why he was so astonished that he had done it.

They had made it to the plains district and stopped in front of a small stall covered with an awning that was presumably, where she worked. There were no vegetables at the moment but one of the Whiterun farmers was standing next to the stall with a few crates piled to his waist and he looked hassled.

"By Akatosh's grace, Mila, I can't be kept waiting all day," the man grumbled and held out his hand.

"I'm so sorry Mister Pelagia, I didn't think I would be so long," she fumbled with a pouch tied at her waist and placed it in his hand. He gave it a shake and all present heard the clear jangling of gold coin inside. He didn't need to count it, apparently satisfied at the contents. "I'm going to have to tell Carlotta."

Pelagia wasn't an intimidating man, he was older than Nelkir's own father and a whole head shorter.

Nelkir watched as Mila started forward pleadingly, she looked downright pathetic. He felt a prick of annoyance that she didn't stand up to the farmer.

"Your mother specifically asked me to let her know if you were being irresponsible, and tardiness is a part of that. How can she expect you to run this stand if you aren't here when the goods arrive?"

Nelkir didn't like Pelagia's tone either.

He cleared his throat, used to being ignored by other people.

The farmer finally took notice of the much taller youth at Mila's side. His eyes widened in recognition although it was a rare sight to behold. The Jarl's youngest son hardly ever ventured outside of Dragonsreach.

"She and I had something to discuss. So are you blaming her tardiness on me?"

"No, but—"

"Then you have nothing to report to her mother. You've been paid for your goods, so move on."

Pelagia looked outright offended that Nelkir was talking to him in such a manner but Nelkir was a Thane; a farmer could do nothing but accept his word. The man gave a curt nod and left them, walking down the hill toward the front gate.

Mila had started picking vegetables out of the crates and bent down to arrange them to be viewed in the small holders displayed in front of the stall. She hadn't said a word of thanks and acted as if though Nelkir weren't there at all. She got through a whole row of carrots before Nelkir became impatient with her lack of acknowledgment.

"You're welcome," he leaned over and said in a flat tone.

She turned her head over her shoulder to stare up at him and her eyes flashed in anger, a look on her which he rather enjoyed, "I didn't ask for your help."

"Forgive me, it slipped my mind that you have no need to thank me henceforth, ever since this morning when you told me that I already have your everlasting gratitude," he snidely bit out.

She stood fully and took a step closer to him, in what he thought to be a comic act of intimidation when the top of her head only reached midway up his chest. It was vastly amusing that she was not the tiniest bit fearful of him. Considering his status, his reputation, and his physical advantage over her.

"Why does your mother keep you under such watchful eyes?" He wondered, looking down at her face full of beautiful contempt. He didn't understand it, couldn't—his own father couldn't care less what Nelkir did. He never even knew his mother.

She blinked, processing the question, "She just worries about me is all. I am her only child."

"It sounds like she's more concerned for her business than your well-being in this case," Nelkir couldn't help to observe, as he casually picked up a carrot and bit into it; her lovely frown only deepened.

"You are awful and don't know what you speak of! You've escorted me, and I am here now so thank you and farewell," she said shortly, and not in a tone of thankfulness at all. She was being rather ungrateful for having proclaimed everlasting gratitude. Some of Whiterun's citizens were starting to mill around and pick out vegetables for the day.

Nelkir tossed MIla a coin for the carrot, and turned to leave, amused even now, of how bold Mila was to insult him in public. He could have her punished if he wanted but he doubted his Whispering Lady would like that for how adamant she was of him being charming to this peasant girl.

Suddenly a ruckus was heard; they turned to see two guards exit the Bannered Mare, with the bard in custody.

"I say unhand me!" Mikael shouted, trying to drag his feet. Just as Nelkir suspected, Irileth had sent her dogs for the man. He wasn't going quietly. The citizens in the market all stopped what they were doing to witness the bard's arrest.

Mikael stopped twisting for a moment as he spotted Mila across the marketplace and the predatory smile Nelkir had witnessed the night before reappeared on his face, "You think I'd try to bed you, Mila Valentia!? Ha! You're just a child with imaginative lies! The Jarl will see it was nothing but a tale concocted by a girl with a silly infatuation too cowardly to admit to!"

Mila looked stricken, all the color washed out of her face as all in the vicinity, in turn, looked to her.

She couldn't run away and leave the stand unattended and seemed too shocked by Mikael's disgusting words to come up with a response on the spot.

"You're the coward, bard!" Nelkir found himself angrily shouting and pointing half of the uneaten carrot in his direction, "Too incompetent to win sober women with your charms so you resort to dosing their cups with moon sugar to make them succumb to your desires!"

The present townsfolk started humming and chattering, casting looking between the Thane, the bard, and the vegetable merchant as if deciding whom to believe.

An older woman handed Mila a gold coin, picked up a tomato from the display, and hurled it at Mikael. It hit him in the face and burst open, leaving a trail of slimy seeds on his cheek. A few people cheered. Someone immediately did the same but with two heads of cabbage which caused even more of the crowd to cheer. Soon enough, everyone was clamoring around the vegetable stall wanting to buy something to throw at the bard. 

Mikael realized that dragging his feet was only prolonging being beaten with vegetables, so he eased up and let the guards escort him up the stairs on route to the Dragonsreach dungeons.

Nelkir smirked at Mila and took another bite of carrot. She was busy collecting gold coin from customers who were soon enough chasing after Mikael to get their throws in. She had a prosperous day to look forward to. It seemed that despite her previous agitation, she recognized what he had done for her, and gave him a cordial nod in return.

He hoped that through all his actions, that he had been sufficiently charming enough for the Whispering Lady.

Chapter Text

To most, the smell of the place would have been unpleasantly pungent and not for those with a delicate senses. However, the Ragged Flagon's musty, dirty, and damp scent was like a welcome home kiss when Runa took a deep breath after stepping foot into the underground tavern. It had been too long.

Throwing her bow and quiver to the side, she ran past Dirge, and straight into Brynjolf's arms as soon as he spied her enter the room. She was delighted to be squeezed tightly by him, just as he did when she was a girl and returning successfully from a petty pick-pocketing job.

She could see in her peripheral vision that Vex was already rolling her eyes. She knew Vex to think that Brynjolf doted too much on her. The truth was, Runa loved Brynjolf so dearly and it seemed like no amount of embracing could ever convey how thankful she was to him.

The guild wasn't supposed to be a family; it was a business, but Runa couldn't help but to feel as though the leaders were like family. Brynjolf was a mentor, she daresay a father-figure. Vex was an older, disdainful sister. Delvin Mallory, she imagined as a curmudgeonly uncle.

"Hello and welcome back lass," Brynjolf greeted her warmly, and then released her—cupping her face in his hands and looking her over. "Did you complete the job in Cyrodiil?"

The job in Cyrodiil had been a high-stakes task. It was rare any client in Skyrim requested an object from a different province. It was entirely possible that she had broken guild rules by treading on territory that wasn't theirs.

The Thieves Guild of Skyrim was not a profitable society, and hadn't been in some time. Runa had always remembered the senior members reminisce about the old days when the guild had influence and riches beyond her dreams. It seemed that they all scraped by on lifting coin or fencing stolen items of meager worth, but Runa happily joined them because they had accepted her. It was an exciting life, so much more than working on a farm or in any mine which would have taken her in otherwise.

When she was a little girl, she had always been exceptional at sneaking coins out of Grelod the Kind's purse. Sometimes her amateur thievery was at the expense of causing any one of the boys at Honorhall Orphanage to receive a beating when she wasn't caught. After the death of the cruel headmistress, Runa was able to sneak out and take to Riften's streets to purloin gold from travelers and townsfolk with ease. It wasn't long until she had seized the attention of Brynjolf and the guild. Runa was small, quick, and could fit in places the adults could not, and she never seemed to be caught. Brynjolf swore that Nocturnal had blessed the little lass in her favor.

Thievery was her one true calling, and she had no hesitation to take to the Ratways to seek membership in the guild.

"You know I wouldn't have returned unless I had it," Runa simpered as she turned and approached Vex who had given her the job in the first place.

"Where is it then?"

"My hand," she replied and brought out both of her hands in closed fists, making Vex a sudden unwitting player in her guessing game.

"Well aren't you the tricky little minx?" Vex sneered and made a grab for the girl's right hand. Runa immediately opened her left, and deftly maneuvered the ring onto one of her fingers. Those present in the Flagon gasped and mumbled as Runa seemed to disappear into thin air.

Her amused laughter gave her position away; all eyes searching in the direction of the noise, which was definite once they heard her say, "What an extraordinary ring, can't we keep it?"

The patrons of the Ragged Flagon could barely make out the young woman's outline against the stone sewer walls and the bar. A bottle of ale seemingly lifted itself from the surface and poured itself into a mug.

"Unfortunately, the client who wanted us to extract it offered to pay handsomely, so it's not ours to keep," Vex retorted and held out her hand sternly, in the direction she guessed Runa was standing, "Come now, take it off and give it here."

Runa's shape was once again discernible as she removed the ring and tossed it behind her at Vex while placing the mug to her lips. Vex caught it and pocketed it immediately. After a long swig, Runa turned her back to the bar and placed her elbows on the top of it. She gave an exaggerated pout, "That's a damned shame. I could have robbed every Jarl from here to Solitude."

"Listen to her talking like she's a master of stealth," Vex scoffed and then made a laugh in which Delvin joined in from where he was sitting. He was the actual master of stealth in the vicinity.

"Last I knew, you weren't a master of stealth either," Runa snapped back.

"Still better at it than the guttersnipe tart you are."

Runa noticed Brynjolf frown with disapproval, either at Vex's insult or at the indication of Runa's behavior. It could have been a disapproval of both.

Runa slammed her mug to the bar counter loudly and only glared at Vex. Vex enjoyed antagonizing Runa ever since Brynjolf led her into the guild at a tender age. What seemed to annoy Vex the most was that the girl had never seemed to listen to directions, yet managed to be successful anyway. Vex couldn't stand to be ignored.

"So whose bed did you lay in this time to obtain it? Some Cyrodiilic Noble? Or was it his roguish stable boy that gave you the in?"

Runa shrugged at Vex's inimical tone masked as teasing—it was true that Runa was coquettish and sly, she knew how to disarm those with a weakness for charming smiles and a low neckline. As she grew older, she found certain aspects of her femininity were her greatest assets to get what she wanted. Vex was just jealous that she couldn't get away with it anymore, not being in her first youth.

"I didn't have to sleep with anyone to get it," Runa mumbled into her mug. Vex raised her brows in feigned surprise and with a hint of doubt at Runa's claim.

Runa wondered if she should tell them the rest of what had happened on her journey, but decided not to. It was not in her best interest.

She took one last swig from the mug and placed a few gold coin from the pouch at her waist on the bar for Vekel the Man to collect. Delvin and Brynjolf had been listening but as always, stayed outside of the antagonistic words that Runa and Vex exchanged—figuring it would never go far enough to get physical. Both women knew that it was forbidden to assault another member of the guild.

Runa refused to make any further eye contact with Vex and grabbed her weapon, before making her way through the stony passage to the cistern. The small remainder of her guild mates were mulling around the space as usual, so she casually walked through the room as if she hadn't been gone for a month.

She had never been outside of Skyrim before and figured Vex had only given her the job to get rid of her for a while. Or perhaps it was more likely because of the fact that Runa had the best record of lifting precious gems, gold coin, and jewelry off unsuspecting targets. Vex knew Runa's success would bring in a good chunk of wealth the guild had missed, as much as the older woman would hate to admit it.

It was known that the youngest member had pulled off more heists in the past few years than the guild members had in twenty. After the old guild master had made off with most of the guild's coffers of wealth, the Thieves' Guild was in financial ruin. Many members had left to find more profitable work elsewhere. Those who couldn't afford to break away, or were just too set in their ways to make an honest living, stayed and suffered together. Runa decided to suffer with them, but by some miracle of Nocturnal, they landed a wealthy client who wanted a particular enchanted ring last seen in Cyrodiil.

Rune was first to greet her, he grabbed her arm in greeting and then held her hand fast, "Welcome home, little sister."

She smiled and squeezed his hand—it was an inside laugh they shared since she became a member of the guild. Their pasts and names were so similar that they figured they should be siblings, despite him being an Imperial and she a Nord. Even though Rune was nearly 10 years her senior, he did seem to her as an older brother should.

Rune was kind and he gave her helpful advice like how to hold a bow properly and how to listen for that refreshing drop of a tumbler once a lock had been picked. He understood her need for family and her everlasting gratefulness to Brynjolf for taking her in.

"It's good to see you again, Rune."

"As it is you. We must have a drink later."

She nodded sincerely; Rune was always good drinking company too. He knew all the tavern songs by heart. She scanned the room a brief moment, looking for someone in particular.

Her search was interrupted by a pair of muscular arms that suddenly encased her from behind. He wasn't the one she was looking for though. Nevertheless she allowed Vipir to give a fond kiss to her cheek and heard him mumble, "I missed you."

"I told you I would return."

"You've been away too long."

She knew he felt for her, with all his clandestine touches and the wanton tone in his words—he was the first man to ever pay her romantic attention once she matured and as a master in pickpocketing, he gladly demonstrated to her how to get hands into places without being noticed. She fancied him off and on, usually when her own attentions weren't elsewhere—on a wealthy noble she could steal from or handsome mercenary that happened through Riften.

But she wasn't in the mood to hear him try to charm her into a shadowed corner at the moment.

She wanted to talk to Sapphire. Sapphire had a sharp tongue that Runa admired, and in turn Sapphire respected the younger girl's skill at obtaining loot. Unlike Vex, Saph found Runa a cheeky and refreshing female presence in the guild and the two became as close as one could in a den of thieves. Runa even knew Sapphire's real name, no one else could claim as much.

"I am back now, as you can see," Runa escaped his grasp and turned to face him, "Where is Saph?"

Vipir frowned and narrowed his eyes at her sudden change of attention, "I haven't seen her."

She knew that Vipir the Fleet didn't have as many fond feelings toward Sapphire as he did for her, mostly because Saph rebuked all his flirting. Sapphire had warned Runa against Vipir's inevitable advances as she grew, but Runa enjoyed them most of the time. Vipir was the easiest to manipulate because he had such a liking toward her.

Vipir's ability to lie wasn't a strong skill; he squinted when he tried to falsify truth, and she knew he was withholding information. She drew closer to him, and made sure that her bosom was pressed as tightly against him as possible, "Are you sure?"

His gaze melted downward and stayed focused there—seeming too distracted to think for a second—before answering, "The practice room." He probably figured telling the truth would make her more favorable toward him.

Runa suddenly pushed herself away, breaking her seeming spell over him, and shoved him for lying to her in the first place. He protested and nearly fell into the water but she ignored his shout and turned on her heel to leave him. She strode purposefully through the remainder of the Cistern and into the room filled with empty chests. Sapphire was crouched next to one and carefully picking the lock of it. Runa stopped at the entrance and looked on curiously because Sapphire always seemed adept at picking locks.

"Keeping up practice?"

Sapphire's lock pick broke as she flinched slightly, coming out of her intense focus on listening to the tumblers. She saw that Runa had been the interruption but smirked, "Lock picking is the best distraction."

"Distraction from what?" Runa wondered and set her bow down against the wall.

"The present," Sapphire picked herself up into a stand and lifted on her toes to stretch her calves. Runa didn't completely understand Saph's answer. "When did you get back?"

"Just a few minutes ago, actually."

"Did you get it?"

"Of course."

Runa swore she saw a hint of regret pass through Sapphire's features, though she couldn't have an idea to why. The expression passed quickly; Sapphire smirked again and let out a breath from her nose, "Of course. There isn't a shiny ring out there you couldn't snatch."

She could see why the ring was so valuable, ever since she got curious on her way back to Riften and tried the ring on, only to find she couldn't be seen by the untrained eye. Even the clumsiest thief could sneak past a group of guards wearing it. She would never say otherwise, but she may or may not have taken a detour through Bruma and Falkreath to gather additional items for fencing using the power of that ring.

She was good at keeping secrets to herself, she had to—being a thief. However there was one secret weighing heavy on her mind and that was why she sought out Sapphire.

Runa bit her lip, and looked at the ground, "The owner of the ring is dead."

It was made clear that if someone were killed while in pursuit of a job, then she'd be out of her cut of the profit, if not the entire guild.

This caught Sapphire's attention in full, causing her to frown, "Did you kill them?"

She often wondered what it would be like to take a life. She had seen how just one death could solve so many problems after Grelod's demise. Runa could never could bring herself to do it though, especially after she joined the guild, they had a strict 'no murdering' policy.

"Someone from the Brotherhood did."

For a moment all they could hear was faint echoes of water dripping from the wet points of the Cistern. Sapphire narrowed her eyes with consideration.

Runa had been shocked, as she hid above the assassin and the former owner of the ring. She could tell they were from the Brotherhood—such precision in the way they killed—so quiet too. If it hadn't been for her sharp hearing, the murderer would have walked in on her before she could make it to the rafters above. Hiding there brought unpleasant memories of hiding on the wooden ceiling beams of Honorhall, holding her breath and hoping the headmistress wouldn't look up. She had always been good at hiding, had to be, while growing up and being pursued for any minor infraction of the rules which would result in a heavy punishment that varied from being starved for three days to a good kick in the ribs.

It didn't make her any more comfortable knowing who the assassin was either.

The boy she had grown up with clearly didn't recognize her, as it was dark and her thief hood had obscured her features. She knew it was he, especially after she had kissed him. She had seen his face clear enough in the twilight, finding that it had matured into a man's visage but yet he had the softest of expressions that she remembered on him when he was but a boy, and that same goofy flash of confusion after being kissed—as if someone had given him a complicated puzzle to solve and he had no idea what to do next.

It disappointed her some that he had tried to kill her, but Aventus was a killer. He had murdered Grelod, and even though she couldn't have thanked him enough for that deed—there was no surprise nor happiness on her part that the lad ended up with the guild of assassins. Unfortunately, she also knew they spared no witnesses to their murders, so she distracted him long enough to punch his lights out and prevent him from following her.

She just prayed to Nocturnal that taking that course of action wouldn't come back and bite her in the worst of ways.

Because what was the harm if he didn't know that it was her?

Chapter Text

The day that Ulfric Stormcloak was beheaded at Helgen was the day that changed Frodnar's life forever.

Thinking back on the days that followed—when he and his family left Riverwood—he would always get a pinch in his stomach. There was no physical confrontation between his parents and the villagers, but tensions were high as Riverwood's citizens had gathered around and regarded his family with hard, stony, stares.

He had known them his whole life and they all had looked at him like he was a just another bothersome skeever—all because his family refused to give up worship of Talos. His family had to relinquish ownership of the wood mill which had been in their family for generations. Even though his mother insisted they were moving by choice—to a mill outside of Windhelm that needed workers—he could tell that his family would rather stay.

As he grew older, he came to understand why they had to leave. It wasn't safe for them nor the rest of the village since the Legion had taken Whiterun, already held Falkreath to the south, and the Thalmor were allowed to freely wander and persecute in the area without opposition.

He asked his best friend Dorthe, the blacksmith's daughter, to come with him that day but her father had quickly ushered her inside their home. Dorthe hadn't looked at him like the others—never as a pest, a nuisance, or scamp—instead she had tears in her eyes. He had never seen her cry in his young life until then; not for any bruises or bumps they accumulated through play. She had often told him crying was useless and only babies did it. Yet, that day she had done it freely because no matter how much she begged him to stay, he was still leaving.

Stump had chased after her, the mutt thinking it were all a game, but Frodnar's father called after the hound and they quietly rolled out of the village with their cart of belongings. No longer welcome. That was the last time he had seen her.

Until now.

Now he was a soldier, and almost seven years had grown between them.

He had to wonder which of the Gods to thank for delivering his message to her, it had been plenty long years without any contact, but one day not too long ago he decided to write to her—to see how she was, to ask her for some tips on smithing if nothing else. She had always been good at it and he assumed her father had taught her even more skills as she grew. Zenithar only knew how much the girl loved the forge. Frodnar would have never expected her to actually come to the camp though; how did she even find him?

Time seemed to slow as his eyes lingered over every detail of her face. Parts of it he remembered and yet some features seemed new. No trace of a smile was on her when there had always seemed to be one dancing at the corners of her mouth when they were young. A spread of freckles dotted across her cheeks and nose and had only grown sharper as she aged. Her long blonde hair was messy and loose just as it had always been after she would leave the forge and join him in play.

What was new, was the scowl of pure loathing—and it concerned him that she was so very upset, but his concern couldn't contain the smile that erupted across his face from cheek to cheek at seeing her again.

Dorthe

He figured he was a bit harder to discern for her, as he now had significant facial stubble and his hair had grown longer—enough to pull back and be gathered into a knot.

At the sight of his smile, her scowl transformed to something of recognition, surprise, and then relief, as she realized who it was that stood before her.

As much as he would have liked to sit down and catch up with his old friend, he finally noticed that he had interrupted something important and the reality of the situation he had walked into came crashing around them. They were in his Stormcloak camp and the last he knew, she and her family opposed the Stormcloaks—always had. He saw that her hands were shackled, her dress was torn, and she was worse for wear.

He loosened his grip at once—wondering how she came to be in such a state, and before he could ask how she had managed to find him, a fellow soldier approached and roughly yanked her away by her shoulder.

Her cry of resistance spurred the man who had grabbed her to raise his hand—presumably to cuff her into silence. Frodnar at once, lifted his sword threateningly at his Stormcloak brethren, causing the imminent strike to dissipate.

"What in the Oblivion is going on?" Frodnar bit out in question, all the playfulness gone from his usual tone of voice. There must have been a misunderstanding, she was no enemy.

"She attacked me, she has involvement with the Thalmor, and she'll be under restraint until she explains herself!"

Frodnar stepped forward with a half-incredulous and half-outraged stare at hearing the answer, but didn't lower his weapon. Another fellow soldier blocked him from advancing and from making a mistake he would later regret as Frodnar stepped forward to release her himself. However, the detainment was enough of a delay that it allowed the first Stormcloak to put distance between them.

"You know we don't take civilian prisoners," Frodnar tried elbowing through the soldier that had stopped him—Hroar the Honor-Bound—but the man stood his ground.

Frodnar helplessly watched as Dorthe was dragged through the entrance to the primary war tent.

Nothing about the situation made sense to Frodnar and it only made him angrier.

"That pig-shit is in charge of the camp now. The Head-Smasher returned to Windhelm for new orders," The Honor-Bound explained in a low tone. "You can't just bloody your brothers of Skyrim—you took an oath, Frost-Dodger."

Of course the Honor-Bound would bring up the oath—he was honorable to a fault, but Frodnar could detect as much disdain in Honor-Bound's tone saying that fact as Fronar felt at hearing the news. He threw his sword to the ground in frustration and paced a bit before picking it up again and heading to grab a bite to eat. He had been out patrolling all day and he knew he shouldn't be stewing on an empty stomach.

"How do you know her?"

"Come again?" Frodnar twisted around to see Hroar following him. He didn't think anyone had noticed his brief smile of recognition toward Dorthe.

"How do you know the lass?"

Frodnar didn't answer right away, and only picked off a piece of pheasant breast that was done roasting on the spit over the fire and took a bite, considering a reply while chewing. His heart lifted somewhat at the taste; he was sure glad something else was for dinner that night than rabbit. They seemed to have rabbit the last four months straight.

"We grew up together in Riverwood," he finally answered after swallowing. He didn't feel the need to lie to the Honor-Bound about it.

If only he could somehow get her out of that tent and out of the camp. He wondered if he could plead with the temporary charge? Though, after many months knowing the man, he doubted the rascal would be persuaded.

"What is her name?"

"Why are you so concerned?" Frodnar snapped. His mind was racing of ways he could get Dorthe out of the camp and all the Honor-Bound seemed to do was interrupt that process.

The Honor-Bound looked away and back at the tent she was being kept in. Frodnar joined his gaze, hating to think of what might be happening to her in there. The Charge had let down the flap of skin to cover the entrance that would have otherwise been in plain view. Dorthe was in a nest of soldiers that hadn't felt a lover's touch for months on end, and he knew some of the less-honorable would desperately do anything to feel that way again just to take their mind off the war.

The evening was settling on them and Frodnar ripped further into the bird with his teeth, and glared into the fire. He was feeling torn. He had to help Dorthe, but he couldn't engage in combat with his brother-at-arms, no less the one now giving orders in camp and they surely would fight him if he made an attempt to free her. He also wanted to know how she was involved with the Thalmor—that just didn't make any sense to him at all.

"I mustn't linger, I have evening patrol," The Honor-Bound mentioned with a sigh and moved along.

"Honor-Bound, wait—" Frodnar stopped him.

He didn't know why Hroar the Honor-Bound had such an interest in Dorthe, but out of all the soldiers at camp, he trusted the Honor-Bound to have the least questionable intentions toward her, "I need your help."

"With what?"

"Getting her out of here," he made a nod back toward the tent.

"How do you suppose we do that?"

"You distract the Charge and I will slip in and take her out. It'll be dark soon so I shouldn't be seen."

Frodnar knew he had a slim chance of succeeding on his own, but at least with two it was possible to free her.

Honor-Bound hesitated, "If you're caught though, you'll be in a lot of trouble—and who knows what he'll do to her then."

Frodnar did give it consideration—thinking back to how he had been forced to abandon Dorthe those years ago. He wouldn't do that to her again.

Couldn't.

Oath be damned.

Finally he responded, "I have to try."

The Honor-Bound nodded tentatively, seeming to accept his reasoning, "I'll distract him then."

Along with the sunset, another day was gone—some Stormcloaks left to start evening watch in areas near the camp and others came back to eat. Some started preparing for sleep and one or two sharpened their swords that had been slowly dulled after killing so many mudcrabs.

After dusk had settled into dark, Frodnar watched as the Honor-Bound approached the tent Dorthe was kept in. It was hard to see from a distance but he could tell that when the Charge came out he was not happy at being interrupted.

Frodnar quickly crept around the back of the Charge's tent and pushed on the patchwork animal skin that made up the tent's cover, making sure nothing was on the other side. It moved freely to his delight. He grabbed his dagger from his belt and ripped through the material enough to peel it back and poke his head in. He saw Dorthe sitting on the ground and staring back at him with initial terror and confusion, but her expression melted to that of consolation once she saw it was only him.

"Your dag—!" she began to exclaim, but he shushed her, lest the Charge hear.

"I'm helping you escape," he whispered and gave a grin, just like he used to after telling her one of his new pranks. "Can you manage to move over this way?"

Her hands were still shackled together and it only made him angry that the charge had restrained her. Angrier still, imagining the reason why. He placed his dagger back in his belt and reached out to her.

She nodded and maneuvered herself near the cut in the material on her elbows. He looped his arms around her and pulled back, extracting her from the tent. They fell backward together and she landed on top of him—she let out a groan of pain.

They could clearly hear the Charge inquire about that noise, signaling the window of time for an escape was closing fast.

"Did I hurt you?" Frodnar asked with concern and to his relief she shook her head, however, she was holding her ribs as if they ached. He gathered her up and they walked around the back of the tent.

"One of them gave me a potion earlier, healing..." she explained with quiet urgency and winced, then stumbled so that Frodnar had to tighten his hold and catch her weight, "But it mustn't been enough...or just temporary, the pain is returning."

This changed his plan. He was just going to put her on a horse and send her riding back to Riverwood but if her health was declining, it would be too far before she could get help. She needed a proper healing mage.

Their time had run out, as they heard the Charge shout expletives and more inquiries regarding the missing captive. They were still hidden behind the tent but not for long. The horses were tied to posts a few strides away, but they would be in full view of the rest of the camp if he attempted to go there.

"Please don't let him take me again," Dorthe pleaded so quietly Frodnar strained to hear her.

"He won't touch you," he swore furiously.

They could hear multiple pairs of boots start to shuffle around in urgent paces, searching for her.

Honor-Bound was the first to find them, his eyes wide and signaling for them to make a run for it. Before Frodnar could kick up any dust though, the Charge was right behind Hroar looking absolutely furious.

"Frost-Dodger, you traitor!" the Charge bellowed at Frodnar and drew his sword.

Whilst aiding in holding Dorthe upright, he couldn't reach for his own, so he merely scowled in defiance.

Hroar seemed to reluctantly draw his sword as well. It was action on par with Honor-Bound, but surprising to Frodnar nonetheless, since Hroar was supposed to be aiding in the escape. He cared too much about his damn honor and the oath that went with it to actually break it—even when doing so was the right thing to do.

There was no more doubts in Frodnar of his where his loyalty belonged. He was Dorthe's friend long before he was a Stormcloak.

"Take her and restrain him," the Charge ordered Hroar. Other soldiers descended upon him, holding his arms solidly in place, lest he should grab for his weapons.

"She's injured! You can't keep her here!" Frodnar cried in desperation as he could do nothing but be forced to surrender Dorthe to Honor-Bound at sword-point. He could see tears in her eyes, and knowing her, she hated that everyone could see them. He turned his pleading toward his brother-at-arms, "You know this is wrong."

A look of regret passed through Honor-Bound's features and Frodnar's hopes dropped.

Before Frodnar fully grasped what was happening, his accomplice had launched the sword toward him and yelled "Catch!"

Frodnar ripped through restraining arms and caught the weapon by the hilt, swinging it up in defense as the Charge's came crashing down. The soldiers that had been restraining him moved out of the way now that he had a sword in hand.

Honor-Bound made a dash toward one of the horses and quickly mounted it, placing Dorthe in front of him.

Frodnar fought with the charge, blocking every strike that was aimed at him. He was aware his fellow Stormcloaks were gathered around but not about to fight him. He knew them, they respected each other and had watched each others' backs for years. Also, everyone new he could best any of them in swordplay which was why they stayed away.

He pushed back and pinned the Charge's sword beneath his, only to lift his leg and kick the man back before making his own frenzied strides to mount the remaining horse. The charge quickly grabbed Frodnar's belt, managed to unsheathe Frodnar's dagger and promptly slashed at his the back of his legs. The blade hit his left calf and he nearly fell into the horse before climbing it, clenching his teeth to keep from crying out in pain.

"After him!" The Charge ordered and scrambled to his feet.

Frodnar urged the beast forward and snapped the reigns, while giving it a quick dig with his heels. Pain seared up his leg. The Horse reared and whinnied before taking off, nearly trampling a Stormcloak in its path.

Frodnar was not a seasoned rider and clenched onto the leather strips for dear life as they jumped over rocks at a downhill angle. He was not but moments behind Honor-Bound's mount; he could hear the hoof-beats ahead of him. The others wouldn't be able to catch them even if they did try. The camp had no extra horses and it was useless to chase the two fugitive Stormcloaks that already had a head start.

His horse jumped another rock and Frodnar felt his stomach hit his throat. He groaned in discomfort but kept a hold of the reigns like they were his lifelines, trying his best to guide the horse to follow the one in front of it, instead of running it's own path into the wilderness. He bent forward to keep his gut contained and to diminish the amount of bouncing his body was being put through.

Honor-Bound must have reigned in his horse because the galloping ahead of him slowed. Frodnar's mount trotted past, all the while he was trying to slow his horse as well, hissing "Woah! Woah! Woah!" and pulling in on the reigns.

They were on a road now, as a definitive 'clopping' sound could be heard from beneath them which could have only been horseshoe on cobble. A few minutes went by and Hroar's horse fell into step next to Frodnar's.

Frodnar looked to Honor-Bound and could see his form through the dark, outlined by the moons, and staring ahead.

"Thank you," Frodnar said at last, then made an intake of breath that told of pain as he adjusted his left leg. It was bleeding for sure but he had no idea how deep the blade had cut him. He noticed Dorthe was quiet and dread filled him.

"We can never go back, you know," Hroar replied evenly, but Frodnar could hear a definite somberness in the tone.

They had risked everything in order to free Dorthe. They had forsaken their oaths, they would be wanted men before daybreak. Was Dorthe even going to be all right? Frodnar squinted at her through the darkness. She seemed to be passed out against Honor-Bound's chest for the time-being.

"What happened to her?" Frodnar had to ask but knew he would hate the answer, and waited for it. He assumed the Charge had beaten her during an interrogation.

"I don't know the full story, but I found her on the shore of the river this afternoon, nearly drowned. She was already shackled and with Elvin chains no less. She wouldn't explain her situation so I had to bring her to be questioned. Perhaps when she wakes she'll be willing to tell you since you know each other."

So that must have been why everyone assumed she was involved with the Thalmor and why Hroar was so curious about her. Frodnar's stare darkened and anger rose in his chest, "Do you mean to tell me that you brought her into the camp? How could you?"

Honor-Bound reigned in his horse to a full stop, "She would have died if I hadn't."

"Still, you could have taken her to Windhelm for healing," Frodnar's stare was a dark as ever. Anyone who thought it wise to bring a young civilian woman to a soldier's camp was being foolish.

Hroar raised his voice, "It wasn't my duty to take her to Windhelm. My orders were to patrol and report suspicious activity."

"As ever, the obedient soldier," Frodnar snarled with contempt.

"Not anymore, no thanks to both of you," The Honor-Bound bit back and then sighed, snapping the reigns and continuing forward.

Frodnar followed suit, the height of his ire prickling his nerves into silence. He noticed they were both biting their tongues to let it off. If they were to survive the coming days, they would need each others help. It had been an intense evening for both, in fact it was the most action they had seen all month long, not counting fighting the mudcrabs.

Frodnar still hadn't told him her name, but supposed The Honor-Bound should know since he had become involved with her escape.

"Her name is Dorthe."

The Honor-Bound repeated her name with consideration and nodded, "We should go to Whiterun; it is the closest place that has healers that can help her and where we won't be arrested on sight."

Frodnar wondered how they would accomplish that since Whiterun was now guarded by the Legion, but at the moment, he was in too much pain, and his mind filled with too much worry and exhaustion to contest the Honor-Bound's plan.

Chapter Text

"I'm not going to ask again," the companion stated while clenching the front of a man's tunic, her voice growing ever more threatening, "Where is Joric Ravencrone?"

His hold on the mug dropped into a clatter and splatter of ale onto the floor. How had it escalated so quickly? One minute he was enjoying a pint of ale, making small talk with the young Redguard lady, and then she had struck out with a fast and fierce grasp.

The patron shook his head and swore that he had no idea.

Braith didn't believe him—the shifty look in his eyes and the tension in his shoulders were telling enough—suddenly a splash of blood washed her knuckles and left him with a split in his lip.

"That's enough, take this outside at once!" The publican of Frostfruit Inn shouted and slammed his hands on the counter to emphasize the point. Braith's focus on the patron turned briefly to the publican and she threw him a dissatisfied glare, but otherwise acquiesced and dragged the patron out the front door still with the front of his tunic in hand and threw him to the wooden planks in front of the entrance.

"I swear, I haven't seen the lad," the traveler said, desperately climbing to his feet.

Braith kicked at his ankles, causing him to lose balance and fall once more. "I have it on good authority that you have seen the Thane of Hjaalmarch."

"How can that be? I heard he was dead."

His right cheek met with her left hook. He reeled backward, nearly seeing stars and the muscled young woman gathered him upward and back to his senses.

"You were assigned to his guard in Morthal—why did you flee? What were you running from?"

The man's eyes widened in panic and he opened his mouth to no doubt deny her claim but she raised her fist in a promise of another beating should she not like his response. He closed it and only seemed to swallow a lump that had formed in his throat instead. He would have two other lumps on his head to match by the next morning.

"I yield! I yield" he pleaded and her fist unfurled to his relief. He licked his bloodied lip in thought and then released a discouraged sigh, "What you seek is in Markarth. That is all I can say."

Braith shoved him to the planks in frustration. He clamored up and didn't bother returning to the Inn to buy a new drink. Instead, he took off running down the cobbled path like he was being chased by a daedra. Braith stood still on the porch of the Inn; the only movement coming from the tundra winds that picked up her short strands of dark hair and whipped them against her cheeks. She was furious. She had been following leads for a week on Joric's whereabouts and now she was being sent off on just another chase.

She had been hired along with several other companions to find out the fate of the Thane and retrieve him if not dead to bring him back to Whiterun to answer for his wedding disappearance. Aela and Skjor had gone to the north, Ria and Njada to the east, Vilkas and Farkas to the south—and she was sent west.

She wasn't alone, either. She brushed her hands across the mid-section of her studded armor, ridding them the best she could of blood on the leather material. Frostfruit's publican opened their mouth to protest her re-entry but she held up her blood-smeared palms signaling that she would cause no more trouble. At least...she would try not to. It tempered him; he gave a curt nod and continued to wipe at the counter.

Torvar, her shield-brother and fellow companion that was sent with her on the mission to find the lost Thane of Hjaalmarch, was leaning lazily against the bar with a mug of ale in hand and at the sight of him, her annoyance at his nonchalance flared into her features.

"Some help you were at extracting information!"

"You 'andled him well enough," Torvar replied and took another swig. Braith slapped his mug out from his hand and the ferment went splashing all over the front of the publican's clothes, not to mention the counter top that he had been so diligently cleaning. Torvar quickly picked it up and found, with relief, that not all had spilled.

"That's it! Both of you get out, now! Before I call the guard!" the older man shouted.

"You have no respect for the honored companions!" Torvar lifted an arm in agitation, but also turned the same annoyed eye onto his shield-sister for starting it. The Redguard did have a short temper and fists always itching to fight. If Torvar wasn't a member of the companions, she'd likely have beaten him up by now for the sheer joy of it.

It was one reason she had joined the faction—so that she could let out some of her pent-up frustration and knock a few heads together without the city guard being called on her. She'd been in and out of the Dragonsreach dungeon a handful of times, much to the embarrassment of her family, for initiating brawls in her younger teenage years.

Torvar gulped down the last of his drink and left the mug on the bar-top. Braith was already out the door and waiting for him; at least she had shown that much restraint and didn't leave him behind in her ire.

"The man I was questioning said we had to go to Markarth to find out more information on Joric's whereabouts," Braith turned herself so she was pointed south-west, looking at a hill covered in the usual tundra grass that was so prevalent in her home hold.

"I don't want to go to Markarth. Can't we just go back home and say we found a dead end?" Torvar nearly whined and physically slumped, looking the same direction.

He wants to be known as a 'honored companion' without putting in the work to be honorable, Braith only scowled in thought.

"No. We have to follow up on any leads before calling it quits. We can't skimp on a job because you're too lazy to walk up a hill," Braith admonished him and adjusted the steel warhammer on her back so the head of it wasn't falling into her shoulder blades. The Harbinger had always advised against it being her weapon of choice; it was cumbersome and Braith fared better at wielding blades but she insisted on carrying the largest and scariest weapon out on jobs. She loved the sense of intimidation it caused for those around her.

"This isn't about the hill. Have you ever been to the Reach? It's full of those vicious Breton bandits. They dress in furs and skulls and offer their victims up as sacrifice for their blood magic."

For the first time ever, Braith could hear a note of fear in Torvar's otherwise mellow voice. He was such a coward. If she saw one of those bandits she would be brave enough to fight them head on. She'd never backed down from a fight in her life.

"Excuse me, are you companions?"

A young woman maybe a year or two younger than Braith had stopped and asked them on her way into Frostfruit Inn. She didn't seem to be anything more than one of the local farmers.

"Aye, that we are, what is it to you?" Torvar answered. Braith noticed he had slightly straightened his posture, probably to try and catch the young woman's attention.

"I have a lost sister, five years gone—would you be able to find her for me?"

"Five years is a long wait to find a lost person," Braith scoffed, "Your sister is probably dead. Besides, we are already looking for someone and they aren't here. We're leaving."

"I hadn't time to search for her. You see, I help run that farm over there with my papa...but he's...well he died last spring and..."

"Lovely story but not interested," Braith cut her off and moved forward, "Come on, Torvar."

The young woman gave an offended huff at Braith's rudeness, but Braith was done with Rorikstead. It was a nothing little village and there was enough time left in the day that they could start out for Markarth now.

Torvar didn't make a move to follow. He instead put on a voice as honeyed as the mead he loved to drink, "You must forgive her, the Redguard temper makes her act rashly most days. I think we can arrange something..."

"Torvar!" Braith shouted in exasperation. They didn't have time for him to try to impress women by taking on extra jobs. He shot her a mean look and ignored her, instead focusing on the hopeful smile of the young lady. Braith's anger boiled over; she made a rude gesture toward him and started off without waiting any longer.

She got to the top of the hill with no trouble, her anger fueling each and every step but when she turned around, Torvar wasn't even a spec in the distance trying to catch up her pace. So, this is how it was? He had abandoned her? None of the companions liked travelling for too long with Braith, even Aela seemed to tire of her constant bouts of fury. It was great for a fight, but not for making friends—something Braith had never, ever been good at.

But, her mother had always said a girl should learn to take of herself and Braith aimed to do just that. She looked across the valley before her and to the high mountains of the west.

The Reach.

There was a path that led downward and wound into the valley; she figured that if she followed it, she would eventually come across a wooden post with directions to Markarth and then she would finish her mission, with Torvar or not.

Night, illuminated by a faint golden-red aurora, was blanketing the sky when she entered the gates of Markarth. Braith had never been in the city before and had to take a moment to stand awestruck, her head craned back to take in sight of the carved stone cliffs and various waterfalls between them making a low, rumbling sound. Luckily for her, the city's inn was just across from the front gate, and she wasted no time entering. The architecture was like nothing she had seen before, the walls were carved stone but the firelight bounced around and was a dull glint in the corundum on the walls and chandelier. After a moment the publican jolted her considering daze by asking her if she needed something.

"A room for the night," she approached the bar and rifled through her money pouch.

"Twenty gold," he replied and sniffled before wiping at his nose.

"Expensive..." Braith muttered under her breath.

"If you want to save coin you can go sleep in the Warrens on the wet side of the city; it's dank and you'd be lucky to be alive by morning," he growled, apparently, having heard her critique and then looked her over, "Even someone as skilled in fighting as a companion runs that risk."

"I didn't say I couldn't afford it," Braith sassed and landed thirty gold pieces in front of him with a glare, "I'll have an ale and a venison chop as well."

He gave a slight nod of his head and took them.

The Silver-Blood Inn was the hub of evening activity in Markarth, just as any tavern would be in Skyrim. Miners, merchants, and seeming miscreants were present, all with a tankard in hand, sitting at the bar or in front the fireplace listening to the local bard. It wasn't so subtle, the way many glanced at her suspiciously.

In addition to being known for it's rugged beauty, Markarth also had a reputation that its citizens were unfriendly to outsiders. Her mother had tried to teach her the history of the holds and cities of Skyrim, but she was not a very good student and didn't remember much about Markarth; it seemed like the least likely place she would go—it being on the western border of the province—so why would she care about its history? Now, she really wished she would have paid attention as it could have been helpful. She took a seat at the bar and the food and drink she had ordered were delivered in front of her.

She could feel eyes on her back as she concentrated on the food before her. The citizens of Markarth must have been wondering why a companion was in their city. Companions usually didn't travel out this far unless there was a contract to beat some sense into or out of someone. Braith loved those types of jobs; nothing was as satisfying as hitting morons in their face and then getting paid for it. Sure, some might call her a glorified bully—a hired thug—but being a Companion brought a sense of honor to the ruckus. After all, no one was going to slander the Companions' legacy—because doing so would slander Ysgramor himself and none of Skyrim's people would dare.

"Thank you," she heard a quiet mumble to her side and saw a cloaked figure hunched over his own mug of evening beverage. Judging from his smell, he'd had more than one already. There was a strong vapor of barley malt radiating from him when he opened his mouth. Most of his face was obscured by a hood, though the tip of his nose peeped out and caught the light.

"For what?" Braith swallowed a piece of meat and snapped out in question. She assumed he was a drunken idiot from how much sense he was making. She hadn't done anything but sit at the bar.

"Coming in and distracting them. Y'see.." The man hiccuped and interrupted himself, "Before you, they just kept starin' at me."

He took a swig. It was clear that he was also an outsider—a traveler maybe.

"Though, you are much better lookin' so I'd imagine 'san enjoyable activity now."

"You really must be intoxicated then," Braith frowned. It wasn't that she thought herself ugly, but in all actuality she was a plain woman and she knew from experience that her type was not deemed as desirable by most Nords. It didn't help she had a handsome scar on her face that marred her complexion.

"I 'ave to be," he replied but didn't elaborate on why, not that it would have made much sense coming from a drunkard. "But I don' 'ave to be intoxicated t'see a beautiful woman."

She felt herself blush, and hoped it wasn't noticeable. She wasn't used to being the object of any flattery and decided that his drunken compliment was unnecessary and untrue, "Watch your tongue or I'll remove it."

He didn't flinch at her threat, perhaps too stupid or drunk to properly fear her.

To avoid conversation, as well as the stares, she continued to eat and study the interior of the main room. Above the fireplace there were a set of large pipes that seemed to connect the stone mantle to the wall. She wondered if anything was contained within them. Parts of the pillars along the wall had tiled plates of the same corundum material that dully reflected the candlelight.

"Dwemer," the same drunkard said, noticing her careful study of the room.

"What?"

"The style of build we're in s'all old Dwemer architecture," he gestured at the metal plates and then to the indented strips of carved stone along the walls. Instead of the hearty and abundant designs of Nordic knots or symbols she was used to seeing on every building, a strange series of patterns and glyphs were carved instead, "it's not corundum but dwarven metal."

Dwemer. The dwarves of old. The vanished ones. She remembered mutterings of their kind from travelling scholars in Whiterun as she eavesdropped in the Bannered Mare. Again, her memory wasn't very apt for anything of a learned nature so she didn't recall much—histories, sciences, reading and writing—they were all tedious and she found little use for them. It was another reason that caused her parents disappointment, especially her mother.

She didn't bother to respond to the man and simply nodded. She was a much better visual learner. To see something before her had more impact on her memory than learning about it beforehand off the pages of a book. That's why she always tried sneaking around the backside of Jorrvaskr as a girl to watch the Companions spar. That, and because her father refused to teach her how to swing a blade. But if he'd have ever paid the slightest bit of attention he would have known his little girl wasn't as delicate as he imagined her to be. Anyway, watching how the companions fought was how she learned, and how she came to be accepted among their ranks when she came of age.

A shine caught the corner of her eyes and saw that the man wore a few rings on his fingers as he reached for his tankard to ask for a refill. The rings were silver, and one set with a sapphire. Before that moment, she considered the man a mere vagabond but if he was wearing jewelry like that, there must have been something more to him. She could feel so in her gut.

"So," she took a swig from her drink to wash down the savory taste of the venison chop, "what's your business in Markarth, traveler?"

"Din't the guards tell you when you entered the city that if you ask too many questions, t'could get you 'inna trouble?" He replied with increasingly slurred words.

"And why would asking you that get me into trouble? You aren't from here," she raised a brow.

"I ne'er said such a thing, m'lady," he reached out and retrieved his refilled mug from the publican and took his own swig of ale, "I said that you jus' took the stares away with your beauty."

"So you're from Markarth then?"

"Diddn' say that either."

She frowned. He was being awfully evasive all of a sudden, not wanting to answer questions about himself. What was he hiding?

"What about you, companion? Why're y'here in the city of stone?"

"I'm looking for someone," Braith didn't need to hide her purpose.

"Whom might that be?" he set down his drink with keen interest and she could barely make out a smile from what light managed to pierce the shadow his hood cast on his face.

"A man," she replied and lifted the edge of her mug to her lips.

"A lover?"

She nearly spat her drink out at him for such a personal question. She curled her free fist in anticipation of use. She was losing tolerance for his bad flirting.

"A thane."

He made a noise similar to a scoff at the back of his throat, "Thanes'n Markarth are few and far b'tween. Igmund doesn' give the title freely."

"I'm not looking for a thane of the Reach."

He seemed puzzled by her response, "So what makes y'think you'd find a thane of any other hold drinking 'ere in Markarth?"

Braith smiled slightly, "I never said I was looking for a thane that was drinking."

Then in a fast movement she kicked the stool he was sitting on, out from under the man. He fell with a thump and his drink fell onto him, reminding Braith of her encounter all the way back in Rorickstead. He scrambled up, albeit unstable, from the alcohol he'd been consuming and lifted the stool in front of him as a makeshift shield. The patrons of Silver-Blood Inn backed away as she raised her leg and easily kicked the furniture out of his startled hands before charging him and wrestling him to the floor.

No one lifted a finger to help him—either a testament to how little they cared for outsiders, or intelligence for not getting involved in a ompanion's fight. The man struggled and made a cries of protest as Braith pinned him down onto his stomach, forced his arms behind his back, and wrapped his wrists in tough leathers to bind them. She let off her weight and tried to pull him to a stand by his hood but it slipped off, revealing his face—and it was what she had suspected.

"Joric Ravencrone, by order of Jarl Balgruuf of Whiterun, you are to return there and explain your absence on the day of your wedding."

He stopped struggling and turned to her with his ruddy cheeks, and he looked close to tears, "NO! You don't understand!"

He kept saying those words over and over and before he could make more of a spectacle, she gathered him up and pushed him forward into the room that she had secured for the evening. Joric was pulling his arms apart to try and test his strength against the leather bonds so she shoved him again and he fell to the ground, into a sack of vegetables. He was momentarily stunned before struggling to lift himself up into a sitting position and then continued to mumble the same words again.

She pulled the heavy doors closed so everyone in the taproom wouldn't be privy to any conversations they might have.

"You don't understand. You don't understand..." Joric kept muttering and moaning in desperate despair. Braith had no sympathy for the coward. He had attempted to fake his death to avoid marriage! True, the Jarl's daughter wasn't the most pleasant person in Whiterun and Braith had often daydreamed about punching the brat when she was younger, but Joric should have grown some stones and dealt with his lot in life. There were many people much worse off than him.

She undid the ties of her gauntlets and unwrapped the cloth under them that protected the hard leather from rubbing her wrists raw.

"You'd better shut up. If I can't get to sleep because of your blabbering then I will beat you into silence," she warned as she sat down on the stone bed to pull off her boots.

"I'm waitin' for her. I'm waitin' for Dibella. Dibella will tell me f'its true..." He kept on vomiting words that made no sense. "Dibella will know."

Why he was invoking the name of Dibella? Braith couldn't know but if she had to guess he was not knowledgeable in the least in the Dibellan arts so maybe he was inferring Dibella would know how to guide him once he was married?

She removed the warhammer from her back and set it against the wall. The weight decrease was significant, and she felt like she could nearly float away if the breeze was strong enough without that anchor.

"Time int' right. Time s'off. We aren't suppos'tbe here in this place at this time. Can't you feel it, companion? Feel like you are suppos'tbe elsewhere?" His hazy eyes swept across the room, in delayed consideration of everything in its place and then his gaze landed on her, "I wasn't'be married...there is a wound in time and t'seeping malicious, unrealistic expectations on the world..."

"You talk as though you've been touched by Sheogorath," Braith interrupted and then threw one of the fur pelts from the stone bed at him before crawling on top of it and wrapping herself in the remaining one, "Now shut up and go to sleep. We have a lot of ground to cover come daybreak."

"But I 'ave to ask Dibella..." He whimpered, "t'be abs'lutely sure."

"I suggest you pray for answers then."

"But she's returnin' tomorrow after eighteen years away, I 'ave t'be here to ask her."

Braith rolled her eyes; Joric was clearly still ill. She had seen him once before many years ago in Whiterun when he had visited the Temple of Kynareth. She never spoke to him, just saw him enter the temple while screaming absurdities and remembered he was an odd little boy that probably couldn't take a punch.

Studying him now, there was hardly any traces of what he had once looked like. The stout roundness of his boyhood face had curved into narrow cheeks that tapered into a pointed jaw. He was skinny, likely to break in half if she hit him hard enough. He was not much taller than her either—on the shorter side of what a Nord male usually stood—as if he had stunted his growth somehow. His dark brown hair was cut in a short fashion the way an imperial soldier might have been sheared and despite looking a bit worse for wear and dirty, he had little stubble which indicated he couldn't grow a full beard even after adolescence.

She decided she'd had enough and rolled over so her back was to him, pulled the fur covering up to her chin and closed her eyes—intending to finally sleep. There was finally a light at the end of the tunnel that was this mission now that she had apprehended him alive.

"Y'think I'm crazy," he muttered, "But I know something in this world is wrong. Something that shouldn't 'ave happened did or something that should've happened, diddin' and t'caused time to fester. Soon we'll all be in Oblivion."

Braith couldn't take his madness anymore. In one quick movement, she rolled over and out of the bed, grabbed the breast of his tunic into her fists and jerked him forward. He winced, anticipating a blow but when it didn't happen, he opened one eye in slight surprise. She stared hard at him and said tersely, "If you say another foolish word I am going to knock you into Oblivion, got it?"

Joric bit his bottom lip but gave a weak nod to indicate that he understood. She finally let him go but not before pushing him backward to get her point across that she did not like him nor his company and wouldn't hesitate to beat his hide if he woke her up prematurely.

It was the uncomfortable stone that woke her up. After tossing and turning all night, her body revolted against the strange bed and it was clear she wouldn't get any rest until she was on a softer surface. Even the ground outside would have been more welcoming for sleep.

Joric was huddled against the wall, his head resting against the stone. He didn't look very comfortable either but Braith didn't afford him any amenity the way she had bound him. Besides, if she couldn't be comfortable, why should he? He'd managed to cover himself with the fur pelt at least.

She had thought he was still asleep, but slightly jumped, when he turned his head to regard her. She felt weak for reacting in such a way but her shame melted into uneasiness when she looked at him. His eyes, which had been dark green the last she noticed, were now glazed over in a milky white. His expression was impassive when opened his mouth. The clear, sober words he spoke made her skin crawl with bumps.

"Dragonsreach in flames.

Daedric Princes take fate's reigns

The Dragonborn was lost with time

Innocent but accused of crime

All could be undone

If Braith of Whiterun

To me, would swear her soul

And join the search for the Elder Scroll."

She immediately knelt beside him and slapped him across the cheek to get him out of...whatever state it was that he was in. His eyelids fluttered rapidly until the whiteness faded and his eyes were back to normal. His vision seemed to clear and he looked miserable.

"Good morning, companion," he managed to say with a tone of pleasantry despite the very unpleasant situation he was in. His words were far clearer than they were the night before. He grimaced and cracked a knot in his neck by tilting his head sharply to the side.

"How do you know my name?" Braith demanded to know; she had not introduced herself to anyone in Markarth. How was it possible he knew it?

He arched a thick brow, "I don't, unless your name is 'companion' which would be quite the coincidence..."

She interrupted his idiotic musing, "Liar! You just said it!"

"No, I didn't."

"Yes, you did! You recited a poem about the Jarl's palace on fire and something about the Dragonborn. After that, you said my name."

He looked bemused at her, as if the situation from last night were switched and she was the one being insane. Then a realization seemed to dawn on him and he gave a long groan, "I was rhyming?"

"Yes, and you're a terrible poet. Don't hold your breath if you try to apply to be a bard."

He scowled at her insult but continued on, "It wasn't a poem. It was a vision—something that happens to me every so often...and alcohol is the best way to stave them off."

He squinted in the dim light of the room as if he were just waking up and seemed to be staring at something particular behind her, "I'm parched, could I please have a drink of whatever that is on the table?"

Braith followed his gaze and sure enough there was a small cask meant for the guest that rented the room and it was likely filled with ale. Should she really be enabling the Thane's obvious drinking problem? She'd seen enough of it with Torvar the past few years, but if what he said was true, and alcohol prevented him from having these...visions...then maybe it was in her best interest to oblige.

She gave a sigh and stood, grabbing one of the two empty tin cups and held it under the spigot as she twisted the knob to free the liquid inside. She handed it to him, half full. He gave a look of incredulousness and cast a glance over his shoulder to his bound hands as if asking her how she expected him to hold it.

"I'm not going to untie you," she stated and held the cup to his lips, nodding he should get to drinking. He hesitantly leaned forward and put his mouth on the edge and started gulping while she gradually raised the angle to make sure he was getting the drink he needed. When he was done he let out a breath of relief.

"I must deliver you back to Whiterun as soon as possible," Braith said and tossed the cup back onto the table, then she went about re-dressing into her boots and gauntlets, "So stand up."

"I must ask Dibella if time is truly corrupted," he grit his teeth, seeming to bite back a cry of pain as he pushed his shoulder against the wall and managed to stand. Though he was still off-balance, either from a sure hangover or because his limbs had all but fallen asleep in the uncomfortable position he was in all night.

Braith rolled her eyes—there he went again with his nonsense. How did one ask a divine anything without the process of prayer anyhow? He made it seem like he was to see Dibella with his own eyes and chat with her just as they were now speaking together. It was commonly known that the divines didn't interact directly with their worshipers, so why did Joric Ravencrone think he could seek the ear of a goddess like some court sycophant to a Jarl?

"Would you consider freeing me for a generous amount of gold?" he wondered. She turned a sly eye on him. He didn't look very wealthy in his stale clothes, with his stale smell—but she supposed he was trying to disguise himself after escaping his wedding vows and no one expects to find a Thane so slovenly even if they were from the swamps. It wasn't like she needed the riches—she had a place to sleep and enough funds from her previous jobs to cover her travels to complete new ones.

"No," she replied.

"You are stubborn as you are vicious," he sighed.

"I've been called worse," she grabbed him by his arm to lead him out of the room. She purchased a cheese wedge and green apple for breakfast from the innkeeper. The room was desolate compared to the previous evening so there was room in front of the fire place for her to sit and eat. Joric looked paler than before, so she offered him a bite of each, which he took but didn't thank her. He didn't even seem to want to converse anymore after being so talkative the night before.

She really tried sometimes—to be nice—but hardly anyone was nice to her so what was the point?

When they left the Inn, he seemed to slump and drag his feet, turning his head up to look up at Dibella's temple with regret.

"Please, could I just..."

"No. I have a job to complete and that consists of delivering you back to Whiterun," she cut him off. If the inner circle could see how well she had done on her own with this mission then maybe they would respect her more.

Joric suddenly pivoted so that he was facing her. It caught her somewhat off-guard, "So deliver me back to Whiterun after I speak to Dibella. I can pay you for your troubles and you can keep a close eye on me even, but I beseech you to allow me to see her."

He looked so pathetic that she considered his request. She didn't know how he was going to go about it but she might as well squeeze some gold out of him if that was the offer on the table.

"Ten gold for every day we aren't in Whiterun," she said with finality; there would be no more bargaining.

He leaned forward so close to her that she could feel his breath on her cheek and responded sharply, "Done. Now untie me."

"That wasn't a part of the deal."

He gaped before his brow plummeted into a deep frown, "Dibella can't see me like this!"

"She can and will," Braith snapped. To her surprise, he didn't change his direction toward the temple but kept walking to the front gate. She took a few quick steps to keep up with him. He was no longer dragging his feet but moving with determination. He was the oddest man she had ever had the displeasure of meeting.

Once outside the city, past the guard towers, the mining settlement, and on the road she asked, "Where are you going?"

"To speak to Dibella!"

"Her temple is back that way!" Braith pointed behind her toward Markarth. This man was such an idiot.

"That's not where she is!"

Despite being only a few feet apart, they had resorted to shouting at one another. At least they were on the road toward Whiterun; it was the same path Braith had taken on her journey to Markarth the day before. She frowned at his nonsense and then was reminded of his earlier nonsense in the form of a rhyme.

"Does Dibella have anything to do with that vision you had this morning?"

"I have no idea...they are just pictures in my head," he halted suddenly and seemed to stare off into the distance, not looking at anything in particular, "Almost like memories that don't belong to me...and not ones from the past either."

She found that explanation to make just as much sense as his bad poem. She stopped and waited to see if he'd say anything else. A mountain goat meandered across the path ahead, and then ripped a patch of grass out of the earth to munch on.

He started to walk again, "Anyhow, I don't remember anything of the rhymes, just the images."

"So, have you seen an elder scroll before?"

"No, why?" He whipped around with wide eyes, surprised.

"Then how would you know what one looks like if it was a picture in your vision? It was a part of your poem," he opened his mouth to protest but she corrected herself, "Vision...whatever. That must mean you saw an image of it."

He thought about it for a moment and then closed his eyes to concentrate harder, "Yes! There was an Elder Scroll...it was on your back! You carried the Elder Scroll which means our meeting wasn't a happenstance. You were meant to find me."

Braith scoffed; an Elder Scroll was something so abstract and important that she doubted she would ever lay eyes on one. That was one thing that did stick with her from her mother's teachings. She couldn't help but to roll her eyes yet again and push him forward to continue on.

"You don't believe me?" he seemed offended.

"I think you are insane," she replied honestly, "Elder Scrolls, the Dragoborn—who is only a legend, by the way—are some very unlikely things for us to ever see."

"It's not the first time someone has accused me of unsound sanity," he said softly, sadly and she could barely hear it—as if he was speaking to himself. They passed a few waterfalls and Braith had to flatten more than one pesky mudcrab with her warhammer to protect Joric since he was unable defend himself. They still hadn't found Dibella.

All of a sudden Joric let out an uncomfortable moan and it was loud enough that it echoed between the mountainsides; Braith grabbed her warhammer and held it ready—expecting to be attacked, but when nothing came at her she frowned at the thane and asked, "What's your problem?"

He seemed reluctant to say at first but finally faced her, his face red with embarrassment, "I have to...uh...relieve myself."

She shook her head and shrugged but then realized if he couldn't do anything with his hands, then he would need aid in this task and that was not something she was willing to do. She lifted her warhammer and put it back into place in the harness that hung between her shoulder blades, and sighed. An iron dagger was sheathed on the inside of her boot so she brought that out and quickly sliced the leather tie that held Joric's wrists together.

His arms ripped apart and he shook his hands out with pure elation now that they were freed. If he so much as started running he'd get a blade in his back—it would hurt like oblivion but wouldn't be fatal. For the first time that morning, she saw him smile and then he told her to turn around as he positioned himself in front of a bush.

At least Joric had an ounce of modesty; Torvar often whipped his little rock warbler out whenever he felt like it on their travels without any warning whatsoever. She shifted her weight from foot to foot with impatience. She didn't realize until she heard it but she had to relieve herself as well but didn't want Joric out of her site.

"When you are done, stay where you are and don't move a damn muscle," she commanded as she hopped across the path and climbed over a rock to do as Joric did but behind a low juniper berry tree. She envied the men-folk in these situations—taking care of business was so simple out in the wilderness. They didn't have to squat or Daedra-forbid, deal with all the blood.

She crouched and hugged her shoulders, waiting to be done with it when she heard rapid footfalls. Alarm surged through her and she hopped up to see Joric taking off down the road in a sprint. She gave a bellow of outrage and paid no mind to the leftover drips as she leaped over the rock to chase him. She should have just let him soil himself instead of untying him. She could make out his figure ahead of her and screamed, "Get back here you swine!"

He didn't acknowledge her insult or slow his pace. She wouldn't be able to hit him with her dagger from this distance so she sucked in a breath, mentally taking note of how all of her muscles felt at that second. With a release of that air, she pushed a vigorous energy into them that caused her to move quicker without tiring and she started to close the distance between them.

When she was only a few paces behind Joric, she made a mighty leap forward and the weight of her and the warhammer came crashing down onto him. They rolled and rolled across the dirt and cobble, struggling with each other until Braith had him on the flat of his back with her hands on his throat. She wanted to strangle him for being so troublesome.

"I told you not to move a muscle!" She shouted with her thumb pressing on his jugular.

"I wasn't running from you...Dibella is so close..." he gasped but couldn't finish his sentence.

"That's pig shit! You couldn't wait to run away as soon as you were free!"

"Release him," came a forceful voice in front of them. Braith looked up and blinked—not having realized there were people that had witnessed the tussle. Now taking note of her surroundings, there was a fork in the road and she had wrestled Joric in front of a roadside altar...it was small stone monument adorned with hanging moss and pretty, shiny trinkets and tokens of devotion. The dark violet, flower-shaped shrine at the center was evident—this was Dibella's shrine.

But...Dibella wasn't there...the only people who were present was an oddly beautiful woman donned in a man's long belted tunic wearing no trousers, flanked by two imperial soldiers.

Braith let the pressure off Joric's throat but didn't move herself from where she sat, keeping the thane solidly in place.

Both soldiers had their swords at the ready, seeming to be uncertain of the situation.

"And who are you?" Braith questioned the lady, placing her hands on her hips. The movement caused Joric to squirm uncomfortably beneath her and gasp for more air.

"She's the Sybil of Dibella," one of the soldiers answered, and then sheathed his sword, must having determined Braith was not a threat.

He took a few steps down from the altar and held out his hand for her to take and stand, "I thought you would have stopped beating people up at some point but it looks like you haven't changed."

She raised her eyebrows at the familiar tone he used with her and studied his handsome features, trying to discern his identity and then she felt a slow, creeping, positively embarrassingly painful blush fill her cheeks as she realized who this soldier was. By the nine, how she had missed that beautiful face. She took his hand and he pulled her upward, warhammer and all—she held on tighter than was necessary.

Joric scrambled up and bowed to the Sybil in respect.

For once, Braith didn't have a snide retort, threat or otherwise but it didn't stop her from putting on a frown because out of all the people she could happen upon in this strange morning, the fates decided it had to be the object of her girlhood affection and frustration—the man who she used to call baby Battle-Born.

Chapter Text

It was her least favorite day.

It was the day they wrapped her in fox pelts and crowned her in snowberries and red Mountain flowers. It was the day that the goddess, Dibella, filled her soul and spoke to the Forsworn.

It had been a long ten years, and not a day went by where she didn't loathe them all.

They had taken her from her family, kept her locked in a cell as child—in the dim light of an ancient fortress. She forgot what sunlight had felt like in those early years as their prisoner while her complexion paled and her dark-sight grew. She was eventually presented to the Hagraven matriarchs and their briar-hearted warriors. They told her she was touched by a Divine, and they needed to call upon her. For what exactly, they never explained but she had felt a growing presence within her, too foreign to put in into words.

She was no longer Fjotra. Fjotra was who she had been before the abduction, and now was just a cherished word she kept close to her heart. They had given her a new name – Fireile - the 'fire beauty.'

On this Day of Dibella, she had awoken early and the women bathed her in the frigid water of the spring—had scrubbed every inch of her skin until it was pink and clear of any dirt. The Hagravens had brushed her long, knee-length, dark red hair out from the tangles that had accumulated in knots the past year and braided it intricately in style meant for a festival. She always shuddered at the feel of their long claw-like fingers raking through her hair.

She reached up and plucked a snowberry from where the sprig was weaved into her crown, and rolled it between her fingertips absently. It was boring just sitting there with nothing to do, at the top of the Lost Valley Redoubt. It was a place she had last been to when she was in early adolescence, and she had been enchanted by the old Nordic aqueducts, and the openness of it all—the stunning views of the Reach from the parapets and the tumbling waterfalls surrounding them. It was by far her favorite of the Forsworn strongholds because it was the only one where she felt...free. She often traveled to different encampments to spend time with the inhabitants until the next Day of Dibella. Always closely watched. It never was long enough for her to make lasting relationships—not that she needed or wanted to bond with such loathsome barbarians—but for someone who could channel the Divine of love and beauty, she certainly didn't feel loved nor beautiful.

The snowberry she had been holding popped, and its crimson juice trailed into her hand.

A feast had been laid out on the tables below with roasted elk legs, goat legs, venison chops and a whole array of smaller smoked meats in between. The hunters had done well in the weeks leading up to this day. There was even mead, which was hard to come by since the Forsworn could only obtain it through raiding. They must have ambushed a merchant cart because there were two whole casks of it.

She watched as the Ravagers and Warlords filled tankards and toasted together. They were the elite warriors of the Forsworn. She wasn't exposed to much of the fighting but had heard tales of their brutality toward the Nords and the Imperial soldiers that were unfortunate enough to stumble across a Forsworn camp. The human skulls hanging from their belts proved to be enough that she did not doubt the truth of it.

"How will Dibella answer us this year I wonder?" a rough-cut voice inquired from beside her. She looked upward from where she was sitting to see one of the men of the Reach, his skin was pallid and she spotted the unnerving cavity wound before she had sense to avert her eyes.

The Briarheart.

"How she always answers," Fjotra replied, trying not to betray her disgust. She would never be comfortable with the Witchmen; they who sold their humanity to the Hagravens for power.

"She'll never see her precious temple while you live. You belong to the Forsworn, Fireile," his hand cupped her chin, and forced her to look up at him—at the wretched gouge in his chest.

The Hagravens and shaman had their magic.

Fjotra had hers.

She could feel Dibella's rising anger; it formed as a lump in her throat, tightening so hard she could scarcely breath. She bit her tongue from conveying the words Dibella would have her swear at the man. Living with the ability to hold a divine's presence was something few ever got to experience. It was like having a split soul almost—sometimes thoughts and words came from her that she didn't own. Then there were times she swore she could see the manifestation of passion and love—a bright red luminescence that encompassed a human—the epicenter at their heart. Briarhearts never had the glow though, for they held no love, and had no heart—just a piece of a weed acting as one.

Dibella's anger eventually subsided and Fjotra could breathe again. Dibella was not entirely trapped in the same way her Sybil was—she wasn't bound to a physical form. However, Dibella could not easily commune with her priestesses without a physical presence, and while Fjotra was still alive, she could not simply choose a new Sybil to voice her will.

The Briarheart made a growl of dismissal when Fjotra didn't honor his taunt with a reaction. He released her chin with an abrupt motion that made her head spin.

A few moments later, one of the Ravagers approached her with a wooden plate containing cooked venison. It smelled delicious and Fjotra hadn't eaten anything yet that day besides a handful of juniper berries. She accepted it at once. Often in those early years, she wasn't given as much food as she should have been. Whether it was by choice—somehow to starve the Sybil into cooperating or just a lack of resources—Fjotra became too weak to walk at one point and it was only by the magic of the hagravens that she survived. Since then she had always been quicker to grab foods that were offered to her, afraid the sustenance would be snatched away before she got a bite in.

"Fireile, good day of Dibella to you and your goddess," the Ravager said pleasantly, as if she was there by her own accord.

"Good day," she managed to reply, muffled, because of the deer meat shoved to the corner of her mouth.

"You are of age now, yes? I saw you here when I was a younger lad. You came to visit and I'd never seen such red hair before. Your name is well-suited."

Her name. He meant the one they called her. She didn't make it a habit to look Forsworn in the eyes, especially not the warriors, because she feared them more than the Hagravens. She knew of their practices—of how they invoked pain on themselves to ready themselves for battle trances where they would only cause more pain and destruction. However, his question and disarming tone piqued her curiosity and she did dare look at him directly.

She wondered what he meant by his question. Of age. She was an adult now by all intents and purposes, surly he could see that much if that was what he was asking. She no longer had a flat, girlish figure, and though while not the most fed, she wasn't sickly thin either.

He was certainly older than her but not as by as many years most of the Forwsorn clansmen and women were. Like most of the Witchmen of the reach, he had little covering his torso but for a few scars, and despite all that cut muscle—he was still svelte as Bretons were.

She felt a heat rise in her cheeks, hoping that this Ravager wasn't asking her such a thing because he intended to claim her in some horrifying mating ritual or whatever these savages did to choose partners. She'd never even kissed anyone before.

Fjotra tensely pulled her knees to her chest to guard herself and merely nodded at the fact she was of age. She was probably that and a bit more. She recalled having a celebration in the spring when the wind was still bitter but plant life began to sprout out of the snow. Back when she celebrated her name day with those who loved her. Here, they didn't even call her by it. She finally looked away and took another bite of venison.

"You don't have much to say do you?" he tried to converse again.

She frowned as she chewed, her blush from earlier fading quickly as she thought, what good is it to say anything if no one listens?

If she'd have been younger she might have let a tear or two slip from her eyes but having been subjected to such harshness, her heart had hardened against those emotions. It would take something entirely overwhelming to make her break now.

"Thank you for the food," she finally said and finished picking off the meat on the deer bone, setting it back on her plate and holding it up to him, "It tasted very good."

He inclined his head with a solemnity that she hadn't detected before while he took it from her, and thought it...odd...but only for a passing moment because the familiar beat of drums started up, signaling the Shaman would be coming soon. The Shaman usually called upon Dibella to speak, using tongues from old Breton languages. Fjotra didn't know what they asked, she only knew Dibella's answer every year: No.

She continued to sit in the ring of flowers and berries, hoping the ritual would commence and be over soon. She didn't like all of their hungry, savage eyes on her. They gathered below on the next stone tier, some still holding their own deer legs or tankards of pillaged mead. The cries of Hagravens sounded above her and she saw their ugly, hunched, feathery forms descend from their nest, down the stairs to Fjotra's perch. The Briarheart had changed into an intricate antlered skull headdress that contained a cascade of smaller bones strung together long enough to reach his shoulders and he held a magical staff, taking his place behind her. Finally, the drumming stopped and the Shaman approached in her equally impressive skeletal accessory adorned over her head. She had reddish marks streaking under her eyes and across her face, probably a mixture of dirt and blood acting as paint. Fjotra always felt especially tense in the presence of the tribes' Shaman—for they held a great deal of magicka and learned directly from the Hagravens. Speaking of which, they had drawn closer and flanked Fjotra on either side of the circle.

The Shaman lifted her hands to call for complete silence and the drumming stopped.

She began to chant in the old tongues.

A prick of panicked alarm rang in Fjotra's head—not her own instincts, but a warning from Dibella. Something was wrong. In past years the Shaman would circle Fjotra, chanting in that specific tongue unique to the Reachmen. The chanting nearly sounded like a song back then. This time, that chanting was more guttural—deep and menacing with a hint of malevolence.

The Hagraven on her right reached out and her talon-fingers snatched Fjotra's wrist. The left Hagraven did the same in turn—effectively restraining her. Fjotra's eyes widened in fear as she felt the Briarheart approach from behind with a cut of rope, taking her wrists from the Hagravens and secured them together behind her. Fjotra struggled and demanded to know what they were doing, and why it was not the same as years' past, but as usual they chose not to hear her. Dibella's panic surged and combined with Fjotra's into waves of frenzy.

No one helped her. No one said a word while she shouted for aid and then the Shaman began chanting again.

"Dibella, we call you hence from the Aetherius—"

As she heard the lingual switch to common tongue, a rare yet familiar sensation of light, warmth, and magnificent power filled the Sybil. Fjotra closed her eyes as her body jerked, accommodating the divine's presence and will. When she opened her eyes, they were brightened and all who surrounded her knew they had Dibella's attention.

"I do not entertain Hircine's directives. I do not bend to Daedric will—your kind will not have the luxury of my blessings!" Fjotra choked out the words that weren't her own in a tone of nasty contempt. She had to take a breath against the unnatural hatred Dibella held.

The Briarheart gave a yank to her hair, causing her neck to arch back and her vision to point skyward. When she lowered her eyes, she could see the Shaman draw closer, a displeased gaze but wicked grin pasted on her face, "Then it is Hircine's will your Sybil be sacrificed to him, a token of your defeat and failure to answer his calling."

The presence in Fjotra vanished almost immediately.

She could feel the edge of the knife, see a piece of sunlight reflecting sharply off of the blade and closed her eyes, waiting for the inevitable slaughter. She couldn't beg Dibella to save her, or to do their bidding. It would betray all she had done to avoid giving in. Now she was abandoned, just a play piece between the dark souls of Oblivion and the Divines. Instead of hearing the sick plunge of metal into her flesh, she, and the Forsworn surrounding her heard the startling rattle of bones from down the hill.

Her eyes snapped open as a rush of movement started around her. Ravagers and archers grabbed for their weapons, rushing down the ancient stone stairs, calling their war cries while in turn shouts from the intruders below rose up. There sounded to be many. The Hagravens retreated to their nest, and only the Briarheart remained. He stood ready and threw Fjotra to the ground in front of him, while holding his staff which held an elemental enchantment evident by the light at its head.

Speaking of light, it filled her again. She didn't expect that and welcomed it with a gasp of reprieve. Dibella had not abandoned her! She managed to crawl forward on her elbows to peer off the ledge at the battle below and immediately wished she hadn't.

From behind the light in her eyes, she could see the Forsworn brandishing their crude yet effective spiked swords against the silvery steel of the soldiers'.

There was not even the faintest glimpse of love in these men's hearts as they slaughtered one another. Dibella was most displeased the display, Fjotra could feel and taste a cloud of darkness rising within her. She knew sometimes Dibella chose to see the world through her eyes, listen through her ears and speak through her voice, but this should not have been the time. Dibella could not do anything to make them stop this carnage. Fjotra tried to close her eyes, to block Dibella so she could no longer witness this gruesome scene. It was all she could do since her hands were still bound with rope.

It worked; the light faded and Fjotra could see clearer with her own vision when her eyes fluttered open. The ravager from earlier was already down, his body limp only a few feet below with a long red split in his neck that was still spilling red. She gasped and averted her eyes but this time to a fallen soldier, whose helmet was bashed into the side of his head and one of his eyes was out of its socket.

It was the opposite of love and life, the very things her half-soul thrived on and she felt like a shade of a person, with a shadow cast so thoroughly on her that it suffocated. She felt like she was going to be ill and the venison she had quickly consumed would make a return journey up her throat. She couldn't move a muscle, too frightened that her movement would provoke an attack on her. She was able to sit up and curl her face into her knees. Fearful, hopeless, tears started spilling from her eyes—having the feeling that this horror would be her last moments.

The cries and clashing noises became fewer as more bodies fell below her.

A hand grabbed her shoulder and she felt fingers—human ones—yanking at the knot in the rope around one of her wrists. She shrieked and looked up, over her shoulder. It was only a brief second, but she was staring into a pair of eyes with long lashes, above them, a prominent brow raised in concern to the top of where his helmet covered his hairline. It was a face that made her feel a sense of comfort and calm despite the owner being an intruder to the Forsworn lair. She felt one of her wrists become free but before either could speak, his face twisted into excruciating pain as he was suddenly bright with shock energy

The Briarheart had targeted him. Probably, because he was halfway to freeing her.

After a moment of the bright blue-white light shining blindingly through his translucent, pale skin, the soldier fell backward, his whole body twitching while lightning continued to course through his veins. Fjotra stared hard at the Briarheart, wishing he would stop. That they all would just stop. Maybe Dibella had heard her prayer, for suddenly a great sword arced downward and decapitated the horn-decorated head of the Briarheart from behind. The lightning from his staff dissipated and the fallen soldier was finally still.

The Sybil had no idea what was going to happen but before she could find any words, she let out a sharp gasp and this time she did collapse, feeling light-headed as raw power started to overtake her mind and body. The light was coming back to her, filling her; her own sight rolled backward to be the observer and Dibella had taken charge of the Sybil once more. It had never happened so fast, in so much frequency before. Fjotra found herself untying her other bound wrist without trouble and pulling herself to her feet to regard the intruding soldiers, more confidant and less unsure than she had initially felt. They looked at her in wonder and apprehension—swords still raised, unsure of whether or not to attack as she looked like she was a Forsworn from  the attire she wore.

"Lay down your weapons or else you will never be blessed with a lover's touch again," Fjotra said sternly gesturing around the area of felled warriors, though it wasn't her speaking—it was the divine goddess of love and beauty and when she spoke through Fjotra it sounded as if there were two voices; the latter had an ethereal property whereas it seemed to project louder and echo against the human one. It looked like most of the Forsworn had been dispatched. The Hagravens were still screaming in fury, further up the hill in their nest.

"By the Eight," breathed their obvious lead soldier in recognition. He wore more distinguished plated armor than the rest, his voice was gravelly, "She's the lost Sybil of Dibella."

He lowered his eyes and sword, causing the rest of the soldiers to follow suit. Fjotra's lips quirked up in a pleased smile at the show of respect. Civilized societies of men were known to worship her divinity.

The soldier who had tried to free her lay at her feet and she bent down, running a hand across cheek. He had such a handsome face. She felt Dibella's sadness at the loss of something so aesthetically pleasing to the world. Her fingers traced over his lips and as they did, he made the slightest movement. Hope soared within her.

She knelt and lifted the young man's head into her lap, taking off his helmet to run her fingers through his hair. It was much cleaner than any of the male Forsworn's hair, shorter too, though slightly singed from the shock. She could detect a tiny ember of love burning in his fading heart, but a separation and sadness from that love. She smiled and bent over, pressing her lips to his. Her kiss seemed to breathe new life into him or enhance the little that was left from the Briarheart's attack. The soldier inhaled deeply and his eyes fluttered open, revealing vivid blue.

He blinked a few times, as Fjorta withdrew her kiss with a satisfied smile. She had never kissed anyone before, or rather Dibella had never done it while becoming one with her Sybil, but Fjotra understood a little now why people liked doing it so much. He seemed bewildered before noticing all his comrades standing around and smirking. She stood and pulled him upward with her, maintaining her hold of him so he could balance after being shocked so badly.

"I require escort to the temple of Markarth," Fjotra demanded and she could feel Dibella's annoyance. It had been too long already. The place she belonged was at the temple with the priestesses.

"Of course, my lady," the leader nodded with a slight bow of respect and then motioned one of his men forward, "Lylvieve!"

The man who had slain the Briarheart stepped forward awkwardly from behind them, still in awe of her. He had sheathed the bloodied great sword across his back without bothering to clean it.

He called out another name but Dibella interrupted, tightening Fjotra's hold on the handsome soldier's arm, "I'd like this one to escort me as well."

The Leader gave a grunted chuckle, "As you wish, my lady. Just as right as they were about to go on leave anyhow. Battle-Born and Lylvieve, escort the Sybil if you please and then be on your way."

Battle-Born must have been what they called this one. The soldier turned his head slightly and then an adorable blush crossed his cheeks at realizing how much skin she was showing. The Forsworn were known for minimalist dressings of animal furs and bones and she had forgotten the more modest way women of Skyrim society had dressed.

She still had his hand in hers from when she helped him stand, neither of them had made a move to undo this connection. She supposed he gained comfort from her grasp, for nearly being on the doorstep of death. She enjoyed the touch, the warmth of his palm against hers. One of the loneliest aspects of her captivity was the lack of meaningful physical contact. Then there was the fact he was rather handsome—she doubted she would be the first or last being to be so appreciative of that face.

"One of you lads, offer her some decent covering!" The leader barked, noticing as well, and more than one of the soldiers began to fumble with the belts on their armor. A lad toward the back made a shout of victory as he pulled his tunic over his head and tossed it forward toward the leader. He handed her the garment and apologized for any offense she might have felt from all the male gawking.

The meager politeness was so damn refreshing after years of demands and degrading taunts from her captors. She wasted no time in pulling the tunic over her exposed skin, it fell to the length of her knees, and she belted it up around the middle. Not only was it more modest but a great deal warmer too.

Fjotra smiled and then she felt Dibella's presence wane, tension, power and energy all seemed to dissipate in a large, fateful, sigh of relief. They were finally free.

Fjotra didn't know how to talk to people well but the two men seemed talkative enough. They joked with each other in between asking her questions about what constituted being a Sybil and she tried answering best she could. For once in her life, people were actually listening to her.

"Do you have a name? Or do we just call you 'the Sybil?" the soldier, Lylvieve asked, stopping in the middle of a story about mudcrabs.

"Fir..." She began but then had to pause—realizing she no longer had to answer to that. She bristled with pleasure to say her true name, "Fjotra."

"That's a lovely name," he replied and she shivered with pride while smiling ecstatically because she had finally gotten to say it out loud, to other people.

They were walking the road toward Markarth that followed the Karth River. Fjotra enjoyed the walk and the company of the two men, finding herself laughing at their quips toward each other—before they remembered they were escorting a lady and became a tiny bit more consciousness of their words—they must have been close comrades.

They slowed as they came across a structure to the side of the road adorned with pretty things. Fjorta curiously approached and the soldiers didn't stop her. She picked up a golden necklace with a pretty purple jewel set in the middle, letting it swing from her fist by its chain. There was also a small leather pouch that jingled when she picked it up—she found gold coins inside.

"You probably shouldn't—" Lylvieve started but Battle-Born gave him shove in the arm to quiet him and muttered, "It's Dibella's shrine She has every right."

Fjotra felt another shiver, as if a bout of divine happiness danced up her spine—though Dibella's presence had not returned in full to guide her. She picked up a piece of purple mountain flower lain on the altar, tucked it behind her ear and turned to smile at her traveling escorts.

Both of them blushed as they returned the smile.

Then a rather crude sight interrupted the moment, catching their attentions. An altercation of sorts had tumbled upon the area between a scrawny Nord man and an athletic Redguard woman. She was swearing at him, nearly choking him to death and Fjotra couldn't abide it. She had seen enough violence to last a lifetime that day.

"Release him."

Thankfully, Fjotra's handsome companion talked the assaulter out of causing more violence—Fjotra could see the woman, who had no aura of love just a moment before, flare into a bright red luminescence after considering Battle-Born. He was a handsome young man no doubt, but it was startling that Redguard felt so strong of a passion at seeing him. His words though, made it seem as if they were previously acquainted and that made more sense.

She couldn't ponder long on their relationship though, because the disheveled young man who had been attacked was regarding her on his knees in reverence with a look of wild-eyed hope and desperation.

"My Divine, 'O mistress of the heart! I have risked so much in finding you!"

His loud words made all in the vicinity pay attention to the scene. It must have also caught Dibella's attention for the overbearing light filled Fjotra once more.

"Seer," Fjotra gave a shallow nod; she felt a sense of familiarity from Dibella—nonplussed that this had come to pass though she would have never suspected otherwise. The echo of her voices rang against the mountainsides as she said startling words that weren't her own, "I already know what you seek and confirm your suspicions. My Sybil has been captive of the Forwsorn for far too long, and that should have never come to pass. Even Akatosh could not prevent this insidious warp. I believe a point in the past has been altered by nefarious power and thus has created ripples of events that are not just incorrect but can verily destroy Nirn in the process."

The lad seemed to turn around and give a rather searing look to the young woman who had tackled him, as if to prove a point.

Then she continued, "You must find the Elder Scroll to right these wrongs before its too late."

Chapter Text

THUMP! 

A loud slamming sound of flesh on wood sounded next to Grimvar Cruel-Sea's ear. Sofie had driven her palms down upon the bar in a motion that told the mercenary that it was time to wake. His head whipped up, feigning alertness but when he saw it was just Candlehearth's barmaid, he laid it back down.

"The bar isn't a bedroom. If you don't pay coin for lodging, you should get back to your own home for sleep!" she admonished him. It wasn't the first time he was caught falling asleep all night at the bar of Windhelm's inn.

He had an unpleasant taste in his mouth, of hops that had soured. His tongue felt heavy and dry and so he tried opening his mouth and closing a few times to rid it.

"Your breath is awful too," she waved her hand rapidly to fan away the fumes of Grimvar's exhale. He pulled a few gold coins out of his pouch and laid them on the counter while popping his aching back from the position it had been in. He felt the tiniest start of a headache coming on as well.

"Mead."

"You haven't even had breakfast!"

"Mead," he repeated in a gravelly voice but did manage a smile. Sofie was very serious and he liked to throw her off-guard every once and while by flirting but rightfully he was in no form to impress her that morning.

She knew better than to argue with a Cruel-Sea over their drink. So, she reluctantly pulled a bottle out from under the bar top and uncorked it. It was Honningbrew, golden and thick – frothy as she topped off a new mug and took the old one away for cleaning.

Home wasn't very far, just north in the Stone quarter in Valunstrad, but Grimvar didn't like keeping residence there because he'd eventually fight with his father about his life choices, causing his poor mother to suffer even more stress. Besides, there was just more opportunity to pick up jobs while staying around Candlehearth Hall since that's where all the potential clients came to. Well, the little amount that did since the Legion had made it difficult for casual travelers in and out of the hold. Stormcloaks camped outside the walls all the way up to Kynesgrove, guarding their last beacon of hope—Ulfric's City.

Though Ulfric was long dead, and the Empire and their ilk had thought his war would die with him but they very much underestimated the will of a pious, stubborn Nord. Some would say Ulfric's death strengthened the Stormcloak's resolve to fight. However, the forces ebbed and flowed through numbers, replenishing the fallen with what they could take. Many, too many had died and Grimvar had seen friends leave Windhelm to never return alive, who were now stacked underneath the temple in the hall of the dead.

Maybe that was another reason he drank himself to sleep at night. Numbness was far better than the emotional pain of sobriety. Also, the guilt.

His stomach gave an intense rumble and he sighed, dug out a few more gold coins and had Sofie fetch him a fresh sweet roll that Nils had baked. The man was stooped in age now but refused to retire from his job cooking in the middle of the city with a target on its back.

"I'll rest when I'm dead," Nils always cackled in response to anyone suggesting he should take leave and get out of the city while he could. No, he would probably die there just like the rest of them. Penned inside the stone walls and waiting for the inevitable slaughter from the Legion.

Death was a subject Grimvar found himself thinking about a lot between drinks. He didn't consider himself a morbid individual, but maybe his parents were onto something by having his name start out with 'grim'. If he wasn't thinking about the death of persons, he contemplated the death of concepts such as hope and optimism. He remembered when he was a boy the world didn't seems as bleak. He had the dream of being a fighter and he would have joined the Stormcloaks if it wasn't for the advice an old war veteran gave him:

There was no glory in war, it was something told to soldiers so they would risk their lives.

Grimvar wasn't a coward but he wasn't about to stick his neck out and die on the command of someone sitting pretty behind the walls of the Palace of Kings either. He was happy enough being paid for mercenary work.

The door to the inn creaked open and a line of morning sunlight spilled onto Grimvar, he squinted and turned his attention toward the intrusion. A scrawny man wearing a bag stuffed with parchment stepped forward, blinking rapidly as his eyes adjusted to the dimness.

"Grimvar Cruel-Sea, I've got a message for you," the courier said when his sight landed on the mercenary. Grimvar only nodded while he chewed on a piece of sweet roll. The courier picked through the folded parchment and finally pulled one out, extending it forward. Grimvar took it, but left the main portion of the sweet roll in his mouth as he unsealed the letter and scanned the writing.

Grimvar Cruel-Sea,

Your services are requested.

At your earliest convenience, please meet Galmar Stone-Fist at the Palace of Kings.

Signed,

Jorleif,
Steward of Windhelm.

He bit through the sweet roll which caused the remaining piece not in his mouth to fall. He knew Sofie would only chide him again if it hit the floor and caused her extra sweeping so he deftly caught it and held it while he continued to chew.

He gave another nod to the courier, signaling he didn't plan on returning correspondence and the scrawny man took his leave. Sofie, not above sticking her nose in another person's business, leaned over the counter and seemed to try to read what Grimvar was holding while maintaining the façade she was just cleaning the surface. He tossed his sweet roll at her and held the parchment closer to his chest. She had no choice but to catch it if she didn't want to do that extra sweeping after all.

She glowered at him and took a bite of his sweet roll to spite him since he had the audacity to throw it at her.

He returned the glare, "You can't even read, so what do you think you'll see?"

She was affronted and snapped back, "Don't think I didn't see the seal of the Bear. Someone at the Palace is sending you messages."

She had a quick eye, he looked down and ran his thumb over the embossed, unsealed wax of the bear head. It had once been the Jarl's symbol, representing Ulfric's rule of the city, and now the Stormcloaks used it—that was his legacy and it was fighting tooth and nail to stay alive. Nobody wanted to be a footnote in history, much less forgotten from the world.

"No matter, it's none of your business wench."

He suddenly had a smear of icing across his cheek from being pelted with the same sweet roll. He didn't deign to catch it that time and it rested on the wooden floorboards, crumb trail and all. He then swiped up his mug and swiftly gulped down the remaining mead before slamming it down with a look in his eye that made Sofie let out a startled shout. He maneuvered himself around the bar and began to corner her with a predatory smile; she had no way out from behind the bar without jumping over it, but he could easily pluck her off the counter if she tried that route.

"No, Grimvar...please," she begged as she backed against the wall, trying to evade his outstretched hand, "Don't do it, I take it back!"

Her pleading had no effect as his fingers tried poking through her clamped arms, wriggling like a salmon but he made it through her defenses and she ended up shriek-laughing to the high heavens.

"You started it."

"Stop! Stop! I'm s..s..sorry! Stop tickling me, you savage!" she managed to demand as she crumpled against him and to his surprise, managed to pinch him good right underneath his armpit which made him yelp but more determined than ever to render her a ball of quaking laughter. They'd had this manner of confrontation before, usually when company at the inn was low as it was now so early in the morning. It had been days since any guest had rented out any rooms.

In a risky move, she opened her arms which protected her most ticklish areas and grabbed his head, forcing his gaze off of her, and to his ultimate surprise, licked the sweet roll icing off the side of his face.

The intimate action certainly cooled their scuffle as he took an abrupt step backward as his smile faded to puzzlement. She didn't look so stern with him anymore. Maybe he had taken his flirting a bit too far because he'd always counted on her to repudiate him. Her smile actually grew wider before she cleared her throat, rendering her expression back to its staunch seriousness, "Never figured the likes of you to taste so sweet."

He held back a scoff, and wiped at the wetness on his cheek, "You are really unprofessional, you know that?"

She shrugged as she grabbed a broom, and swatted him out of the way so she could clean up the remnants of his breakfast off the floor.

"If you didn't provoke me so much, then maybe I would be a better at my job."

He didn't like being blamed for something she took equal part in. He grabbed up his summons and bid her a good day, feeling out of sorts at the whole encounter. Maybe it was good advice to stay home for the coming nights after all. He stepped outside and into Eastmarch's cold air, adjusting the furs he wore over his leather armor for warmth. The morning was bright and he had to squint a bit, watching his steps as he descended the steps of Candlehearth Hall so he wouldn't fall. It didn't help he was still a bit hungover from his drinking the night before with added effects of the Breakfast Mead.

He reached out and steadied himself against a stone wall, his mind bouncing back and forth between the sensation of Sofie's tongue on his face and wondering why the current commander of the Stormcloak rebellion needed to meet with him.

"Drinking againl?" he heard a voice from behind him and glanced over as the noble, Assur passed him. Assur was a slight arrogant lad—and had no right to be. Exiled from Winterhold when the Imperials overtook it, he was more of a refugee than anything—lucky enough to be born a Nord and not a Dunmer else he'd be sleeping in the Gray Quarter and not Hjerim.

Grimvar grunted in affirmation and pulled himself away from the wall in order to keep pace with the man. "You should join me for a drink sometime," he offered, the thought of Assur drunk off his arse amused him greatly.

"No thank you, I don't really enjoy the taste of mead."

"What kind of Nord are you?" Grimvar nearly spat. Blasphemy! Most Nord children could even drink watered-down alcohol.

"Drinking mead isn't a pre-requisite to being a Nord, Cruel-Sea," Assur replied disdainfully, "Anyway, where are you headed? The temple?" They were past the corridor that lead to the graveyard so any destination left on their path was the Temple of Talos or the Palace of Kings.

"I'm not the praying type," Grimvar admitted and nodded toward the dominating structure past the narrow walkway that lead to the courtyard.

"You're going to the Palace then? Whatever for?" Assur asked, it seemed as though he thought Grimvar had no business there. To be honest, the only business the Palace seemed to conduct anymore was the war. Afterall, it was the Stormcloak headquarters.

Grimvar held up his parchment, "Galmar Stone-Fist wants to meet with me."

"Odd. He wants to meet with me as well," Assur pulled an identical parchment from his sleeve and held it up.

That caused Grimvar to raise a curious brow, "You don't think he's going to ask us to fight for the cause, do you?"

"Divines no, he should know men from our families don't do that unless..."

"Unless our heads are filled with notions of glory," Grimvar interrupted, thinking of the same veteran who had once lived in Windhelm, "and glory is just a concept they tell soldiers to risk their lives."

"Exactly."

That was one thing they could agree on.

Soldiers on guard duty regarded them with cordial nods and opened the heavy doors for the two young men. Assur was younger than Grimvar—at least smaller in build which made him look younger. Grimvar remembered when Assur and his family arrived to the city, with only a cart full of belongings to beg for sanctuary after his father, the Jarl of Winterhold was deposed. Grimvar felt sympathy for the lad back then, but he soon found out rather than being humble, Assur still maintained that air of superiority that Grimvar felt all nobles wore at the end of their nose. Grimvar himself came from a well-off, respected clan of the hold so it always annoyed him when Assur treated him as if he were somehow less.

The hall was filled with soldiers. What had once been a relatively quiet room decorated with fine blue rugs and dining tables was now a barracks of sorts with sleep rolls in every corner, not for the common soldier though, there was a higher command here. Men in full armor and cloaks, wearing spiked bracers and boots, mulled about with their steel weapons sheathed at their backs or to their sides. Assur was certainly out of place as he was dressed in finer cloth, and carried no weapon. Grimvar was less so – but still stuck out as he was not uniformed in the blue sash that the Stormcloaks wore to honor Ulfric.

Windhelm's steward greeted them, poor Jorleif was running the civil matters in the Jarl-less city and had been for the last seven years. There were no suitable candidates to replace Ulfric, and even if there were, Galmar would never let anyone take the throne of Windhelm, not while the Empire still had hold of Skyrim.

"Boys! Good, good—you received my letters!"

Assur and Grimvar cringed a bit at being referred to as boys. Both over eighteen now, they could grow whiskers which was a sure sign of manhood in Nordic culture. Assur had a shadow but remained clean-shaven. Grimvar's rough, dark blonde stubble was enough to get the point across he was no longer a boy.

"What is this about Jorleif?" Grimvar held up his parchment, "What services of mine could Galmar be interested in?"

Grimvar had received jobs from Jorleif before—mostly to dispatch aggressive wildlife that pestered the Stormcloak camps.

"He will tell you in time, please both of you proceed to the war room, over there to the left of the throne," the Steward indicated.

Assur and Grimvar exchanged a look but did as they were told, weaving between groups of the Stormcloak high command, through a small corridor, to arrive in a smaller wing of the palace. There were less men in this area – Galmar Stone-Fist, and two other Stormcloak soldiers of high ranking surrounding a table with a map of Skyrim laid out across it.

"This cannot be true, he has always been a good soldier—to commit treason and abandon his brothers-at-arms is not something of his character!"

"You've read the writing of your own charge, Head-Smasher—the Honor-Broken scum must be caught and brought to justice," the strikingly dangerous-looking Yrsarald Thrice-Pierced rebutted in a growl of disapproval, "Put your own feelings aside and face that fact."

"Stone-Fist, you requested our presence?" Assur inquired, breaking up the argument.

A Grizzled man wearing a bear-skin over his head, turned his gaze toward them and nodded in greeting, "Aye, lad. We received a message this morning that Jarl Kraldar of Winterhold had passed away from a bout of the rattles late last week."

Grimvar studied Assur's face and no trace of remorse even flickered across his stone expression. His silence prompted the general to continue, "The vacancy needs filled—the damned Imperials would never let your father re-take the throne while it's under their control..."

"So which peasant will they raise to that honor?" Assur grumbled bitterly.

"They suggested you should return, as a sign of good will. I think they are up to something—they know you are still young and impressionable, can be swayed or bought to support them..."

"Never!" Assur nearly spat in offense, his voice rising with anger, "They forced me from my home, they broke my father's mind, and now they want me to take up the throne of Winterhold just so they can try to puppeteer me as they have rest of the Jarls across Skyrim? I shall not!"

Galmar nodded with a grin, seeming to understand—but more importantly grinning as if the young noble had passed a test. "It is ultimately your choice, but I wanted to let you know of the opportunity—because with you as Jarl, a blind eye could be turned to the Stormcloaks re-forming camps, and give us the chance to re-take the hold."

Assur seemed to consider the advice but Grimvar was growing impatient and his headache was only getting worse, "What does this have anything to do with me?"

Galmar turned his concentration to the mercenary and smiled broadly, "If Assur decides to take up the throne, he will need protection on the journey to Winterhold—which you are more than capable of providing. I don't have resources to spare, and even if I did, that area has the presence of the Legion, so it'd be less of an issue if a private citizen accompanied him."

"So, you want me on body guard duty?" Grimvar asked with reduced enthusiasm. Making sure Assur wasn't eaten by an ice wolf didn't sound as fun as getting him drunk.

"You'd be paid fairly, and it's just until he's safe in Winterhold, if he wants to be Jarl." Galmer returned his attention back to Assur, "What say you?"

"Let me think on it," Assur set his chin in his hand, all arrogance lost in his look, replaced with the same confusion of a young boy deciding what he wanted between a boiled cream treat or a honey nut one. Grimvar narrowed his eyes, because Assur was not a leader and the only reason the Empire considered him was because of who he descended from, that, and probably no one wanted to rule the bleakness that was Winterhold.

Assur met Galmar's sight, "Is this information I can share with my parents? Could my family come with me if I returned?"

Galmar shook his head, and put a regretful hand on Assur's shoulder, "Your father would have to stay here, they won't trust him around you—think he would encourage you to resist them after all that's happened. Your mother could probably join you but she would have to leave your father behind which is probably not in his health's best interest. I understand if you need to discuss this with them before making a decision."

Assur nodded, "Is that all then?"

Galmar inclined his head and both young men turned to leave but Ysarald cleared his throat quite loudly which prompted Galmar to halt Grimvar, "Cruel-Sea, a word?"

Grimvar shrugged with ambivalence and turned around to hear what the man had to say but his interest piqued when Galmar leveled a concerning gaze at everyone in the room—which caused them to shuffle out, leaving only the general and the mercenary.

"What's the issue?" Grimvar asked, obviously something very selective was about to be spoken.

"I have an additional task for you, my boy," Galmar spoke, and Grimvar frowned at being called 'boy' again. Could Glamar not see the whiskers on his face? He supposed to those elder than he, he would always be a boy.

"Does it pay well?"

Galmar curled his lips in disgust, "Is that all you can think about? Money? You're so much like Torsten, always evaluating an action or object with a price in mind. Glory isn't enough for the Cruel-Sea clan-"

Grimvar felt his teeth clench, hating to be compared to his father, "Coin is tangible, Glory is what you tell to soldiers to risk their lives."

"Don't repeat Brunwulf Free-Winter's traitorous words in my presence, boy!" Galmar warned, his brow plunging low. The tone of venom cuffed Grimvar to silence but he continued to frown nonetheless, tense his jaw, and didn't apologize. Brunwulf was the one who taught Grimvar to fight, and even though the man had been an Imperial sympathizer, and no longer resided in Eastmarch, Grimvar held the old war veteran in high esteem and respect. He took in a calming breath before asking, "So what is this task you would have me do?"

"Two Stormcloak soldiers stationed in the Whiterun camp recently left their posts, abandoning their duties. I want you to hunt them down and give them the ends of oath breakers."

"What are their names? What do they look like?"

"I've never laid eyes on them but you should speak further with the Head-Smasher, he is the officer charged with Whiterun's forces and he will give you that information. It is vital that you apprehend them and remove them from Nirn—we shall not have other soldiers getting the idea to abandon Talos without going unpunished."

Grimvar nodded in understanding, but internally wondered why Stone-Fist wouldn't have them brought back to Windhelm to made an example of. "And my pay?"

"You'll receive it in full once you bring me their heads."

That satisfied him. If he hadn't trusted Galmar's honor, he would demand half the coin up front. He'd been burned before by iniquitous clients. He had been sent on bounties before too, but never was asked to kill the targets in question. That was a job for an assassin. The worst Grimvar ever did was rough them up a little, and threaten them before ultimately taking them back and leaving their fate to the Divines. 

"It will be done," Grimvar promised solemnly and took his leave, his head now pounding with pain.

Chapter Text

"All right, all right, here's one—" laughed a soldier clad in Imperial armor. He threw his head back and grinned at his own cleverness before starting his next joke, "What does a skeever and a Stormcloak have in common?"

"They both hide in caves?" his comrade guessed.

"No matter how many you eliminate, there always seem to be more!"

Both young men laughed together at the punchline.

They were strolling over a hill on route to the hold of Whiterun. Nothing but a vast, grassy, tundra with foothills lay before them

The two had been members of the Imperial Legion stationed in the Reach for two years after having previously completed training in Solitude.

In truth, they had never actually fought any Stromcloaks due to being stationed so far west in Skyrim. That enemy had been driven back and contained to Eastmarch the last they heard.

However, Markarth had been a lesson well learnt. There was no city as hostile, nor so corrupt as the old Dwemer stronghold. The Reach itself was nothing but unwelcoming with every redoubt and gorge they stumbled into.

The young men, often referred to by their clan name and surname, Battle-Born and Lylvieve, were experienced soldiers now, especially having had their fair share of fighting the Forsworn. In the years that the height of the civil war had preoccupied Skyrim, the Empire had lost focus on the Forsworn threat and it wasn't until the savages had raided about every mining settlement and camp into neighboring province that the Empire was forced to take drastic action. For two years the men and their military company had sniffed out and nearly eliminated all of the lingering Forsworn strongholds and hideouts in the Reach but not without heavy loss. The Forsworn had proven to be vicious and able fighters.

Battle-Born had recently almost succumbed to death from shock inflicted by a Briarheart if it hadn't been for Lylvieve's quick and ruthless swing of a great sword. The head of the enemy had arced through the air followed by a bloody spray that Lylvieve would never shake from his memory. The damage from the Forsworn Briarheart's chain lightening decorated the other's torso in some impressive scars, still tender to the touch. Their time together—fighting side by side, sharing patrol, and exchanging humor is what that sealed the bond between Battle-Born and Lylvieve—they became brothers and unfortunately that wasn't the first time Battle-Born would suffer at the hands of the witchmen of the Reach. Fortunately, Lylvieve always had his back.

Now that the Legion had deemed the Forsworn threat under control—or at least—in the most control it ever had been in recent years, the young men were granted a leave of absence. It was well deserved to say the least considering the last day and half they'd had.

Battle-Born and his kin were descended from an ancient, elite clan of Nords based in Whiterun and he had been invited to a high-profile wedding. Because of the influence his family had, he could have the necessary strings pulled to have Lylvieve join him. Unfortunately, he didn't get the invitation in time enough to travel and arrive for the event because his company was moving around so often within the mountains that were difficult for couriers to traverse, especially with any remaining roving bands of forsworn itching to fight. However, he was still was willing to make the journey home as he hadn't seen his family since his father enlisted him in the Legion nearly four years prior.

Their laughter ebbed and it was Battle-Born's turn to think of a joke. It was what they did to pass time during travel.

He wasn't nearly as witty as Lylvieve.

"Do you know why Sanguine is such a good artist?"

Lylvieve continued to grin, this time in anticipation, but shook his head that he didn't know the answer.

"Because he's a Daedra!"

His comrade merely raised a brow of questionable humor.

"Get it? Day-draw!"

Lylvieve did belt out a laugh but Battle-Born suspected it was more at the fact it wasn't as clever as the previous joke.

He joined in the laughter as well, after all, it had been only a stupid joke he had made up on the spot.
After another hill he could see further than before. He could make out Dragonsreach, jutting from the plains and dominating the view of the tundra in the distance.

"Have you ever been to Whiterun, Clint?"

Clinton Lylvieve shook his head, "Never farther east than Morthal. I grew up in Dragon's Bridge as you know. Not much to leave home for until joining the Legion."

Battle-Born could detect a hint of bitterness or the like in his friend's response.

Sometimes, he felt a little sad for the lad. Clint had been the son of miners and didn't have anyone his own age to befriend while growing up. Although he had mentioned being fond of a pet goat he spent his play hours with.

Battle-Born had several children to interact with. Not all were charming company but one had always been there for him and was included in all his pleasant childhood memories. A great longing took to his heart suddenly at the thought of her. She was the reason he most looked forward to seeing home again.

Mila.

There were only so many jokes that could be told before thoughts of her returned to the forefront of his mind. She was kind, clever, understanding, a hard-worker and his best friend since they were young children.

"You miss it that badly, eh Lars?" Clint asked, mistaking the sigh that escaped Lars Battle-Born's lips for his home—however his sudden melancholy demeanor involved every thought and feeling he had for Mila Valentia. He had missed her, and truly loved her, but he had essentially had neglected her. It was the sour feeling of guilt that made him reply in nearly a whisper, "I do."

He wished he would have had more time to write to her in his absence from home but between training, Forsworn mission after Forsworn mission, healing, and surviving—in the end he didn't have enough focus or energy to quill words and find a courier to deliver those words that assured Mila that he still felt for her.

Maybe that made him undeserving of her affections but she would understand once he had the chance to explain. He had no doubt she would accept him with nothing less than open arms of adoration if she felt a fraction of how he still felt for her. That thought convinced him enough to shrug off some of that guilt that plagued him when he thought about her.

They stopped at a nearby spring to refill their waterskins. Lars took a few gulps and filled his skin to the brim. They had walked a straight day only to rest when they made camp at night.

Clint capped his skin and stared back the direction they had traveled from. The craggy mountains of the Reach were so far away, barely brushing the sky. "I can't believe Legate Admand let me come with you, with reports of Forsworn still coming in. Do you think the rest of the company will handle themselves all right without us?"

Lars thought of Legate Admand during the last Forsworn skirmish and nodded with assurance, "They'll manage fine enough without us if they haven't gone to Sovngarde by now."

The Legate was a sturdy fighter and had cut down three Forsworn on his own after charging in. If that man fell, then Skyrim was in a lot more trouble than Clint and Lars could help dig the province out of.

"What about the Sybil?"

"She'll be fine as well, in the care of her priestesses."

The Sybil. She had taken well to their company on the short road from the Bard's Leap Summit to the Reach's capital. She was indeed beautiful, even provocative, but Mila was the only lass in all of Tamriel that held Lars's heart.

"And your friend?"

Lars grimaced; Braith was not his friend—just one of those unpleasant children he knew growing up in Whiterun. Not a day went by in his young life that she didn't extort silver coins from him or threaten to punch him in the nose. Now that he had found out she was a Companion it made him sick to think she could do it and get away with it all the time.

"She'll manage."

"What about that odd fellow she was with, the one who was muttering about the 'fabric of time?'"

"I don't know..." Lars mused. Now that he thought about it, they hadn't even been introduced. Though, considering he seemed to be in Braith's custody, he doubted the man would be fine for long.

"How much longer do you think 'till we get there? Looks like an hour or two."

Lars held in a groan at all of Clinton's questions, but held his thumb out and covered Dragonreach fully with it, "We'd get there faster if we just cut across the plain."

They had been following the road but it skirted around the tundra before reaching the gates of Whiterun. The tundra was rocky, grassy and filled with wild things.

Clint nodded with determination, signaling they should do it.

Neither of the young men were daunted by the possible skirmishes with wild animals, they had survived countless bouts with Forsworn who were some of the toughest enemies Skyrim had ever harbored.

They left the road behind and headed into the waves of tundra cotton and amber-colored grass.

Evening would be upon them soon. The darker part of the sky was speckled with stars. It was too early to see an Aurora; the light still barely bled onto them from the direction they had traveled.

Lars couldn't help but to bristle with anticipation as he thought of what he would do once he was within Whiterun's gates. Of course, he would have to greet his family—his father, grandfather, and the rest of the clan—but Mila's home was nearest on his way in, and he didn't see why he shouldn't visit her first. A subtle shake of the ground interrupted his planning. Clinton and he both halted to consider the sudden movement. It came again, this time with an audible 'thump'. Lars twisted around to see a Mammoth not but a few feet away. Clint's jaw dropped open and he stared dumbly at the beast in awe.

The young man had never seen such a creature before whilst growing up in the mountains of Haafingar. Lars, however, he knew of the Mammoths—knew that they roamed the tundra around Whiterun, and unfortunately so did their territorial masters.

"Clint! Run!" Lars all but shouted in warning and started off in the opposite direction. He didn't bother unsheathing his weapon because it was no use against a giant. One hit from the likes of them and Lars would be fast-travelling to Sovngarde quite literally.

A quickening range of thumps erupted toward them and suddenly a grey-skinned Giant was at their heels. Clint recovered from his amazement and dodged the swing of its club, rolled and picked himself up into a sprint.

The Mammoth trumpeted in offense and the Giant made incoherent grunts of disdain at both of the soldiers, waving their club around in the air, threatening another blow.

There are always two, Lars remembered, keeping a look out around them for the second Giant. They must have been near to one of the Giant camps. Lars used to know where each was because they had been labeled in maps he had studied of Whiterun hold as a child, closed up in his room and consuming written word like it was cake. But it had been so long, Giants moved, and honestly, he didn't know the tundra as well as he thought he had.

The Giant's big, burning bonfire was to their right, if they could get past that and a little more then they would most likely be safe from any more attention from the Giants or their beasts.

The second Giant suddenly appeared before them and started toward Lars with a raised club. He reeled backwards and crashed into Clint, knocking them both to the ground. Both soldiers shouted in fear and frustration, quickly clamoring against one another to stand before either Giant caught them in range of a swing.

Lars was the first to be upright again and grabbed Clint's arm, easily throwing him on his feet but his comrade faltered as the earth shook, indicating the first Giant was approaching from behind. A cloud of dirt erupted in front of them as the second Giant came upon them and had swung their club into the earth. The dirt in the air obscured the men's view. Lars ran one way while Clint the other and it wasn't until they were out of the Giant camp and well over the next set of rocks they realized they had both been screaming the entire time.

So much for not fearing the wildlife that dwelled within the tundra.

They stared at each other a few moments, heaving in breaths of air before Clinton doubled over, and to Lars's surprise—began to laugh!

"What's so funny? We nearly died!" He tried to speak with a dry mouth, swallowing to wet it with saliva.

"We were shouting like a couple of milk-drinkers."

"Only fools are bold enough to take on two giants in melee and expect to live!"

"Well then at best we are not fools, only cowards."

Lars knew Clint was joking around again, always one to be quick to recover from a near-death experience and make light of it, but Lars was slower to let down his guard, especially when he could feel his heart raging against his ribs. He shook his head in disbelief and silently thanked Kynareth for sparing them.

They paused their journey to take long, refreshing gulps from their water skins. Thankfully, having the foresight to fill them up very recently. Delightfully, the aged, stone walls of Whiterun were much closer than before in front of them and they could soon rest for far longer.

Lars was filled with anticipation and a hint of nostalgia, as he and Clint crossed the bridge to the Whiterun gate. The familiar sights of the windmills of surrounding farms, the horse stable, and the wooden-planked lookouts made him yearn even harder to get inside—to get home.

The guards greeted them cordially and allowed them entry, as they were mostly other Legion men—now that Whiterun had chosen a side in the war. Lars was pleased the Jarl chose the right side—his whole family was, but it resulted in his father sending him off to Solitude at the age of fourteen to start training with the Legionnaires. It unfortunately meant that he'd have to be separated from Mila, just shortly after proclaiming his love for her and finding out she loved him in return. His heart always seemed to ache after that but he held hope and optimism for this day—the day he would see her again.

He turned up the path to the Wind District. Mila's home was first on the left, however, no candlelight flickered from inside despite evening being upon them. He paused in front of the door to the Valentia lodge, wondering if she should knock even if no one seemed to be there.

"Is this your home?" Clint wondered.

Lars gazed up the path to the large, two-story, wooden lodge that was the home of his clan, it was lighted, unlike the one in front of him. He shook his head, no, and pointed to where his sight had settled, "That is."

"So, who lives here?"

Lars had never spoken of Mila while he was in service, he found it was the best way to keep her off his mind when he was executing missions. Even being his closest confidant during battle, Clint had no inkling of what Lars felt and who he felt most for.

"A friend," Lars replied briskly and turned away from her home, feeling flooded with sudden disappointment, "And by the looks of it, they aren't here."

She probably was taking dinner with her mother at the Bannered Mare at this hour. He didn't want to interrupt her meal so continued forward toward his family's large lodge.

They walked the short distance across the path to the Battle-Born clan home. His uncle was the one to open the door, and it took a moment for Jon Battle-Born to realize his nephew had grown so tall.

"By the eight, nephew, you have seemed to sprouted from a sapling to a full pine!"

Lars just laughed in good nature and slapped his uncle on the shoulder in greeting while stepping into his home, and introducing Clinton as a fellow Legionnaire. Not much had changed, the hearth was still burning, there was a specific coziness in the room he'd never been able to feel anywhere else. Not at Castle Dour, not at any inns nor camps he'd slept in since he'd left.

The room was unsettlingly empty though.

"Where is everyone?"

"You know how your grandfather is always rubbing elbows with the court—he secured a dinner invitation this evening. He, your mother and father are all up at the keep in the Jarl's company tonight."

"You didn't join them?" Lars asked curiously.

"I like my solitude," Jon replied, "Gives me time to practice music."

His uncle pointed to the lute set against a chair, as if to prove that's what he'd been doing before Lars and Clinton interrupted.

"Then I would hate to keep you from your practice, uncle. I feel as though a surprise is in order for my parents and Grandfather," Lars smiled and turned to address his comrade, "Clint, what do you say we make a visit to Dragonsreach?"

Clinton's eyes brightened with eagerness, and he nodded in agreement, wholeheartedly.

"How exciting for you though? It's not every day you are able to dine with a Jarl," Lars beamed at his friend as they took the stairs up to Dragonsreach two-at-a-time. Clint looked a bit anxious as they neared but Lars had been to the Jarl's palace before—his grandfather seemed to have visited daily when Lars was a young lad and sometimes would let Lars accompany him. He could imagine the sight and smells of the delicious food already. Cheese slices, seared slaughter fish, venison, and soups. His mouth was watering unintentionally. It was just understood that anything was better than rabbit haunches for weeks on end and he hoped his family could persuade the Jarl to allow him to take part in the dinner.

The guards gave a slight acknowledgment as the two soldiers passed and entered. The sight they saw as they ascended the first set of steps was a lively dinner. His grandfather, mother, and father were seated at one of the long parallel dining tables. Across from them sat the Jarl himself, along with his son and what Lars assumed to be daughter-in-law by the way she held the former's hand above the table cloth. Next, there was the Jarl's surly daughter and no partner, despite Lars knowing of the recent wedding. Next to her sat the quiet, unpleasant, youngest son who seemed to have grown as tall as Lars had in the years their adolescence had taken hold.

But then, there was a familiar face, one he did not to expect to see in such a setting. He felt his heart skip a beat as he locked his eyes onto hers.

Mila.

Only the strictest of military training kept his tongue from shouting her name with glee, leaping over the table and kissing her ardently. He could feel his mouth form a very distinct smile as he looked at her and appraised how well she looked since the last he had seen her. She was breathtakingly beautiful—with her dark hair plaited and thrown over one shoulder. His eyes roved back to his family to give them the same smile and he and Clint bowed formally to the Jarl.

"Forgive me for interrupting your meal, my Jarl. I was told my family was dining at the keep tonight and wanted to surprise them."

Balgruuf smiled and gave a slight nod of acceptance, and Lars took to slapping his father and grandfather on the shoulder in greeting, letting his mother sneak a kiss to the side of his face and they all lamented how much they had missed him. All the while he stared at Mila across from them, she was only focused on eating her dinner.

Balgruff continued to speak, "You are well-met Lars Battle-Born, but I am afraid you have missed the wedding that was the reason for your return to the city."

Lars knew it was so and raised his brows in apology, but before he could explain, another voice cut through the cozy air like a cold slice of steel.

"There was not much of a wedding to miss," The Jarl's youngest son, Nelkir, interjected. He sat slightly slouched so he was at the same head height as his father.

"How dare you!" shrilled Dagny, the spoilt daughter, who stood with ferocity and nearly threw the knife she had been eating with at her brother before storming out of the hall and through the doorway leading to the private quarters.

Balgruuf closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose in a manner of exasperation.

To avoid the awkward silence that would ensue, Lars turned to Mila, "You look well, Mila."

"Thank you, Lars, you do as well," though her eyes hardly lingered on him before returning to her meal.

There was something about her demeanor that was different. Not what he would have expected from the woman he loved, his oldest and closest friend whom he missed so much it pained him to be so close and not hold her. He knew she had to be consumed with the same fervent desire to embrace him as he felt toward her at the moment. But Mila must have been poised enough not to embarrass herself in front of such distinguished company.

"Lars," his mother's voice caused him to rip his eyes away from Mila and back to the table where his family sat.

"Dear, who is your companion?"

Lars had all but forgotten about Clint at his side. He took a step forward and introduced the lad as his brother at arms. He made sure to praise his comrade for all the times he'd saved Lars' hide. His mother stared at the Breton with a face filled with gratitude.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, however, I'm afraid we don't have enough places to invite you to join us," Balgruuf indicated at the occupied tables, "But you may sit in the kitchen wing, I will have a servant provide additional food."

Both soldiers gave a bow to show respect and appreciation. Lars stopped briefly to give his mother a hug around her shoulders from where she sat before joining Clint in the adjoining side room where the food was prepared.

"I've never been in a Jarl's palace before, this place is amazing! That carved wood, the braziers, the huge hearth, I don't think I have ever seen hearth that big before!" Clinton nearly exploded with boyish glee. Lars had to laugh in amusement at Clint's simple joy in experiencing the surroundings Lars had been used to most of his life.

They were bombarded by so many delicious smells that it exacerbated their hunger. They'd not had a hearty meal in a long time. Only small gamey creatures and on rare occasions, a stew. They were both glad to have not been seated in the main room because when two venison chops were placed before them, they ripped into the delicious meat like a pair of wolves. After downing two mugs of ale, the main course, a side of grilled leeks, and a sweet dessert of juniper berry crostatas—the lads all but leaned back and grinned in complete satiation.

"I will never have a meal as delicious as that again," Clinton sighed, as though mourning the event was at an end.

"Just think, we could have died an hour ago and have missed this entire wonder," Lars mused, causing Clint to laugh in hindsight. Still, it wasn't as amusing to Lars that they had almost nearly been launched to the moons. "I suppose I should arrange lodgings for you as my guest."

"No need to put me up, they have barracks here. Or if no room there I can always make use of my bedroll somewhere," Clint insisted, "How long do you intend to stay anyway?"

"The Legate granted us leave for a week, so I suppose a couple of days..." Lars said but trailed off his thought as he caught sight of Mila from the corner of his eye. He could see through to the main room and she was removing herself from the dining table. He saw her give a small curtsy and then she disappeared from his sight. Momentarily forgetting about Clint, he followed her—not even hearing his name being called by his father as he passed by the dining tables.

"Mila!" Lars called to catch her attention. She stopped on the wooden bridge just outside the entrance with consideration but didn't look at him. He eagerly approached her with a smile. It seemed he had waited the entire evening to get this moment alone with her.

When she didn't say anything he blurted, "I've missed you."

She finally did look up at him. By Dibella's grace, she was so beautiful. He wanted to reach out, pull her close and kiss her, but something prevented him from doing it. He could have determined it was his training, but yet he felt like his self-control was unraveling. It was the unmistakable blankness in her expression though, that caused him to take pause.

"Did you miss me as well?"

"I did," she replied curtly, removing her gaze.

"I can't help but to think..." he began to say, holding his hand under his chin in a thought, "that you're angry with me?"

"How would you feel if someone proclaimed their love and then didn't contact you for nearly five years?" she posed back to him matter-of-factly, meeting his eyes with hers which burned in scorn. His expression crashed to the guilt and shame he'd felt earlier.

"Mila, I...I apologize! I truly am sorry but there was hardly any time...couriers were scarce in the wilds of the Reach!"

"You didn't even have to write. You could have sent someone with words, something...anything...anyone...because I didn't know if you were dead or alive," her tone transformed from hostile to hopeless sorrow and made him feel even worse.

"Do you...do you still love me?" he choked out, feeling a lump form in his throat.

She seemed to take her time with the thought and the seconds passed tortuously. "I do love you—a part of me always will but I know you are here temporarily and if I let myself love you as I did before, my heart will break all over again when I watch you leave me a second time. I can't go through that again, so please—if you love me, don't say sweet words or touch me with affection because I can't bear it."

He couldn't bear the pained look that broke into her pretty features. He couldn't bear being the cause of it and just wanted to make it better. So, all he could do was honor her request. He looked at his boots to gather his crushing disappointment and nodded, "Very well, I'll be as cordial with you as I would any other woman. May I walk you home?"

"I believe I have that distinguished honor, Battle-Born," an arrogant, dry voice sounded from behind him. Lars turned around and came face to face with Nelkir. Nelkir, like he, was always on the smaller side as a child but they both had shot up like wild tundra grass whilst coming into manhood. Being Nord, they were granted a taller height than the other races of men in Tamriel, but the Legionnaire and the Thane were even taller exceptions to the average.

Nelkir brushed past him with a smug grin.

"It's true, I did grant the Thane permission to escort me home tonight. Forgive me, I had no idea you would be returning."

Lars nodded in understanding and watched, disheartened, as the woman he loved took her leave with the Hold's most notoriously unpleasant character. Since when did they share company? Nelkir was always hiding in the dark corners of Dragonsreach, and hardly ever emerged from the Cloud District. He had never responded to any other child of Whiterun with more than a sneer of contempt, including his own siblings. Mila, bless her kind soul, could find good in everything, but Nelkir was a lost cause.

Then Lars bristled, suspecting now of why Mila had even been dining with the Jarl. The reason had been lost on him at first but seeing how Nelkir offered his arm to her as they descended the steps of Dragon's reach made it glaringly obvious. She was being courted.

He would have never guessed in a thousand eras that the youngest son of the Jarl would be inclined to have any romantic notions. Even if that came to pass, to have them for Mila Valentia? She was undoubtedly beautiful inside and out, but a man like Balgruuf the Greater would try to make political matches using his children and Mila had nothing to offer the Jarl's legacy except a small vegetable stand in the market. So, how could the Jarl encourage or even approve of such a match?

Even worse, if he did not approve, that probably meant she would be left in an even bigger heartbreak once she realized Nelkir was just playing with it as a sabre cat plays with its prey before killing it. A vein of rage ripped through him as he saw their figures grow smaller and smaller as they passed out of his sight and into the Wind District below.

He had to stop and remember to breathe.

He was getting ahead of himself; this was all conjecture on his part and perhaps more than a bout of jealousy thinking she could ever be taken with Nelkir in such a way. Perhaps, she was just being a good friend—after all, who else among their peerage was she to strike up a comradery with while Lars was away? He felt bad enough for breaking her heart but even worse realizing how terribly lonely she would have been to resort to befriending the Bastard of Whiterun.

Chapter Text

Homesick was not what Eirid would call herself as she entered the inn; the creak of the floorboards—a familiar yet uninviting rhythm—made her never want to set foot in the place again. Her legs involuntarily tensed as she took one more step inside, while shaking fresh snowfall from the shoulders of her cloak. She unclasped the lute at her back to rid it of snow too, hoping it hadn't melted into the wood. It would be awful if the timbre of the instrument warped.

"Welcome traveler" her father's voice drifted in greeting from the end of the taproom, obviously not recognizing her. Not that it was an easy task, considering her head was covered in a hood and then wrapped up in a long scarf to protect her face from the bitter cold.

"Hello Pa," she tugged the scarf loose enough to speak and pulled back her hood as well. The warmth of the hearth enveloped her smile at seeing him again. She may not have missed Winterhold, but she had missed her family.

After a moment of stunned silence, his voice finally boomed out with joy, "You've finally come home!"

Home. The word caused a subtle dread to rise in her—the meaning insinuated this is where she should stay. She'd been gone for the past four years and would have stayed away longer if not for her obligations—the entire reason for her absence was to train at the Bard's College.

There was good reason the Frozen Hearth had never retained a bard. One reason being, her parents couldn't afford to pay one. The patronage to the inn was sparse as far as travelers went, and only the locals kept a steady demand on ale which was the bulk of revenue which kept the inn afloat financially. The residents were not affluent either, so a bard wouldn't be able to make much on tips. Besides, what person in their right mind would willingly perform in such a dreary place?

Eirid had never imagined herself to take up a bard's occupation but she often sang to herself while she did chores and made up stories to pass the long, lonely hours. It was by her Mother's suggestion that she apply to the Bard's College—then if accepted, she would learn how to entertain properly, and return to provide the inn with some much-needed cheer. The extra coin couldn't hurt either. Her intentions were aligned when she had departed but now...

Dagur called for Haran, and her mother soon appeared from the cellar, looking to have been brewing more ale in the vats below. She swiftly embraced her daughter, which was followed by more forceful, encompassing hug from her father that surrounded the first. It sure made Eirid warm faster than simply standing in front of the fire.

"I can't breathe," she managed to exhale and her parents loosened their grips. She was their only child and she understood they had missed her, and it gave them heart to know she had returned safely. It gave her guilt, though, knowing she'd rather had not returned at all.

She could have been content writing to them the rest of their lives with occasional, brief, visits. They had exchanged letters while she had been away, telling of any events of significance. She wrote to them when the Jarl of Solitude allowed the Burning of King Olaf festival to commence once more—it was a major development as the event had been forbidden for many years after the passing of the High King of Skyrim. Her parents, in turn, had notified her of Nelacar's departure from the inn. The former college mage had been a long-time occupant of the inn, and his studies had taken him outside of Skyrim. She would actually miss the high elf's presence—his witticisms at dinner, his candid lectures about magic—he had almost felt a member of the family. It just proved nothing lasted forever.

Her parents unwrapped themselves from around her and she, in turn, unwrapped herself from her cloak and placed it on a peg that stuck out from the wall to hang. She unwound her scarf but kept it on; it reached her feet on both sides where it kept hung around her neck.

"Your training—it is completed then?" Dagur asked.

Eirid nodded with a smile and showed them her lute—she had earned it as a part of her graduation. Headmaster Viarmo had concluded this was the instrument she was most talented with, therefore had it commissioned for her.

"Play us something!" her father eagerly requested.

The room was as silent as a graveyard at the moment but not for the wind blowing against the inn—causing the thatched roof to shudder and groan against the wooden beams.

Eirid positioned her fingers over the neck and plucked a string. It rang out over the silence—and her parents' expressions were of rapt attention. She smiled lightly before singing her favorite song. It was one of a lost love being found again—inspired by the Poetic Edda that was the entire work that guided the Bard's college in everything from stories and songs, to the way they played their instruments.

Dagur and Haran seemed nothing but proud that their daughter had become an accomplished student and had an remarkable singing voice. She would be a boon to business. Not only did Eirid sing very well, but she put the right amount of emotion in her melody to make other's feel the story.

Her favorite part of the song was the lovers finding one another again and it always made her arms prickle with bumps when she sang the conclusion in a joyous crescendo.

That was when the door to the Frozen Hearth opened unceremoniously.

Her cheer was all but blown away, as the cold winds gusted inside—carrying with it, two new guests. They stomped the snow off their boots in a rhythm that was off beat from one another. The first—a blond man in leathers and decorated with at least two weapons—spotted the bar and grinned in appreciation. Her first guess about him was that he was a blade-for-hire.

The second was a face she recognized, but wasn't glad to see—he had long, dark hair and a thin layer of whiskers that would have made it harder to guess his identity if not for the copper and ruby circlet placed upon his head. He wore a long, fur-lined, cloak over a fine tunic. Dressed in such a style, he resembled his father a great deal.

"Welcome back, my Jarl!" her father greeted with a deep nod of respect.

Assur sauntered inside as though he had never left. Eirid held in a scoff of unpleasant surprise. Jarl? it had to be some kind of mistake. Since when did anyone think it was wise to bequeath leadership to this arrogant cad?

Winterhold had been rid of him once already, and his presence now made the place all the more unpleasant. He had found her a willing playmate when they were children but reflecting on those memories, she became embittered. He had treated her like she was nothing but a servant, telling her what roles she could and couldn't play in their games, proclaiming her ideas and opinions weren't worth anything and not even trying to understand. She felt her frown deepen thinking about how he hated mages and elves just because he was too stupid to think for himself.

"Do you have mead?" his companion asked Dagur, sidling up to the counter desperately. She'd be desperate for alcohol too if she'd had to travel with Assur.

She stood with her lute in hand, her posture stiff, seeming to wait for him to notice her. He pulled off his gloves and sat in a chair not far away, looking around the taproom as if taking in sights he had missed.

How could anyone ever miss Winterhold?

Haran made sure to approach swiftly and take his order, listing off the available meals that had been prepared. At the mention of her father's horker stew, Eirid's tummy gave a ferocious rumble, reminding her that she hadn't eaten since the night before.

The noise caught Assur's attention, and his sight finally did land on her.

"Eirid? By the nine, is it really you?" he stood abruptly and approached her, looking her over with an amused curiosity. Everyone in the room seemed to still at his invocation of a ninth divine. Talos. Winterhold had been 'cleansed' years ago—making a small settlement even smaller—and no one wanted to see a Thalmor agent ever again.

Of course, the idiot was oblivious to this fact since he had left before the horrors truly started.

"Hello Assur."

He raised a brow, assumedly at the way she casually addressed him in such a public place.

It wasn't as if she were used to calling him anything else but his name. She clenched her jaw and spoke through her teeth, forcing herself to amend it to, "My Jarl."

A smug grin crept across his lips, "I'm surprised to see you here. Didn't you always say you were going to leave this place?"

"I did leave."

"But...?"

"I came back," her tone dropped, "Same as you, it appears."

She began to absently strum the strings on her lute, trying and failing to find a note to start a new song to entertain with, as her mind raced with questions about him. What had he been doing all these years, and why had he returned?

He never seemed to like her idea of leaving Winterhold, he never seemed to like any of her ideas.

"Found you again, wretched elf!" he shouted as he stomped through the snow and turned a corner of one of the decimated old homesteads to find Eirid huddled in the piled stone husk of what was once a fireplace. Her cheeks were red, kissed by the cold wind that she was trying to shield herself from by hiding away in that spot. She would have rather been inside but her mother told them they'd be underfoot running around the inn.

He lifted a stick that he had been carrying, pantomiming a sword swing, and abruptly poked her with it.

"Stop it!" she cried and climbed out of her hiding place. She was getting so tired of playing 'hunt the elf.' Not to mention annoyed at how he jabbed her.

"I have slain you! Now you have to act like you're dying," Assur demanded and when she didn't respond with her usual, reluctant, death theatrics, he poked her again.

She grabbed the end of the stick and tugged it out of his grasp. He frowned at her unwillingness to participate. She snapped the stick in half and his frown plummeted into a glower, "That was my best stick! I had to walk all the way to the mine to find it!"

"I told you to stop!"

"Jarls-to-be don't take orders from inn-girls!" he retorted snidely.

"Well, you aren't my future jarl. I'm going to go so far away from Winterhold when I grow up. You'll have to get someone else to play your stupid game!"

He looked struck at her proclamation, as if he never considered a future where she wouldn't be there.

"You want to leave Winterhold?" the boy asked with wide, concerned, eyes. He would never be able to understand because his blood and legacy was tied to the throne of the hold. He would never leave. Eirid however, she was free to come and go as soon as she was old enough. She had options.

She threw the pieces of the broken stick to the ground and took a deep breath of the icy cold air, releasing it as a puff of vapor. She met his eyes with certainty and said, "Yes, and I won't ever return."

"Eirid."

She blinked, not having realized that by focusing on that memory, her strumming on the lute had stopped all together. His grin had transformed into a wide smile. Of course, he would find a way to subtly gloat that she had come back after saying she would never do so. She had broken a lot of bold promises made by her younger self.

"I'm glad you've returned."

She didn't know how to respond but make a slight bow of her head that passed as respect, then turned her back on him, strung the lute over her shoulder and leaned into the counter. It was no use trying to entertain on an empty stomach.

"Pa! Can I take dinner?"

"Eat with us," the Jarl overheard and commanded. Eirid gave him an annoyed look from over her shoulder. She hadn't even been in Winterhold a whole day yet and he was already back to bossing her around. Assur was motioning toward a table where he and his travelling companion were being served.

When she didn't make any move to obey, her father looked between them and let out a nervous laugh and with a gentle prod said, "Go join the Jarl, my snow berry. I will bring you a bowl of your favorite."

She rolled her eyes and felt her lips tighten as she sat next to the mercenary—that's what he would have had to have been to willingly travel with Assur. She found it hard to believe Assur could retain any friends, no matter where he had lived. The bench was small and it was a tight fit for three people.

Assur nodded to himself, satisfied that she had deigned them with her presence. He turned to his companion and said, "Cruel-Sea, this is my friend, Eirid. Evidently, she is a bard now."

Eirid's face twisted into a frown at the slightly mocking tone in which he mentioned her occupation.

"Didn't think you had any friends," the man, Cruel-Sea, quipped in a mumble causing her face to unwind at the corners and lift slightly. She must not have been the only one to pass judgement on the Jarl's knack for lacking good relations. The mercenary spooned a bite of stew into his mouth and made some sounds indicating that he appreciated the taste. She'd always maintained the opinion her father made the best horker stew in Skyrim. The secret was marinating the meat in mead for a day and then drying it over the fire.

"Pleasure to make your acquaintance," he lifted a hand to offer a shake in the tight space between them. She took it and he gave her hand a single, hard, jostle, before turning his attentions back to the delicious stew, followed up with gulps of their homemade mead out of a wooden goblet.

Assur was much more mannered in matters of dining. He would hold his opposite hand under the spoon and blow on it until the steam dissipated and only then would allow it in his mouth.

She felt a bit of leftover broth on her hand from Cruel-Sea's handshake and she made an inconvenienced face, wiping it clean on the edge of her scarf.

"Likewise," she replied in a dry tone.

Her father placed a bowl of the same stew in front of her and she realized she couldn't criticize Cruel-Sea for his enthusiastic eating. She wasted no time in grabbing a spoon and following suit.

"You two eat like you are half-starved," Assur commented, seeming to look down his nose at the way they eagerly consumed dinner.

Cruel-Sea didn't offer an explanation at all but Eirid afforded herself a breath between bites "I have been travelling the last two days—departed from Dawnstar this morning before sunrise, and forgot to eat breakfast."

"You traveled here alone? All the way from Solitude?" Assur seemed impressed yet she couldn't help to feel he thought her foolish for doing so.

"I don't need an entourage or escort. I can take care of myself," she hitched a brow upward and looked over to Assur. He obviously couldn't take care of himself if he needed protection. It was true that traveling could be dangerous, there was aggressive wildlife and bandits but they were few and far between if one stayed on the marked roads. She had actually taken a small boat to Dawnstar's port and then walked the rest of the way.

Cruel-Sea chuckled at her statement. The Jarl seemed slightly offended and blew on another spoonful of stew. Eirid was liking this new fellow more and more, he seemed to share a dislike of the Jarl, toeing the line of disrespect but not enough to warrant a wrathful retaliation. She wondered what his common name was, recognizing that Assur referred to him only by his Nordic clan. It wasn't one she had never heard of before, but knew by the styling that it was so.

"If this lass can walk the roads of Skyrim with no trouble, why in the blazes did I get sent along with you?" Cruel-Sea turned to the Jarl and inquired with a hint of inconvenience.

"I wouldn't expect members of the common citizenry to understand prospects of safety or travel etiquette of those with noble blood—but I am a Jarl now—" Assur started in with explaining in a patronizing tone and even though Eirid hated to waste any of her father's stew, she thought that it was more than an appropriate moment to load a piece of horker meat into her spoon in the same manner as ammunition to a catapult.

"Yeah, Jarl of boring explanations," she interrupted, and let it fly across the table.

Cruel-Sea barked out a genuine laugh and Eirid couldn't contain her giggle at seeing the look of absolute shock plastered onto the Jarl's face. A mark of broth dripped from his cheek where the morsel had landed and bounced onto the table top.

She expected offense, and anger—which she could see there was, simmering underneath his stare—but was in turn, equally as shocked when Assur snatched up his goblet and threw the remnants of his beverage at her. It sloshed onto her face and neck, the ale soaking into her scarf and many droplets found their way up into her hair.

"Don't involve me, I already had food thrown at me this week," Cruel-Sea abruptly grabbed his bowl and stood from the bench, backing away and leaving the Jarl and the Bard frowning at each other.

Her parents had stilled their movement and only stared in a different sort of shock—at her audacity, full of a renewed worry. She had certainly passed the line she had been toeing before.

Assur wiped at his cheek and looked at the stew remnants that transferred to his hand. His frown only deepened. Maybe now he understood that she loathed him. There was no more pleasantries nor nostalgia to be had regarding their past acquaintance. He straightened up, made eye contact with his mercenary and gave a slight jerk of his head toward the exit, signaling Cruel-Sea should leave with him.

With a slightly saddened look to his unfinished meal and drink, Cruel-Sea set the dish wear on the table and begrudgingly followed the Jarl out of the inn. There were no farewells spoken, just the hard slam of the inn's door on their way out.

"Eirid, by the eight, why did you do that?" her father hissed in question.

"He was being a bore, and arrogant, and—"

"That doesn't matter! He is allowed. You cannot be so familiar and cavalier with him anymore. He is the Jarl—"

Several people had reiterated that fact, but she still didn't understand the reason to why that had come to pass, "What has happened to Kraldar?"

"Jarl Kraldar is dead."

The fact was like a punch to her gut. Word of his passing must not have had reached the Bard's college before she had set out on her return journey. She found it very sad—Kraldar had been a much kinder, tolerant Jarl of the hold. Not much had changed economically for Winterhold, but the blatant hate and fear for the mages had lessened, and he had tried to better the hold in the years he had ruled. It made her wonder what ailment was so bad that even healing magic nor strong curative potions couldn't help him overcome it.

Eirid swept back a damp piece of hair from her face in contemplation, still curious as to why the Empire would choose Assur, of all people, to sit on the throne of Winterhold. Surely that was a bad idea because the young man shared his father's political views regarding the Empire, which was not in their favor.

She finished her dinner without another word. She figured keeping her mouth shut would lead her to less trouble. Of course, her parents were right to chide her—it was out of her place to have caused Assur discomfort in the way she did. Still, she relished the look of surprise on his face, even if the little amount of broth she flung at him couldn't make up for the years he had tortured her with playing 'hunt the elf.'

She sighed and started cleaning the table, clearing it of the dishes and piling them behind the counter in a crate where they stayed until morning's wash. Her scarf dragged behind her as she worked, the edges trailing and gathering dust along the floor. It was interesting and yet annoying to her, how easily she fell into her old chores and routine now that she was back at the Frozen Hearth.

At the college, they had servants to cook and clean. Her time was filled with classes—learning about bardic histories, music theory, studying old books for new inspiration. She enjoyed her time at the college immensely. The change of scenery was appreciated as well. Though Solitude was farther North, the cold didn't seem as bitter as it was in Winterhold. It wasn't snowing all the forsaken time, the city had a lot more to entertain, including people to converse with. A deep and buried urge to travel had been unleashed in her heart, ever since she had a taste of it. She now felt like a pine thrush with clipped wings.

There was a cloth in a bucket of water behind the counter meant for cleaning spills. It didn't happen often but sometimes a patron or two could get rowdy and start making a mess. She and Assur had made such a mess. She wrung the cloth of water and fell to her knees, wiping at the puddle of mead on the floorboards. They hadn't had a proper food fight in almost twelve years, when Assur thought it would be funny to throw a cooked carrot at her resulting in a sound lecture for both of them, and an epic mess of squashed carrots decorating the inn's walls.

When she was done with that task, she cleaned the table top of any stew spills and threw the cloth back into the bucket. A deep sadness and longing filled her—remembering how she had spent her evenings in Solitude. She and other students from the college would go to the local inn after classes and it was positively bustling. The din in the Winking Skeever was a delightful tapestry of sound composed of the innkeeper's jokes, Lisette's wonderful singing, the gossip of merchants, and it was ever changing. Now, all she heard was her parents' footsteps, the swish of bristles on a broom, and the wind still rushing against the high boards.

And suddenly, the sound of the door opening.

She looked up in hope that there were familiar faces or new ones to entertain but it was just two Winterhold guards.

They approached and flanked Eirid on both sides, one taking her arm in a firm grip, "By order of the Jarl, you are to come with us."

She was dismayed at the proclamation. Had Assur really felt the need to arrest her for her slight against him? He had no humbleness nor humor so, yes, that was likely.

"Please, don't take her away!" Haran flew toward her daughter but Dagur reached out and caught his wife, preventing her from sharing Eirid's fate. Her mother's tone didn't escape her notice—fearful that Eirid would be gone all over again.

Any resistance Eirid offered was easily ignored as they pulled her out of inn. Cold engulfed her and bit at her fingers and cheeks, making the places where the ale spilled on her skin even colder. They hadn't even given her time to grab her cloak. The sun was nearly a sliver of light and Winterhold was cast in the cold shadows of the mountains already. She dragged her feet through the snow, but thankfully, it was only a short walk as they led her to the Jarl's longhouse across the path.

She hadn't been inside the place for many years but it looked the same as she remembered. Fires crackled with faint echoes within circular hearths, the smoke carrying upward and out of the slits in the ceiling. Three ancient but enormous mammoth skulls—probably trophy kills of Assur's great-great-great grandfather—hung on the walls, overlooking the empty throne.

Now, where was he?

She expected him to be sitting there and gloating about his position. He now had the power to do whatever he wanted in Winterhold, including drag her before him and chastise her for being such a troublesome peasant.

The guard released her arm, but warned her to stay put until the Jarl was ready to see her. She had to contain rolling her eyes since he'd seen her not a half hour prior. Why the dramatics?

Then, they returned to their patrol, leaving out of the front door.

She didn't see any sign of Cruel-Sea, nor a steward, which she found odd. Stewards commonly were hired liaisons to handle hold business and advise the jarl—and by the Divines could Assur have used wise council.

Such as not getting bent out of shape at getting hit with a piece of stew.

A buildup of frustrated breath caught in her cheek and she huffed it out, sending the hair above her brow flying upward. As it fell back in place, she saw movement—in the form of the Jarl leave his quarters.

About time.

She couldn't help to tap her foot impatiently.

He gave her a wary look before stepping up and settling into the seat of his fore-fathers. He wasn't smiling in a gloating way as she imagined when she first entered. She noticed he had changed his shirt, probably to because she had sullied the other with droplets of the horker stew.

He leveled a scowl at her and said, "I demand an apology."

"And what if I refuse?" She shot back a challenge, thinking how he was equally as offensive for throwing ale on her.

"Why are you like this, Eirid?" he stood and approached her. She had the inclination to take a step back but caught herself and stood her ground, "When did you become so uncouth?"

"I'm not a docile little girl that you can boss around anymore, even if you are Jarl," she answered in a scathing tone as she looked up at him.

He sighed as if she was being difficult.

She knew she was a contrarian and she delighted in it; despite the repercussions it could have on her. It was delicious to torment him as he had always done to her.

"To answer your question," he lowered his voice to somewhat of a threatening inflection, "I could banish you from the hold."

She held her breath, wondering if she could push him to actually do it. If she could, she would have an excuse to not come back; her parents could hate Assur and not be disappointed in her for wanting to leave.

She pressed her fingers into her belt, and they both heard a crinkle of parchment.

"What's that?" Assur's brows raised in intrigue, deftly plucking the parchment from it's hold. She had tried to back away before he could put his hands on it but she had moved too slowly, not expecting him to get so close. It had been folded thrice over and torn a bit at the edges from her travels. He unfolded it and read the text aloud:

"Bard position open in Whiterun. For more information speak to Ysolda at the Bannered Mare. Free lodging, decent pay for a Bards' College-trained performer."

Eirid pursed her lips and grabbed at it. It was a piece of mail a courier had dropped off to the college on her last day there. She should not have taken it, and let another student have a hand at the opportunity. It wasn't like she could go—her mother and father's disappointment would only cause a crushing guilt in her. She had an obligation to Winterhold as much as she hated that fact.

Assur was taller and easily held it out of her reach, curiously looking at her reaction.

"You want to go, don't you?"

"Give it back, Assur!" she demanded, knowing she had no right to demand anything of a Jarl, especially now, but she was angry, and sad, and annoyed all at once.

He laughed out with the same, albeit delayed realization, "You wouldn't mind one bit if I banished you, would you?"

She clenched her jaw stubbornly and turned her back on him. The silent treatment had always been his weakness. In a place as small as Winterhold, people to converse with were few and far between, he had always needed her to keep himself from going mad.

She crossed her arms for good measure.

"Eirid, stop it," he nearly whined.

She had to suppress a smile, amused, he still resorted to such complaining. She had always thought Jarls, no matter their flaws, were at least mature adults who didn't whine when they didn't get their way—which proved Assur was in no condition to take the throne back.

"Anyway, you didn't answer my question," he reminded her. She heard him crumple up the missive from Whiterun, "Do you really want to try your hand as Whiterun's Bard?"

She couldn't' help but to let her shoulders slump. She knew it was a lofty goal—to be a bard there. It was the hub of Skyrim trade, the inn itself welcomed every walk of traveler, it would be an opportunity of a lifetime to audition.

"Yes," she whirled around and answered. "I want to go and I'd be delighted to be rid of you for good," she hissed with all the venom she could muster.

She almost felt bad for him the way his eyes widened. Silence settled upon them. Utter silence. Eirid had been scowling at him but he held her gaze and she broke it first by looking at her feet.

"Have you always hated me?" he finally asked, his voice held a small hint of devastation underneath the hard tone. It didn't help that he had the nerve to stare at her as he questioned her.

She clenched her jaw and didn't elaborate on how she despised him.

He swallowed and he handed the parchment back to her, not crumpled but re-folded thrice like he had found it, "You may not have always been my friend, but I was always yours."

She took the parchment, mulling over his words before a spark of rage hit her in the chest, threatening to unwind what little composure she could manage.

"You left!" she burst, "How could you even say that!? You went to a big city with lots of people and left me in the most desolate place in all of Skyrim! You always made me play the elf in your tiresome game and bossed me around. I was nothing but a convenient playmate for you to toss aside as soon as you outgrew me!"

He seemed taken aback at her outburst but then paused to think, "When you put it that way, it does sound rather awful."

She nodded vigorously to drive her point. He took a seat back in the throne, looking at her with concern. How dare he do that when he never done so before.

"However, you must know I had no choice but to leave—how can you blame me for that? I was just a little boy and I was forced to leave my home. Did you not think I wanted to stay?"

She frowned. Of course, she knew...but...this feeling of abandonment that had suddenly surfaced after hiding below all the layers and depths of her loathing was something she had never acknowledged to herself before, and it felt like it was something that had been festering all these years. She opened her mouth but no words came.

He closed his eyes, seeming very, very tired all of a sudden. He'd probably traveled the same amount as her in the last few days to get to their childhood home. "You're henceforth banished from Winterhold, Eirid."

She didn't think those words would send chills through her heart. He was doing it again.

Abandoning her.

She studied him to see if he was joking, but his face was solemn. He looked so much like Korir sitting there, leaning back with an elbow supporting his weight on the arm of the throne. Cruel and haughty.

"Forever?" she dared ask.

His back straightened before he leaned forward like he was sharing a secret, just as when they were eight years old and he'd told her he'd taken one of his mother's jewels to bury in the snow so they could pretend they were sea bandits, searching for treasure.

His solemn expression broke with a half-grin, "For as long as you want to be, my dearest friend."

Chapter Text

Lucia would have traded anything to have a warm bed and loving family when she was younger. She would watch as other children scampered about playing, as if they didn't have a care in the world. Because they were from entirely different worlds.

Fighting to survive had become her way of life. Trust, was not something others easily earned.

In her tenth spring, she found herself stranded in Whiterun, begging for coin. It was Breniun's idea; he was the local beggar, an old Redguard drunkard, and the only one to show her kindness when she arrived. No one else seemed to give a passing glance at her.

Begging worked—a few folks took pity on her and the longer she stayed, the more of them lent a helping hand. Danica Pure-Spring would invite her into the temple to sleep on the coldest nights, Carlotta Valentia would let her help herself to unsold produce after the market was over, and Olava the Feeble would chat with her on sunny days when she didn't feel too tired. Lucia was by no means ungrateful but didn't understand why, if they could afford her those little generosities, what was keeping any of them from caring for her as their daughter?

She supposed they had all had their adult reasons, but it made her feel as if no one could ever love her.

Things changed though, when she reached adolescence—begging for charity no longer worked. People expected an able-bodied youth to be able to work for her gold. Breniun would rather beg all day and drink all night than lift a finger to work and she didn't want her life to end up like his. She did try offering her services on one of the nearby farms, tilling soil for vegetables, and it worked for a while but was laborious. Hours were long, pay was miniscule and there were more places in her body that ached than she could count on her fingers and toes.

She once asked Arcadia if she could apprentice and be of help in the alchemy shop. That gig lasted only a week, ending when Lucia began to daydream and ruined a whole batch of healing potions by adding the wrong flower to the concoction.

Maybe her horrid aunt and uncle had been right to throw her off the farm in the first place. She wasn't 'good for anything.'

Now, in her eighteenth year, Lucia found herself crossing the taproom of the Bannered Mare, taking orders, tripping over outstretched legs from the benches, being laughed at and ogled. It wasn't ideal—there was no loving family but a warm bed did come with it.

As did rumors and gossip in overheard whispers—which was much more lucrative than farm work.

She scurried over to a table freshly occupied by the blacksmith and her husband, "How was your day, madam Avenicci?"

Adrianne leaned forward, "Some newcomers came to the shop today."

"Oh?" Lucia raised her brows in interest and noticed Adrianne slightly tip her head to indicate two gentlemen across the room at a different table that Lucia had yet to tend. She didn't recognize them but they looked to be speaking in low tones to one another. The very picture of conspiracy.

There was a variety of new faces in Whiterun, actually. The city had more travelers coming and going—merchants and visitors, especially since roads to the north and south had been cleared of war skirmishes and were deemed safe in recent years.

"They were keen on finding a particular blade. Don't know what for, but maybe you could welcome them, they seemed a bit...lost," Adrianne winked and her husband, Ulfberth, told her to stop gossiping and playing matchmaker with the young-folk, then asked what was being served that evening.

"There's tomato soup and roasted chicken available tonight."

"Is the soup Hulda's recipe or something Ysolda cooked up?"

"The latter," Lucia confirmed and knew then that they were going to be eating grilled chicken.

"Then we'll have the latter," Adrianne put a few gold coins on the table top. Lucia nodded, quickly gathered the cost and delivered it to Ysolda, who stood behind the bar.

Hulda was no longer publican of the Bannered Mare, having retired a few years ago. Ysolda, an aspiring merchant in the city, had made good on her promise to buy the establishment and seemed to be doing a good job in all but one aspect. Ysolda was nowhere near as good at cooking which caused long time patrons to grumble in dissatisfaction at the drop in meal variety and quality. However, Ysolda had been the one to hire Lucia to help at the inn, so she was forever grateful for that opportunity.

"Why does no one want my tomato soup? It has fresh tomatoes," Ysolda nearly pouted once Lucia informed her. She bit her tongue to keep from speaking the truth; for one thing, tomatoes in Skyrim could never be fresh – they were unable to be cultivated in the cold soil of Skyrim, so it wasn't like Ysolda had them in a garden out back. The closest to fresh was underripe ones imported in crates from Cyrodiil and sold at Carlotta's stand. The second truth she held back was that Ysolda didn't know how to season her food. It was as bland as the color grey. Bleaker than Bleakfalls Barrow. How Ysolda spent time and associated with Khajiit caravans and never learned the secret to making food taste good was beyond Lucia's understanding.

She crossed into the small side room where the pot of soup simmered and two plucked chickens hung roasting over the open fire. She cut into one, carving out two meaty portions and placed them onto wooden plates, then delivered them to Adrianne and Ulfberth.

Her eyes wandered back to the two strangers that Adrianne had mentioned; she bit her lip with curious interest and moved in closer, patting out wrinkles in her skirt and putting on the same sweet smile she did with all patrons, "Hello there lads, may I fetch you anything from the front? We have hot meals and cold mead!"

They looked harrowed, wearing nothing but thin tunics under worn padding and breeches tucked into boots that had seen better days. There were a few cuts on their faces too. One even had his leg wrapped with bandage.

"No thank—" the one without, started to decline, but Lucia interrupted, full of concern.

"Sir, your leg looks like it's been through a lot! Have you been able to see a healer at the temple yet?"

He flashed an appreciative smile paired with a nod, "I did, thank you for your concern."

"Have any of you been to Whiterun before?"

"I did a few times when I was younger lad," the same one answered, adjusting his sitting position, still smiling at her pleasantly. His companion looked annoyed or bothered that Lucia was still standing there, asking questions, when he had more or less declined her offer. Ysolda always told her to keep at it until she made a sale though. Plus, she was curious about these men, and any information, even rumors, could be worth its weight in gold.

Secrets were invaluable.

She already knew a few that would intrigue the common populace.

Of how the Jarl's Thane of a son could be seen slipping through the shadows in the evening with the vegetable merchant's daughter on his arm.

Or of how at least two hooded figures visited Arcadia's several times over the past fortnight, early in the morning, and were found to disappear into Dragonsreach after leaving.

The question was, when and where could those secrets be unleashed to benefit Lucia the most?

She focused back to the task at hand.

"Glad to have you back in town, what brings you our way?" she flashed a look at the other man, the unfriendly one—he had hair the color of honey and a few fresh nicks on his chin as if he had been careless with his dagger while shaving. He seemed to glare at her with heavy eyes, bags had already formed underneath them—an obvious sign of his exhaustion and general grumpiness.

"That's none of your bus—" he seemed to snap but was cut off by his companion.

"Bandit Highwaymen. We were on our way to Riften and they attacked without warning. They hurt my sister, and stabbed me in the leg," the other man explained and not without a touch of dramatic candor. She carefully studied the honey-haired man's reaction. His jaw tensed and eyes flashed something fierce toward the injured man.

She put on a sympathetic face, "Are you brothers?"

The injured one nodded in affirmation as the grumpy one bluntly blurted, "No."

She smiled with puzzlement, waiting to hear the reason as to why they had contradicted each other.

"You'll have to excuse him, he's being very literal—he will be my brother," The injured man explained but not after throwing an inconvenienced frown at his companion, "He is engaged to my sister, that's why we were going to Riften. Now, the wedding is delayed because of our wounds and they stole our funds, which is why sadly, we cannot currently afford to buy much from you."

She briefly considered telling them about a Priest of Mara she'd heard resided in the Pale, which was much closer if they needed to get the marriage done as quickly as possible. However, she decided against it when she suddenly, clearly, heard the boot of the future brother-in-law kick the other's from underneath the table, and saw the friendlier man grit his teeth. She pretended she hadn't noticed, and held back an amused laugh, "Well if you need coin, we always need firewood chopped. I'll leave you for now, but please give me a shout if you change your mind. My name is Lucia."

"We will. Thank you, Lucia."

She turned from them and couldn't hear the words exchanged, only the disgruntled tones in which they were spoken. She had to wonder where Adrianne's piece of information about them looking for a dagger fit in with this story.

The explanation seemed simple enough, but if there was one thing Lucia was good at, it was detecting lies. She had to if she was going to weed out false rumors and keep the best for herself. There was nothing honest about the tale; there was no bandit attack, and the grumpy man was not engaged to the injured one's sister, if she even existed.

There was an easy way to check the latter claim.

Acolyte Jenssen was seated at a small table facing the hearth and eating his supper. Ever since the casualties of the war ceased, he had come out of the temple more and more, seeming to enjoy what Whiterun had to offer.

Sadly, he had no music to listen to, the inn was void of lute, flute, and drum melodies and had been, ever since Mikael was thrown into the dungeons nearly a week ago. Lucia had dreams of being a bard when she was a child, and had offered to sing in his absence but Ysolda said Lucia was of better use working on orders. What Ysolda didn't say, but had implied, was that she would more comfortable having someone who had trained at the college singing for the patrons of the inn. No one had arrived to answer her missive though, so meals were only steeped in a low rumble of voices.

Which, made it easier to pick up on gossip in Lucia's case.

Lucia sidled up to the table and asked the Acolyte of Kynareth how his meal was, and if she could get him anything else.

"No, thank you, my dear. The chicken was enough," he answered then looked at her like he was about to share a secret and lowered his voice a pitch, "Though I do wish more salt would have been applied to it."

Lucia rolled her eyes. Ysolda's lack of seasoning had struck again and not even the chicken was immune from it. Chicken! The easiest type of meat to prepare!

"Next time, let me know as soon as you taste it and I can bring you a salt pile for no extra charge," Lucia offered then licked her lips, coming to the true reason she had stopped at his table, "Acolyte, did a woman come into the temple for healing very recently? One attacked by bandits?"

He raised a brow, "Why yes! Poor thing had bruised ribs and a head injury. I had to work on her for a few hours earlier today and she's now resting. How did you know?"

"Her travelling companions mentioned it," Lucia frowned, certain it had been a lie. It only confirmed there was a woman who had been with them, not that she was attacked by bandits, nor related to either of them.

But she had been injured, there was no denying that.

"The lads were so worried for her when she was brought in. Apparently, there was more to it than just a robbery," Jenssen explained, and his taunt for details baited Lucia to lean closer intently and nod for him to continue, "The brutes took the lass prisoner, left the lads to die. The lads pulled themselves together enough to intercept the bandits and escape with her, beaten, but still in one piece."

He shook his head with sympathy, "Those poor people, I pray to Kynareth they will recover from their ordeal."

Lucia took in that information but was quick to find issues in the scenario they had fed to the Acolyte. If they had been bested by bandits once, it was unlikely they would have had a successful re-match, especially with no weapons. She glanced across the room at the two men again; they didn't any carry weapons she could see.

The story was obviously fabricated, but to what end?

The doors to the inn opened and more arrivals stepped in for supper. Travelers, by the looks of them; a man and a woman.

The woman had a lute strapped to her back and a spike of envy ran up Lucia's spine. If she was the gambling sort, she'd bet the inn's bardic vacancy would soon be filled. The man by her side wore leathers and was adorned with two swords sheathed at either side of his hips. He took one look at the bar and smiled as if he had found a lover.

Lucia bid farewell to the Acolyte and kept an eye on the newcomers, who moved toward the counter, where Ysolda was tending drinks. Lucia strained to hear but the chattering of the all the patrons was too varied and she couldn't make anything out. She busied herself by clearing empty plates and bottles of mead.

Luckily, Ulfberth called her over so he could order some ale and she gladly took his coin and delivered it to the bar. As she approached, she could hear the woman say to Ysolda, "I'm afraid I don't have my own drum but I can play lute and sing everything from classic poetry to trendy tavern songs."

I could sing trendy tavern songs, Lucia thought to herself with disdain.

"All right I'll give you a trial. Play tonight and you'll get a free meal plus any coin the patrons tip you," Ysolda seemed reluctant, eyeing the woman over. She was young; couldn't have been much older than Lucia, so probably hadn't had the chance to become an established bard, therefore lacked experience. The young woman nodded and removed her lute, taking a step toward the hearth, seeming a bit nervous, and thinking of what to play first.

Ysolda's eyes landed on Lucia, seeming to silently ask why she was lollygagging around the bar and eavesdropping. Lucia pushed the coins across the bar top and asked for a tankard of ale on behalf of Ulfberth.

"I'll have the same," the man in leathers stated, also putting coin down, and taking a seat on the stool. He gave Ysolda a charming smile and then asked if she had any leads for work. Ysolda was in the middle of uncorking two bottles and filling tankards with them.

"Take a look at this, a Legion guard brought it by this morning," Ysolda set one of the bottles down, reached into her apron pocket, and handed the man a folded missive. The guards brought those types of notices often, hoping that traveling mercenaries would do some of the work and clean out problematic bandit camps and save them the trouble.

Ysolda handed Lucia Ulfberth's drink order and set the other in front of the man. His face, which seemed so full of cheer a moment before had fallen into displeasure the more he read it. Lucia didn't have time to stick around and wonder about it. She quickly delivered the ale back to Ulfberth and he thanked her in his gruff voice.

After that, it seemed everyone was content in the room for the time-being and no longer needed Lucia's services, so she grabbed a broomstick and began sweeping around the taproom. Her legs ached; she had been running about on them nearly all day but she didn't want Ysolda to catch her slacking off. She needed this job. The new bard had been singing for a few minutes now and Lucia had to admit, the woman had a lovely singing voice. Mikael's had been smooth and stout, and was easy on the ears. There was some kind of perpetual sadness hidden underneath all the layers of notes of the new bard's voice, though, which made Lucia remember her sad childhood.

"Don't ever come back, you good for nothing brat!" her uncle's tongue lashed just about as painful as a birch switch as she stumbled out of the farm house with sodden cheeks begging to stay. She didn't understand why they hated her so. Her aunt only looked at her as if she were vermin and wouldn't speak, to even say goodbye. It had only been a day since her mother was buried and she had been told she was no longer welcome in her own home. How much tragedy could one child be burdened with before they broke?

"Lucia!" she heard her name and whipped her sights in the direction it came from, not realizing she had tears leaking from her eyes. The man with the injured leg was waving at her to come over. She gave a smile of reprieve and wiped at her eyes, hoping they had decided to buy something.

"Make up your minds then?" she asked, leaning against the handle of her broomstick. His companion didn't look any more or less cheerful than he had been before.

"Aye, we'll have each a bottle of Nord Mead."

"Ten gold," she replied and held out her hand, waiting for him to pay her. He didn't make a move to so she turned her eye on the grumpy one. He didn't seem to have any gold on him either, "You do have the coin, don't you?"

"We will, as soon as my friend here, starts chopping firewood," the injured one grinned then snapped, "Up to it!"

For being incapacitated, the man was in good spirits, unlike his so called future brother-in-law who seemed livid and stood but not without a curse under his breath as he asked her where he could chop some wood up. She answered that it was down the way and an axe was available, which didn't lighten his mood at all. Well! At least he didn't have to bother to find his own axe, which would be hard as it was past dusk already.

"Is he all right?" she asked as they watched him leave through the front door with slumped shoulders.

"He'll be fine. We've had...a few rough days but there are better days ahead," he said. The surface of his words held optimism but a sour note hit in his voice at the mention of it, whatever it had truly been. Not a bandit attack, maybe much worse.

"I'll fetch you the mead, since payment is imminent."

She felt pity for him, but knew coaxing flies with honey was much better than vinegar, and a loose tongue spilled more words than tongues drinking milk and water—including secrets.

Lucia accosted Ysolda once more and asked for two bottles of Nord Mead.

"Did they open a tab or something? Where is the coin?" Ysolda asked, grabbing beneath the counter's stash for the bottles.

"One is chopping you some firewood and that is their payment," Lucia explained as Ysolda handed the drinks to her. Ysolda nodded that it was acceptable to trade drink for more firewood—the hearth was constantly burning and needed to in order to thwart the ever-encroaching chill. Lucia approached the friendly man once more, handing it to him. He took a swig and smiled after tasting it, a respite from a horrible series of events.

Maybe, his travelling companion would find the same cheer in a simple bottle of Nord Mead. She clenched the remaining bottle in her hand and crossed the room, exiting out the side door. The patrons were at a point they should stay satisfied for a few minutes without her, and Ysolda could tend to them if need be.

The air outside was significantly cooler, but welcome on her skin.

Lucia could hear the thuds of a dull axeblade cracking wood open over the sounds of flowing water from Whiterun's canals and chirping night crickets. Those two distinct noises had always calmed her, led her to sleep when she was younger and made a resting spot around the back of the Bannered Mare.

She saw the man as she turned the path, he swung hard and fast— the wood cracked into two pieces and tumbled to the ground where others had fallen.

"Here, I'll trade you," Lucia offered as she approached. The man spun around-seeming startled at her presence. She gave an amused chuckle and held out the bottle. He rested the axe handle over his shoulder and wiped at his brow before taking it.

"Thank you."

She started gathering up the wood he'd already split, "The smith mentioned you were looking for a particular blade, can I be of any help?"

"No need, we have procured it."

"I recall your friend say your coin was taken by those bandits, how did you manage to procure anything without a method of payment?"

She delightfully held in a smile, knowing he knew she had caught him in his lie and wondered how he would explain his way out of it.

He let the axe fall so the blade cut deep into the stump and looked at her. He uncorked his bottle and took a long drink while maintaining eye contact, eyes narrowing in thought. He swallowed.

"Do you make it a habit to interrogate your new customers?"

"The ones that look interesting enough."

"I'm not interesting," he said flatly—seeming to fall back into his prickly, uninterested, demeanor. He was harder to crack than a clam. She hoped there was a pearl inside this one. He began to gather up the rest of the wood and she made a move to help him. Her hand landed over his as they reached for the same piece.

He was the first to pull his away, and she was left to carry the piece as she had intended. She wanted to gain his trust. Why was it so hard?

"I don't believe I caught your name—it's only fair to introduce yourself as you have mine."

He cleared his throat and began walking back toward the Inn, "I never asked for it."

She frowned at his obstinance. What was the harm in knowing something as simple as his name?

As they approached the entrance to the Bannered Mare, it opened unceremoniously. The customer in leathers who had taken the missive from Ysolda shouldered the door, still looking displeased despite having already finished one bottle of mead. He tossed the crumpled parchment into the nearby foliage that grew against the structure and not without another mumbled curse. He seemed to spot the Drunken Hunstman across the way and his spirits lifted, but only somewhat. He stumbled down the stairs, pushing through and clearing more space between Lucia and her staunchly private patron. She watched him as his pace weaved through the cobbled pathway.

How intriguing.

She turned back and made a grab for the piece of litter while her unfriendly contemporary continued carrying his payment inside to put on the hearth, not interested one bit. At least, if it turned out to be nothing of consequence, she would be able to dispose of it properly and not have trash blowing around the fair city.

She held it fast and continued inside, to read it under proper light as she set the wood in the fire next to his. She carefully uncrumpled the parchment.

It was a Bounty note.

That wasn't at all unusual. Bounty notes were a common type of missive sent to Ysolda to hand out for those looking for work. There was something unusual about this one though. It wasn't from the Jarl.

General Tullius was seeking a specific Stormcloak soldier– not a general, and no one of a ranked command nor seeming importance. Just a run-of-the-mill foot soldier to be thrown into the first wave of battle and forgotten about.

What an odd name too.

Hroar the Honor-Broken.

"What kind of name is Hroar?" she wondered aloud before crumpling and tossing it into the fire where it burned as kindling.

The man, whatever his name was, heard her question and seemed to perk up slightly.

"Sounds like the noise a lion makes, don't you think?"

Chapter Text

While there were many perks of being heir to a Jarl, the requirement to be present during tedious political meetings was not one of them. Frothar supposed he should have had more of an interest if he were to lead one day, and managed to feign attentiveness at the words that were being exchanged. He stood beside his father and uncle while being briefed by Legate Cipius, the Imperial commander stationed in Whiterun.

"Our spies have reported something stirring in the East—all the lingering Stormcloak leaders have been recalled to the Palace of Kings," Cipius explained as he pointed toward the few small, blue flags strewn across the map, tracing the paths from them back to where Windhelm was marked. "Our blockade has been successful as no aggressive rebels have broken into Whiterun for six months. Tullius expects them to call a surrender soon."

"That's what he said seven years ago after Ulfric was beheaded. He was wrong then and is now, you Imperial lot have always underestimated Nord stubbornness," Hrongar argued, blunt and contentious as always.

Legate Cipius flashed a look of annoyance at being contradicted. The point was valid though. No one expected this conflict to drag on for over two decades. It seemed as though Skyrim would never have peace again.

"They can still receive supplies through their port, though," Barlgruuf mentioned, tapping the area above Windhelm—the Sea of Ghosts.

"Who would supply to them? We hold every dock across the northern coast all the way to High Rock. Those in Morrowind are unlikely to provide aid—they are cleaning up from an invasion, and House Redoran knows how unfriendly Windhelm has been to their people."

Frothar was barely paying attention now, he felt his eyelids droop slightly before catching himself and opening them again—only because Whiterun's steward entered the room with a bow of apology for interrupting.

"'Please excuse the intrusion, my Jarl. A courier has brought you a message from General Tullius."

The Legate looked stricken, and the Jarl furrowed his brow. Frothar kept awake enough at the new development with growing curiosity—why would one of the Empire's Leading Generals be sending correspondence straight to his father and overlook the commanding officer?

Proventus handed the folded parchment to the Jarl and Balgruuf took it. His father also lifted a dagger that was laying on the map table to cut the seal. He unfolded it, seeming to glance over the writing and finally made a thoughtful grunt—not speaking to whether he took the penned words as positive or negative.

"Jarl Kraldar is dead."

There was a moment of silence before Hrongar blurted what everyone was thinking, "He left no heirs. Who is to take up the throne of Winterhold?"

Balgruuf tossed the letter onto the table at Cipius, "The Empire intends to seat Korir's son."

"Korir was removed for supporting the rebels, his son is surely to be sympathetic toward the Stormcloaks—he's been living in Windhelm most of his life! Is this your plan to make peace?" Hrongar asked, utterly puzzled as Cipius lowered his eyes from Balgruuf's steady gaze. If anything, the controlled silence of the Jarl was not an indication of neutrality, but anger. Frothar observed his father's nostrils flare ever so slightly. The letter was laying out in the open, in the middle of the table—so Frothar had no reservation plucking it up and reading it himself. His father had all but invited him to.

Greetings Jarl Balgruuf the Greater,

There's been an unfortunate turn of events in Winterold. Jarl Kralder has passed away after long suffering from Rock Joint. The Legion holds this area strategically, but it's in the best interest of the Empire that the throne doesn't stay empty. A Jarl is needed to maintain the order.

I sent a proposal to Galmar Stone-Fist to allow Assur, son of Korir, the former Jarl of Winterhold, to take up the role. He has accepted the position. I know what you must think—the boy is not an ideal choice, brainwashed have anti-Empire sentiments. Someone who could let Stormcloaks into your lands to execute clandestine raids.

This is why I also have a proposal for you.

I know your daughter was to be married to strengthen ties with the Hjaalmarch, however I and my superiors, would like to see Winterhold secured—and that can indeed happen if you betroth Lady Dagnessa to Jarl Assur.

I think it's a step toward ending the war without having to slaughter the city.

Please consider this proposal—Whiterun would remain safe and the new Jarl would easily be kept under close watch if their union was allowed. He wouldn't dare allow harm to his wife's home while she is at his side.

Sincerely,

General Tullius
Provincial Governor of Skyrim

"Dagny is going to love this," Frothar quipped sarcastically, leveling the same frown of his father at the Legate.

His sister was spoilt but even she didn't deserve to be sentenced to a lifetime of misery in the cold waste of Winterhold. She had already suffered enormous embarrassment when the Thane of Hjaalmarch didn't show up for her first wedding. Having her married to a Stormcloak sympathizer was just adding insult to injury.

"You aren't going to do it, are you?" Frothar asked in alarm when his father didn't outright refuse.

"Jarl Balgruuf, please consider the good of Skyrim," Cipius pleaded, "Joric Ravencrone is nowhere to be found, this is an opportunity left open by fate."

Frothar's anger lashed out at the presumptions of the Imperial, "Dagny isn't a game piece you can just push around!" his palms hit the table and he leaned forward with tension building in his shoulders, "She's a person with dreams and feelings like the rest of us!"

"Son, calm yourself," Balgruuf commanded and made a gesture indicating that Frothar was dismissed from the meeting. He should have been thankful he didn't have to endure more boorish politics but he wasn't finished with making his point.

"If you go through with this, she'll hate us forever. You might as well be signing her up to join the Stormcloaks because she will surely turn against the Empire for this slight."

"Frothar, leave us. Now," his father commanded firmly. Frothar did turn and take is leave, marching up the steps to the private quarters, but not without slamming the doors behind him. He leaned against a wall and took a few deep breaths. Perhaps he was so riled on behalf of Dagny because his father had done the same to him only a year prior. With no say, and no room to argue, he was told he must wed a complete stranger.

Not that he disliked Livia. She had a cheery disposition for being in the same set of circumstances. She was lovely, in both looks and demeanor, she came from a respected noble house, and there was actually very little to dislike about her. He had grown quite fond of her over the months they had been married. He just wished he had a choice in the matter.

Other people were free to determine who they loved—it wasn't fair that because they were children of nobility, they were denied it.

He would never forget the day of their wedding feast, when they were dancing close and Livia pulled at his neck so he could lean over to hear her whisper something.

"Be honest, could you ever love me?"

He didn't know how to reply. Luckily his heart hadn't been taken by anyone else prior but he knew he didn't love her. She knew it too. They both knew she didn't love him either.

"I could, someday," he finally admitted, "Could you love me?"

"We'll see," she smiled in that pleasant way of hers, and maneuvered herself into a twirl.

Just because he didn't love her, didn't mean he didn't care for her. She was always shivering, even when sitting in front of the hearth, even with multiple, thick, woolen shawls covering her from shoulder to waist. She was from the Gold Coast of Cyrodiil, used to balmy summers and warm sea breezes—not the ceaseless and bitter cold of Skyrim.

Not long after they were wed, he presented her with a gift, wrapped in leather.

"What is this?" she inquired taking her hands from in front of her mouth, where she seemed to continuously blow her hot breath into them.

"Open it and find out," he held in a grin of anticipation. He'd been on a hunt a few days before and had slain a snowy sabre cat. The creatures had thick hides, and thicker fur. They could traverse the icy mountains of the Pale in winds well below freezing temperatures. If they could stay warm, surely the fur from one could keep his wife warmer than ever before.

She delicately untied the string the leather was bound in, and her eyes widened with joy at the pelt before her. She unfolded it and held the soft side to her cheek, relishing the warmth of it. She hadn't thanked him, but he knew he had her thanks in the way she looked at him a moment later—with a new sense of adoration for considering her struggle and his effort to help alleviate it. Her 'we'll see' from months before was finally an unspoken but resolute 'yes.'

He doubted his sister would slip as easily into arranged wedded bliss. She had accepted Joric but not without ultimatums from their father, which he would use again if he decided Assur should have her.

The question was, would Dagny rather give up the privileges of life she had been used to in order to have a choice in her groom? She would have tolerated Joric for those comforts, but he doubted she would do the same for Assur and Winterhold.

Speaking of the brat, Frodnar caught sight of her leaving her room, still a rarity as of late. Had she run out of wine?

"Dagny!" he called out, causing her to turn around quickly in alarm.

She held something clutched in her fist but he couldn't make out what it was.

"Brother, you need something of me?"

He knew it would sour relations with his father, not to mention the Legate if he spoke to her about the pending decision of her fate. Dagny was intelligent though; he could merely mention indirectly what he was meaning to and she could draw her own conclusions.

"Take a walk with me, I want to share an interesting development."

She seemed impatient the way she glanced down at her hand and back up to him with a furrowed brow but gave a slight nod before saying, "I thought you hated those meetings."

They ambled down the corridor and he shrugged, "They are rather dull but hear me out."

Dagny sighed with disinterest.

"The Jarl of Winterhold has died and the Empire wants to place Assur on the throne."

"Who?"

He quickly searched his mind for a reference. He remembered the lad from a one-time meeting in their childhood, though had forgotten the reason. Dagny was a year younger than he so maybe she had forgotten entirely.

"Assur was the lad who liked to play a game about hunting elves. I recall you refused to play, he poked you with a stick and it made you cry."

Dagny stared at the floor in front of her as she walked, trying to recollect and then seemed to remember, "Oh that little shite...wasn't his father deposed for siding with the rebellion? Why would they want him to lead anything?"

Frothar shrugged again, "He has the bloodline for it, and the position has a vacancy."

But that wouldn't be the only vacancy.

She stopped walking, clutched her fist even harder, and closed her eyes—taking a sharp breath through her nose. She understood. "He'll be a young Jarl in need of a wife," she said in a disgruntled exhale and then mumbled something softer, probably a curse.

"I didn't tell you anything but the political development," Frothar reminded her.

"Father marrying me off to a hoarking traitor is a political development and if you don't do something to dissuade them, I will," she frowned, a threat laced within her voice which had turned cold. He couldn't imagine how. She could throw an epic public tantrum but that would hardly stop the Empire for using her to further their agenda in the civil war.

"It might not be so bad," Forthar found himself smiling.

Dagny gave him an incomprehensible look until she realized what he was smiling about, then barked out with scorn, "Lucky for you, they forced upon you someone who was pretty and kind, and came to live in your home. Don't pretend I will have those luxuries."

"You may end up liking him."

"The son of a disgraced Jarl that lives in the frozen arsehole of Skyrim? I'd rather take vows of chastity and spend the rest of my days tending the ill at the temple, and you know I'm not the charitable sort."

"What would you have me do, Dagny? I'm not the Jarl."

She stopped her pace and glowered, "Just you wait."

There was something terrifying in her tone that made the hairs on his neck stand on end. She continued walking briskly, to her intended destination—wherever that was. He watched his sister take her leave of the private quarters with the slam of the door.

He didn't see her again until supper and she looked no different than the past few nights where she sat slouched in her chair, her expression filled with sullen disdain.

This wouldn't do, they actually had dinner guests that evening.

The Jarl had seemed to give up on chiding Dagny for her ill manners and welcomed members of the Battle-Born clan cordially, nonetheless. The clan boasted an ancient legacy, was respected, wealthy, and did a great service for the hold by way of farming. It was especially invaluable in the years the civil war had ravaged the province.

Nelkir had his own curious, guest as well. Frothar didn't believe anyone to be able to tolerate his younger brother's unpleasant personality yet there sat a girl at the end of the dining table, the same one that had visited Dragonsreach a week ago. He only remembered her because Nelkir escorted her out—something so very out of character for his introverted brother.

Livia joined the table, at her place setting next to Frothar as she had been since she joined the court of Whiterun. She gave him a warm smile and he returned it but for some reason felt slightly more endearment for her than usual, perhaps because of his thoughts earlier in the day. His hand found hers where it rested in her lap underneath the table, and he gave it a squeeze.

"What was that for?" she raised a curious brow. He hardly ever showed his affection in public settings.

"I haven't seen you all day," he replied.

"I was resting."

She had done that the day before too. His brows knotted together slightly, "Are you ill?"

"No, no, nothing like that. I'm in good health." Something in her features flickered with emotion and she clutched his hand tighter, "You are sweet to be concerned for me."

"You are my wife," he stated, as if that was an obvious answer for his concern. Then he did something he'd never done before and brought her hand, still held, above the table and set it there for anyone to witness. He saw his father take notice, but didn't make any change of his neutral expression. Nelkir didn't seem to care. Dagny's brow furrowed even deeper.

The remainder of the dinner was a pleasant affair, even when Lars, the absent son of the Battle-Borns turned up later in the meal apologizing for the interruption. In some respect, Frothar was envious of the Battle-Born clan—they all seemed to adore one another like a proper, loving family.

He couldn't imagine he, his siblings, and their father embrace each other in that sort of familiar fondness. They tolerated each other at best, speaking of which—the only activity that marred the otherwise enjoyable meal was Dagny's unceremonious exit after Nelkir had taken a jab at her status as a rejected bride.

Nelkir had never been an admirable sort. He was strange, cynical, and downright mean in his words. Frothar wasn't above exchanging hurtful words with his sister, especially when they were children but he thought he'd at least outgrown it by now. Nelkir had not—he seemed to gain a perverse enjoyment in causing others misery.

After the meal, Frothar and his uncle retired to the great porch to drink wine. The men of the Battle-Born clan were also invited but declined politely, eager to catch up in the privacy of their own home. The rest of the court had been dismissed for the evening.

The night was calm. Frothar leaned on the stone edging, gazing out toward the Pale and set his goblet on its surface.

"Do you think father will agree to General Tullius's proposal?" Frothar asked without looking behind him.

He heard his uncle sigh, "He very well may. Dagnessa is a very demanding force on attentions and resources. I am impressed we even have this bottle of wine left for our enjoyment."

The remark made Frothar chuckle, but he also felt sad for his sister to have to resort to drinking so much to cope with the undesirable things in her life. Nords didn't shy away from a good, hearty, beverage but drinking oneself into a stupor was embarrassing. Her life also wasn't as bad as she thought it was, if she'd just gain some perspective.

Hrongar continued, "Besides, General Tullius had a point about keeping the young jarl of Winterhold under close watch. I've never known my brother to pass up taking advantage of a situation—he's always been keen that way, which is why he makes such a fine Jarl. Hopefully someday, you will carry on his legacy."

Yes, hopefully.

When he entered his room, it was dark. The candles had been snuffed for the night. But he didn't need firelight to ready himself for bed—there was light from the moons that leaked through the windows that was enough to keep him from bumping into furniture. He undressed himself, throwing his clothes over a chair for the servants to gather in the morning, and replaced them with a long linen sleeping shirt. He saw his wife's figure, huddled underneath the quilts and furs like usual—he smiled, thinking of how he could warm her once he joined her, hoping she was well despite her assurances she was.

"You know, I had a thought of you today," he said as turned down the blankets and crawled next to her. "Remember what you asked me on our wedding day, when we danced?"

He slid his arm around her midsection and curled it, pressing her closer. She felt like a ragdoll, small and limp. She was cold. Colder than he could ever recall.

"Livia?" he whispered, and gave a light shake to her shoulder and felt no resistance. His fingers touched something wet, sticky and congealed. His worry heightened to abject panic and he felt for the sabre cat fur around her, pulled at it, and dragged her into his arms. He managed to get them out of the bed and out of the room, stumbling into the hall of the private quarters to his knees with her still in his grasp.

He could only stare in disbelief and horror at what the dull light from the overhanging torches revealed.

Posted guards came rushing as they heard Frothar's involuntary wail at seeing the slash across his wife's throat. A sheet of Blood sullied the front of her night dress, and spotted her pelt. The worst was her haunted eyes, open and unblinking. There were a few more moments of disbelief before Frothar broke down into sobs, curling his fists into the clothing where he had hold of her. He pulled her close to him and cradled her, not minding the blood that was soaking into and staining his own night shirt, and smoothed her mussed hair away from her face. His cries rang through the Keep—the guttural, pained, sounds of a man in mourning—waking all who heard.

Guards tried to speak to him, and attempted to remove her from his arms in vain as he clutched desperately to her body.

"Stop," they heard the Jarl's command.

The Jarl was wearing a dressing robe over his nightshirt, and his head was absent of the circlet that signified his authority but all obeyed nonetheless. His gaze over the scene was controlled as usual. His father had always been a beacon of calmness in any scenario.

He looked up at his father, tears in his eyes—glaring, "How could this happen? Who would do this? Who would want to hurt her?"

He scanned the room, to all who stood and gawked—seeing the maids, the guards, Irileth, Proventus, Hrongar, Farengar, and Nelkir. Even Nelkir seemed struck at the scene before them; Nelkir who never could be bothered to be decent toward his family looked to have felt a sting of sadness at the loss of Livia. Yet his father's expression told nothing. Frothar peered down and swallowed, lightly brushing his unsteady fingertips over her eyelids so she could have the dignity of resting. Though resting in peace was out of the question.

"She's gone, son," Balgruuf said evenly, but gently and outstretched his hand for Frothar to take.

"How can you just stand there and say it without feeling? Do you even have a heart?" Frothar shouted in belligerence. He set his wife down gently to the floor and did not take his father's hand, but stood against him.

Balrguuf ignored his son's questions, and instead he directed his attention to the others, "Farengar, please fetch the priest of Arkay to preform last rites and clean the body. Irileth, have the guards do a sweep of my son's room for any clues as to what happened tonight. Proventus, wake Captain Caius and instruct him to start an interrogation of those in the keep to see if they heard or saw anything before the incident. Also have him wake those in the barracks and ask them to secure the perimeter. Frothar, follow me."

The firm hand at his back led Frothar away from Livia. As he was guided forward, he looked over his shoulder and saw a few of those who had gathered around the private quarters, bend down touch her in unison—it was a gesture of mourning and respect. Livia had been well-liked by most, which was why he couldn't fathom anyone wanting to hurt her.

"Proventus," the Jarl added. The steward turned with wide eyes, seeming overwhelmed but showed appropriate decorum, "Bring the alchemist to the great hall within the hour, I have urgent questions for her."

Everything had happened so fast that Frothar didn't realize where they were until Balgruuf closed the doors of the Jarl's quarters. He hardly ever went into these rooms as his father liked his privacy. He didn't have much time to dwell on that privilege however, as his thoughts turned back to Livia.

She's gone.

And he didn't even get to tell her...that he did actually love her.

Emotion caught in his chest, only to be sucked back by the dark void his heart had seemed to collapse into at realizing the finality of it all. He would never again hear her laugh nor see her smile. She would never again spend her nights curled into his side and relish in his warmth, listening with amusement at his retelling of the days' events, and he in turn would hear her stories from a warmer place so very far away.

She didn't deserve this.

He choked on a fresh sob at the thought and felt his father encase him in his arms—holding as strong and hard as Skyforge steel.

He didn't understand why his father was embracing him. His father hardly ever had hugged him, even as a child and Balgruuf had been so unmoving a moment ago—dismissive of Frothar's emotions, and of the fact his daughter-in-law was slain in her own bed. No matter, Frothar let his sadness and anger out through his tears, causing his whole form to tremble violently.

If he stilled long enough, he could feel his father shaking too.

"Father?" Frothar wiped at his eyes to see that the Balgruuf's face had broken as well. Tears reflected in both their visions and the Jarl cleared his throat.

"I would have suffered cuts by a thousand swords to protect you from this feeling. Losing a beloved before their time is enough to turn a man into a hollow husk. I wish I could tell you it gets easier but...a piece of you will seem like it's missing forever."

He supposed that's why his father seemed so unattached and cold with them, forever reminding him of her. His mother had died when he was but a child; he could barely remember Balgruuf before then but did know his father had smiled often long ago.

The Jarl let his son go, backing away and shaking his head with regret.

"What's the matter?"

"If I told you, it would only break your heart further."

Frothar clenched his teeth angrily at his father for treating him as if he were nothing but a fragile vase to be kept safe on a pedestal. Especially concerning information about his wife.

"I must know."

He stared hard at his father, refusing to back down. After a moment, the Jarl sighed, and wiped a lingering tear from his cheek. He picked up a silver goblet that was standing on his table and poured what looked like alcohol into it from a matching pitcher. He handed it to Frothar but his son pushed it away, adamant on hearing the information the Jarl held regarding Livia.

"A few days ago, it came to my attention that dear Livia had been visiting Arcadia—wanting to obtain aloe vera leaves. Apparently, on the Gold Coast they are used in potions for health, to reduce fatigue...and to ease morning sickness."

The Jarl took a drink.

"You mean...?"

The Jarl nodded somberly and swallowed, "I believe she was with child."

A chill swept through him, prickling his skin with a combination of numbness and despair—there were not enough tears left in him to spill befitting this added tragedy. It felt like he had lost everything in a blink of an eye—robbed of being a husband and a father. He felt pathetic for not realizing sooner, not being able to protect them. Only a dull lump formed in his throat, rendering his voice dry, "Why didn't she tell us?"

The Jarl shook his head at a loss, trying again to offer his son the goblet. Frothar did take it that time and threw his head back to welcome the beverage, not caring if it rendered him fuzzy. He'd rather forget. Sadness was still consuming every fiber of his being, but a shard of anger cracked through it and his knuckles clenched the goblet stem harder, "Whoever did this to her will suffer a fate worse than death. I swear upon her soul they will beg for mercy before their end."

A few raps on the door sounded, but Frothar barely heard them. He was staring forward and continued sipping the remaining wine that his father offered him. Balgruuf moved past him to see who needed their attention. Frothar took pause when he heard Nelkir's voice.

"We can't find Dagny."

Both father and sons' alarms were raised, as Dagny was not one to be far from her room nor her alcohol. For a moment Frothar feared the worst, that his sister had suffered the fate of Livia and was another victim, lying somewhere in the Keep and bleeding out.

Nelkir didn't seem to think the same as his voice remained calm, a trait he and Balgruuf shared in the face of adversity.

His father's housecarl appeared behind Nelkir with her ever-present frown of disapproval, "My Jarl, there was nothing to be found in the heir's bed chamber. However," she held out a book, wrapped and bound in old, browned, leather, toward the Jarl, and her expression transformed to concern, "a guard did find this in your daughter's room."

Balgruuf took the book in his hand and read the title page aloud, "A Kiss, Sweet Mother."

Frothar's eyes widened, realizing at what the book was. He remembered it from his youth when he was bored and was looking to annoy Farengar, loitering about the bookshelves in the court wizard's wing of the palace. The book had been there. He asked about it and Farengar's usual smug look transferred to that of alarm—and told him to stop being a pest. The next time he looked for it, it was gone. He later learned what its true purpose was.

Dagny may have been the only one who didn't get along with Livia, to be fair Dagny didn't get along with most people. Livia had tried many times to get Dagny to warm up to her but Dangy hated change, and Livia being there meant just another woman to compete with for any attention—it was no secret most of the court preferred Livia's company to Dagny's.

But even for all her abrasive tendencies, Dagny would have never turned toward...them...to solve her problems. Would she? Frothar thought he knew his sister better than anyone else but now he was having doubts. His wife was assassinated, the book of how to summon the Dark Brotherhood was, apparently, in his sister's possession, and these clues led to a grim conclusion.

Was he being punished for leading her to the truth and then being dismissive of her sad fate at the hands of the Imperials?

He didn't want to believe it was even possible, but he knew Dagny was more than capable of great malevolence.

Chapter Text

Joric had no intention to return to Whiterun, where his life would end in the bonds of unholy matrimony. He had anticipated that once the Companion had seen the Sybil of Dibella with her own eyes and heard that his theory was confirmed as truth, she would surely want to help him save the world!

She didn't.

"I don't care if Talos himself descended to Nirn and told me you were the High King of Skyrim. I'd still take you back."

Joric was distressed with her comment, to say the least. Especially because he could already see the city in the distance. It had been a day filled with unpleasant trudging and bitter silence on his part and now Whiterun was too close for comfort.

He desperately blurted, "Can you not for one second pause and consider the implications if we ignore these words of the divine? Time is broken, and we are walking a chaotic path that could lead to our doom! What good is the gold they pay you if you die before spending it?"

She seemed too ruffled and proud to admit there was no point in it, so shot back, "Your words don't move me."

"Is that because you can't understand them?" Joric snapped out with frustration as he stumbled next to her. She pulled him steady; her hold on his arm was worse than any leather bonds they had been bound in. If his body were a map, he probably had an archipelago of bruises across his bicep.

She had halted abruptly and glared at him, her grip tensing, "Are you callin' me stupid?"

"The beautiful ones usually are," he sighed, genuinely disheartened. His captor was a fine woman, she was built like the shield-maidens sung about in the Poetic Edda, with the perfect marriage of muscles and curves. The scar across her eye was an elegant vertical line that narrowed at both ends like a double-edged sword and told a story of bravery and endurance. She looked like the kind of hero he could use on his quest, but alas, she had a temperament no more pleasant than a chaurus. He should know, he'd grown up around the creatures.

She had roughed him up many instances in their short time together so he wasn't surprised when he felt a sharp smack to the back of his head and heard her growl, "Stop saying I'm beautiful. "

He was surprised, however, at what she was angered about. It seemed the oddest of subjects to provoke her. Most women, he'd figured, would have found the description a flattering one. He blinked a few times, and rubbed the area with his free hand as she pulled him forward. "So, you want me to lie to you?"

"I already don't believe most things that come out of that hole in your face, so say what you will, Thane."

"You may call me Joric," he offered, what he thought an olive branch, hoping he could learn her name as well. She had told him that he'd said it during a vision but he couldn't remember. It was like trying to recall a dream, with a cloud of fog on the consciousness and only bits of clarity at its edges. Which is why he spent his days drinking copious amounts of alcohol so he'd always be in the fog instead of being tortured by not knowing.

"Or I can call you cowardly scum, because that's what men are who run away from their own wedding."

She had a tongue as sharp as a dagger as well. Every part of her was ready to fight. In all the moments he had interacted with her since their first meeting, she hadn't relaxed once—always tense and on edge. He wondered why.

Honestly, escaping his wedding was bravest thing he'd ever done. To stand his ground and refuse to accept the incorrect fate he was given, to risk everything by seeking out the truth behind his visions. Lady Dagnessa was probably drinking just as much as he had been and she wasn't even touched with divine sight. He knew she was more than happy to be rid of him, but he also knew her wrath would be great for the embarrassment he'd caused her if she found out he was alive—which was another reason he did not want be anywhere near Whiterun.

He ignored the Companion's insult and asked, "What may I call you?"

She seemed to hesitate and eyed him suspiciously, and for a moment he thought she would snap out an unpleasant retort. Instead, she said in one, curt syllable, "Braith."

"Braith of Little Faith," he mumbled the titled rhyme that had popped into his mind immediately, but it wasn't soft enough. He was rewarded with another swift, assaulting fist to his shoulder. He didn't find his words to be inaccurate so gave her an inconvenienced glare in response.

"Just because I don't believe your crazy words, doesn't mean I don't believe in anything ."

He had enough self-reflection to understand her doubts. He knew what he was saying sounded rather bizarre. The concept he was trying to explain was complex, and he'd always had trouble articulating his visions. Ever since he was a child, these uninvited scenes in his mind plagued him—so much so that those of the Highmoon Hall's court, small as it was, had thought he was sick in the head when he tried to tell them about it.

His family knew the truth, yet they sent him to Whiterun for healing many times to appease the speculations. He had been a melancholic boy—glum, and exhausted from nightmares—but no amount of healing could put a stop to the visions, so he ended up being drowned in potions that only worked half the time to put a damper on his mind. It left him feeling sluggish, and more than incoherent.

"What do you believe in then?" he broke pace and inquired.

She did as well, her grip not lessening on his arm which was a testament to how much she wanted to deliver him back to that wretched city. She seemed to think about it for a moment. Joric didn't think she looked particularly devout to the divines or Daedric Princes, for that matter. He supposed she would say 'honor' since she was a member of the Companions. So, it came as another surprise when she replied, "Gold."

"Yet you refuse my offer to pay you ten gold a day before we reach Whiterun."

"What it comes down to is this—I would rather not waste my time minding you for ten gold a day when I can be rid of you in exchange for the significant amount of gold the Jarl has offered for your return."

"How much would that be, exactly?"

"A thousand."

He blanched, not expecting the amount to be so high. Was keeping his betrothal really that important to Balgruuf the Greater? Yes, he grimaced while thinking, The Jarl wants to get rid of her that badly. It was set to be that when he and Dagny were married, Joric's sister would bequeath them a plot of land in the Hjaalmarch on which a manor was to be built and lived in. Dagny was to leave her father's court and join society in Morthal, which to her, he knew, was no society at all. It was a simple, small, quiet settlement and seemed void of all joy.

If his mother were still alive, she would have protected him from the ill-fated betrothal. She would have seen what he had—time itself as spiraling fragments as if they were pieces of a glass mirror that had been shattered and suspended in a state of flying through the air. Where would they land?

The difference between mother and son was that everyone took her seriously. Why was it so hard for people to believe him? Even Idgrod the Younger was dubious of his claims; his sister still treated him as if he were a fragile boy that couldn't make his own decisions. She did it out of love but failed to realized it caused him nothing but misery and ire.

Braith began to pull him forward again but he planted his boots in the uneven cobbles and resisted, causing pain to shoot up his arm because it was suddenly being stretched like a rope in a game of tug-o-war.

"Stop," he demanded and she gave him a look of utter impatience but complied, "What if I paid you more than what the Jarl is offering?"

"Do you have more than a thousand gold on you this very moment?" she frowned with doubt.

He ran his tongue across the front of his upper teeth and looked off to the side, not answering right away because he knew she wouldn't like what he was about to propose, but he had to try . He had to try anything and everything to stop her from forcing him back to Whiterun.

"No, not at this moment..."

"Then stop wasting your breath," she scolded and continued onward, jerking him along.

"B-b-but ...an Elder Scroll sells for far more than a Jarl would pay for me. Help me find it and it's yours to do with what you please after it's served its purpose. There was a reason I had that vision—of you, of the Elder Scroll. We were meant to find it together...ah!" he was interrupted by something, probably a muscle in his upper arm that was being parted from its bone.

Her silence on his proposition was telling of how ridiculous she thought his plan was. There was no guarantee they could find something so rare. She kept moving forward, not even giving his idea a fair consideration.

"I know you don't know me, and have no reason to trust me but I promise, and swear to you I won't betray you," he stumbled forward and caught his balance, resisting her pull yet again until she turned an angry glare on him. He widened his eyes and lowered his voice to a tone that told he was on his last string of hope— she held the reigns to his fate now— "Braith...please."

For the first time that day, his arm felt reprieve as her fingers loosened and she let go of him all together. She was still tense, probably figuring he would bolt as soon as she released him—and to be fair to her notion, he did run the last time she trusted him enough to let him on his own. Though he hadn't meant to cause her outrage by his action, he had only meant to get to the Sybil of Dibella since that was his whole reason for travelling to the Reach. He cradled his sore arm but otherwise didn't move another muscle, hoping upon hopes she would agree to his idea.

She seemed to look him over, discerning if he was truthful and he tried to look his most earnest, maybe even pathetic, which wasn't hard to do when he had the build of a whelp. He quivered his lower lip in a most dramatic fashion which caused her to frown to deepen—the opposite effect he'd hoped for.

She shook her head, "It's too complicated. Where would we even start if we were to seek an Elder Scroll? Do you know of any that happen to be lying around Skyrim and where they are? Maybe you should have asked Dibella's Sybil before we left her, since she was the one that told you to find one."

"I have an idea of where I could start..." he maintained the sliver of hope that she would reconsider, so quickly explained, "There's someone I know who—I'm pretty sure—attends the College of Winterhold. It is said that there is a vast library of information, dating back thousands of years. I think we could maybe get her to help us discover infor—"

Before he knew what was happening, Braith gave a warning shout and pushed him with enough force he fell to the side. A body encased in dark leather drifted past in near silence with brandished daggers, swiping at the space that Joric had just recently occupied. The Companion lifted her leg and met her boot with the attacker's gut, sending them flying backward.

"Get up!" she snarled to Joric and he wasted no time in obeying. He scrambled to his feet and ran the opposite direction, his mind in disarray, trying to process what was unfolding—a bandit attack? But there was only one...

He managed to swivel his head and see her drag out her enormous warhammer from where it hung between her shoulder blades. The attacker was struggling to stand, seeming winded at the hard kick to the ribs. In reality, time was quick, but to Joric it was painfully slow—enough of a pause for him to see Braith and the other ready themselves for a second bout to the death—daggers versus warhammer.

Joric lamented lack of places to hide in the tundra. Luckily for them, off the main path was a series of rocks. He shrank down behind one, thinking back to a few moments ago when Braith had referred to him as 'cowardly scum. '

She was right. He was a coward, but he was smart enough to know that going up toe-to-toe with a bandit without any weapons was a fool's death. He had an instinct for self-preservation at least, and if that meant him cowardly, so be it.

He heard the clashing of steel upon steel, the thump of leather being hit, the growls and snarls of the Companion as she fought his assailant. He dared not raise his head to witness the brutal exchange, that is, until he heard Braith cry out in pain.

He shot up, his movement drawing the attention of the bandit—which gave Braith the time she needed to swing her warhammer around—and behead them with the sharp end of it.

Words dried up in his throat at that sickening slice, as he watched the head rolled off its neck and fell to the ground—lost in the grass and likely leaving a trail of blood behind it. The body slumped over and followed suit. He wanted to curse, to make some exclamation but he really couldn't put into words just how gruesome or shocking the whole sight was. He was left with his jaw hanging open and making a high-pitched noise not entirely a scream but much more than whimper.

Braith gave a long, shaky exhale and winced, before turning her attention back to him and his incoherent noises, "What are you doing?"

"You killed them," Joric said, finally finding some words.

Rather obvious words.

"Yes," she replied simply and let her warhammer drop next to her on its head, then knelt down to the body, starting to rifle through its pockets and pouches, "Better them before they us."

"What are you doing?" he mirrored her question, bemused. Every inch of him was filled with dread and he wanted to run far away but knew doing so would draw her anger once again.

"First rule of winning combat is you get rights to the dead's belongings."

"Is that so?"

"The dead never raise complaint about it," Braith took a moment to look over her shoulder at him with a smirk for her quip.

It sent a chill up his spine.

She was dangerous.

Yes, he knew she was strong when she had wrestled him to the floor of the Silver-Blood Inn—she was a capable fighter, quick in a chase and apt in a brawl—he knew all this about her in the short time he had made her acquaintance...but until now, he had never truly feared her.

He noticed, for not having done any of the fighting, his heart was thrashing against his chest in terror and hadn't quite settled down yet.

Joric avoided her eyes and stood still as the light tundra winds brushed past them, gesturing in her general direction, "As I was saying...before all this happened—I think we can find information about the whereabouts of an Elder Scroll at the College of Winterhold."

"The stiff has nothing of value," Braith noted, not acknowledging his statement—still pawing around the corpse's armor, looking for anything of worth. She sounded exceedingly annoyed.

"It's no wonder they wanted to rob us," was all he could offer in reply. Truth be told, Joric didn't have experience in the ways of the world outside of civilized society. He could only imagine from books he'd read and tales from travelers that danger was around every corner in Skyrim. He'd been lucky enough to make it to Markarth without incident but now he was witnessing it firsthand.

Then, he reconsidered, "What about the daggers? Surely those must be worth something?"

She let out a scoff, "Only simple steel daggers. Will barely sell for a few pieces of Septims. Not worth carrying them until finding a buyer."

"Then let me carry them? I have no way to protect myself—they'd be of use to me."

"You are pretty useless," she admitted, and rather rudely. She unclasped the belt that the dagger sheaths were attached to, slid the weapons inside and threw it towards him. He bent forward and picked them up. They were heavier than he'd imagined. For a brief moment, he wondered why she would allow him this privilege if she didn't trust him but then he remembered...she had just killed someone. It was likely she'd end Joric before he could get a sharp edge anywhere near her if he tried. Which he wouldn't. He wouldn't have dared.

Braith made a noise hinting that she had found something and Joric glanced at her. She picked herself up, but her expression had returned to a frown as he saw she held a folded piece of parchment, probably plucked from out beneath the chest of the armor.

She opened and read over the note, and then quickly glanced at him with an expression, he daresay one of concern. That was new. She then grabbed up her weapon and swung it into its harness with one arm.

"What?"

"We need to move. Fast."

"What? Why?" Joric's brows knotted together at the urgency in her tone because she seemed to have been taking her sweet, lollygagging, time whilst looking for loot the last few minutes

She brushed off his concern as she approached and passed him, "Animals. They're going to be attracted by the blood. Best let nature take its course and not be here when that happens."

His stomach gave a turn at the thought and he nodded in agreement, following her pace. He hadn't noticed until she was close enough but her face had a few spatters of blood on it from the beheading. Her warhammer would need cleaned as well. Then he saw the reason that she had cried out in pain earlier.

Her arm.

There was a cut on exposed skin, just below her studded armor's spaulder. It bled freely, leaving its crimson trail on her skin until it dripped from the elbow. The bandit must have nicked her in the fight.

"Wait," he demanded and slowed his feet—he had to if he didn't want to end up bleeding from his arm too. He pulled out one of his new daggers and cut into the fabric of the sleeve of his shirt, slicing it cleanly at his shoulder. Interesting how the same dagger had been a fate's string away from killing him. In different fragment of time, it very may well have. It was also one that had wounded her and now was used as a means of aid. Time was...ironic.

Pulling the cloth off, he folded it for better padding and said, "Hold out your arm."

She didn't, and instead gave him a suspicious look.

"Hold out your arm," he repeated, sterner, and gestured to her cut.

She did, albeit slowly, and protested, "It's just a small cut."

"A small cut can lead to a big infection," Joric replied, slinging the fabric under her arm, wrapping it as many times as the length would allow, before knotting it. "There was a girl I once knew, Helgi, and she cut her knee after falling to the ground during a game of tag. She let it stay open and by the end of the week it was swollen and red. She had to stay in bed with a fever for a fortnight."

"What happened to Helgi?"

"She's dead now," he replied and noticed the way Braith's brows raised in alarm, so he clarified, "Though not from her wound."

"What then?"

"Burned to death."

He didn't elaborate because he didn't like remembering it. He'd had a vision of it happening, not even a week before it happened and everyone had thought he was having nightmares. It had broken his little heart to learn that his friend had perished and even more so that he could have prevented it if anyone would have taken his words seriously. It seemed that he lost friends instead of gaining them as he grew. And it wasn't for lack of trying. He couldn't hold out hope Braith wanted to be his friend either. It had been a downright painful twenty-four hours since she had entered his life.

She didn't thank him for his help, nor comment anymore on the death of Helgi—only sighed, "So, you said we need to travel to Winterhold for your Elder Scroll?"

He nodded, "Well, I don't know if it's there, but information might be. How long do you think it will take?"

He heard her make an incoherent grumble at the fact they were chasing phantoms of knowledge, before answering "It's far. About a day's journey from Whiterun. I had to go there once to put a drunkard in his place for refusing to pay his tab. It was the most miserable place I've ever been to."

"You haven't been to Morthal then I take it?"

She shook her head.

"Imagine what it would be like to always have damp socks and the constant sound of dartwings buzzing in your ears."

She grinned slightly, "That does sound miserable."

They had turned north, and Joric noticed they had left the road completely. The ground was rocky, uneven, and tall grass brushed against their legs every step. They saw a herd of elk grazing only to jump away quickly when the wind shifted and carried their scents forward.

"Was there a reason you are taking us into the wilderness?"

"Yes."

After a few more steps and no further explanation on her part, Joric made a noise of frustration and asked, "Which is...?"

"A reason we've already encountered. The road is a prime place to be attacked. Don't wanna tempt a second encounter."

It made sense. But he had to wonder if she knew where she was going without a path nor sign posts to guide them. He saw mountains ahead of them. They were in for a steep climb, and his boots weren't the best. He'd traded his good travel ones for something plainer that convinced discerning eyes he was of no importance. He'd done it with most of his wardrobe after leaving his entourage earlier in the week. He could live without wearing fine threads. He hadn't the heart to sell the rings though; they belonged to his mother. He had rather long, thin fingers and so they actually fit him.

He studied the sapphire and rubbed his thumb over it. He missed her so much. Idgrod was the voice of reason and calm—she did things her own way and didn't let the unkind words of people dissuade her from her decisions. She hadn't been a particularly doting mother; she didn't smother him with affection but he knew she cared for him deeply the way she spoke to him. She didn't treat him as if he were mad.

"Keep up!" Braithe called from ahead and he hadn't realized he had slowed enough that a distance was put between them. He hustled forward but an uncomfortable shift in his vision occurred. It caused a double sight—two Braithes were frowning at him from atop the two hills they were climbing.

He reached out toward her as dark spots filled his view, gradually blocking out the scenery—as if someone had blown out candles one by one in a room at night. The last thing he could consciously hear himself say was, "I should..."

Joric's visions were abstract, nothing like his mother ever had. She always had been so concise in her words after having coming out of one. His visions pulled him into another dimension, it seemed. Was he only in his head, was it a pocket realm of Oblivion, or was it something entirely different? No matter, it was dizzying, disorienting, seeming to exist two places at once. Time was another thing that wasn't resolute; he could spend days in a vision, or only a few seconds—to him, here, in this place. A crossroads the divines had created to show him the way.

But a lot of good seeing did when it was so pitch black around him!

A faint blue-white light appeared, accompanied by a subtle chime. Then another and another—as if they made a path through the darkness. He had no choice but to follow. The light source was from a Nirnroot, he realized as he neared the first.

When he was a boy, a Nirnroot grew right outside of Highmoon Hall. Lami chastised him for picking it after he brought it to her as a gift. She was Morthal's alchemist, so he'd thought she would have appreciated it. She didn't. She said it wasn't done growing and its alchemic properties weren't as potent. He never tried picking one again.

The dim light of the Nirnroots revealed a shoreline, riddled with ice sheets across the endless expanse of water. A young woman apparated, she bent down, and plucked the glowing plant from the soil—doing what he hadn't dared in nearly a decade.

Then a hundred eyes appeared, opening, all along the pitch-black sky. The sky was nothing but eyes. Unblinking. Also, they were not human ones; they were yellowish-green tinted where the whites should have been, with the same dark void as pupils—focused on the woman with the Nirnroot.

There was a large book at his feet, one he hadn't seen before. It was open and the pages were blowing in the wind—something he hadn't felt before. The wind stopped. The pages landed on a picture of a Dragon.

Then he felt pain.

"Come on, come out of it already!" he heard Braith's voice, drenched with desperation.

She must have slapped him again. His eyes rolled forward, the blackness melted, and he was face to face with the companion. She looked worried and annoyed—if that were even possible. He was no longer on the tundra.

He took in a sharp breath.

Served him right for not having had a drink since yesterday morning. A vision was bound to come along and haunt him. He wiped his hand over his face and made a groan as if he was coming out of a hangover and found to his relief, that his mother's rings were still on his fingers.

"What happened?" he asked as his sight took in the surroundings, determining they were in a hole in the ground; he could see the sky darkening above them. It was a large, circular, divot made of stone by ancient Nords, with a stone brazier at the middle and spiral stairs that led up and out of it. Then his gaze caught the vertical sarcophagi next to a set of doors and a cold dread crept over him—they were at the entry to a cairn.

"You collapsed, your eyes turned white, and then you started rhyming again."

He winced, hating that he never remembered his words, "Would it be too much to ask what I said?"

Braith frowned and squinted as if trying to recall, "Nirnroot, ice caves, lost lore and Septims. You also mentioned golden hair, a gardener's lair and a quest unbound."

He thought about it for a moment—the brief memory of images from his vision, flashing in his head that vaguely fit the terms but...it was about as clear as the water in a swamp. He remembered a woman but not her features. He finally noted, "That hardly rhymed."

"It was the gist of it."

He pushed against the stone to stand, having most likely been deposited on his rear like a sack of cabbages if Braith had anything to do with it. His arm still stung from being tugged around all day. He'd have to ponder more on the vision later.

"It's getting dark, we should move on."

Braith shook her head, "We won't make it to the next inn before nightfall. Better to make camp here."

Joric's eyes widened in disbelief, "We are in a cairn! I don't know about you but I wouldn't want draugr to murder me in my sleep! If I can even sleep at all in such a wretched place!"

She shushed him fiercely, her eyes flashing in anger, "You won't have to worry about it if you lower your voice and don't disturb the dead. Besides, the most dangerous thing you have to worry about is me. I can handle draugr well enough."

Was there anything she wouldn't fight?

It was almost as if the dead could hear her taunt, for the covers of the sarcophagi blasted apart a moment after she proclaimed her fierceness and out stepped the corpses of ancient warriors—with exposed bones, tattered rags, and dull metal helmets and armor they had been laid to rest in. Joric's face paled and he backed against the wall, trying to form a thought through the sheer terror clutching his mind. It was harder to put into practice than stories of heroes made it seem. The draugr sounded like they were trying to speak but it was impossible to form words without a tongue—only coming out as disdainful moans. They lurched and hobbled forward, turning their attentions towards Joric. They probably could sense his fear. Their hollowed sockets stared at him, passing judgement that he would never be a brave warrior worthy of rest in Sovngarde.

Braith grabbed her warhammer off her back, and swung it into the closest draugr to Joric. It's bones shattered and flew against the stones, causing it to completely collapse. The opportunity of a free, unobstructed space, propelled him to move again and he stumbled away, around the edge of the wall until he reached the door and pulled it open. He shouted over his shoulder, "Follow me!"

Braith managed to keep the draugr away as she backed through the entrance—once she was inside, Joric pushed the doors closed so the draugr were stuck outside.

And there were more sarcophagi inside.

Braith readied her weapon and swore under her breath.

Joric repeated it.

Chapter Text

Assur’s cheeks pinched as he pouted, not appreciating his new steward. Imperial appointed, of course. What else could he expect? Even he was imperial-appointed and he hated that fact; the thought of it made the pride he’d always felt, freefall into nausea.  
 
When he was a boy, he would use his vivid imagination to concoct ideas of how to better Winterhold, to bring in trade, which would bring people, and rebuild it from the worn and pitiful state it had been in since the Great Collapse. Granted, some ideas were rather silly but the drive to make change was still there.  
 
The Empire had offered him the role of Jarl, a title he already had a right to by birth but they would make sure he didn’t have free reign or say over his own hold.  
 
Make no mistake, it was his hold—tied to his blood as far back as King Erarne during the middle of the third empire. 
 
The steward was going over a backlog of important and official correspondence when the doors to the longhouse opened unceremoniously and in stepped someone who he thought he’d never have to see again. 
 
“Cruel-Sea, why do you darken my doorway once more?” 
 
The mercenary was covered in snow and shook it from his head and shoulders as he stepped inside. He gave a grin and a deadpan line of, “Can’t you tell? I’ve missed you so much.” Followed by a singular, equally sarcastic kiss to the air in the direction of the Jarl. 
 
Assur rolled his eyes and they caught on the figure that had followed in behind Grimvar—a young woman, petite and blonde. His heart seemed to catch, wondering if Eirid had changed her mind and decided not to be banished after all. Of course, that's not how banishment really worked but he watched her leave Winterhold nearly a week ago in Grimvar’s company, hoping she would reconsider. Winterhold was a lonely place and when Eirid wasn’t there, it just seemed more so. 
 
As she removed her hood, Assur felt a crushing disappointment.  
 
The woman was not Eirid. 
 
Of course, she wasn’t.  

Eirid loathed him, and she’d made that abundantly clear to him before she had departed. She had always been a contrary little girl, and didn’t hide her true thoughts—a brave yet foolish trait. He still didn't understand why she tolerated his games all those years if she truly despised them.  

Still, the truth of her feelings didn’t dissuade him from caring for her. He wanted her to be happy and if being away from her home, from him , singing in strange places, would make her happy then he’d do anything in his power to make it so.  

Though, her mother would disagree that banishing Eirid from the hold was done in the act of caring. He might as well have had a heart made of stone according to the inn-keeper's wife. So, he’d been avoiding the Frozen Hearth ever since that evening, and had his steward fetch his meals where he ate alone in the Longhouse. 
 
Lonelier than ever. 
 
A chill swept through the room and Assur knotted his brows as he came out of his musing, nodding toward a posted guard to go ahead and close the doors, lest they lose all cozy warmth from the hearths to the outside. 

 
Grimvar continued, “Truthfully, I’m just a glorified escort these days and it’s all your fault.” 
 
He must have been referring to how he had escorted Assur to Winterhold and how Assur paid him to accompany Eirid to Whiterun to make sure she arrived safely. Even though she swore up and down she could take care of herself. 

 “I bring you a lass looking for employment. Do you have any maids in your service? You’ll be needing one to clean up your messes.” 

The mercenary grinned sardonically, and it spoke of more than just physical messes. Assur knew Grimvar disliked his company and didn’t think him much of a leader. Assur thought the Cruel-Sea scion was unambitious and morbid, content to sit at the bar and drink until he forgot his problems rather than try to solve them. 
 
“I actually don’t have a maid at the moment but I hear housecarls can take up those duties to fill the long hours,” Assur mused. He didn’t have a housecarl either. His father never kept one on retainer. However, he was sure that one would be chosen for him as well so it came as a surprise when his steward cleared their throat and said, “Yes, about that, my Jarl—one still needs to be appointed. The empire started providing allowances to the cooperating holds so as to better their court—”  
 
Bribery. 
 
 “—I can draw up a suitable list of candidates and start scheduling appointments for interviews—” 

Assur held up his hand in a clear gesture for the steward to cease speaking. Then he pointed at Grimvar. 

“Cruel-Sea, be my housecarl.” 

Everyone seemed momentarily shocked at his offer. Assur didn’t see a reason for Grimvar to refuse—the position was a stable one, so the man didn’t have to question if he’d have enough coin to buy a meal or multiple drinks from one week to the next. Plus, in such a position, Grimvar could witness first-hand that Assur could lead an entire hold. He would relish seeing that smug, doubtful, smirk wiped clear of the mercenary’s face whenever ‘Assur’ and ‘Jarl’ were uttered in the same sentence. 
 
“Are you drunk?” Grimvar finally asked. 

“Are you?” Assur was quick to turn the question.  As adults, the times he’d conversed with Grimvar when he was sober could be counted on one hand. He would be a fool to pass up this opportunity. Assur tugged on the fine robes draped over his chest, straightening them and continued, “I’m being perfectly serious, you should be my housecarl.”  
 
“Let’s come back to that in a moment. First—what about this maid?” Grimvar gestured impatiently to the petite blond, who looked more and more irritated under the crease of her brow but still managed to hold her tongue. 
 
She had been quiet so far. Standing back and taking in their conversation; observing. 
 
“Where were you employed before this?” Assur addressed her. Not that he cared, just wanted to know if she had the experience. He wasn’t going to hire just any girl off the street and trust her to handle his effects. 
 
“I was recently at Dragonsreach, in Whiterun.” she responded.  
 
“Yes, I know where Dragonsreach is,” Assur snapped. He held his hand to his chin in thought, wondering why someone would trade a position there to seek one in Winterhold of all places? He studied her—she didn’t avert her eyes when she spoke to him. Her eye contact was unwavering, as if she demanded to be engaged with on an equal level. 
 
It annoyed him. 
 
But no one else was interested in taking care of this place. Even under Kraldar’s leadership, the long house seemed to fall more and more into a dilapidated state. There were more drafts than he remembered. 
 
“Can we take on a maid?” Assur leaned toward his steward to ask in a reduced tone. They probably had a better idea of the accounts than he. Would the Empire’s bribes be enough? 
 
The steward bobbed their head, “Yes, but Winterhold’s coffers are severely lacking, the compensation would not be generous.” 
 
Assur made a displeased sound at the back of his throat and then coughed, “Very well, you are hired but pay is not going to be as generous as you had in Whiterun—we are a small hold, with a lot less work to do and places to clean.” 
 
She only nodded in understanding, not lifting her frown one bit. She must have been desperate for work, but he’d ponder more on her later. 
 
“Now then” Assur turned his attention back to Grimvar, “Back to the matter of my Housecarl...” 

Grimvar’s face transformed to doubt, “Why me?” 
 
Assur could feel his cheeks gain warmth, why should he—a Jarl—need to explain himself?  Grimvar's eyes narrowed at Assur’s pause, and Assur knew he would have to flatter the mercenary if he were to convince him to take on the position. 
 
“You are rumored to be an able fighter. The first duty of a housecarl is to protect their lord,” Assur listed and Grimvar’s doubtful expression lifted somewhat with consideration.  
 
“If you can hardly afford a maid, then you probably could not pay the fees I would require in such a position.” 
 
Assur rolled his eyes because Grimvar was daftly greedy, “The position comes with free lodging and allowance for meals.” 
 
“What about drink?” 
 
“Is there an allowance for drink?” the maid mirrored the inquiry, with a sudden, adamant interest. 
 
Assur raised his brows. He didn’t approve of debauchery, and could barely stand the taste of mead himself. He partook in wine if it was offered but never enough to render him a fool. 
 
“I need sober attendants,” he answered in a hard tone. The maid huffed, and not even subtly at his requirement. He had a sudden ominous feeling that agreeing to hire her was going to bring him undue stress. 
 
Assur had pretended not to be interested in Grimvar's affairs while he lived in Windhelm but rumors spread far and fast, and he knew the young man hardly took residence in his own home anymore and only by the pity of the barmaid was Grimvar allowed to fall asleep at the inn’s counter. 
 
Grimvar seemed to consider the Jarl’s words before saying, “Very well, I’ll trial this position for a month and if I find it’s not to my liking then I shall resign and move on.” 
 
That was better than nothing, Assur supposed. At least with Grimvar Cruel-Sea at his side, he knew that the Empire hadn’t stuck him with someone to mind over him like the steward. He didn’t even remember their name, that was how little he cared for them. He didn’t want to be a puppet, subtly manipulated to do the Empire’s bidding like the most of the Jarls in the province. 
 
His father was always ranting with limited coherence about how the Empire blockaded supplies to provinces that defied their directives, starving them into submission. It was what was currently happening to Windhelm.  
 
“Very well, you both are hired as my attendants. I expect you to take orders and tasks without complaint,” Assur proclaimed and stood gesturing to them both. 
 
“You there, maid—” he snapped his fingers and pointed at the waif. She immediately snapped back, “My name is not maid.” 
 
“It’s what you are, I see no reason to call you anything else.” 
 
Her eyes grew round before narrowing under a glower; he dared her to be difficult and convince him to send her away. 
 
She slumped and mumbled something that sounded like ‘arsehole.’ 
 
“Excuse me?” 
 
“Very well,” she spoke clearly and straightened her shoulders, resigned. Hopefully resigned to her work and place in life. He raised a brow, certain that is not what she had originally murmured. He figured if she was desperate for work, then she would show a little more gratitude and professionalism to her lord. 
 
“You will take assignments from my steward here, as they will know what needs cleaned—they can sort out a schedule for your work hours and rest hours.” 
 
“Did you want me to finish going through your correspondence? There was quite a lot, it has piled up since the former Jarl’s death.” 
 
Assur nodded and sat at the throne again, motioning for them to continue. Grimvar seemed bored already but decided to take a seat on a nearby bench and listen while inspecting one of his swords. The Maid continued to stand at the front of the longhouse, looking a bit at a loss of what to do. 
 
“The broom is kept in that room. There’s a family of spiders making webs in the corners—you could clean those out while you are in there,” the steward suggested, seeing the same lost look on her and helped out by pointing to the room that housed the old Stormcloak Leader that used to advise Assur’s father. 
 
Assur quite enjoyed the disgusted look that took to her eyes at the mention of spiders. She trudged from them with an air of annoyance at the situation, as if she shouldn’t be expected to clean at all. She must have been dismissed from her position in Whiterun for being a shite of a maid in the first place. 
 
“We have one here from General Tullius,” the steward held up a rolled parchment, sealed with a distinct wax emblem.  
 
Assur gave a light scoff, wondering what kind of message the General would be sending him, “Read it then.” 
 
“Dear Assur, Jarl of Winterhold, 
 
I hope you are comfortable and settling into your former home after the years away. Thank you for agreeing to govern Winterhold in these unexpected times. I know you are young but the blood of leaders runs through your veins and I have no doubt you will succeed. The Empire looks forward to many years of profitable cooperation from Winterhold...” 
 
The puppetry was starting. 
 
Everyone knew there was no profit in Winterhold besides the Mages College. Assur didn’t want to have anything to with that place. It always spooked him. Magic in general did. He didn’t trust it nor the Elves that wielded it. He felt his fingers clenching the edges of the chair’s arm rests with trepidation. 
 
The steward continued, “There is one matter left to discuss, a step to ensuring the success of your leadership of Winterhold. I propose—” 
 
“What’s wrong?” Assur questioned as the steward abruptly stopped reading. They seemed mildly caught off-guard at the content but cleared their throat to continue. 

“I propose that you gain a partner that can support you in your endeavors. The best candidate is in Lady Dagnessa of Whiterun. She is beautiful, spirited, and known to be incredibly fastidious. She could be a great asset to Winterhold if you took her as your wife. It is in the best interest of the province and the Empire if you were to wed sooner than later. Consider this proposal carefully and return correspondence with haste.” 
 
Assur suddenly felt in the trappings of a political game he couldn’t stop. He was barely twenty and one turns and was expected to take a partner? He always knew he’d eventually have to have one, but this seemed so sudden. Unexpected, even. He understood he would be dictated to do many things by the Empire such as allow Legion soldiers into the territory, to trade specific goods, particular policies, and practices but not to be told to wed and who to wed. 
 
He frowned in disbelief, “Tell me, Steward, do you know if the Empire commanded Kraldar to find a consort when they usurped the throne of Winterhold?” 
 
“He was given no edict to wed.” 
 
Assur nodded tensely. So, they were trying to put a yoke on him because they feared what he would do if left unchecked. How would they punish him if he refused this match? He must have met the woman in question at some point in his youth, as children of nobility were usually introduced at least once but couldn’t recall her. She must have been a boring person to have not left any impression. 
 
Something tightened in his chest, something more troubling than being commanded by the Empire to end his bachelorhood. The unknown of it all troubled him. 
 
He glanced to Grimvar who seemed the slightest bit more amused now, hearing of Assur’s impending troubles.  
 
“What’s so funny?” 
 
“Thinking of you married. Poor girl she’d be.” 
 
Assur also didn’t have a whip of a tongue like Grimvar. The mercenary seemed to always have ready a barbing quip and retort, which left Assur sputtering like a fool only in anger at the insult and incapable of doing anything to punish his new Housecarl for it. 
 
But Assur failed to see that Grimvar Cruel-Sea considered being Housecarl punishment already. They would both suffer each other. 
 
The steward hadn’t halted going through the pile of correspondence and held up another parchment with the seal of Tullius, “More news from the General.” 
 
Assur bristled with contempt and knew there was no use in refusing it to be read. 
 
“Dear Jarl Assur of Winterhold, 
 
I regret to inform you that Lady Dagnessa of Whiterun has recently fled the city under suspicion of conspiracy to murder. Perhaps I was too hasty in suggesting her as a match. Nevertheless, my sentiments remain that it will be prudent for you to find a bride for the good of the hold. I will send a list of suitable candidates in the forthcoming weeks.” 
 
Maybe Akatosh had taken pity on the young Jarl, after all. In some respect—he didn’t want to be married to a woman who was murderous. Waking up with a knife in his back was a horrid way to go. It was too bad Eirid hated him; of course, it would be shameful to take a peasant as a wife and she would hate the court life that came with it but he felt like if he had to create a partnership for the good of Winterhold, being with someone he was familiar with would make him happiest. It was funny how that which would make Assur happy would make Eirid the most miserable. She really was the most contrary person he’d ever known. Mara would never bless that union even if it were possible. 
 
“Did they say who she was suspected of murdering?” they heard the maid ask from the entrance of the room, seeming to be eavesdropping. He hated gossips.  
 
A thought struck Assur so suddenly that he felt stupid for not considering it before. She was a ‘maid’ but didn’t seem keen to do her job, she didn’t have the most solid of references, and came to this place—the last place anyone would want to travel—for miniscule pay doing a thankless job.  
 
She had to be a spy. One planted by the Empire itself to watch over him. 
 
“No, it doesn’t say. Don’t you have spiders to be cleaning?” Assur snapped, not appreciating her presence nor her intense, interruptive gaze. He would have to be careful around her. He decided he wasn’t going to dismiss her...yet. If he was correct, and he was positive that he was, he had a leg up on the Empire knowing there was a spy in his midst. 
 
“They’re dead now,” she replied with no hint of her earlier annoyance at being told to take care of them, “Destroyed their homes as well.” 
 
He stared at her, weighing his earlier decision not to dismiss her. She stared back, seeming to wait for his response. 
 
Both jumped at Grimvar’s sudden jolt of laughter which he didn’t care to explain. 
 
Assur sighed. 
 
At least, with the new company, the Jarl wouldn’t be as lonely.